The Riven Wyrde Saga

by Graham Austin King

Copyright © Graham Austin-King 2015

Cover Art © Vin Hill 2013

Fae - The Wild Hunt © Graham Austin-King 2014

Fae - The Realm of Twilight © Graham Austin-King 2014

Fae - The Sins of the Wyrde © Graham Austin-King 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or any other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests email GrahamAustin-King@hotmail.com

This a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and intended to be fictitious.

Table of Contents

Fae - The Wild Hunt

Fae - The Realm of Twilight

Fae - The Sins of the Wyrde

Map

About the Author

Fae - The Wild Hunt

by Graham Austin King

Fae - The Wild Hunt: Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Acknowledgements

For Gillian

Chapter One

Miriam gazed through the small window at the sun as it sank slowly behind the tiled rooftops of Kavtrin. Smoke was rising from the chimney pots, lending a contrast that painted a dirty stain of indigo across the flaming skies. It was a sunset for young lovers and poets, but Miriam was blind to it. Once there had been a time when the sight would have struck a chord within her, but those days seemed long gone to her now. She traced her fingertips idly over the worn and knife-scarred worktop, and sighed as she picked up a damp cloth and began to run it back and forth over the surface. There was nothing to wipe up. The counter was as clean as anyone could make it, but hands need to feel busy and the cloth worked almost unnoticed by her as she stared unseeing out of the window.

She caught sight of her reflection as she turned and she froze in place, one hand coming up to touch her cheek. Her face was lined and drawn. Her once lustrous brown hair was tied back into a severe bun, which only served to highlight the faint touch of grey at her temples. She looked... old? She wondered at herself. Who was this woman looking back at her? How long had it been since she'd really looked at herself? How long since she'd really been herself?

She turned to stir the pot resting on the woodstove, and glanced nervously at the door. The stew was catching again, but he probably wouldn't notice unless it was really badly burned. She was a good cook, she knew she was, but there was only so much a person could do to keep food hot once it was ready. The mutton had stewed for a good six hours and she had been trying to keep it hot for the last four. She glanced at the door again and tutted as she caught herself doing so. Sliding the iron vent in the base of the stove closed, she lifted the pot with a grunt and placed it onto the heavy table.

Her eyes drifted to the simple cot in the corner and she padded over on quiet feet. The only joy she had found in the last fifteen years of her marriage lay sleeping soundly in this small bed. Caerl hadn't really wanted children, but she'd hoped that it would mellow his temper and when Devin came along, he'd seemed to calm for a time. Then of course, he had taken up the drink again.

Creaks and mutterings drifted in from the stairs. She turned, with a smile carefully arranged on her face, as the door opened and Caerl slumped against the frame. She took in all of his appearance in a single glance. The stained and slovenly clothing, the unwashed and unkempt hair, the filthy and scraggly beard. Where, under all of this filth, was the man she had married? The man who had stolen moments with her, risking her father's wrath when she'd been little more than a child herself.

“Hello dear,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice. “How was the marketplace? Would you like some dinner? I made your favourite.”

Caerl grunted, a non-committal noise that could have meant any number of things, and staggered the three steps to the sturdy table before collapsing into a chair. Miriam busied herself with the stew, spooning out a healthy portion into a large earthenware bowl and setting a hunk of bread on the side. She put it down in front of Caerl's slouched form, and stepped quickly away to busy herself in the tiny kitchen. Not that anything needed doing, the rooms were spotless. Living in fear of Caerl's dark moods had turned her into an efficient cleaner, and the fewer reasons she could give him to start off with her, the better.

Caerl dunked the dark peasant bread into the stew and chewed. He shovelled a spoonful into his mouth, and then grimaced and spat. His dark eyes sought her out and seemed to flash in the light from the fire and the oil lamps on the walls.

“This is burnt, woman.” He slurred, seeming to chew out the words from a mouth slack from drink.

“I'm sorry Caerl,” Miriam said, hating herself for the way she sounded. “I tried to keep it warm for you, but it must have caught.”

“Dammit girl, how hard can it be to put some food in a man's belly?” He pressed his hands to the tabletop and stood in a sudden burst, knocking the simple wooden chair to the floor. It made a sharp crack as it splintered. “I run those damned carts all day long for you. Put food on the table and a roof over the head of you and your brat, and you can't even make a decent meal?”

Miriam rankled at him starting on the boy. She knew she ought to keep her head down, just as a rabbit will stay in the warren when a storm is coming, but somehow Caerl always knew what would set her off.

“Well, maybe if you had been home instead of in the tavern three hours ago, it wouldn't have caught,” she muttered, the words spilling from her lips before her good sense could stop them.

Caerl stopped and stared at her with dark eyes for a long moment. A slow smile spread over his stubbled face.

“So, it's my fault is it?”

“No, Caerl. I didn't mean it like that.” She took a step back away from him and began edging along the wall towards the window.

“I work all damned day and this is what I get? Burnt slop I wouldn't feed a dog!” He slammed his hands down on the table, making the bowl jump.

Miriam flinched and turned quickly to see if Devin had woken.

“Dammit, woman. Look at me when I'm talking to you!” He snatched up the bowl and hurled it at the fireplace. It shattered on the woodstove, splattering stew over the walls and onto the hearth where it bubbled and hissed.

Miriam cried out as the bowl smashed, ducking involuntarily as though it had struck her. She cowered down, her hands shielding her face as Caerl stormed towards her with rage dancing in his eyes. She drew back as he came closer and grabbed for her, then skittered along the wall towards the woodstove and the doorway to their own tiny room. Caerl followed swiftly, his movements unimpeded by the ale he stank of, as if the rage had burned the alcohol from him.

“Caerl, don't. Please?” She backed into the darkness of the bedroom. “You'll wake the boy. Try to calm down.”

“Don't you tell me what to do.” He reached for her and managed to grab her hair, pulling it free from the bun, as she twisted and tried to dart away from him. “Who in the hells do you think you are, telling me what to do?”

He yanked savagely on her hair, bending her backwards and off-balance as her eyes filled with tears. “You're nothing!” he spat. “That's what you are woman. You know it, and I know it.”

He let go, dropping her to the floor and she curled up tight, balling her fists and pressing them to her face as if to ward off the hate.

“Say it,” he whispered, but she lay silent, biting her cheek to hold in the tears.

“Say it!” he roared, drawing back his foot and kicking her savagely in the ribs with his heavy boot.

Miriam gasped as the pain flooded through her. Her vision was blurred by her tears and she felt him crouch down and grab her by the throat, wrenching her towards him. His calloused hands were rough on the delicate skin of her throat, and she fought to draw in a ragged breath as he squeezed at her neck.

“Don't you ever tell me what to do.” His spittle sprayed onto her cheeks with his words and the stench of stale beer turned her stomach. She began to sob silently as she fled inside herself. Her silence seemed to enrage him more than her defiance had, and he struck her with the back of his hand, the force throwing her to the floor.

“Da?” A small voice carried in from the doorway.

Miriam's eyes flew open in horror and her pain was forgotten. Devin was a slight boy and the nightshirt made him seem all the smaller as he looked up at his father.

“Da, don't hit her,” he said, a world of reproach in his voice.

Miriam flew to her feet as Caerl turned and bristled at the lad.

“You telling me what to do, boy?” he asked in a low dangerous voice as he moved toward the doorway.

“Don't you touch him, Caerl,” she warned. “Don't you dare touch him.”

“Boy needs to know his place,” he muttered, almost to himself, as he looked down at the dark-haired child backing away from him.

Desperately, she reached for him and clung to his arm, trying to hold him back as he dragged her into the kitchen again. Snarling out a curse Caerl struggled to throw her off, turning to face her once more. His face was a mask of pure rage as he struck her with his open hand across the face. This was no slap, his hand was rigid and she staggered backwards into the wall, her head ringing. He stalked towards her as she dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up at him. Her face throbbed and one eye was already starting to swell.

He staggered suddenly as Devin launched himself on his back screaming like a feral cat. Caerl's eyes went wide in shock and then pain as the boy’s nails clawed at his neck. He reached back almost casually, grasping a handful of the nightshirt and threw the boy at his mother.

“You both got no damned respect,” he spat and began to undo the thick leather belt he wore.

“That's enough Caerl,” Miriam snapped, her lips white with anger as she got to her feet, clutching Devin to her skirts as they moved sideways towards the fireplace. He laughed coldly and shook out the belt. Miriam reached out behind her, her hand scrabbling for something, anything. She took up the first thing she touched, the heavy iron ladle from the pot.

“So help me Caerl, if you touch this boy...”

His laugh was frost as she thrust Devin behind her awkwardly. She shrieked as he feinted towards her and she swung wildly with the ladle, missing and spraying stew across the room.

He grinned and lunged again, but this time his balance or the ale betrayed him and he had none of the grace of moments ago. She lashed out, screaming, and the ladle caught him solidly on the temple with a sickening crunch.

Caerl staggered backwards and fell, crashing through the chairs and table before hitting the floor. The silence when it fell, was louder than her screams had ever been. She stood frozen, holding the ladle with both hands. She was dimly aware of Devin behind her, both arms gripping her dress and his face buried in the cloth. Extricating herself from his grasp she crept towards Caerl's prone figure. Blood was seeping slowly from his temple and one nostril, and his eyes were half closed. She looked carefully, but saw no signs of movement. He lay still, seemingly out cold. She felt a wild exultation in her breast but then, just as powerfully, the reality of what she had done washed over her and Miriam was filled with a fear deeper than she had ever known. He would kill her. Her and the boy both, that much was certain. If he didn't kill her, he'd either make her pay so savagely that she begged for death, or he'd have her up before the Justice.

“Devin, sweetheart?” she called softly. “Let's take a trip, just you and me. We'll have an adventure.”

The boy looked at her with huge dark eyes. “Without Da?” he asked in a quiet voice. Miriam nodded.

“Good.” His young face was stone, hard and cold.

Forcing a smile onto her face, she set about grabbing clothes and what little food they had in the house, filling bags while Devin dressed. Taking his hand, she led him to the door and reminded herself to walk normally and calmly into the hallway and down the stairs, even as her mind screamed at her to run.

Kavtrin was not a small city and even at this time in the evening the streets were filled with people. Miriam held tight to Devin with one hand, and the bags with the other, as she tried to thread her way through the crowded streets. Many people were still making their way home from work. Some few hawkers shouted out from street corners, trying to sell this and that. Miriam noticed first one, and then several more evening girls coming to stand under the, as yet, unlit street lamps with their lost and hopeless eyes.

She hurried Devin along the cobbled streets, trying to keep from being forced into the gutters by the sheer weight of traffic. They darted over to the side from time to time to avoid the carts that clattered through with their drivers flicking the whip at the horses and cursing at all who stood in their way. She was only dimly aware of where she was going. It had been so long, she was surprised she even remembered the way. Devin had been silent since they left the house, and she desperately needed to get him into the warm.

Miriam didn't notice the rain when it first started, a soft misting drizzle that was more like spray, but which soon began to soak through her simple woollen dress. It slowly changed into a steady downpour that plastered her long brown hair to her face and made her dress cling to her legs with each step. They were both soaked to the skin as they finally crossed the high cobbled bridge and saw the golden glow of the lamplight coming from the windows of the Broom and Badger. Miriam made her way around to the rear of the inn and pounded on the large oak door as Devin pressed himself hard against her hip. The boy was shaking, not simply shivering, but a solid trembling. Miriam drew in a breath to speak as the door finally opened, but the wide-eyed girl in the doorway pulled them both out of the wet with a gasp.

“Lords and Ladies, look at the state of you two.” she exclaimed. “Boy'll catch his death out in that. So will you! An' what's wrong with the front door anyway?”

“Shalin said I could call on her if ever I needed anything,” Miriam told the blonde girl in a tiny broken voice. The girl looked at her, taking in the deepening bruises, and her face softened.               “Ah darlin', you've been through it, haven't you, love?” She hurried them through into the warm kitchen, still filled with the aromas of dinner, and sat them close to the fire set in the long wall.

“You two sit here and I'll find Shalin. I expect you could use something hot inside you too.” She bustled around and set a large bowl in front of Devin, before leaving through the double doors that led into the inn proper.

The kitchen was long and low-beamed, with huge cast-iron ovens set against one wall and a long table filling the centre of the room. It was well-lit with the oil lamps on the walls shedding a warm, comforting light. It smelled of chicken, freshly baked bread, and hope. Miriam let the warmth from the fire soak slowly into her body and watched Devin devour a large bowl of warm apple pie as only a ten year old boy could.

“My stars, Miriam, I never thought I'd see you again!” exclaimed a slim blonde woman from the doorway. Shalin seemed determined to overcome every stereotype about innkeeper's wives. She was tall and willowy, with a figure that made other women hate her on sight. She was neither matronly nor blousy, though that was not to say she was not beautiful. She had long hair the colour of fine honey, and piercing blue eyes. It would be easy to assume that she was just some young thing the innkeeper had been lucky enough to end up with, but Shalin was far more than a pretty face. She ran the inn with a brisk efficiency that showed in her eyes. This was a woman that commanded loyalty and who no man with a whit of sense would cross. She had once been Miriam's closest friend, and the last things Miriam had said to her had been lies.

“Shalin,” she said with relief as she made her way to the doorway.

“Lords and Ladies woman, look at the state of you,” Shalin muttered as she drew Miriam close into a fierce embrace, ignoring the water that was pooling by her feet. “What's happened to you?”

Miriam sucked in one shuddering breath before spitting out, “Caerl.” The name tore from her throat and carried all the years of venom and fear. All the love and betrayal, the hurt and every bruise. She clung to Shalin, taking strength from the simple knowledge that another adult cared for her. Shalin stroked her hair softly, making hushing noises. “Deena,” she called through into the hallway. “Why don't you get the lad a warm bath and wrap him up in Thomas' old room?”

The girl nodded, smiling at Devin as she held out her hand. “That pie was good wasn't it? I always feel better after coming in from the wet, when I can get something hot inside me. Now, how about we get you out of those wet clothes, into a hot bath, and then find you a nice warm bed?” Devin nodded sleepily and allowed himself to be herded from the room.

“He'll be fine,” Shalin said, stepping back to look at Miriam. “Now, how about we get you warm and you can tell me just what is going on? Go on with Deena and she'll get you one of my robes. You can wrap up in that for now and get dry.”

The blonde girl led them both up the stairs and pointed Miriam towards a bedroom door, “There should be a robe or two on the back of the door. Just leave your dress in there and I'll see it's cleaned for you.”

Miriam nodded her thanks and crouched a little to give Devin a quick hug before stepping into the room.

Shalin smiled at her as she came back into the kitchen and waved her back into the chair. The robe was soft and with the warmth from the fire she was beginning to thaw. “Right then, now that you look more like the woman I knew and less like a drowning kitten, why don't you tell me what's going on? The last time I saw you, your Caerl had gotten a new job in Savarel and you were moving up there.”

“We were never going to Savarel,” Miriam admitted in a small voice. “I lied because he'd lost his job, again, and we were being thrown out of our home.”

“Why didn't you say something?” Shalin gasped. “I had no idea! You know I would have helped you.”

“When you've got nothing, Shalin, sometimes pride is all you can to cling to,” Miriam said simply.

“Hmm, you're right.” said Shalin. “We were so poor when I was a little'un we made the birds look rich, but our doorstep was scrubbed daily.” She folded her arms across herself. “So, what's happened now? I mean, it's been what, eight years? Nine?”

“It's been eleven, Shalin, almost twelve.” Miriam walked over to the fireplace and stared deep into the flames. “He drank,” she began. “Most men drink, but he drank and then he got mean with it. I could cope with that well enough, I suppose, but it was almost every day in the end.” Her head bowed as if she were speaking to the floor, confessing like a naughty child. “And he would hit me. Nothing I did would be good enough, Shalin. I tried. I really tried! There would be days when he would come home and it seemed like he was searching for something to start off on. Then tonight, he beat me and Devin woke up.”

“Your boy?” Shalin asked quietly.

Miriam nodded silently. “Caerl was always careful not to wake him, either that or Devin always made out like he was sleeping. He'd never stir.” She breathed deeply before pressing on. “Caerl had me on the floor and he just kept kicking me. All I could think was, this is it. This is the night that he's finally going to kill me. Then, Devin was there, throwing himself on Caerl and he grabbed him and threw him at me. He actually threw my boy, Shalin! He was taking his belt off to beat the both of us.”

“How did you end up like this, Miriam? You were always so strong, when I knew you.”

“He wasn't always like this. When we first met, he was so sweet you wouldn't believe he was the same person.”

“How did you meet him? You never did tell me, you know?” She stood and took down a kettle from a hook, filling it from the pump over the double sinks. “I expect you could use some tea to start with?” She cocked an eyebrow at Miriam over one shoulder.

“He was a caravan guard. He used to come into my father's inn every few months, doing the route from Savarel to Kavtrin.”

“And I bet you thought he held the sun in one hand and the moon in the other, didn't you?” Shalin said as she set the kettle to boil.

“And then some,” Miriam admitted. “He was everything my father hated, and of course, everything I wanted. I was all of fifteen when we started sneaking about together.” Her face twisted as she spoke. “Eventually, he talked me into running away with him and that was that. I snuck out of the window one night with nothing but a small pack of clothing and keepsakes.” She picked up the mug and blew softly at the steam curling from the top. “At fifteen, I knew all there was to know, and so I turned my back on my family, friends and my home. All for a man I really, barely knew.”

“You don't need to tell me if you don't want to,” the woman said softly.

“No, it's good. It sort of helps, you know, to talk about it? I don't think I've ever told anyone the whole thing before.”

Shalin nodded, setting the steaming mug down in front of Miriam and moving back to her own chair, cradling her cup in her elegant hands.

“We settled here in Kavtrin. He found work easily enough in the marketplace and on the docks. I found easy work in a tavern. We had a lovely room in a nice area overlooking some of the gardens by the park. It wasn't anything especially wonderful, but it was ours, and it felt like a home. Things were wonderful. I mean truly storybook wonderful, until he started drinking.” She cleared her throat and looked down at the table as she continued. “First, he started drinking after work with the boys from the marketplace. I didn't mind or blame him. It's hot and heavy work, and a man needs to spend time with the folks he works with.

“Then, he started drinking during lunch with the dockhands. Before long, he was drinking more than he was working. That was when he lost the first job. He was so ashamed that he hid it from me for almost a week before he finally admitted it. He'd still been going out to work in the mornings and not back until dusk, but I knew something wasn't right. A woman always knows. So, he swore off the drink again and we muddled through. He found more work and things were back to normal, until it happened again.” She drew in a deep shuddering breath and sighed it out slowly. “This is harder than I thought,” she said, looking at Shalin with an apologetic smile.

“You're doing fine Miriam, just take your time.”

Miriam nodded and drained her tea, setting the mug down and clasping her hands in her lap. “After we lost the third home, I told him straight. One more time, one last time, and that was all the chances I was giving him.” She sniffed and then gave a wry smile, “We hadn't really planned for a family. Oh, we hadn't exactly avoided it. I'd stopped drinking moon-tea soon after we settled down again. If I'm honest with myself, it had been my price for keeping us together, and that had been the idea really. Maybe I thought that if we concentrated on starting a family, then things would be better. Of course, you need to be home to start a family. It helps if you're conscious and not snoring ale fumes into the kitchen floor. I'd been right on the verge of telling him we were done, when along came Devin, just like that.” She laughed then, a bitter little laugh that held no joy.

“He changed. Overnight he changed, and it was like none of the strife or struggles had ever been there.” She glanced up at Shalin and smiled with tear-rimmed eyes. “He helped through the pregnancy. He worked harder, was home earlier and looked after me like I was made of glass. Sometimes too much! When Devin was born he was there, though he bolted outside as soon as the midwife arrived and wouldn't come back into the building until he heard the babe squall. Life was back to the storybook for almost four years, four blissful years.”

“So, what happened? What changed?” she heard Shalin ask.

“Honestly? I have no idea.” She shook her head. “I wondered for a while if he'd been having an affair and it had ended or something like that. Between one month and the next he shifted, he became distant. He came home twice with ale on his breath, though I pretended I hadn't smelt it. The following week, it was spirits he reeked of. Then it seemed it was every night. You know the funny thing?” Shalin shook her head quietly and Miriam smiled a sad smile. “It was only then, that I began to realise how alone I'd become. We lost most of our friends when we'd had to move the first time. There's nothing quite like pride to rob a person of their good sense is there? Oh, I'd reached out a couple of times, but after we'd moved the third time, I was so ashamed I never bothered trying to keep in touch again. Then Devin came along and my days were filled with him and what work I could find. Caerl had been so good to me that I almost didn't notice that I never really saw anyone else. Until of course, I needed somebody else. Until it all began again. And then I was alone. So, so alone.”

Shalin moved to take her in her arms as the tears began to fall. Her body shook with silent sobs, and she allowed the willowy blonde to pull her head into her shoulder. For a time they just sat in silence, until Miriam pushed herself away with a sniff. “Look at me, crying like a babe.”

Shalin produced a handkerchief, a faint smile on her face. “Where were you working?”

Miriam snuffled into the hanky, “I still worked in a couple of taverns. It was hard to find one where I could bring Devin. But then, when he got old enough, he worked as a scullion while I worked in the kitchen or the laundry. I'd tried working as a serving girl again, but any man who smelled of ale reminded me of Caerl. I tried a few places, but in the end I realised it wasn't the inn, it was me. A girl working in an inn needs to be able to laugh and banter and flirt a bit. I couldn't do it. I couldn't find it in me. Any man so much as spoke to me and I ran off like a startled rabbit. So I stayed in the kitchens, preparing meals and washing linens.

“Through all of it, Caerl was the same. He ran in cycles. He would drink himself to almost rock bottom before swearing off the stuff. He was true to his word too. He wouldn't touch it or go to the inn with the others. He'd come back from his work early. He'd be calmer, kinder, more attentive, and then it would begin again. Always the same, every time. It would start with one drink with the boys on a Friday. Then it would become Wednesday too, then a touch of wine with dinner. Before too long, he'd be cursing that we had nothing in the place to drink. He'd be coming back from the marketplace later and later, stinking like the bottom of an ale barrel. The more he drank, the blacker his mood seemed to get and then, before long, I was back to never knowing when he was coming home, or who he might be when he arrived.

“Some men are happy drunks. We've both seen them, laughing and carrying on. Some become depressed and snuffle into a tankard in the corner. Caerl wasn't either of these. He would fall in through the doors with a shadow in his eyes, and then it would start. It seemed some days he almost had to search for something to get angry about, but he always found something. Everything was meant as a hurt when the mood was on him. If the fire was built too high, I was squandering his money. If the food was too simple or the rooms weren't spotless I was failing as a wife. But he never actually hit me, until just lately.” Her hand crept unnoticed to her face and she fingered the bruises, probing the sore flesh absently as she spoke.

“Always before, even in his darkest place, he stopped at hurling things across the room or kicking over the table. He'd rage and curse at me as I stood in front of Devin's cot and eventually, it was like he'd suddenly see me. Maybe he saw how scared I was or something. But he'd turn and storm out of the door. He'd be back later, stinking of cheap gin and slurring apologies as he pawed at me in the bed.

“And then one time, he did it. He hit me. And it was like, now he'd crossed the line and seen that nothing came from it, he decided it was okay. He never did it in front of the boy, though. It was like he thought beating me was fine, it was okay. But children shouldn't see it. Then tonight, he woke Devin with all his shouting and Devin saw him hit me. My boy actually tried to protect me, Shalin.” Her voice was filled with a fierce pride.

“What have you done, Miriam?” Shalin asked, as understanding suddenly dawned on her.

“He was going to beat us both. He was taking off his belt!”

“What have you done, Miriam?” she repeated in a soft voice.

“I went for him with a pot ladle. It caught him in the face, just here.” She touched her temple. “He fell hard. And…and, we just left.”

“Is he dead?”

Miriam gasped. “I don't know,” she admitted as her hand flew to her mouth. “I didn't think to check. Oh, Lords and Ladies! What if I've killed him?”

Shalin took her by the hands, and looked at her firmly. “Now, listen here. You did what you needed to do. Nobody in this room is going to blame you or think less of you for that. You were keeping your boy safe and that's what counts. If he's dead, well then he got what was coming to him. Less than I would have given him!” She stood abruptly and left the room, returning quickly with two glasses and a dark bottle.

“Take this, you look like you could use a good drink,” she said, pressing the brandy into Miriam's hands.

Miriam drank the fiery liquid down without comment and held her glass out for another. Shalin chuckled and poured, before giving her a serious look. “Have you thought what you might do?”

Miriam shook her head.

“I'd have you here, Miriam, you know that. But you must realise it's going to be one of the first places he looks, if he comes looking for you. If he's dead, well then, better you were gone from Kavtrin completely.”

“Maybe I should just go to the Justice, Shalin. I mean, if he's dead?”

“Now don't talk stupid, girl!” Shalin snapped. “You've done the right thing. You got yourself out, you looked after your lad. You've walked all the way here, and now you talk about going to the Justice?”

“If he's dead though...” She trailed off.

“What? Because it's the law?” Shalin scoffed. “You know as well as I do, people die in this city every day. Caerl wasn't rich or important, they won't bat an eye. IF he's even dead!” She took a deep drink, and set down her glass again. “Now, before you started on that nonsense, I was about to ask if you have anywhere you could go. Somewhere outside of Kavtrin, until you get on your feet? Are you in touch with your family at all?”

Miriam shook her head. “No. And it's been too long. I couldn't just turn up, not now. To be honest, I don't even know if they're still there.”

“It's a start, Miriam. Go there and see. It gets you away from any... problems here. And it gets you moving off your behind, girl!”

“I don't have any money, Shalin. I hadn't really thought past maybe someday getting away from Caerl, and finding a job somewhere with just me and Devin. It was all just rainy day dreams, but now...”

Shalin took a deep breath, visibly biting back words which were too harsh for the moment. “Wait here,” she said tersely and strode from the room. Miriam sat by the fire, listening to the sounds of raucous laughter and merriment from the common room. She was dimly aware of Shalin's voice in the hallway. The words were indistinct, but the tone spoke volumes. A few moments later, she stepped back into the kitchen.

“I've a few things to organise, but we will sort you out, Miriam. For now, I think you probably need a bed. You look like you're about to drop off your feet. Why don't you head up and climb in with your boy? We'll talk more in the morning.”

Chapter Two

Devin woke in confusion at the unfamiliar creak and clatter of the wagons as they made their way along the road. He sat up on the hard wooden bench-seat, swinging his legs down, thankful for the folded blankets that were acting as a cushion under him. Realising that the figure next to him was not his mother, he sat upright with a lurch, wiping the drool from his face and looking around uncertainly.

“She's in the back, lad,” said the man next to him as he clucked the horses on. “I'm Garrit, you're Devin, and now we're not strangers. So now there's no need to be nervous, see?” He smiled down at the boy.

Devin gave a tight smile back at the strange man and took in his surroundings. They were trundling along on a wide, well-travelled road with broad, sweeping fields on either side of them. Nodding heads of wheat stirred in the slight breeze and bright blue birds swooped and dove for insects in the morning sunlight. In the distance, Devin could see the fields giving way to trees as the road rose into the hills.

Garrit was a grizzled and daunting looking man that Devin would probably have been scared to approach if he hadn't introduced himself in such a way. He was dressed in dark and hardened leathers under a rough cloak. Devin was a young boy, but not so unobservant as to not notice the long knife at the man's belt or the scars on his face.

“In the back?” Devin asked, in hushed tones.

“She was tired. I told her to go and get some sleep and I'd drive for a bit. Now that you're awake, do you think you can handle the cart for a few minutes?”

“Me?” gaped Devin. “I don't know. I mean, I've never...”

“It's not hard, boy. The horses'll follow the wagon in front anyway, and I'll only be gone a few minutes. This here's Beth,” he said, gesturing towards the piebald horse on the left. “An' this one's Bunion. He used to be a bit of a handful, but he's settled down these days.” He handed the boy the leather reins, and watched him for a few minutes until he was satisfied. Then he reached out a short hunting bow from behind the seat and grabbed up a quiver of arrows. With a grin, he hopped off the cart and was gone. Leaning over the side, Devin saw him smoothly unhitch his horse from the back of the cart and haul himself into the saddle before turning sharply and riding back down the line of wagons. Clearly, this was something he'd done more than a few times. Remembering his responsibilities, Devin turned his attention back to the road and held the reins seriously. The horses didn't seem to notice overly much, and plodded along at the same pace.

They were travelling in a team of six wagons which had been moving since before light. Devin vaguely remembered being put into the wagon and wrapped up in blankets, whilst his mother quietly said her goodbyes to Shalin, and then they were off. It had all seemed very exciting as they passed through the city and then moved out through the gates and onto the roads. Very quickly though, it had become dull and boring and he'd fallen into a half-doze as he slumped down next to his mother.

The wagons were serviceable, but showed signs of heavy wear. To Devin's inexperienced eyes, though, they looked quite fine. They were all heavily loaded with various wares from Kavtrin, and the team of fifteen caravan guards served to demonstrate the value of the cargo. The guards seemed a hard-bitten lot, an impression reinforced by the selection of hard boiled leather and varied bits of mail. They rode on either side of the caravan, their eyes sweeping the fields frequently, armed with both bows and swords and saying little.

The wagon shook as Garrit appeared next to him in the seat and grinned at him. “All okay, then? No broken wheels? No fighting off bandits?”

Devin laughed and shook his head.

“Good work then, lad. We'll make a guard of you yet!”

“You're a caravan guard?” wondered Devin. “I thought you were just a driver.”

“What did you think the bow was for lad? Shooting squirrels?” Garrit laughed again.

“I don't know, I didn't think about it,” replied Devin. He decided he liked the man. He had a ready laugh and an easy way about him.

“No, I'm no driver lad, but I hope on this trip all I'll be shooting is dinner.”

Devin looked at him, the unspoken question must have been obvious on his face.

“Killing a man is no small thing, lad. You take all he is and all he could be with one stroke,” Garrit explained, his eyes faraway. “I don't know a man who has done it and not regretted it in some way. An' those that say they don't, are either liars or less than men.”

The day passed pleasantly for Devin, as Garrit regaled him with tales of travelling to distant lands and time spent hunting.

Miriam woke just past noon and sat in silence, watching. It felt good to see him with a man and not be on edge for once. She had avoided thinking about whatever might have happened to Caerl. He had brought all of it upon himself. Her change of attitude was, in no small part, due to another lecture from Shalin that morning. She had been awakened at dawn and informed that Shalin had arranged passage with a caravan of wagons to Savarel for both her and Devin. They were leaving within the hour, and as she gasped and made weak protestations, Shalin had rushed her around the inn, packing old clothes for both Miriam and Devin from her and her son's rooms. The final straw had come as she stood outside the inn, when Shalin forced a fat purse into her hands.

“You'll need something to set you up in Savarel,” she'd advised and refused to take no for an answer.

Miriam had eventually accepted with tears in her eyes, promising to repay her friend as soon as she could, though who knew when that might be.

She sat up on the improvised bed in the back of the wagon, just behind the seat. Watching the scenery idly for a time, she listened to Devin pepper Garrit with questions. Eventually, she fell into a light doze whilst watching Devin's hero worship grow.

That evening, the wagons drew into a circle with a fire pit dug at the centre. Devin sat entranced, as a driver named Mika played on a wooden flute. Miriam made her way over to the fire and spoke to the woman at the pots. She was soon humming contentedly to herself as she cut vegetables on a long wooden board.

Dinner was a rough stew, but delicately seasoned, and Devin devoured it before asking for a second helping. Mika picked up his flute as soon as his bowl was empty, and Devin sang along and laughed at the wagoneer's tales as he nestled close to his mother. She sat, not really listening, her eyes and mind elsewhere as she picked disinterestedly at her food. How sad it was that Devin was only just now discovering simple pleasures. The guards, Miriam noticed, did not join in with the merriment. They ghosted amongst the trees, with only one or two at a time coming in to the fire for food every half an hour, until they were all fed.

“That was a wonderful meal, Ma'am,” Garrit hunkered down beside them. “Nancy is a good wife to Mika but she can't cook worth a damn, if you'll excuse my language.”

Miriam laughed. “I've heard far worse than that, Garrit, and it's Miriam. Please?”

“As you wish, Miriam,” he replied with a smile. He stood and moved off to speak to one of the guards for a moment before sitting back down beside her.

“It looks like your lad here's day is done.” He nodded at Devin with a smile.

Miriam looked down and saw Devin's eyes were closed. A half-empty bowl of stew was tilted dangerously in his hand. She reached down and took the bowl quickly, setting it on the ground beside them.

“He's had a rough couple of days,” she admitted. “I should probably get him bedded down.”

“It looks like you both have,” the grizzled man said gently. “I can put him down easily enough. It looks like he's good and gone. You stay here and I'll bring you something to drink.”

He moved quickly before she could protest and carried Devin over to the wagons. He was as good as his word though, and returned swiftly with a leather wineskin and two wooden cups. He poured out a good-sized measure of rich red wine and handed a cup to her. “So, what brings a lovely young lady like yourself to be running?” he asked with a smile.

“Not running,” she replied smoothly, as she sipped the wine, “Just travelling.”

“I think it's a bit more than that,” Garrit said, nodding at her face. Her eyes widened for second and her free hand drifted to her face and the bruise that had yet to fade.

“A man like that usually gets what's coming to him,” Garrit muttered.

“My husband,” she admitted as she stared into the dark wine.

“Well, I suspect you're better off without a man like that,” he said and took a deep drink. She copied him and they sat in a companionable silence for a time.

“What about you?” she asked, mostly to break the silence. “No one waiting by the door for you?”

“I was married, years ago.” He spoke slowly, as if dredging through something unpleasant.

“What happened?” Miriam asked, curiosity getting the better of her manners.

“I lost her to the red fever,” Garrit said with a tightness to his voice.

“Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I'm sorry, Garrit. I didn't mean to drag up painful memories.”

“It's fine,” he said, smiling sadly. “It was a long time ago.”

“Not that long, surely? I mean, you can't be more than thirty-five summers.”

“Are you enquiring after my age, madam?” he said, his lips twitching as he fought against a smile at her instant blush. He refilled their cups and nodded towards the wagons. “He's a good lad though. Your boy I mean. So it can't have been all bad.”

“No,” she said softly. “No, it wasn't. It was wonderful in the beginning.”

“So, what happened?” he asked, looking into the fire.

“This stuff,” she tapped the edge of the cup with a fingernail.

“Wine?”

“Wine, or ale. Anything that did the job in the end.”

Garrit gave a slow nod. “I've known a few men like that myself. The kind that are fine on the street, but their woman's eyes tell another story.”

Miriam sniffed into her cup and took another deep drink. The wine was strong but smooth, and slipping down entirely too easily.

“So, how did you meet him then?” Garrit asked.

“He was a caravan guard actually,” she admitted with a smile.

“Like me?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” she replied quickly. “No, he was nothing like you. He was young and brash and, well, everything that a stupid girl finds attractive.”

“Am I so very old and ugly, then?” he smiled as she blushed again.

“You're a rotten tease, is what you are,” she said laughing, swatting at his arm.

“No, he was fine when we first met. He promised me the moon and I believed he'd get it for me too.” Her lips tilted up at the memory, the expression at odds with the purple and yellow bruising on her cheek. Garrit sat in silence, waiting for her to go on.

“Then he started with the drinking. He'd be fine for a time, and then he'd go too far and we'd be struggling for a bit.” She looked at him. “We moved around quite a bit. Rent. Well, you can imagine how it was.” Garrit nodded, sipping his wine and holding her gaze.

“Then along came Devin.” She laughed suddenly. “We'd tried for a bit, but nothing came of it. Then, just as things were hitting rock bottom and I was ready to pack my bags, along he came.” She twisted her lips wryly. “Actually it couldn't have come at a worse time.”

“How did he take it?” Garrit asked.

“He was wonderful.” she smiled. “I mean, he changed overnight. He was kind, considerate. He stopped with this.” She held out her cup again and Garrit refilled it, overflowing it so the wine ran down the back of her hand. She laughed and waved off his apology as she shook her hand and licked off the drips.

“But then it slowly slipped back,” she carried on. “He was drinking again and things got bad. Really bad.” She touched her face and grimaced unconsciously.

“So, what do you plan to do now?” he asked, ignoring the grimace and taking another drink.

“Well, we're going to go to Savarel,” she said, suddenly aware of how much the wine was thickening her tongue. “From there, I'm not sure. Start again, I suppose.”

“I spend quite a bit of time in Savarel,” he said, and his meaning was clear. She turned to look at him shyly and caught his expression, their eyes met, and then his head was moving slowly towards her. He didn't think...? Did he? She moved back sharply, turning her face away from him and towards the fire.

“I can't,” she gasped. “I mean, it's just too soon.” She turned to face him, expecting anger or confusion but his face was calm, apologetic even.

“I'm sorry, Miriam,” he offered. “I should never have...”

“It's fine.” She cut him off. “It's just too soon right now. Maybe once we get to Savarel.” She left it hanging but met his eyes for the briefest moment, flashing a smile.

***

The days fell into a pattern, with Devin at the reins more often than not and chattering away to Garrit. More than once Miriam had offered to tell Devin to leave the poor man alone, but Garrit rebuffed her with a smile and a laugh, seeming to enjoy the boy's attention. The fields had long since given way to trees. For close to two weeks, they had been travelling through woodlands, broken here and there by tiny hamlets or farms. By the fifth day however, they had entered the forest proper and the road narrowed as it twisted and snaked its way through the trees.

Devin noticed that the trees on either side of the road had been cleared. Every now and then one of the guards would ride off the path to hack down a sapling. “Why are the trees cut?” he asked Garrit curiously.

“This forest used to be a favourite for bandits,” Garrit explained. “It's been standard practice for all guards to cut down any sapling within two hundred paces of the road for years. Stops them shooting from the trees, see?”

Devin's eyes grew wide. “Real bandits?” he gaped.

“Real enough, lad. I shouldn't worry too much though. This road is well-travelled and we're a bit too large a caravan for most thieves. They usually stick to smaller groups or anyone fool enough to travel alone.”

Devin thought back to the few travellers he'd seen on the road. All of them had been in parties of ten or more, save the lone messenger travelling on a powerful-looking horse. “What about the messenger?” he said.

“Messengers are trained to fight, or run. The horse can gallop away from most problems. Plus, they're crazy.” Garrit grinned. “You couldn't pay me enough for their job. Roads are dangerous places when you're alone, fast horse or not.” He watched the boy scanning the trees fearfully, then picked up his bow and laid it on the lad’s lap. “Try this for size,” he suggested.

Devin lifted the bow, his eyes like saucers as he marvelled at the weapon. It was slightly longer than he was tall and strung with a hemp string. He stood and braced his calf against the seat for balance, drawing back the string and loosing an imaginary arrow.

“Did you get it?” Garrit asked with a smile.

“What?” Devin replied, confused.

“The deer. It looked like you did. It was a great shot.”

Devin grinned, and then sat quickly as the wagon hit a rut and lurched.

“Be careful, Devin!” Miriam cried from the back of the wagon.

“I'm okay, Mum,” he said back over his shoulder.

“Now you've gone and got me in trouble,” he muttered sideways to Garrit.

“Life's no fun without getting into a little bit of trouble now and then,” he said in a stage whisper.

“I heard that,” called Miriam sweetly. “Unless you want to be cooking for yourself tonight sir, you'll watch what you say to my son.”

Garrit laughed and turned his attention back to the road.

The skies had clouded over around mid-morning and a light drizzle had begun to mist down. By mid-afternoon, the rain had settled down and decided to put in a real effort. The wagon slowed and had to fight for every mile as the road surface became less of a road, and more of a muddy track. Devin left the driving to Garrit, who was now wrapped up in his cloak with a broad-brimmed hat crammed down on his head. He scowled at the road, as if the rain were a personal affront, and muttered darkly out at the wet.

“Looks like you've made a friend,” observed Miriam as he climbed over the back of the wooden seat and into the wagon.

Devin grinned and sat down in the space his mother had created by stacking and shoving the crates and sacks out of the way.

“He's funny,” said Devin. “I've never met anyone like him before.”

“He does seem to be a nice man,” agreed Miriam. “It would be nice if he could visit you, sometimes, once we get to Savarel.”

Devin smiled at the thought and then looked at her with serious eyes. “Where are we going, Ma?” he asked. “I mean, I know we are going to Savarel, but where?”

“We'll go and see if we can find your Grandpa first,” Miriam said. “If we can't find him, well then, we'll just have to see how things go. It's our adventure, right?”

“I suppose it is,” said Devin.

A commotion from the front of the caravan drew their attention, and their wagon came to halt. Garrit hopped down to the road in one smooth motion.

“What's going on?” Miriam called after him.

“Not sure yet, Ma'am, I'll be back shortly,” he yelled back, without bothering to turn.

Devin looked around at the trees set back from the road, his eyes darting this way and that as Garrit's tales of bandits came back into his mind. The rain was slowly turning into a steady downpour and it was hard to see more than a few dozen feet in any direction. He looked at his mother and they shared a smile which they both knew to be false as they waited.

The wagon rocked, heralding Garrit's return. “Something wrong with one of the wheels. We're going to be stuck here for a time while they try and fix it.” Garrit's easy manner was offset by his nervous glance towards the tree-line, while he reached into the wagon for his bow and slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

“Are you expecting trouble?” Miriam asked softly.

“Never hurts to be ready is all, Ma'am.” Garrit replied. “I can't see any bandit coming out in this though. Weather like this is best suited to being inside a tavern somewhere, trying to get the serving wench onto your lap...” He trailed off suddenly, as if he had just realised who he was talking to. Covering a sudden flush by clearing his throat, he gruffly muttered, “Stay here, and out of sight.” He reached down past Devin for a wicked-looking short sword, and climbed out into the rain.

Miriam pulled Devin down into the back of the wagon, and they lay quietly amongst the sacks and crates. The road was oddly silent after the creak and rattle of the caravan. The only noise was the soft hiss made by the rain striking the treated canvas roof of the cart and the sounds of their own breathing. Peering over the back of the seat, she saw Garrit talking with two of the other guards and gesturing towards the distant trees, before making his way back towards the wagon.

He hauled himself up and clucked at the horses, taking the wagon off the road, and positioning it into a rough circle to the side of the stricken wagon. As they passed, Miriam could see several of the guards and drivers struggling to hold one side of the wagon up in the air, as others placed thick sections of wood underneath to serve as a brace. One wheel lay on the ground nearby, damaged beyond repair.

“Right,” said Garrit, twisting around in the seat to speak to the pair. “They'll soon get that wheel changed, and then we can be on our way.” He looked at Miriam speculatively. “We may as well have a spot of lunch while we're here?”

“That, sir,” said Miriam tartly, “was pathetic.”

He stood and as he extended an arm to help Miriam over the back of the bench, an arrow buried itself neatly into the seat beside his hand with a solid thunk. Garrit's response was instant. Shoving Miriam hard so she fell back down into the wagon, he used the force of the shove to propel himself out of the seat, and down next to the wheel.

“Stay down!” he shouted, as he nocked an arrow and crept to the corner of the cart.

Shouts of “bandits!” were coming from the rest of the caravan, and the guards flew into action, dropping tools and drawing weapons. Arrows continued to fly from the tree-line, travelling in a low arc to cover the range, but hitting little more than the ground and the occasional wagon.

Devin, lying in the back of the wagon, could just see Garrit through a gap where the canvas met the wooden side and saw the confused look on his face. Suddenly, a cry came up from the other side of the camp. Swearing viciously, Garrit tore around to the other side of the wagon. Devin flew across the wagon bed, ignoring Miriam who grabbed at him and made frantic hushing motions at him. With a sharp tug, he managed to create another peephole through which to watch the attack.

A group of a dozen or so rough looking men, had made it half-way to the wagons before the ruse had been uncovered, and were now charging with weapons raised. Four of the caravan's guards rushed to meet them, while the rest held bows and fired at the oncoming bandits.

Garrit stood tall, loosing arrow after arrow, but they either dropped short or flew off wildly. After four or five shots, the string snapped completely. “Cursed rain.” he swore. “Drop the bows and attack,” he bellowed, pulling his short-sword from its scabbard and a long knife from his belt as he charged.

The fight was vicious and brutal. Devin saw, almost at once, that the stories he had heard of battle held nothing in common with an actual sword fight. Men slipped and cursed at the wet even as they slashed and hacked at each other in desperate attempts to kill or maim. There was little or no grace in the fight, and Garrit was no exception as he slid in the muck and used the opportunity to strike savagely at a man's leg. The blade bit deeply into the bandit's leathers, and he cried out as blood sprayed from the wound. Devin's mouth fell open as he watched the man drop to one knee, only to meet Garrit's sword coming the other way.

Three of the guards were rolling on the ground screaming, and half of the bandits were dead or dying in the mud in just a few short minutes. A cry from behind the wagon raised a gasp from Miriam. Garrit's head shot round for a moment, before turning back at the last second to save him from a spear thrust that would have taken him in the throat.

The bandit stepped backwards, using short jabbing thrusts to keep Garrit at a distance and himself outside the reach of his short-sword. An ugly scar ran down the side of his face and carved a silvery line through his close-cropped black beard. With a fluid grace that had been lacking on the muddied field, Garrit stepped into the next thrust, moving the spearhead slightly to the side with the flat of his sword and then sliding it down the shaft before lashing out with his boot at the side of the bandit’s knee. Even inside the wagon Devin heard the sickening cracking noise as the man's leg flew out from under him, and he fell to the ground, screaming in agony.

The wagon rocked suddenly, shaking from a sudden weight. Silently Miriam pulled Devin towards the floor. They moved with agonising slowness so as not to alert the bandit who had appeared from the opposite side of the fight, and now taken up a position on the wagon's seat. He pulled a bowstring from a pouch, and strung a short-bow in one quick, practised motion. He drew back on the string and released smoothly, prompting a scream from a guard, before he reached for another arrow.

Devin looked frantically about him, and grabbed the heavy iron pan that Miriam had used to cook with the night before. He crept forward towards the seat, keeping low and praying the wagon wouldn't creak. Rising up behind the bandit, and ignoring Miriam's frantic flapping motions, he swung the pan at the back of the man's head with all of his strength. The pan made a dull ringing sound as it connected, the impact tearing it from Devin's grasp. The bandit shot forwards, but the blow of a small ten year old boy was not enough to knock him out, and he turned to see Devin cowering back away from him. He reached into his belt and the long dagger made a steely hiss as he pulled it free from the sheath.

“You won't regret that for long, boy,” he rasped, as he made to step over the seat.

A blade was savagely thrust up into his groin and he screamed a shockingly feminine combination of pain and outrage. Garrit reached in and dragged him from the seat before climbing back up and peering into the back. “Everyone alright?” he asked tersely. Miriam nodded, white-faced, and Garrit took up the reins and slapped them down hard onto the horses' rumps.

“Let's get out of here then shall we?”

The startled horses leapt forward as he tried to navigate out of the circle and onto the road. Arrows slammed into the seat next to him, and tore through the canvas of the wagon, but they did not slow. It seemed like they were away, until a hook-nosed bandit with hard eyes stepped neatly into the road. In an unhurried fashion he watched as the wagon bore down upon him, then stepped casually to the side and drove his spear into Bunion's neck. The horse screamed and tried to rear against the traces before going down in a twitching heap. Beth struggled as Bunion's weight pulled her sideways and she whinnied in terror. She was fighting a losing battle though, and the wagon lurched violently before crashing onto its side.

Devin and Miriam were hurled violently to the ground. Mercifully, the sacks of goods were between them and the crates, and served as a buffer to some extent. Miriam staggered to her feet and pulled the terrified boy to her, holding his hand and clambering over the crates and sacks as she made her way to the front of the wagon.

Beth was struggling against the traces, but was still hitched firmly to the fallen wagon. Bunion, however, lay still and the scent of his blood was driving the dray horse to hysterics. Miriam climbed gingerly out of the wagon and stepped well away from the flailing horse, looking for Garrit.

He stood not far from the wagon, long knife and sword in hand, as he watched the spear-wielding bandit approach. “You evil little bastard,” he muttered. The bandit smiled a slow, lazy smile and edged closer.

“Any chance of letting me go with the boy and the woman?” Garrit ventured.

“Can't see it,” said the man, laconically.

“You've got the whole damned caravan, man. What do you want with a boy and his mother?”

Devin looked around quickly and saw that this was true. The guards had been slaughtered to a man and the two remaining drivers stood some distance behind them against one wagon with bandits surrounding them. Several of the bandits stood watching Garrit with cruel amusement on their faces.

“Don't want the boy especially,” the man said with a smirk. “Gets cold and lonely in the woods though. A woman like that'd keep a man warm at night.”

Miriam stared at the man with a sick horror. What kind of twisted fate had allowed her to escape Caerl only to be a bandit's whore in the woods?

Garrit sighed and stepped away from the wagon, giving himself room to move freely. All traces of the man Devin had spent the previous few weeks with had fallen away. The amiable wagon driver was gone. In his place stood the seasoned caravan guard with weapons drawn.

The bandit approached slowly, with his spear already in guard position. Miriam noticed he carried no shield and wondered at that. From her years working in her father's tavern, she knew a man with a spear usually held a shield too. A spear alone was the choice of experts or fools. Miriam found herself fervently hoping he was the latter.

Garrit and the man began to circle each other slowly, not yet fighting but testing the other's speed and intent. She looked about her for something that she might use to help, but then she spotted Devin. The boy had run back to the wagon and was rummaging through the wreckage. She opened her mouth to call after him, but the bandit struck and the sound of steel on steel drew her back to the fight.

The bandit used his spear as a bladed staff, spinning and striking with both the blade and haft. Garrit backed away from him, looking for all the world as if he had never held a sword before today, a panicked expression on his face. Encouraged by Garrit's expression, the hook-nosed bandit lunged at his chest. Garrit stepped nimbly to the side and, placing the flat of his long knife against the spear, slid down the shaft and struck savagely with his short-sword at the bandit's arm.

Where his ploy had worked so well before, it failed now and the bandit seemed ready for Garrit's move, shifting backwards smoothly and sliding the spear down, past the end of Garrit's knife and into his leg. It was a light blow, lacking the strength to do any real damage, but the spear blade looked to be razor sharp and left a clear scar in the leather. He shifted away smoothly, his feet moving lightly and barely seeming to touch the muddy track.

Garrit muttered a curse and shifted back and away to give himself room for a moment. His eyes never leaving his opponent as he began to circle once more, he held the short-sword low and his long knife at the ready. The spear thrust at him again and he skipped to the side before lunging back in and slashing viciously at the man's ribs. The blade struck, but the man was already moving away, robbing the blow of the force it needed to cut through the thick leather armour.

He launched a sudden flurry of attacks, feinting to get inside the reach of the spear. It seemed as though he was outmatched, his every strike knocked easily aside as the bandit used both the blade and the shaft of the weapon to parry his strokes, the spear whirling in his hands. Garrit's blades danced and slashed independently, as he avoided falling into any pattern, but each strike met only empty air or the shaft of the spear.

The man struck once, twice, three times with the spear, forcing Garrit to parry desperately, and then lashed out with his foot, sweeping Garrit to the ground. He raised the spear high to strike and then froze as an arrow buried itself in his back.

Both Garrit and Miriam looked around in shock as Devin tried to nock another arrow, his hands shaking visibly. The bandit glared back at the boy, the arrow clearly not having penetrated deeply enough through the armour to cause any significant damage. Moving like a snake, Garrit took advantage of his distraction and rose to one knee, arms extended as he thrust both blades through the armour and deep into the bandit's belly.

Tearing the weapons free, as the man hissed and sank to the muddy road, Garrit beckoned frantically to Devin as he saw the three bandits who had watched the fight motioning in his direction.

“Into the trees!” Garrit cried, and grabbed at Devin, half-dragging the boy along as he charged up the bank and plunged headlong into the woods. Miriam scrambled frantically up the bank behind him, looking over her shoulder as the bandits gave chase. Once at the top of the bank, the woods were dense and she fought to keep up as leaves and branches slapped her in the face and caught at her dress. She screamed as the arrows began to hiss through the trees around them. Garrit, not even slowing or bothering to turn, lifted Devin into his arms and shifted into a sprint.

The ground sloped down gently, which helped to keep Miriam running, but her breath was already ragged and she could see she was beginning to lag behind. She fell twice in quick succession, tripping over unseen roots, and it was as she clambered to her feet from the second fall that the arrow struck. She felt it tear through her flesh, glancing off the bone high in the side of her thigh and she screamed hard as she fell to the ground again. Garrit was there, it seemed in seconds, pulling her to her feet and helping her along. The arrows kept flying, although now they were hitting trees or being foiled by leaves and twigs more often than not.

“Devin lad, you go with your Ma,” Garrit said gently. “Keep going, I'm going to have a chat with these lads.”

“No! Please don't leave us here,” pleaded Miriam, but the big man was already moving back towards the bandits, keeping low and moving from tree to tree.

“Go!” he hissed back at them, and then he was gone.

They floundered on through the trees, and she tried not to think about why the arrows had stopped, or the sudden silence behind them. The forest floor was carpeted with old leaves and lush green ferns. It would have been a beautiful sight were it not for the pain lancing through her with every step. She didn't dare stop to look at the wound, but she could feel the blood running down her leg and the flesh tearing as she hobbled along. Devin was moving as if asleep, his eyes glassy and unseeing.

Screams and the distant clash of steel on steel, prompted her to pull Devin to a stop by a thicket of brambles. A natural channel led into the tangle, and she could just make out a hollow inside. Miriam lay down and squirmed her way in, adrenaline dulling the pain in her leg. Devin, being smaller, made it inside with no problems. His face was still pale and drawn, and he flinched with every faint sound of the fight.

The brambles were incredibly dense and Miriam could barely see out. A faint animal smell suggested this had once been a den for some manner of forest creature, but the ground looked undisturbed. They huddled in the thicket, listening to the faint sounds of fighting, and when the silence eventually came she lay, waiting for Garrit, wishing she could still hear the swords.

She lay there for what felt like hours, as Devin tried and failed, to lie still beside her. Every time he fidgeted, three or four thorns dug into her side, causing her to flinch away which sent a jolt of pain from her leg. A soft shaking beside her brought her out of her thoughts and she realised with a pang of guilt that Devin was crying, but was too scared to make a noise. She pulled him close and wrapped him in her arms, making soft hushing noises and kissing the top of his head, as silent tears ran down her cheeks. Eventually, giving in to both physical and mental exhaustion, they slept.

She woke hours later to a gnawing agony in her leg and jerked violently away from it, stabbing herself with thorns as she did so. Cursing under her breath, she shook Devin awake, and they made their way out of the brambles. It was time to take control of the situation. Garrit hadn't returned so he was either dead or captured. Either way, they were on their own.

With Devin in hand and half asleep, she hobbled back in the direction they had fled. It didn't take long to find Garrit. He lay close to one of the bandits, his body torn and broken, obviously dead. She made Devin stand behind a tree while she rummaged through the bodies, taking the long knife and a tinderbox. On a whim she took the bandit's hunting bow as well. The most important thing, was to attend to the wound in her leg. It had been left too long already.

If she sat almost cross-legged with her skirts hitched up she could see where the arrow had ripped through the top of her thigh. The wound was already angry and inflamed. She took Garrit's knife and sliced and tore a strip from her skirts to bind her leg up as best she could.

She found Devin curled up beside the tree, rocking back and forth slowly with tears running down his cheeks. Crouching she took him into her arms.

“It'll be okay baby boy,” she whispered. “The bad men are gone now.” She held him for a time and eventually the tears subsided. At least he was crying now, she thought. Tears were better than being numb.

“Devin, you know what a willow tree and birch tree look like, don't you?” she asked gently.

“The bendy one with the long hair?” Devin asked.

“That's the willow, yes. The birch is the one with the shiny bark,” Miriam smiled. “We need to find your Ma a willow or a birch tree so you keep a look out for me okay?”

They wandered for the best part of two hours before Devin spotted a willow tree. Miriam hacked ineffectually at the trunk until she managed to slice enough off to get at the softer bark underneath. It tasted foul and bitter but she knew it would help with the pain of her leg somewhat. This was only half a remedy. She knew that lessening the pain of her wound would do little unless they managed to find some water to clean it with. The willow bark would ease a fever, but this wouldn't help if the wound were to go foul.

Chewing on the bark lessened the pain, eventually, but the acrid taste was making her thirstier. The tall trees of the forest had blocked most of the rain, so the woods that had only been damp to begin with, were now almost completely dry. She kept them travelling downhill, in the hopes they would hit water. Common sense told her that any water must lay down the slope of the forest, and she had decided from the outset to travel away from the site of the ambush. The bandits had to live somewhere in these woods, and she had no intention of going anywhere near them again if she could help it. She felt reasonably confident that they were moving away from any encampment, since the bandits had come from the other side of the road, but still kept a wary eye behind them as they walked.

It was late afternoon when they finally found a small stream, and she and Devin collapsed beside it, leaning out over the water to drink directly from the surface in long gasping gulps. She forced herself to sit up and look at her leg again. The blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage and dried on the back of her thigh. She sent Devin off to collect twigs and small sticks, and set about clearing an area for a fire, digging a hollow with a broken branch. Devin returned shortly with a double armful of twigs, and his fingers stained a dark purple red. He dropped the wood and opened his hands to reveal the half-squashed blackberries. His smile was like the sun coming up, and easily eclipsed the joy she felt at the prospect of food.

They quickly devoured the berries and she sent him off for more, while she tried to start a fire. Garrit's tinderbox was well-stocked and before long she had a fire going. She knew she ought to boil water to make clean dressings for her leg, but of course, they had no pot to hold water in. In the end, she settled for ripping more strips from her rapidly shortening skirts, and sent Devin to soak them in the stream before holding them on sticks above the fire until they steamed. It wasn't perfect, and the first two she tried came away blackened with smoke and soot until she caught the trick of it.

They stayed by the stream overnight, devouring the berries and some edible mushrooms. She mentally thanked her father for the trips they had made into the woods when she was a child. As she did, she realised it was the first time she had thought of him fondly in years.

The mushrooms and berries were not enough to fill either of them, and she sent Devin off again to collect acorns. Pounding them into a paste between two flat stones, she tasted it gingerly. Devin spat his out immediately and refused to try it again. She found that by mashing acorns into a pulp, and then baking it on the stones by the fire, it became slightly less disgusting. Even Devin managed to fight down a mouthful.

“Don't like it cold, huh?” she teased. “My little squirrel boy needs his acorns baked.”

Devin giggled at this, the first real smile or laugh she'd seen since the ambush, and she took it as a good sign. “Want to go and find me some more acorns and blackberries, little squirrel?” she asked, and Devin scampered off into the trees.

By the end of the second day, it became obvious that they needed to move on. Devin needed real food, as did she. The main reason, she kept hidden from Devin. The flesh surrounding the wound in her leg was now a deep angry red and streaks were tracing down her leg. She knew enough about infection to know she needed to clean it, and she needed more than wet strips of her dress hung over the fire.

***

Miriam awoke in the moonlight, soaked in a hot sweat. She stood on unsteady legs and staggered towards the stream, before plunging face first into the shallow water. The splash woke Devin, who helped her up from the water.

“Do you hear the bells, darling?” she asked Devin brightly and smiled at his confused face.

She leaned on him as she stood but then took his hand and led the way through the woods, weaving in and out of the moonlit trees, laughing in delight.

The bells were tinkling lightly in her ears, calling her ever forward. Devin was following close behind, but she didn't think so much about the boy now. He would be fine. Everything was fine. She danced onwards through the trees, the pain in her leg gone, and her soaked dress seemed as light as gossamer.

She could hear horns now, and the sweetest flutes. The music was distant, but she could hear just enough to sing along with a wordless crooning as she danced, twirling and laughing through the trees.

“Mistletoe and berry-wine, sparrow song and ivy climb,” she sang, as the words came to her unbidden. “Stream and stone, field and barrow, moonlight, stars bright, bone and marrow.”

She darted away from Devin's grasping hands, moving faster and faster through the woods, dancing and spinning as she went, until she burst out of the trees and into a clearing. Moonlight bathed a ring of low stones cast in a rough circle with a taller stone set in the centre. The stones were half covered in moss, as if the forest floor were cradling them in an embrace. A bare patch here and there reflected the light. Thick moss and lush grass filled the clearing and Miriam laughed in delight as she began to weave in and out of the stones, singing and twirling.

***

Devin awoke with a start at a loud splash from the stream. He sat up, rubbed at bleary eyes and turned to see his mother lying face down in the water. With a gasp, he rushed to her side and tried to haul her out, but she was far too heavy for him to move. She rolled over and sat in the waist-deep water, laughing at him. Her eyes shone with a sickly sheen in the pale light from the moon and stars, and even soaked in the stream he could feel the heat pouring off her.

“Come on Ma, let's get you out, eh?” he suggested, and she stood agreeably, wading out of the stream and onto the bank.

“Can you hear the bells?” she slurred at him, and then laughed at his concerned face. She staggered off into the trees, lurching this way and that. Devin chased after her, calling her back, but she didn't stop or slow. She was almost running, moving with a painful limping gait, her soaked skirts slapping at her legs.

“Ma, please!” Devin called, close to tears.

Her voice carried back to him through the trees. She was singing, an odd crooning with words he didn't understand. “Lians'antha cu Savenfaer, Arun taer cu Brystlien lair. Tuertha cu Faana, C'rus cu Callow, Lune staer, Lis taer, Fis cu Halow.”

She dashed away from him again as he caught up, and crashed through a stand of holly, ignoring and not even seeming to feel the cuts and scratches. Devin skirted around the holly and stopped as he spotted her.

She stood at the centre of a circle of short, mossy stones, swaying back and forth like a willow in a soft breeze. Her head was cocked to one side as if listening and her face was fixed in a jubilant smile. She stood next to a slightly larger stone that was positioned as if it were the hub of a wheel in relation to the rest of the circle. Unlike the other stones, this one had gathered no moss and almost seemed to shine in the moonlight. Devin walked towards her slowly, his eyes darting this way and that. He wasn't especially scared of the dark, but he was still a city boy, and the noises of the forest at night spooked him. A boy who was slightly older might have been terrified, but Devin was young enough to still think his mother could fix anything.

She smiled broadly at him and reached to take his hand. “Dance with me?” she whispered. She held his hands tight and spun him in a circle, leaning back against the force and he grinned, despite the crazy situation. Then she slowed and dropped one hand, leading him as she stepped in a dance, weaving in and out of the stones, all the while singing words he couldn't understand.

The dance was intricate and seemed far more than simple steps she was just making up. A hop here, a delicate spin there as she passed a stone, and singing, all the while the singing. There was a pressure building. Though nothing touched them it was almost as if something pressed against them, like a strong wind. This was smooth though, nothing so ragged as wind. It felt like the pressure you feel when you try and push a wide bowl down into an already full sink, straining against the buoyancy. Eventually he pulled her to a stop, his face red and chest heaving. She stood smiling at him in the moonlight. She didn't even appear to be breathing hard.

“Come on Ma, let's go back now?” he panted. She nodded agreeably and allowed him to lead her from the stones. As they stepped out of the circle, the night seemed to shudder like a sapling shaken by a thoughtless child. Devin looked around in a panic, but there was nothing to see. The sensation ended as suddenly as it had begun, and then the night was still.

Devin managed to navigate his mother back to their little camp without protest. For a short time, it was almost as if he were the parent, and she the child, as he encouraged her to lie down and put a cold wet cloth on her forehead. Eventually, they both slept under the moon. Curled up together to create a little haven against the darkness. She burned with fever but Devin couldn't think of that now. He closed his eyes, and slept.

***

The next morning brought harsh realities. Miriam woke mid-morning and made her way to the stream, discovering a host of unexplained scratches and scrapes as she did so. Devin was still sleeping, but decisions had to be made. Whilst there might be water here in the stream, they were not eating enough, nor was it the right kind of food. Her leg was not going to get better by itself. It was time to leave.

She started a fire and soaked her bandages again, before hanging them close to the fire to try and boil the water in them. Looking around she managed to locate a fallen branch that would serve as a crutch or staff. She gathered a few handfuls of mushrooms and ate slowly. They tasted gritty and earthy, but she forced them down and then worked to clean her wound. Her leg seemed swollen and felt hot to the touch. The pus ran freely down her thigh as she worked to clean it with the steaming cloth and the smell was enough to make her gag. The pain was incredible, but she bit her lip and carried on until the wound was clean, and slowly bleeding pure red blood. She bound the wound as best she could, wrapping the still steaming cloth around her thigh and tying it off. Then it was time to wake Devin.

After a small breakfast of the raw forest mushrooms they set off. Devin was telling a tale about his dream, something about her dancing in the moonlight, but she was really only half-listening. Just walking took an enormous amount of effort and concentration, and she was trying hard to not think about the chances of them actually making it out of the woods.

They continued to search for food as they hiked, stopping every time one of them spotted berries or mushrooms. Half of everything they found, they ate, and the rest they bundled into a pouch made from Devin's shirt. The day was warm enough that he could go shirtless with no complaints.

The forest seemed endless, and it was a constant worry that they might be drifting in circles. She tried to keep to a straight line by sighting on a particular tree and walking to it, and then picking another, but there never seemed to be many trees in exactly the direction she picked. Water was another worry, as they had neither seen a pond or heard any other streams and they were both soon dry-mouthed. Berries helped, but for only a second and then the tartness of the berry seemed to create a thirst all of its own.

They came across a shallow pool as the sun touched the tree-tops, and Miriam sank down next to it gratefully. Devin flopped to the ground and immediately drank deeply. She decided that she had never been so tired, or dirty in her life.

“When we get out of here, baby boy, I am never going near another tree!” she announced firmly.

Devin laughed and scooped another double-handful of water from the pool. It was crystal clear and fed from a tiny rivulet, trickling from a trail of rocks up against one side.

Miriam worked to start a fire and they fed on the remains of the mushrooms, before huddling together to ward off the chill of the night. Devin stared silently into the fire as his mother dozed and before long, he heard her snoring as the moon rose.

It had been a fine adventure for a time. Garrit had been exciting and the run into the woods, whilst terrifying at the time, was a great tale to tell. Now though, it was just a boring slog and Devin was keen to get out of the trees. As he stared at the fire, he gradually became aware of just how silent the forest had become. Normally there was endless birdsong, the faint rustling of squirrels in the trees and other creatures in the undergrowth, but now it was utterly silent except for the soft snoring made by his mother.

He slowly became aware of an intense feeling of being watched. As a boy in Kavtrin, he had often seen cats stalk their prey. There was a time, just before they pounced, when they simply sat and watched. This was how he felt, as if some predator sat and surveyed their little camp, deciding whether they would make a good meal.

The night had turned cloudy, and so there was little light to be had from the full moon except when it occasionally broke through the clouds. What light there was came from the dying fire.

“Where do you go to, manling?” A voice, soft as velvet, cut through the stillness. Devin leapt up and stared about wildly, his head whipping this way and that as he searched for the speaker.

“Who said that!?” he cried. “Where are you?”

“Where do you go to, and why do you dance? Do you summon with intent?” The voice seemed to come from a different direction. It had an odd accent as if speaking a language unfamiliar to it, the words shaped strangely on its tongue.

“We're just trying to get home,” Devin said softly.

“Ahh, home. I understand that. It is bad to be away from your home for too long. Bad to be, kept from it.” The voice was soft but caught on that word.

Devin jumped again as he caught a hint of movement among the trees. Nothing so definite as catching sight of the owner of the voice, just the merest hint of a passing figure. His eyes caught again on a patch of darkness, and slowly the disparate images coalesced. It was a woman. She stood in the dark calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be there. She stepped towards him slowly out of the shadows, moving with an infinite grace, each step almost a dance in itself. She stopped just outside the tiny circle of light shed by the dying embers of the fire.

The clouds parted to bathe her in moonlight and Devin hissed with a sharp intake of breath. The woman's skin shone with a pale green colour where it was not covered by her simple tunic. It was as if her skin had a sheen all its own that threw back the beams of the moon. Her hair hung long and loose about her shoulders and was as silver as the moonlight. She turned and raised her face to the moon, almost seeming to drink in the light. Then the clouds blew in again and the moment was over.

“Why do you travel?” the creature asked, turning to face him again. Devin had stopped thinking of her as a woman. On some level he knew he ought to be fearful of her but she seemed more curious than threatening.

“We're going to find my grandpa,” Devin answered self-importantly, as only a ten year old can.

The creature nodded sagely. “Seeking the elders. A fine task.” She stepped towards the fire, another cat-like step that brought her closer to Miriam but yet somehow no closer to Devin. She crouched to her haunches suddenly and sniffed, almost seeming to taste the air in front of Devin's mother, before turning to look at him.

Her eyes shone in the light, and for the first time Devin could see they were a startling shade of amber. It may have been a trick of the poor light but he could see no pupils at all. They were just solid orbs of amber, gazing at him, unblinking in the night.

“This one will not go much further,” she said in her strange accent. “Her wound is deep and foulness travels to her centre. When it finds it, she will be ended.”

Devin blinked. “Can you help us?”

“Help you?” The creature cocked her head, looking for all the world like a curious bird for a moment. “Why would I do that?” she seemed genuinely perplexed. Devin had no answer to that and gave her a pleading look. “She sang?” she asked curiously. “At the stones? It was she who sang and danced?”

Devin nodded, confused as to how she knew about the stones.

“I suppose I might be able to help, at that.” She took one tiny step backwards and suddenly she was gone, between one heartbeat and the next and without seeming to move. The shadows and half-light that made up her form seemed to shift and Devin found himself searching around for her in the darkness. He was breathing heavily, as if he had run a fast sprint uphill, and he turned to his mother still sleeping on the ground. Devin knelt and felt her forehead as he had been taught. It was burning to the touch again.

“As I said, there is a taint that moves to her centre,” came the voice again.

He turned to see her stood close to the fire with a small wooden bowl and various implements. She knelt, as he watched in silence, and ground up various leaves mixing them with what smelled like honey and strong red wine. She stirred with one long finger, and seemed to smile as she did so, before taking one crouched step towards Miriam bearing the bowl.

Abruptly she stiffened and sniffed sharply at the recumbent form again. Moving so swiftly Devin wouldn't have thought it possible, she set the bowl down and pushed at Miriam roughly, rolling her over with her foot and revealing Garrit's long knife.

The woman leapt backwards and landed in a fighting crouch, hissing savagely at Miriam like a wildcat.

“What's the matter?” cried Devin. The woman started, as if she had forgotten he was there, and bared bright white teeth at him.

“Fie! Fly! Be gone, little manling!” she spat at him. “Take your tainted She and be gone!” She drew herself up to her full height and Devin was struck with pure terror as she moved towards him, her steps slow and deliberate. Waves of enmity seemed to roll from her and Devin shied desperately away from her, sinking to the ground beside his mother.

“BEGONE!” the creature snarled and taking two steps backwards, she vanished into the trees.

Devin sank slowly to the ground. His breath was ragged as he looked around in the darkness. The night-calls of birds were slowly returning, and he could once more hear the faint rustling of animals in the undergrowth. He gathered up some of the wood from their pile and stirred the fire into life. The wooden bowl sat just to one side of the fire, and Devin sniffed at it curiously. The mixture had somehow transformed into something closely resembling water, albeit with a faintly oily sheen. The scent of wine had faded and the concoction smelt oddly of moss. He shuffled over to his mother and wormed his way into her arms. Staring out at the darkness, it was a long time before sleep finally claimed him.

Chapter Three

Devin woke the next morning, alone. He sat up on the leaf-covered ground and picked the pine needles and twigs from his hair. Looking around the clearing, he felt the first twinges of panic. The knife and tinderbox lay where they had been left last night, but there was no sign of his mother.

“Ma?” he called out. His voice sounded tiny to himself, the sound almost mocking him.

He made his way over to the pool and knelt, drinking down the sweet water and splashing some over his face. Looking around their small camp one last time, he scooped up the knife, and made his way over to the edge of the clearing.

He almost tripped over the bowl before he saw it. It lay on its side at the base of a holly bush. Devin crouched and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The events of the previous night had been so bizarre he had almost convinced himself it had been a dream, but the bowl put an end to that. An adult might have been more shocked to see it, but Devin took it in his stride and saw it simply as an indication of the direction his mother might have gone.

It didn't take him long to find her. It looked as though she had got up in the night and blundered on through the dark until she grew tired, then simply slept where she was. Devin felt her head and shook her gently. “Ma?”

She opened her eyes and smiled at him with eyes that weren't quite focused. As she looked around the woods, Devin could feel the heat pouring off her. She was covered in a sheen of sweat, despite the cool of the morning.

“Do you want a drink Ma?” He went off to the pool in response to her nod, and filled the bowl with the cool, clear, water. It seemed to refresh her, but she insisted on setting out straight away without even bothering to search for any food.

Within the hour she was staggering almost aimlessly through the forest. It took all of Devin's efforts to try and keep them on a straight course. He managed to eat some berries as they passed bushes, but he was still desperately hungry. He tried to get her to take some, but she showed no interest.

They reached the ridge around midday. Devin had been following Miriam, trying to keep them travelling straight by sighting on particular trees as she had taught him. Her fever seemed worse than ever, and her skin was dry and burned to the touch. Despite that, she seemed more alert, and was happy enough to be guided by him. They did not stop though. She wouldn't stop to rest, and she became angry when he suggested it.

Between one step and the next, Devin saw the ground fall away in front of them as they passed through the last trees. They stood atop a ridge-line in the forest and, for the first time in what felt like weeks, Devin could see for miles. It actually took a minute or two to sink in that he could see beyond the forest, or that the edge of the trees was in roughly the same direction they had been travelling. The excitement of this was nothing compared to the thrill he felt when he realised that beyond the trees, was a road.

“Ma. Look!” he called, pointing at the brown smudge in the distance. He turned to see her leaning heavily against a tree, murmuring to herself. It didn't look like she had even heard him and after two more attempts, he gave up with a bitter sigh.

The ridge continued for some distance, but sloped downwards to his left. Even if he did manage to navigate through the trees, they wouldn't make it out of the forest before nightfall. Assuming, of course, that his mother would cooperate and walk where he led.

Devin trudged on through the undergrowth, trying to ignore the gnawing of his empty belly. Following the ridge-line proved harder than it looked. They were forced to travel in the wrong direction several times, to avoid bramble thickets, or steep ravines leading in from the ridge. By the time the ground was beginning to level off, indicating that they had made it off the ridge, the sun had almost set and the moon was rising. They had passed another stream some hours earlier so Devin could cope with the thirst, but he didn't think he had ever been this hungry. The berries and mushrooms that had sustained them during the previous few days seemed to have vanished, and with the failing light, it would be almost impossible to spot anything now. As he stumbled along in the near dark, he tried and failed, to keep tears of frustration from falling.

Miriam stopped suddenly, and Devin nearly crashed into her back. She had been leading the last few hours and, whilst still feverish, seemed much more aware of where they were, and what was going on.

She stood with her head cocked on one side, as if listening. Devin froze, listening too. It was too easy to dismiss her behaviour as fever dreams, there had been two or three times now when she'd heard animals he hadn't, and once, she'd saved them from a red-eyed sow with a litter of piglets. Devin was a city boy, but he knew enough not to go near a boar.

He listened carefully, but heard nothing but the sound of the wind in the treetops. “Come on Ma'” he said gently, trying to move her along with his touch. She ignored him, and stood with her head cocked, swaying gently back and forth as if dancing to some distant music.

He ground his teeth in frustration and looked through the murk for somewhere to camp for the night. Finally, with much persuading, he was able to get his mother moving again. Devin dared not move too far from the ridge. The forest seemed to twist in the half-light and he feared they would get turned around and never find it again. The cover given by the forest was reduced by the proximity of the ridge, and the wind tore through the trees, seeming to claw at the ragged remnants of his clothing.

He held Miriam's hand tightly as he led her through the woods, looking for some form of shelter without leaving the ridge. The howl cut through the woods despite the wind. Devin froze in place, eyes wide and his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

“Ma!” His voice suddenly sounded very young, even to himself. “Ma? Was that wolves?”

“Shhh!” came the hissed reply. “Just keep moving. Quietly now.” Her voice was focused and clear. She seemed to have come back to herself for the moment.

An answering howl filled the night and suddenly the air was alive with the calls of the wolves. It seemed like they came from every direction at once. Devin looked to his mother for just a second before grasping her hand and running through the woods, his legs driven and ruled by fear. Leaves and branches tore at his hair and face as he fled from the howls, and he darted between the trees heedless of the noise he was making.

He didn't even see the stream, but flew through it, his legs suddenly soaked to the knees as he scrambled up the bank on all fours, grasping at half-seen roots and ferns. He could hear his mother close behind him, her breathing little more panicky gasps, thick with fear.

“Flee little manling,” came the spiteful whisper from the trees, so soft that he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it.

Another howl filled the night, startlingly close and spurring Devin and Miriam to new efforts and they sprinted headlong through the trees. Devin looked around as he ran, searching for movement among the trees over his shoulder. Miriam ignored everything but speed, looking straight ahead as she moved with a lurching gait, using a branch as a crutch.

Devin heard a whimpering noise as he ran and it was several yards before he realised that he was making it himself. He clenched his teeth and tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. His legs were burning and, despite her leg, his mother was outpacing him. He fancied he could hear snarling, and the crashing of leaves and bushes behind him as the wolves drew closer. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a flash of silver grey fur in the moonlight, and then something struck his face and chest hard enough to make his vision spin and his ears ring. He slumped to the ground, bark scraping and tearing at his face as his vision swam in crazy circles and slowly faded to darkness.

Miriam jumped at the muffled crash behind her and turned in time to see Devin slide down the tree and collapse to the ground. The cold and the terror seemed to have reduced her fever, and she felt more able to think clearly. The wolves had fallen silent. She didn't know if this was good or bad, but she could hear nothing for the moment other than the wind blowing through the trees.

She flew to Devin in a panic and dropped to the forest floor beside him. Blood ran freely down his face from a nasty gash where he had run into the tree. She cradled his head to her as tears coursed unchecked down her face. “My baby!” she wailed. “Oh Lords and Ladies, Devin!”

Dimly she became aware of a warmth against her arm and realised it was his breath. He was alive at least. She turned this way and that in the moonlight, hoping to get a clearer view of his face but couldn't see much more than the fact he was bleeding.

A light footfall behind her was the only warning she had that she was not alone. She turned fearfully, expecting to face a huge wolf intent on an easy meal. Instead a woman stood there in the moonlight looking at her quizzically.

Miriam had a vague sense of recognition, but panic about Devin overrode any other thoughts. A calmer person would have asked what a woman was doing walking alone through the forest in the middle of the night. A more rational person would have noted the eyes, coloured amber with no visible pupils, or the inhuman grace with which the creature moved. Miriam was neither calm nor rational, and saw nothing other than potential salvation.

“He hit his head. We were running from the wolves, and he ran into a tree,” she explained, her voice thick with tears and worry. The woman nodded slightly but made no attempt to move closer. Instead she stood silently, casually surveying the scene.

“He needs help. He's bleeding!” Miriam said, with a plea in her voice.

“He is, as you say, bleeding.” Her voice was low and melodic and she almost seemed to sing the words.

“Don't just stand there!” Miriam screamed, fear and anger taking control. “Won't you help us?”

“Why would I want to do that?” the woman asked, seeming genuinely confused by the question.

“I could pay,” Miriam said suddenly, her hand going to the purse tied beneath her skirt. The woman smiled a sudden, hard smile and her eyes flashed in the moonlight.

“An exchange then? You would submit to this?”

“An exchange? Yes! I have money, I'll pay whatever you like. Just help him, please?”

***

Devin woke to pain. His face felt strange, tight like a bad sunburn. This was overlaid with a throbbing pulse running through his forehead and left cheek, down to his jawline. He tried with some care, to open his eyes and noted only one would open. His hand made its way to his face, and his fingertips encountered what felt like leaves, and something sticky, like mud or honey.

“Do not touch it,” a stranger's voice said.

“Devin sweetheart?” came his mother's voice. “It's a kind of medicine. Try not to touch it okay?” Her voice was calm, clear. The clearest she'd sounded in days. Despite the pain that was increasing the more he awoke, Devin felt a relief coupled with a wild exultation. They had found help. They were safe.

“Your manling will need rest. Make him drink this, I will return when the moon rises,” the stranger said.

Then his mother was there, holding a wooden bowl to his lips, and encouraging him to drink a thick, sickly-sweet, liquid. It tasted like honey, and strong wine, and something else he couldn't identify. It burned all the way down his throat and the taste seemed to change subtly the more he drank. He didn't even notice himself getting drowsy until he felt his mother gently take the bowl from his lips, and his eyes softly closed.

Devin slept deeply until he was finally roused and they began walking. He was half-awake at best when he first caught sight of her. His head was still groggy from sleep, and whatever it was that he had been made to drink. There was a dreamlike quality to everything which was only exacerbated by the fact that they were travelling by moonlight. Despite this, he was certain that the woman travelling with them was the strange person he had spoken to the night his mother had been dancing around the stones. He squinted and tried to focus his blurry eyes upon her as he staggered along, leaning heavily on his mother.

As his head cleared he used the opportunity to study her more closely, she was definitely the creature from before. At a glance she looked broadly human, two arms, two legs. The similarities stopped there though. Her ears were swept up into points and her skin had a pale greenish cast to it that shone through, even in the moonlight. She was dressed simply in tight fitting clothes of a pale tan colour and though she walked barefoot, she moved with grace, unconcerned by the twigs and pebbles underfoot. As if she felt his eyes upon her, she turned and looked at him sharply, before smiling slowly. The smile said nothing of humour or affection. This was a cold smile that extended no further than the lips, her amber coloured eyes as cold and hard as the gem they resembled.

“What happened to me?” he asked his mother softly, as they made their way between the trees.

“You ran into a tree, knocked yourself senseless.”

“Then what happened? I mean, what happened to the wolves?” Devin wondered.

“I don't know. I hadn't thought about it really. I mean, at the time, I was more worried about you.” Miriam paused, stopping while she looked up at the sky.

“They stopped as soon as she arrived,” she said finally, gesturing at the figure of the woman who was fast disappearing into the night. They hurried to catch up with Miriam supporting Devin with one arm.

“What about your leg?” Devin asked suddenly, realising she was no longer limping or using a crutch.

“She put some stuff on it. Amazing really. I've never seen anything like it, but it was almost completely better overnight.” Miriam smiled. “It looks like we are both going to be fine.”

Devin grinned at her in the moonlight.

The sky was beginning to brighten by the time the woman finally slowed. She turned and fixed Miriam with a feral look. “Just beyond these oaks lies your path,” she said softly.

“Already?” asked Miriam. “It looked so much further away from the ridge earlier.”

“You question me?” the woman replied, amber eyes bright and staring.

“No, no,” Miriam said hurriedly, her words tripping over each other. “It just passed so quickly. I'm grateful of course...”

“Come.” She moved swiftly through the trees, stopping with her hand resting on a huge oak, looking back at the pair of them expectantly.

Miriam hurried after her, eager to be out from under the trees. She stepped past the odd woman and stopped in confusion. The path led into a large clearing, a collection of low stones lay forming a ragged circle with a short monolith standing as a hub to the misshapen wheel. She spun slowly, looking this way and that. The trees were thick around the edges of the clearing and she could see no end to the forest.

“I don't understand,” she said slowly. “You said we were here.”

“As we are,” replied the woman, moving up behind her. “As, everyone always is.”

“You said our path was this way!” protested Miriam, her temper beginning to fray.

“As it is, as I have led you. And now you must pay.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Miriam said in confusion, rummaging through her skirts to grab the purse given to her by Shalin. “Um, we never discussed an amount?”

“You assume I have any interest in your shiny trinkets,” the woman said, moving closer to Miriam. “We agreed an exchange.”

As she approached, Miriam wondered how she could ever have mistaken her for human.

“What do you want?” Miriam breathed as she took half a step backwards, away from the creature.

“Foolish She! You come and dance among the stones and then you ask what I want? How soon you have all forgotten.” With two quick steps she was in front of Miriam and grasping her by the throat.

“Ma!” screamed Devin as the creature dragged her towards the stones with an unearthly strength.

Miriam gasped, her fingers raking ineffectually at the creature's arms.

“Ma!” Devin yelled again, racing after the creature as she moved to the monolith, pulling Miriam along effortlessly. He grabbed at her arm and tried to stop her, but it was like trying to stop the tide.

“Let her go!” he screamed and kicked savagely at the creature's leg. She stopped suddenly and fixed him with an intense gaze and then, as if holding his mother there took no more effort than holding a small child, she struck him with her free hand across the face. Devin flew through the air and landed some five feet away at the edge of the trees. He hauled himself to one knee as his head spun, and turned to face them.

Miriam had been dragged into the circle and was pressed backwards against the small monolith, her hands still clawing at the creature's wrist. The woman raised one hand high towards the moon and between one breath and the next they slipped into the stone as easily as a stick into water. They were gone.

“Ma!” shrieked Devin as he raced at the monolith and fell to his knees, clawing at the rough stone with tears running down his cheeks in the light of the uncaring moon.

***

Khorin stepped down from the cart and looped the reins around a dead tree. The horses wouldn't stray far anyway but they might hurt themselves otherwise. He walked through the tall grass easily, making his way under the trees. It was only just dawn and the weak watery light was barely enough to light his way once he was under the dense canopy. He carried a large axe over one shoulder, the haft resting easily on the leather vest covering his simple homespun. He'd spotted a stand of beech in here the other week and it was a good day to bring one or two of them down. He'd come back with Owen from the village later on in the month to have him help with the cutting, but the felling he could manage alone.

He walked slowly but deliberately, wasting no time but not hurrying either. Rushing was for younger men and after thirty years farming these lands, he had just about used up all his rushing. He was not a large man by any means. His hair and beard were shot through with grey and touches of white but his arms showed sinew as he flexed them on his axe handle, which told of a strength that could be called upon when needed.

Whistling rather tunelessly as he walked through the woods he tried to recall exactly where he'd seen the beech trees. Oak tended to burn hotter than beech, but for some reason Khorin had never felt comfortable bringing down an oak tree. Maybe it was something to do with acorns and squirrels. He chuckled quietly to himself at the thought.

He stepped over a small boulder half buried in the ferns, and found his way to the game trail. It wasn't much of a path, meandering this way and that, but it would get him to where he was going. Horses, now they at least would go in a straight line when pressed, but a deer couldn't walk in a straight line if its life depended on it.

He was so caught up in his reverie that he almost missed the boy altogether. He was curled up like a sleeping dormouse at the foot of an ancient willow. The branches and leaves seemed almost to cradle him as he slept. He was also filthy, and as sorry a state of a child that he had ever seen.

Khorin rushed to the boy and knelt down, feeling at his throat. His hair was down to his collar, he could almost have passed for a girl were it not for his sunken features. There was a pulse, but only barely and he almost missed it. He wet his hand in the leaves and held it under the boy's nose, feeling for the feather-light touch of his breath. Frowning he stood back and looked at the lad, there was something very wrong here. The boy was beyond gaunt and soaked through to the skin. The first touches of moss had begun growing on his clothes.

“How long has this child been here?” he whispered to himself.

He knelt down next to the boy, laying his axe down on the ground and gathered him up in his arms. There was ivy growing around the boy's legs but he pulled it free with a sharp tug that somehow failed to wake him. Shaking his head and wondering what could possibly have occurred here, Khorin cradled the child in his arms. A bow lay in the grass and leaves. He scooped it up, grunting at the effort of crouching with the boy. His axe lay forgotten at the base of the tree as he made his way out of the woods.

He made his way back to the farmstead and crashed through the door with one foot whilst crying out for his wife.

“Hannah! Where are you wife?” he bellowed as he rushed down the steps into the kitchen and stopped with the boy near the hearth.

She bustled into the kitchen, a whirlwind of concern and domesticity. “Who's that you have there? Lords and Ladies Khorin! Where did you find him? He's covered in a thousand kinds of dirt. Is that moss?”

“I found him in the woods. Sleeping, if you can swallow that. Happy as you please he was. Beneath an old willow, like something out of a tale.”

“Why hasn't he woken then?” Hannah replied wringing her apron between two nervous hands.

“Who knows? He breathes, and his heartbeat is strong. Get him warm and let him rest. Questions can wait.”

It was rare that Hannah accepted Khorin's lead in such an authoritative fashion but she was so shaken by the state of the child. There was moss growing on his feet. Moss! She moved close to him and brushed the long dark hair back from his forehead.

“Set him down in the chair there Khorin, don't just stand about.” She knelt and took the boy's cold hand in her own. “What's your story then little man?” she murmured. “Get some water from the pump Khorin and let's put it on the fire. We'll get him clean, and we'll take it from there.”

She gave orders and they both bustled about the cottage, heating water and filling a bath. Before too much longer the boy became a bit more skin coloured and the bath water came to resemble a forest floor. Through it all the boy slept on, unconcerned, as two strangers stripped him of his clothes and scrubbed his skin pink.

By midday the child was tucked into a clean bed in the tiny bedroom at the top of the cottage. Hannah stood in the doorway watching the blankets rise and fall over his chest. He was painfully thin, so thin it made him look younger than he really was, but his height suggested he was at least nine or ten.

There was a kind of warped symmetry in it all. It had been ten years almost to the day that their own boy had been taken from them.

Contagion and disease were quite rare, but the flux had swept through the district like a flame in dry grass, carrying off young and old alike. She'd cried for a solid month afterwards and refused to this day to visit the place where Khorin had laid him into the ground. Somehow, knowing where he was buried would make it real. He'd planted an apple tree with the body in the old tradition, but she wasn't interested and refused to take the fruit from him when he'd first brought it to her. The idea was that eating the fruit made the child always stay with you, but she didn't care. He'd been stolen from her, and she didn't want fruit. She wanted her baby back. Now this child appeared from nowhere. And found under a tree no less.

She felt the stairs flex behind her before the hand landed lightly on her shoulder.

“Come away Hannah.” Khorin's gentle voice rumbled. “We'll get no more answers just looking at him. Let him rest.”

She let him lead her down the stairs and sat silent at the old kitchen table as he pulled the kettle out from over the fire and went about making her tea with a generous dollop of honey. She took the steaming cup from him mutely, her eyes expectant.

“We'll have to wait until he wakes up, Hannah. Boy asleep in the middle of the woods like that? It's like he crawled out of a child's tale. He's bound to have family around here somewhere looking for him.”

“Where are they then, Khorin?” she demanded. “How does a boy find himself alone in the woods at his age, with no one looking for him?”

“We wait Hannah. We wait for him to wake, and find out the truth of things. Then we wait for his family to come and get him.”

She stared at him, words left unsaid on both sides but both hearing them regardless.

Devin spent three days sleeping whilst Hannah hovered over him, bathed him and fretted. Khorin was back to the farm the next day. There were crops that needed tending and animals to be fed and, at the end of the day, taxes and rents to be paid. Truth be told, he felt he was better off out of the house than in it. Hannah would have driven him crazy.

On the evening of the third day, as they both sat in the long low-beamed kitchen, a tentative creaking down the stairs announced the boy before he appeared in the doorway. He looked confused and a little scared. His cheeks looked more hollow than they had before, but he was awake.

Hannah rushed out of her chair with a low cry and smothered him to her breast. Bustling him into a chair and setting broth and warm bread before him with a large cup of fresh milk. He inhaled the food like a bear waking in spring and then looked up with fragile eyes. “Where's my mother?”

“I'm sorry lad. I only found you.” Khorin managed as Hannah moved over to the table and placed a comforting hand on Devin's shoulder.

“I remember things,” he said. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Things I thought were a dream.”

Hannah pulled out a chair and sat next to him, taking his hand. “Do you want to talk about it? It might help.” She mothered his story out of him with a skill that would have impressed any noble's inquisitor. Later, once Hannah had fed and mothered him into submission, and encouraged him back into bed, she and Khorin sat and talked long into the night in hushed tones.

“I tell you love, the boy's tale makes no sense!” Khorin puffed on a hand-carved pipe. “Those woods are only half a day's walk from the road. No more than a full day, even for a boy younger than Devin! They're not so dense you could get lost in them and they've not had any wolves in them for decades. You know this as well as I do.”

“He believes it all Khorin,” Hannah replied with infuriating calm.

“I know he believes it. You can see that on his face, but that don't make it true. I reckon he caught a touch of sickness and wandered away from his Ma at night or something. He was probably walking in circles, fever mad for a day or so.”

“Well where is she then?” Hannah retorted, her temper rising. “This is the only village for a good ten miles in any direction and it's older than dirt. Any mother worth the name would have been here by now looking for help. Looking for her boy!”

“I don't know Wife.” Khorin trailed off, staring into the fire. “There's something about the whole thing that worries me. Something that's wrong.”

Hannah let it drop. The truth was she felt the same way. The story was fantastical, the type of thing you'd tell children at bedtime, or hear from a storyteller or minstrel making his way through the village. Despite all that, there was something about the tale that put a chill on the back of her neck. A feeling that made her walk to put an extra log on the fire and glance at the thick oak door and then up the stairs to where the boy slept.

***

On the third day after Devin woke Hannah judged him well enough to be up and walking. She had almost pushed him out of the door with Khorin. The morning was bright and the sun shone on the grass still wet with the morning's dew.

“I expect she wants you filling your lungs with good fresh air,” Khorin said with a sly wink as he stepped out behind him. “She's got some funny ideas sometimes. I doubt a walk will do you any harm but I've never known the smell of horse shit to do much for me.” He wrinkled his nose and Devin laughed. “Tell you what lad, we'll take a little walk around the farmstead here and you let me know if you feel tired. Then as we walk I can bend your ear and tell you all about this place. How does that sound?”

“That would be nice sir,” Devin said, making an effort to be polite.

“Sir?” Khorin laughed again. “I'm a lot of things boy, but I'm definitely not a 'sir'. Khorin will do nicely alright?”

“Khorin it is.” Devin agreed smiling sideways at the grey-haired man.

“Widdengate is really a farm that's grown out and turned into a village,” Khorin explained as they ambled around the edge of the cottage towards the barn and fields. “There's been a farm here since before my great-grandfather's time. Over time that farm grew and attracted farmhands and workers and the like. They brought families with them of course, and families need homes. Within just a few short years I imagine, the original farmhouse was surrounded by little cottages dotted all over the place.” He waved his arm vaguely at the homes Devin could see in the distance.

“All farmhands?” the boy asked.

“No, there were tradesmen too. Coopers, smiths, wainwrights and the like.” Khorin replied but Devin seemed to be only half listening as he spun round in a slow circle looking into the distance.

“So where is it then?” Devin asked after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“The farm.” Devin explained. “I see the village over that way, and I see little farms like yours, but you made it sound like it was a big place.”

“You're a sharp one aren't you?” Khorin looked at the boy with raised eyebrows. “You're right of course, it's long gone. The lands were all sold off or rented. The farmhouse stood empty for years before they finally tore it down. The inn is built where it used to stand, in the centre of what became the village. It's a good thing really. I don't think a village feels complete without an inn. Folk can get by without almost anything else, but a man needs some place to go and tell tales, poke fun at his neighbours and grouse about his wife.” He said the last with another sly grin and a look back towards the cottage.

There were other children in the village of course, and word of Devin's appearance and convalescence had spread. In a village as small as Widdengate, with little to do and less to gossip about, a strange boy found in the woods was a tale that would keep tongues wagging for weeks. Khorin had suggested keeping the news to themselves, but Hannah had confided, and so naturally the whole village knew the story.

It took only three more days for two of the village children to come calling. Erinn was a sweet young girl of nine summers. She was pale-skinned with bright flaming hair but also as thin as a rake. Not from any lack of food, she was just one of those girls who seemed destined to be willowy. Willowy, and without a husband, as her father was the blacksmith. A great hulking bear of a man who glowered at anyone who looked at his daughter twice.

Kainen was the innkeeper's son, a friendly faced child who always seemed to be following Erinn around. They were too young for much mischief, but Hannah suspected that before too much longer, Kainen was going to be taken aside by Erinn's father and have a few things explained to him.

She'd hesitated to let Devin out of the house alone just yet, but finally relented when Khorin insisted. “He can't just lay in the bed or sit all day Hannah. It does a body no good. He needs to be out, getting into trouble and getting dirty.”

They'd listening with broad grins as Hannah gave strict instructions to walk slowly and not take him too far. Devin's tour of Widdengate wouldn't take long anyway as the village was far from a bustling metropolis. As Devin stepped out of the doorway, dressed in clothes that had once belonged to Hannah's son, he felt a moment's trepidation. He paused on the threshold and gave a long glance back over his shoulder into the cottage. He was only just beginning to feel comfortable with Hannah and Khorin and it felt odd to be moving on so soon, making new friends, almost like he was betraying his mother. He told himself to stop being foolish as Kainen gave him a curious look, and forced himself to follow Erinn out into the sunlight.

Erinn proved to be a fun companion, easy to talk to and happy enough to carry the conversation by herself when she needed to. Devin hadn't had many opportunities to play with other children, and was quite shy to begin with, but he soon found that her ready smile was bringing him out of himself. Kainen was quiet and watchful with his dark eyes never far from Devin's face, taking his measure. So it was Erinn's voice that led them around the village.

She took them through the narrow winding streets filled with tidy cottages and houses with thatched roofs to the smithy. They stood and watched her father and his apprentices beat away at cherry-red steel with huge hammers as the bright sparks flew. The heat, and sheer noise of the place soon chased them out, and she led them through field-lined lanes to the mill, with its great wheel turning ponderously in the slow-moving stream.

They ended up sitting on the front steps of the inn as they talked about this and that. Erinn advised there was an old farmhand named Samen who was the best in the village for telling stories. Her mother said he was a lazy old sot, but he still spun a good tale. If you could catch him on a Setday he would usually tell a story to a small crowd of the village children.

After a time, as if the questions could be held back no longer, Erinn turned to him with curiosity burning in her eyes. “What happened to your mother Devin? There are all sorts of rumours.”

“I don't know really,” Devin replied hesitantly. “I remember some things but Khorin says I was sick and so it's a bit like dreaming.”

“I bet it was a troll!” Kainen burst in with wide eyes. “Did she get eaten by a troll Devin?”

“You shut your hole Kainen,” stormed Erinn looking furious as Devin's face paled. “There's no such thing as trolls anyway. Everyone knows that.”

“Maybe it was droos then,” muttered Kainen. “They'd be coming for you next with your hair like that.”

“There aren't droos either, stupid,” she retorted. “You need to learn what's a tale and what's true. Just 'cause Samen said it, don't make it real.”

Devin looked back and forth at the two of them, clearly this was an argument that had been going on some time. “I don't know what happened to her,” he said in an effort to stave off further bickering. “Like I said I don't remember much of it.”

“So what about the rest of your family then?” Kainen asked with a defiant look at Erinn. “Ain't you got aunts or uncles, or a grampy that you could go to?”

“We were heading to find my Grandpa in Savarel when the bandits attacked us,” Devin explained.

“Real bandits?” exclaimed Kainen with wide awe-struck eyes. “Did you see them? What was it like? Were you scared?”

“Shh!” Erinn scolded as she glared at him. “Let him tell it.”

Devin smiled, the story of the bandits didn't seem to bother him as much as talking about the forest and the boy's excitement was infectious. He spun the story of the bandit attack, exaggerating his own part only slightly. He ended with Garrit's order for his mother and him to keep going, whilst he dealt with the bandits that followed them.

“Did you really shoot one with a bow?” Kainen asked doubtfully. “I bet you never did. I never even held a bow, and I know I wouldn't dare shoot a man with it. I'd be scared I'd miss or it wouldn't kill him or something.”

Erinn looked at the expression on Devin's face as his lips pressed hard together and his face grew pale. “Do you want to head back Devin? You don't look so good.”

He looked at her and nodded gratefully. “Maybe that's a good idea.”

Much later, as he was sat in front of the warm fire in the cottage, he turned to Khorin who was sat in a comfortable looking armchair. “What do you think happened to my mother Khorin?” He stared into the fire, not meeting the man's eyes.

The grizzled man cleared his throat as he pulled himself upright and exchanged a meaningful glance at Hannah. “Well I can't say Devin, not for sure. If you're old enough to ask the questions though, I reckon you're old enough to hear what I think, and I don't think it's anything good.” He carried on quickly as Devin's eyes filled with tears and Hannah rushed across the kitchen to pull him in close, shooting furious looks at her husband.

“She looked after you though boy, and that's something to think about. I reckon the only reason she's gone and you're not, is that she made sure you were okay. That was probably the best gift she could have given you, and that shows love my lad. Deep and powerful love that does.”

Devin sniffed and rubbed his eyes as he pulled away from Hannah. “What's going to happen to me now?”

“Well, I think that's up to you,” Khorin said as his eyes flicked back and forth between the lad and Hannah. “I do need to go to Savarel at some point. You could come along and we could see if we can find your grandpa. Do you remember his name or anything?”

“No,” replied Devin as he plucked at a loose thread on his sleeve, his eyes downcast. “I don't remember anything about him. I don't even know if I ever even met him.”

“Well now that might change things a bit.” He reached into a pouch at his waist and began filling his pipe as he spoke, tamping down the leaf with his thumb. “You know,” he said as if the thought had just occurred to him, “you'd be welcome to stay here with us. I might not be your Da' and Hannah is never going to try and be your Mother, but we could do the job better than some and no worse than most.”

Devin looked at the pair of them as they watched him. Khorin met his eyes for a second but then looked down and busied himself with his pipe. Hannah was far less subtle and the hope was clear in her warm brown eyes. “I think I might like to stay for a while, if you really want me to.” He cut off as Hannah gathered him up in her arms again and snuffled into his hair in between kisses on his head.

“Glad to have you Devin,” Khorin said gruffly. “You stay as long as you like.” And then, “Stars above Hannah! Let the boy breathe!”

Devin soon found that Khorin was a practical man who valued hard work and honesty above most things. He and Hannah owned a smallholding which took up a portion of the southern end of Widdengate, and though he didn't have the ability to farm it all himself, he managed to provide for himself and Hannah and remain comfortable. The little cottage had outbuildings across from it in the stone-walled yard that housed the chickens and pigs as well as a small stable which was home to the goats and horses.

Hannah maintained a productive looking vegetable plot which almost overflowed with carrots, beans and potatoes. One of the first things that Devin learned as he became accustomed to living on the farm, was that there was always something that needed doing. That, and the fastest way to be given chores, was to look as though you were bored or had nothing to do.

He was well-treated, though he grew to despise the vegetable plot and the weeds that seemed to spring up there overnight. His favourite chore by far was spending time with the two huge horses that Khorin used to plough the fields. Devin was both terrified and enthralled the first time Khorin took him to meet them. Named Clover and Bramble, they were that odd breed of horse with shaggy hair hanging down over the hooves. A horse is an odd thing, it can be so often reduced to a simple beast of burden in your own mind that you forget just how large they are until you are stood right next to them. Devin's head didn't even reach the horse's shoulder and he had to stand on a wooden stool to help brush them down after a day's ploughing or haying.

When he wasn't helping with chores, he spent more and more time with Erinn and Kainen and the three soon became fast friends. One Setday afternoon Erinn appeared with Kainen in tow and suggested that the three of them go and listen to Samen. The inn was a large stone and timber building with a dark thatched roof which sprouted chimneys like an oversized fungus in a forest's shade.

The well-worn stone front steps gave way to a warm and friendly common room with doors in the back leading to the kitchens and stores. It was almost empty on the warm sunny day, with only a few men talking quietly around tables in the corners. Samen sat alone at a sunlit table sipping slowly from a tankard occasionally. He fixed the trio with a dark stare as they approached.

“Hello Samen,” said Erinn with a smile, her red hair catching the sunlight through the well-washed windows.

“What do you three want?” the old man muttered sourly.

“I hoped you might tell us a story?” Erinn replied, ignoring the sour note in Samen's voice.

“Do you think I have nothing better to do than entertain you three brats?” the old man said, grinning and showing his many missing teeth as he caught Devin's shocked expression.

“You've nothing to do old man,” called a fat farmer from the corner as his companion laughed. “That's why you sit alone sucking on that mead all afternoon.”

Samen shot them a venomous look and turned back to Erinn's smiling face. “I've no time for the bored, untended, spawn of my neighbours' loins. Get on with the lot of you!”

Erinn's eyes turned hard and she reached into a pouch pulling out a single copper penny and watching Samen falter and glance at his nearly empty tankard.

“Well bargained young miss,” he said in more friendly tones. “And what was it you were wanting to hear about today? How the stone of the sun was stolen from the firebird's nest and how the thief dropped it as he fled? Leaving it to roll across the skies untended?” he smiled again with a wicked glint in his eyes. “Mayhaps you want to hear about the black-blooded droos ? Wandering the lands searching for red-haired brats to drag across the altar stones and feed their blood to the runes?” he cackled nastily into his tankard as he drained it and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“We wanted to hear about the Bjornmen,” Erinn said firmly as Kainen and Devin nodded in agreement.

“Ah... the wolves of the sea, come to ravage and burn the homes of, fat. Lazy. Farmers.” he said, raising his voice at the last and looking pointedly at the rotund farmer in the corner.

“From their frozen storm-lashed coasts they come, sailing in their galleys with fearsome figureheads the sight of which strikes fear into all that behold them. It's said that the first you know of their coming is the muffled drumbeat of the oarsmaster and then they are among you. Torches fly into thatch and blood runs down the streets as they hew through flesh and bone with their axes and swords. They come to pillage and burn young mistress, and to take pretty little red-haired blacksmiths' daughters back to their ships,” he cackled again, joined this time by the farmers from the corner who were clearly listening in.

“Tell us about Frostbeard!” Kainen cried out, already wrapped up in the story.

“Frostbeard? The worst of the lot he is, bastard son of a Bjornmen clan-chief with no respect for life or title. He earned his place by working from a rower upwards, killing every man, woman or child that got in his way. They say he never cleans his blades and that he leaves tracks of blood wherever he steps. He's said to be as cold as his name, burning to the ground every village or town he strikes.”

He grinned at the wide-eyed faces of the children in front of him. “Was that what you had in mind young miss?” he asked her nodding face as he held out his cup. “Then get you to the bar and get some more mead in this, and I'll tell you more.”

Chapter Four

Selena walked the path through the gardens in silence, her forest green gown trailing behind her and rustling faintly as it dragged the occasional leaf. Her attendants followed some paces behind her, but still she grated at their presence. The grounds were lovely but the high stone wall surrounding them served to remind her of her situation. She was as ornamental as the topiary and the statues in the fountains.

A page approached from the house and walked briskly towards her. She knew without turning that the ladies behind her would have stopped also. They had initially tried to engage her in conversation, but she found them vapid at best.

“The Lady Browntree begs an audience, your grace,” the page said, after a tight little bow.

“Mother?” Selena said with some surprise.

“Beg pardon, your grace, but no. The Lady Evelyn Browntree.”

“Auntie Evelyn?” she said with genuine pleasure. “Where is she?”

“She is taking some tea in the eastern parlour, your grace.”

“Which one is that again? Is that the ghastly pink one?”

The page coughed and she fought to keep a smile from her lips. “The very same, your grace.”

“Well, lead the way,” she smiled. The page bowed again and turned to escort her back into the house.

“Is Freyton with her?”

“His Grace is... on the hunt, I believe,” the page replied as they walked.

Selena caught the pause in the response and wondered at it as they made their way through the hallway.

The parlour was a comfortable, warm room with over-stuffed divans and settees. Selena ignored the page as he tried to announce her and rushed to the tiny old lady who was struggling to rise from the deep armchair in which she was seated, leaning heavily on an ornate cane.

“Auntie Evelyn!” she cried, as she took the old woman's hands and kissed her wrinkled cheek.

“Hello dear,” Evelyn replied, her eyes crinkling in genuine affection.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I'd check in on you, dear. See how married life is treating you.” She looked at Selena's stomach with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Oh, and who are your friends?” She looked up over Selena's shoulder.

“Friends?” Selena turned to see her ladies-in-waiting stood just inside the door. “Oh. These are my maids. Freyton, assigned them to me.” She dropped her voice to a loud whisper, “They follow me everywhere. I can't get a minute's peace.”

Evelyn frowned and looked over at them. “I think that will be all, ladies.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” the dark-haired attendant said. “His Grace, the duke, gave instructions we were to accompany Her Grace at all times.”

“Whatever for?” Evelyn asked, as she cocked an eyebrow at Selena.

“I don't really know,” Selena admitted. “I've been trying to get rid of them for days.”

“Well, I think I would like some privacy with my niece. That will be all.” Evelyn told the woman.

“But, His Grace...”

“I said, that will be all,” the old woman said, pressing her lips tightly together and looking at the maid sternly.

“Yes, my lady.” The trio of maids dipped a curtsey together and filed out through the double doors.

“Thank you,” Selena said with a heartfelt sigh. “I feel like I'm under constant guard with them always following me around.”

“I forget sometimes, that you're not used to having servants and the like,” Evelyn said as she eased herself back down into the chair. “You need to keep them in their place, Selena.”

“You make it seem so easy.” She sat down on the other chair, perching on the edge so as not to rumple her gown overly.

“Well, I suppose I grew up with them dear. We had our own money back then, of course.”

“Of course.” Selena said. “And now I suppose we will have it again eventually. Now that you've all sold me off like the family cow.”

“Oh Selena,” she sighed. “Please do tell me we're not going to go through this again.”

“It's just... Well, I don't think I was ready for a husband.”

“Oh my dear child!” the old woman laughed. “No woman wants a husband! They're a terrible nuisance. Smelly and underfoot the whole time and absolutely no idea of what is proper. They are rather necessary in a marriage though I'm afraid.” She picked up her cup and sipped before grimacing. “Cold,” she explained and picked up the elegant silver bell on the table. “Hello again dear,” she said as the page walked through the door in response to her summons. “Do you suppose you could freshen this up? It's gone cold I'm afraid.” She gestured at the ornate tea set on the small table beside the two chairs.

“At once, Your Ladyship.” The page bowed and retrieved the tea set, closing the door behind him as he left.

“You see? They do have their uses.” She smirked at the young woman and looked around at the room with an expression of disapproval. “Is it all like this?”

Selena laughed. “Yes! This isn't even the worst room. What makes things worse is that most of this is new.”

“Newly Lorded and all the money in the world but, somewhat lacking in taste I'd say,” Evelyn said with a faintly offended tut. “Now Selena, am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

Selena laughed. “I'm fine. It's fine. Freyton is gone most of the time, hunting and the like. I'm just a bit...”

“A bit what?”

“Bored!” Selena laughed. “It sounds ridiculous I suppose, but I'm bored stiff! I'm trapped in the middle of nowhere with no one for company except those insipid maids and stuttering page boys.”

“I'd have thought Freyton would be keeping you busy. Pretty young thing like you. He should be chasing you around the bedroom by now.”

“Auntie!” Selena gasped, shocked.

“Oh, come on girl, we're all grown women in here,” Evelyn said, with an earthy chuckle.

“I suppose,” she said, still fighting the blush from her cheeks. “He doesn't actually seem very interested.”

“Well I'm sure that will come with time. It would be nice to have a baby though, to solidify things.”

“I am well aware of my responsibilities, Auntie. They were made perfectly clear to me before the signing of the betrothal agreement, if you remember?”

“Yes well, your father was never really one for tact and diplomacy, was he?” She looked towards the door as the chink of fine china came from the hallway and the page struggled through the door with the tea. They sat in silence, as he poured for them both and left.

“You're not really in the middle of nowhere anyway dear. Kavtrin is only a day or so away.”

“Kavtrin, Auntie? Really? I want a bit of life and culture, not the smell of old fish.”

Selena sipped at her steaming cup, enjoying the heat of the tea as it burned its way down her throat.

“I'll never understand how you can drink it so hot dear. You must be close to scalding your own tongue there.”

Selena smiled at her over the rim of her cup.

“As for boredom. Well, if Freyton won't go to you, then perhaps you should go to him? That's the last I'll say of it,” she added quickly, holding up her long gloved hand in a placating gesture as she caught Selena's expression. “As for the rest of your time, do as you wish. If Kavtrin is not to your liking then try riding, read, try needlepoint.”

Selena pulled a face. “I loathe horses and needlepoint is for women who have lost the right to own their own minds. I would read, but the library is hardly extensive. What little there is in there doesn't often stray from dry histories and philosophy.”

“What in all the world would Freyton want with those? Do you think he's trying to appear educated and intellectual?” Evelyn asked in a conspiratorial whisper and then gave a wicked chuckle.

“Auntie, you are awful.” Selena gave the door a guilty little look.

“Life is no fun if you play by the rules all the time dear. You should try to remember that.”

The visit passed all too quickly and Selena found herself wandering the halls of the mansion. A pointed glare at the ladies-in-waiting soon sent them scurrying when they tried to join her and for want of anything else to do she eventually made her way to the library.

It was a dark-panelled affair, with oil lamps turned low on the walls. She lit a taper from a lamp and touched it to the kindling laid in the fireplace before turning her attention to the bookshelves. The books were leather-bound and dusty, clearly Freyton thought a ducal palace should have a library and so he'd had one put in. Judging by the dust in the room and the impeccable state of the books, the library had been put to little use.

“Decorative,” she muttered. “Just like his wife.”

She wandered around the room trailing her fingertips along the shelves and tutting at the dust. It was, as she'd said, mostly histories and philosophies. A dark green binding caught her eye and she tugged out the thick book, a history of Eastern Anlan.

“Well if I do have to live here, I might as well learn something about the place,” she said quietly to herself and settled back into a deep armchair to read as the fireplace crackled merrily against the far wall.

***

The seagull banked with the strong wind and dove towards the slate grey sea that surrounded the small chain of islands. The largest island, closest to where the seagull now flew, was covered in high mountains and rocky terrain. It was a harsh looking place, more suited to seabirds than men. Despite this, and with the tenacity only mankind can exhibit, the inhabitants clung to the island like limpets to a rock. Every tiny green valley was crammed with farms and crops. Towns dotted the coastline and fishing fleets bobbed about in the bays. A fortified city filled the southernmost end of the island, glowering out over the sea like an old man watching unruly children.

The gull cried its ululating call and flew on towards the city. It seemed a cramped place, with narrow streets and tall thin buildings that were nevertheless, sturdy-looking stone structures with dark slate rooftops. The city had few wide roads and avenues. It was criss-crossed with tiny alleyways giving the impression it had been struck a mighty blow, and covered with a thousand cracks. Its thick, granite walls were surmounted with intimidating-looking battlements, liberally dotted with catapults and ballistae.

A rocky islet sat directly opposite the city. It was largely a wind-scoured and inhospitable rock, but towers and small forts had been forced into the surface, which were also bristling with their own weapons. Its presence, so close to the harbour, formed a crescent shaped stretch of water and restricted access to the narrow channels leading between the two. Had the gull cared about such things it would have been left with the impression that the city was almost impervious to attack.

The rain fell gently and was then whipped away by the winds as they clawed at the islands as if seeking to tear them from the sea. The surging waves crashed hard against the dark stone cliffs and the gull banked again, before flying steadily towards the flotilla of small ships making its way around the coast towards the harbour. The vessels were sleek and clearly designed for speed with sharp narrow prows, and long thin beams. Their blood-red sails hung limp and oars sprouted from each side of the boats, driving in unison through the white-capped waves.

Two ships were clearly in competition with each other for the lead position. They were far ahead of the other vessels, but with only a dozen feet separating them. The gull swooped down and settled on the prow of the lead vessel. Carved into the shape of a wolf's head with snarling teeth, the prow was an imposing sight. The gull stamped its webbed feet onto the head of the wolf and settled down to preen.

Klöss swore into his thin beard and hauled back on the oar, trying to keep to the beat of the drum. At fourteen it was his first time on the oars and he needed to prove himself. Had it not been for his size they would never have considered him, but a chance he had been given and so the chance he had. The boat knifed through the waves using both sail and oars for maximum speed but for the moment the sails hung slack and empty as the cliff blocked the wind. Klöss glanced up for a moment across the water towards the other ship. It was a scant fifty yards away, they were catching them.

“Bend your back boy!” cried the oarsmaster and flicked the lash lightly at Klöss's back. Its kiss was as light as a feather but soon turned into a sting of fire and ice. He ignored the pain and hauled on the oar, bracing his feet on the base of the bench in front and leaning back into it. After a time he lost himself in the rhythm of it, the beat of the drum, the spray of the sea in his face and all around the smell of sweat and tar. He heard boots on the deck above him and the roar of the Shipmaster, “faster by the gods!” and then the drumming became frenetic.

“Steersman! Make the turn when you're ready, but make it clean! If you lose my speed on this you'll be swimming home,” called the Shipmaster.

Klöss felt the ship begin to turn as it listed to the right, the drumbeat urging him on even as the wind whipped at his hair. He risked another glimpse to the right and saw that their angle was going to cut in front of the other boat, a move that risked them colliding or grinding them both into the rocky cliffs.

“More speed now!” cried the Shipmaster. “Give it all you have!”

The drumbeat increased again and the ship soared towards the rocks. Klöss hauled in time with the others, sweat running freely down his face and neck as he strove to keep pace. They had made the turn smoothly, with little speed lost, and sailed past the cliff face with barely an oar's length distance. Klöss could probably have reached out and brushed his fingers on the cliff, if he dared risk the ire of the oarsmaster.

The sails billowed as the wind filled them again, snapping ropes and canvas tight, and the boat fairly leapt ahead. Klöss felt the shock through his oar and grinned in spite of the torturous labour. He could see the shore now, a glimpse every time he leaned back into the oar. Houses and streets becoming clearer with every stroke.

“Now then my boys, one last push,” called the oarsmaster. They were clearly doing well, for the evil-faced man had no good word to say at any other time. They might be “my boys” today, but two days ago they'd been “useless dogs,” as he laid about with lash and cudgel.

He could hear the roar of the crowds as they came closer to the harbour, and the drum-beat increased yet again to a ramming speed. Oarsmaster, Shipmaster and Steersman were screaming at the oarsmen in unison now, urging more speed, just one last push. Then they passed the anchored raft with its fire-pot belching oily smoke, and the drums stopped. There was an awful moment of silence. Then cheers and roars erupted in the boat as the oarsmen dropped the oars and flung themselves at each other in congratulations.

Klöss looked over his shoulder and saw the other ship a good three lengths behind them, just now passing the marker. Another fifty ships followed close behind. He slumped down and braced his head in his hands as he laughed through his tears. They'd done it. He'd got the best chance he could.

“Klöss! Stop bawling and get up here!” shouted the oarsmaster, grasping his upper arms and helping him out of the oarpit before moving forward to stand near the prow. Klöss groaned inwardly. He'd received black looks since the first day of training and didn't need this attention.

“You see this lad?” the oarsmaster shouted at the crew over the wind and the still-roaring crowds. “Fourteen summers he has and already man-sized. Frostbeard's blood runs in his veins and it shows. Is he fit to join this crew?” He screamed the last, pointing at Klöss and the crew roared back their affirmation, thrusting fists into the air.

“Oarsman's thirst!” cried out a voice near the stern and it was soon joined by others, forming a ragged chant. Before he could protest, Klöss was hoisted up onto shoulders and passed along the boat towards the oarsmaster, who stood with a wooden keg under his arm. Klöss was positioned level with the feet of the oarsmaster as he broached the keg and began to pour the sweet mead over his face and down his throat. Klöss drank wildly as the cheers rose up again and then, before he really knew it was happening, he was hoisted again. Once, twice and then he was airborne before crashing into the sea and under the waves.

He was met by some of the laughing crew as he hauled himself out of the harbour by way of a small flight of stone steps just in time to see the last trainee hurled overboard. He watched with a grin as they too pulled themselves out of the harbour and then they were marched into the town, still trailing seawater. The Oarsmen bundled the young trainees through the streets and the still clearing crowds, and he was manhandled through a door and down the steps of the closest tavern.

“Let's see if you can handle your drink as well as you handle an oar, my lads,” shouted the oarsmaster to a chorus of cheers. Klöss and the others were pushed unceremoniously onto benches and chairs and foamy tankards put in front of them. The ale flowed and he felt his cheeks going numb by the time the drinks were replaced with a huge platter of meat and vegetables.

The rest of the day, and a fair portion of the night, passed in a malty haze for Klöss as he was led from tavern to tavern. He found that as time went on the harsh taste of the ale seemed to mellow. Indeed the drink hardly seemed to be affecting him at all. He had always heard that drink made people act foolishly or lose control, at least that was what his father said, but he seemed to be perfectly fine. He was getting along splendidly with his new crew too, and was increasingly funny he noticed.

***

Klöss groaned as the footsteps clumped down the stone steps into the kitchen. He shuddered and attempted to bury his head deeper into his arms as he clenched his eyes tightly shut. His mouth was filled with a foul taste, and his tongue felt hard and dry where he had slept with his lips apart and apparently drooled on his sleeve. He stretched carefully, without lifting himself from the surface of the oaken table and fervently wished he could die.

“Up, boy!” his father's voice boomed. “We need to get that cart loaded and get that shop open. I have a feeling it will be a good day today. The market day always seems to bring them in.” His voice faltered and he stooped to take a closer look at Klöss, hunched over the long table.

“Did you sleep in here?” he wondered, mostly to himself. “No matter I suppose. Come on, up, up! There's daylight wasting.”

Klöss found himself dragged out of his seat and into the light as his father set about hitching the horse to the large wooden and leather cart he used to haul his new stock to the shop. The day was just dawning and the cobbles in the yard were wet and slick from the light rains of the night. He clung to the wheel of the cart with the look of someone scared they might fall, should it move or it be taken from them. His body felt as if he were wading through deep water. Nothing seemed to work quite as it should. The cart shook as it was loaded, almost but not quite in time with the thumping in his head, and the vibrations were making him feel queasy. He watched his father travel back and forth to the storehouse that filled much of the yard, his limp prominent in the cold early morning air. A pang of guilt almost prompted him to let go of the cart and help, but this was swiftly overcome by another wave of nausea.

“Get up in the front if you're not going to load boy. You're in my way,” his father grunted as he hoisted a large bundle up onto the cart.

Nodding carefully at his father's already retreating form, he made his way to the front of the cart and hauled himself up into the seat. He concentrated on wrapping his cloak tightly around him, as if to hide from the clatter of the loading cart and the weak and watery sun just beginning to peek over the slate of the rooftops that mirrored the cold grey sky.

The cart rocked as his father finally climbed aboard and with a cluck at the horse, it was soon clattering through the cobbled streets moving steadily uphill away from the harbour and towards the market square. Klöss sat huddled beside his father in silence and so heard the ringing long before the line of men came into sight.

They were dressed uniformly in black, velvet-soft looking robes, deeply cowled and tied at the waist with a bone-white length of smooth rope that had clearly never had any other use. A man at the rear held a large bell which he swung with every tenth step.

“New Dayers,” his father grunted in disgust, and edged the cart as far over to the left of the narrow street as he could. The men, for their part, did not deviate from their path or even deign to look up at the pair until they had almost passed them. The rearmost man offered a smile and nod of thanks as the line wove past them. Klöss's father nodded back curtly and then clucked the horse forward again.

“Why do you hate them so much?” the question left his lips before he had time to think.

“Who? New Dayers?” the older man asked. “Because they came along and decided things were wrong after we'd been living this way for centuries. Who are they to tell us how to live?”

It was ironic, Klöss decided. His father might hate this new religion sweeping through the Barren Isles, and Bresda in particular, because it destroyed the traditions and values he had always held dear. At the same time though, his merchant class was itself considered the lowest of professions, and held in far more contempt than this new priesthood. His father seemed to act oblivious for his part, though it was doubtful that he could be.

The morning grew steadily lighter as they made their way into the narrow alleyway behind the market square and began unloading their wares and hauling them through the back of the shop. Klöss felt his head begin to clear with a combination of the cold air and the hard work. His father, Rhaven, ran a small shop but rather than selling wares he had made himself like other tradesmen, he bought goods from others and then sold them on. As such Klöss never knew what the shop would be selling on any given day, or what wares he would have to haul to and from the cart.

It seemed to be mainly foodstuffs today and he spent the better part of half an hour hauling hams and cheeses from the cart and arranging them to his father's satisfaction on the hooks and counters.

“Ought to be a big crowd today I think,” Rhaven said, settling down behind the counter on a wooden stool and stretching out his left leg with a pained grimace.

Klöss ignored him. His head was still not right. Everything felt too bright and too loud. He reached under the counter and drew out a large earthenware bottle, drinking slowly and deliberately in long swallows.

“Slow down there now,” called his father. “That has to last us all day you know?”

Klöss wandered over to the front door and looked around at the square as he felt the water begin to work on his dehydrated body. Other merchants and tradesmen were hard at work, setting up stalls and stands. From where he stood leaning against the door frame he could see half a dozen different traders selling everything from knives and weapons to jewellery and clothing.

The problem was that his father didn't actually make anything himself, Klöss decided. There had always been tradespeople of course - rope-makers and sail-makers, shipwrights and blacksmiths. These were all fine and acceptable. Merchant traders didn't really make anything though. They bought from one and sold to another, selling only the act of exchange and the convenience of finding most things in one shop or stall. Anyone who wanted the item badly enough could go and find the tradesman who'd made it to buy it from. Merchant traders were little better than thieves Klöss had decided.

It was not a unique opinion and he knew it. As the merchant class grew, a steady resentment had grown alongside it. Not enough to prevent people from bringing their custom, but enough to lend the merchant a reputation as a swindler at best and a common thief at worst.

The problem was rooted in laziness, Klöss was convinced. People liked the convenience of not having to go to a half dozen different stalls and shops to find their goods. Farmers and tradespeople liked being able to sell two or three cartloads of goods to one person rather than sitting around each market day trying to sell their wares to the public.

He could forgive his father much of it. He had little choice, given his leg. He could hardly become an apprentice and learn a proper trade at his age. He watched sourly as his father sold a loaf of bread and a hunk of ham to a young mother, her children hanging onto her legs through her thick woollen skirts. He ground his teeth together and watched her hand over almost half again what they had paid the farmer for it.

He looked up at the woman's eyes as his father wrapped the food. She was young, little more than twenty summers and, judging by her clothes and the lost look in her eyes, she could barely afford the expense. She was probably raising the small ones alone by the looks of her. The market had filled now and a sea of people made their way past him. He nearly didn't see the hand slip around the front of the woman's dress, gently taking the weight of her purse with one finger, while slicing the strings with a deft flick of the wrist He was so stunned by what he was seeing, that the purse was gone before he could rouse himself.

His cry of “Thief!” was lost in the noise of the market but both his father's and the woman's heads whipped round as he shot from his seat, over the counter, and into the crowd after the face he had caught the barest glimpse of.

Klöss raced after the figure barely four yards ahead of him, as they both weaved in and out of the crowd. The thief was slight, with dirty blonde hair and a nondescript brown cloak. He was also as quick as a weasel. Klöss charged after him, just managing to keep pace in his heavy boots. Whilst the thief might be slight, Klöss was tall for his age and his long legs carried him swiftly through the crowd, though his broad shoulders meant he had to duck and weave more. Thankfully he suffered little of the awkwardness one often finds in boys his age and he ran confidently over the cobbles, still shouting at the top of his lungs.

The crowds were working against him, and he saw the thief making ground as he fought his way through bustling market-goers. Men and women turned and gawked at him as he pushed and shoved his way through.

Hesk was a small city, but it was the largest in the Barren Isles and as the capital of the nation of islands, it made up for in population what it lacked in sheer size. The buildings were close packed and tall with sections often hanging out over the streets. Alleyways snaked throughout the city intersecting with roads and streets and forming a network all their own. Whilst Klöss might only be a few yards behind the thief, he knew full well that if he did not catch him swiftly, or if he lost sight of him, then it would be simple for him to duck into an alley, and once he did that he would be gone. The alleys formed their own rabbit warren and it was not anywhere a man with a purse or one who valued his life would go needlessly.

As he ran he yelled again into the crowd to stop the thief, but they wasted precious seconds turning and looking at him open-mouthed whilst the slight blonde figure slipped past them. Finally his shouting paid off, and he saw an older man in a plain woollen vest manage to grab and catch hold of the thief's cloak, jerking him to a halt. He closed quickly, and was within feet when the thief kicked savagely at the man's shins and tore free once more.

The brown-cloaked figure flung himself at a fishmonger's stall, shoving a barrel over and vaulting over the table. Klöss darted around a fat man laden down with packages. He dashed back behind the thief and then his feet flew skyward as the barrel-load of eels spread further across the cobbles, coiling and wriggling as they searched for seawater.

Cursing and spluttering Klöss climbed back to his feet and raced after the flash of brown as it disappeared into a nearby alleyway. He caught the edge of the building and swung around the corner into a sudden silence.

The alleyway was filled with filth. The stench of fish and rotten rubbish filled the air. If Klöss hadn't seen the thief dash into it he would have sworn no man had stepped foot into the stinking place in some months. Empty doorways to long-since abandoned houses gaped open, and the sides of the street were piled high with rotting refuse. The alley revealed a side of Hesk that Klöss knew little about but now was not the time to ponder it. A scraping sound followed by a muffled curse spurred him to action and he moved carefully down the alleyway trying to avoid both making noise and the worst of the filth. Klöss was prepared to deal with the stink of the eel slime he had over his clothing but there were things on the floor that he couldn't identify and didn't want to.

The alley twisted and turned and he was soon far from the sounds of the street. A soft scrape from behind warned him and he hurled himself to one side as the makeshift club came crashing down where he had stood. He rolled and then climbed to his feet, backing away to give himself some distance as the brown-cloaked figure raised the club again and came after him. The cloak's hood was raised and Klöss caught nothing but wisp of blonde hair and a smooth face as he jumped back to avoid the blow.

With a sudden lunge he grasped the cudgel as it hit the end of its swing and twisted it away from the figure. Rather than being shocked however, the thief simply let go and stamped out at his knee savagely. Klöss hit the ground hard and the thief knelt swiftly on his chest and he felt the blade pressed to his throat.

“What do you want with me rich boy?” hissed the thief in a soft voice.

“You're a girl!” Klöss said in shock as he caught a clear look at her face beneath the hood.

“A girl who has you pinned like a rabbit, with my blade at your throat. Now tell me, rich boy, why do you chase me?” she said smiling coldly.

“The purse. It belonged to that woman,” Klöss replied.

“What of it? Now it belongs to me.”

“You stole it,” Klöss said, a strange combination of wonder and disgust in his voice.

“My my, aren't we the little innocent?” she laughed with a throaty chuckle. “Yes, I stole it, and since we are here, what do you have on you?” Klöss's eyes widened as he caught her meaning and her smile grew as she watched him understand. Her free hand snaked over his body and he gasped at the touch. He might be in the middle of being robbed, but he was still a fourteen-year-old boy with the hormones to match.

“Didn't think being robbed would be so enjoyable, did you rich boy?” She grinned as she found his purse. Coming to his senses he waited until her eyes shot down to examine it and then he struck. Twisting sideways and back away from the blade he bucked with his hips and rolled, quickly, positioning himself on top of the girl with her arms pinned above her head.

“Now who's the little rabbit?” he smiled. Now that he had her pinned he could get his first good look at her. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed a pale and delicate face, but it was the eyes that caught Klöss. They shone. Deep blue and flashing with anger and frustration, as she thrashed and bucked beneath him. Klöss lost all thoughts of retribution as he gazed down at her. The flicker of her eyes was the only hint of warning he had before something slammed into the back of his head and he collapsed into blackness atop her.

***

He awoke in a murky darkness with the cold smell of damp and mildew filling his nose. His head ached with that intense throb that only comes from a blow to the skull and his eyes felt gritty. He could see little in the gloom other than the dirty stone floor he lay upon, and the faint suggestion of walls. The floor was covered in damp, musty smelling straw and he could hear water dripping somewhere. As he grew more alert, he became aware of the faint sounds of the street filtering down through the stone. He tried to reach up to his head and discovered his hands were bound and tied loosely to his feet behind him. Panic found him and he thrashed on the floor wildly trying to free his hands, but the rope, whilst rough, seemed to be sound and knotted well.

“Help!” he called experimentally and was rewarded with the sound of a door opening behind him. Candlelight softly filled the room and the slight figure of the girl approached him, dropping to one knee two or three feet from him.

“How do you feel?” she asked in hushed tones.

“How do you think I feel?” he croaked at her, his dry throat making his voice rasp. “Like I've been clubbed in the head.”

“I'm sorry about that. They are very protective of me.”

“They?”

She twisted her body, turning towards the door and beckoned at the doorway behind her. A small crowd of children approached warily. They looked to range in age from four to roughly nine and were all filthy, dressed in little more than rags and with pale skin, too long from the sun. The youngest ones looked at him curiously, the eldest glared with open animosity. They looked like so many lost ghosts as they clustered close to the girl, half for protection and half to protect her. Klöss pitied the man who ever hurt this girl. Her pack of half-feral street kids would be on them in moments.

“Seth here saw you when you had me pinned and thought you were hurting me.” She motioned to the largest boy who stared at him with hate-filled eyes.

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I should have just let you rob me,” Klöss's voice dripped sarcasm.

“You should have, rich boy. Not everyone is as forgiving as me. The next time you chase someone into an alley you'll probably end up dead.”

Klöss ignored that. “So what now? You have me trussed up like a pig here.”

“Only because I didn't want you waking up and scaring the children. I don't want them hurt.”

“It looks like they can take care of themselves well enough,” he replied, nodding towards the eldest children who still carried broken chair legs to serve as improvised cudgels and clubs.

“They have to look after themselves rich boy!” she snapped. “That's why they live huddled in this mouldy cellar. Nobody else will look after them.” She produced a slim knife. “Can I trust you not to do anything else stupid?”

Klöss ignored the dig and nodded mutely sitting still as she sliced through the ropes on his wrists and ankles. The knife, he noticed, was horrifically sharp and he shuddered as he thought of how it had been pressed to his throat. He wouldn’t have moved a muscle, had he known then.

“Now then,” the girl said brightly as she stood up and stepped back. “How about a nice cup of tea?” Klöss was so incredulous that he nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be helped to his feet and shepherded out the door. They passed through several musty smelling corridors to a long low-ceilinged room that looked as if it functioned as a kitchen. Several more children sat at a makeshift table made from planks resting on old barrels, and a large pot hung bubbling on an iron arm over a tidy fireplace set in the far wall.

“Tessa, you go and fill the kettle. Gavin you can fetch a chair for our guest,” the blonde girl said pointing into the small crowd of children. Klöss watched them jump to obey without pause or argument.

“Now, I don't believe we were ever properly introduced?” she smiled. Klöss forced a weak grin back as he struggled to catch up. A few short hours ago she had held him at knife-point in the street and now she was inviting him to tea. It was not a situation he felt he was really able to cope with, although he did now understand why the children jumped to obey so quickly. This was not a girl; this was a force of nature. You were so quickly swept up by her that you hardly had time to stop and see what was really going on.

“Um. Klöss” he managed still feeling off balance.

“Klöss,” she said, looking up at the ceiling as she considered it. “An interesting name for an interesting fellow. I am Ylsriss.” She smiled again and motioned for him to sit in the plain wooden chair that Gavin was just setting by the fire, a surly expression on his young face.

“How did you end up here? Who are all these children?” Klöss countered, trying to take some control of the conversation.

“Well we weren't all born with a silver spoon in our mouth, Klöss,” she replied with a tart little edge to her voice. “As for who these children are, well I suppose you could say that they are the little ones who fall through the cracks. When you're at your pretty little shop, exploiting struggling mothers who are too tired to shop around, you might want to remember that.” She smiled to diffuse the tension somewhat, and then gave him a wicked look.

“So when you're not chasing young women into dark alleys, what are you usually doing young Klöss?” she asked, mischief dancing in her blue eyes.

“You can't be much older than me!” protested Klöss, avoiding the rather obvious innuendo.

He flushed and drew in his breath sharply to retort when he caught her sly smile. “You're making sport with me,” he accused.

Ylsriss laughed and swung the pot to one side to make room for the kettle over the fire. “That doesn't really answer the question though does it?” she said, giving him a sideways look as she busied herself with wooden mugs and jars.

“I'm about to train as an oarsman,” Klöss responded, trying not to sound self-important.

“Oh, that was your trial yesterday was it?” She peered into the pot and stirred the bubbling contents with a long wooden spoon before tasting experimentally. She lifted the kettle off the hook with a fire-scarred wad of cloth and poured the water out into the wooden mugs. “It's nettle I'm afraid,” she said as she set down the kettle and offered him a mug.

“Aren't you a little young for the trials?” she asked. “I mean you're a big lad, but you've a young look about you.”

“I had a sponsor,” he said looking into his cup through the steam.

“Oh, I see. Family?”

“My uncle,” he admitted in a tone which made it obvious he didn't want to speak about it further.

They sat in silence for a few minutes blowing the tea softly. “Seriously Ylsriss, why are you the one looking after these children? I thought the tithe took care of orphans and the like?”

“Oh Klöss, you truly are an innocent aren't you?” she sighed. “The tithe takes care of those who collect it, first and foremost. Do you really think that it's all dispersed to the children of fallen shipsmen and the poor? Have you actually looked and seen how many people there are in this city who are homeless and hungry?”

He took a sip of the tea savouring the grassy yet smooth taste. “Is that why you...” he trailed off.

“Steal?” she offered. “Yes, that's why I steal. To feed those who depend on me. Is that so wrong?” She laughed at his expression. “Have you ever stopped to think that if you become an oarsman you will be doing exactly the same thing?”

“What?!” he sat up straight, putting the cup down on the table. “How do you figure that?”

“Klöss do you actually think that the people we visit in those pretty little boats are just handing over their food and animals out of generosity?” she asked incredulously.

“That's different!” Klöss protested. “That's taken as spoils of war. Anyway, what about the woman you stole from? How is she less needy than you.”

“I would think that was obvious, my innocent little rich boy,” Ylsriss replied smoothly. “She had money and I didn't.”

***

Klöss wandered through the darkening streets towards his home. Flickering lamps were just now being lit every hundred paces or so by a team of men carrying tapers and long poles. Inns and taverns beckoned patrons in with warm candlelight and the sounds of laughter and the smell of freshly cooked food.

She'd called him “rich boy”, half an insult and half a joke from the tone of her voice. Klöss had never thought of himself or his family as rich before, but it was all relative. He'd always had a warm bed and food on the table. He'd never owned or worn clothes that were only two steps from rags or sackcloth. Compared to the children in Ylsriss's cellar he supposed he was rich. It was a sobering thought and not one he enjoyed.

He looked around him with fresh eyes as he walked, noting the women standing on the corner and for the first time wondering what their lives were like. What had pushed them to spend their evenings standing under the smoking torches, huddled in their groups of two or three as they called out to passing men with a smile and a wink. He'd assumed they were happy enough. After all they were flirting and calling out weren't they?

His head still throbbed slightly from the blow earlier, but the largest wound was to his pride. He didn't like it but he was forced to admit that not only had Ylsriss had him at her mercy amid the filth of the alleyway, but also that he hadn't heard the child approach before he'd clubbed him. Some raider he would end up to be with instincts like that.

As if the thought had reminded him, though in reality he'd just been avoiding thinking about it, he realised he would have to face his father and tell him about the trials. He'd be furious of course. It seemed he'd been relying on Klöss more and more with each passing year, and Klöss wasn't sure his father was even capable of running the business without him. The oarsmaster had ordered him to report to the training school in one week though, and that gave him only four more days before his training began in earnest. He couldn't really afford to put it off much longer.

The walk through the familiar streets took longer than normal as his feet dragged. It was almost fully dark by the time he crossed the tidy courtyard and stepped down the three steps.

The door flew open as he approached and his father stood there, backlit by the lamps and fire in the kitchen.

“Klöss, thank the gods you're alright!” he gasped and pulled him into a rough hug. His eyes were fierce but worry was etched deep in the lines of his weather-worn face. “What happened to you lad? I've had constables scouring for you all afternoon. Did you ever catch him?”

“Him?” Klöss replied in confusion, trying to decide how to explain the afternoon he'd had. “Oh the thief? It was a girl if you believe that, and yes I caught her. She, ah... She had a few friends and well, it was touch and go for a while.”

“Are you okay?” Rhaven asked, looking him over for obvious cuts or bandages.

“A big lump on the head is about all I think.”

“You can't afford to go softening your brains lad. Who else am I going to get to run the shop once I'm in my dotage?” his father said with a smile. Klöss's face fell, if possible, even further.

“We need to talk about that, Father,” he began softly. “I...” he trailed off.

“You what?” Rhaven asked, his expression darkening.

“I took the trials Father,” Klöss blurted, as if scared the words would catch in his throat.

“What trials?” Rhaven asked, the confusion plain on his tired face. “Get in here boy!” He stepped back from the doorway and motioned Klöss into a chair before closing the door against the cool night's breeze. “Now, what are you prattling on about lad?”

“I took the Oarsman trials.” Klöss spoke hesitantly, already flinching in anticipation of the reaction.

“What are you talking about?” Rhaven said harshly. “We talked about you taking the trials. I thought we agreed that you would wait a few more years.”

“That was what you decided Father, not me.” Klöss said in a small voice.

“So you just openly defy me?” Rhaven spat, his temper rising and his eyes dark.

“I did what I thought best Father. That's what you always taught me.”

“You'd throw my own words back at me? In my house!” Rhaven was incredulous. “Wait a moment. I didn't support you taking the trials. How did you even enter with no sponsor?”

Klöss flushed and looked guiltily at the tabletop. “I went to Uncle Frostbeard,” he admitted.

“Aiden!” Rhaven slammed his palm down on the table. “I should have known it was him filling your head with this nonsense!”

“It's not nonsense, Father!” Klöss found his hands clenched into tight fists as his teeth ground together. “It's who we are. We've had the trials and the reaving for hundreds of years!”

“Aye Son, and what good has it brought us?” Rhaven demanded. “Fatherless children, husbandless wives. Damn it all boy, I was trying to show you that there is another way!”

“What way?” Klöss replied, derision slipping into his voice. “The market place? What life is that for a...” He trailed off quickly.

“For a what?” Rhaven demanded. “For a real man? That's what you were going to say wasn't it?”

Klöss met his father's eyes, his face stricken. “Father I...”

“Don't bother boy. You've made it clear how you feel. Just remember when you're soaked and trying to row with ten men down and the boat full of screaming wounded with their guts at their feet, how you thought it'd all be glory. A life for a real man,” his voice was full of scorn. “You think you know it all. How do you think I got this leg? You know nothing boy. Nothing! You think a few hairs on your chin makes you a man? It takes a damned sight more than that!” He turned and stormed out into the night, the door banging hollowly behind him. Klöss sat at the empty table, wondering at himself and listening to the sounds of the wind as he stared into the kitchen fire. He watched the flames grow lower and then slowly turn into sullen embers before he finally realised his father would not be back and he banked the fire, put out the lamps and walked through the dark house to seek his bed.

Chapter Five

Klöss darted back away from the slash, nearly falling on the sand-covered floor of the training room, as his legs threatened to give way. Sweat soaked his dark leathers and linen undershirt. His hand was slick on the hilt of his blade. He circled warily around Verig, looking for an opening. His training blade was wooden but, after a few minutes, it seemed as heavy as real steel and his arms burned with the strain of keeping Verig's blade from finding his skin.

“Come on, boy! You're supposed to be something special, aren't you? Or are you just some little babe who should still be at his mother's tit?” Verig laughed as Klöss lunged, and idly flicked away the attack with no more effort than it would take to shoo away a fly.

“Really? Is that the best you have?” the man sneered.

Klöss knew he was being baited and shifted backwards to try to give himself time to think. Verig was fast, there was no doubting that. He'd been on the ships for years and trained dozens of men before him. He was small for an oarsman but seemed to have a sinewy strength. His blonde hair was tied at the nape with a leather thong and he went without a helmet, seemingly just to mock his trainees with their inability to get even close to his head.

He was dressed as Klöss was, in dark boiled leathers. Unlike Klöss, of course, he had been wearing his for years and they were well broken in and flexible at the joints. Verig wore his like a second skin, Klöss like a turtle in somebody else's shell.

Klöss shifted awkwardly in his leathers and flexed his grip inside his shield. Holding it before him, he lifted the sword and held it pointed over the edge of the shield, almost in a spearman's stance, ready to thrust. Verig stood silently, watching him, taking his measure as Klöss began to circle anew, trying to mimic the man's cat-like movements.

They'd been in training for three weeks now, drilling daily with sword and shield, learning the basic strikes, stances and blocks for hours at a time until they came without thinking. They had started out in groups but now they'd progressed to fighting one-on-one with a Master.

Klöss stamped his foot on the sand-covered floor, the wooden boards underneath giving a muted thud. An effort to force a reaction, any reaction. Verig stood still watching Klöss, his eyes impassive, only taking the occasional step to match his circling. His sword seemed to be held almost casually in his hand. Perhaps if Klöss could strike hard, close to the hilt, he could drive it from Verig's grasp, or at least loosen his grip and then…

He stopped his thought quickly. Planning led to traps, it was one of the first things he'd learned. Make a plan in a fight and you become dependent on it. Then, when things changed, you'd be left floundering. Act on instinct, he'd been drilled.

He struck, faster and more smoothly than he ever had before. The blade whistled down towards Verig's sword, angled perfectly to cause the maximum impact. Verig's blade, however, was simply not there, as the small man darted backwards and turned Klöss's blow into an uncontrolled lunge.

Verig shifted forward again and closed the distance in one short step. His boots making little or no noise as he moved. Klöss swung wildly as he sought to regain his balance, but Verig didn't even bother to parry or catch it with his shield. Instead, he took a half step to the side and shifted his balance, watching Klöss's practice blade sail past him ineffectually. His shield swung with the blade and caught the back of Klöss's arm, adding to his momentum as he shoved him almost completely around, before planting his foot and shoving hard. Klöss went sprawling to the floor, his sword flying from his grasp, while Verig laughed with a harsh, mocking snigger.

“Again!” the small man ordered, as Klöss clambered back to his feet and snatched up the practice blade.

He shifted back into his stance. It had felt awkward and strange when he'd first been taught it, three weeks ago. His legs had felt like rubber after training. He was beginning to become accustomed to it now, or maybe he was just used to the pain. It was doubtful he would ever feel as comfortable in the stance as Verig obviously did.

He began a patterned step, moving around Verig to the right, his sword held ready in a defensive posture. Let the small man come to him. He was sick of attacking, only to find empty air. He watched the Master's shoulders and upper torso for clues to his movements, trying not to focus on any particular area. Verig, for his part, seemed to be in no hurry and stood, relaxed in the same stance, shifting slightly now and then to stay facing Klöss but making no move to attack.

He clenched his teeth and tried to force himself to be patient but the strain of keeping his sword at guard position and maintaining his stance was growing and his muscles were aching from the abuse of standing in the odd position.

It was very slight, just a tightening of the eyes and a minute shifting of the shoulders as Verig shifted his weight, but it was enough. Klöss stepped to the side, away from the expected thrust. His shield was turned to deflect the thrust at an angle which would allow the sword to scrape along it, diverting rather than blocking the stroke. He waited to feel the impact on the face of the shield and then Klöss turned and thrust hard. The series of moves was intended to leave an attacker off balance and overextended, at which point it would be simple to thrust into the side of the body or the neck. He had performed the manoeuvre perfectly, but Verig simply wasn't where he should be. Klöss gasped as his sword met with no resistance and desperately tried to recover from his lunge, as he saw Verig uncoil like a striking snake in the corner of his vision.

Verig attacked. Once, twice, three times the blade caught Klöss, hitting his arm, back and finally a resounding blow to the helm, making it ring like a bell and dropping him to his knees.

“NEVER, over-extend lad. You put that much force into your blow and you can't recover from it. You as good as threw yourself onto my sword then!”

Klöss dropped his wooden sword and pulled his helmet off with trembling fingers. Turning, he looked at the man with something very close to hatred.

“It was a good attempt, but you need to anticipate a feint too. You threw yourself into it and didn't take the time to see what was really going on.” Verig continued.

Klöss blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried to fight back his frustration as he rose to one knee.

“Get up, you useless sack of piss!” the man spat at him at his temper frayed. “What are you going to do? Cry?”

Klöss pulled himself to his feet and waited for the Master to dismiss him. It had been like this almost since the training started. Verig had seemed friendly enough during the initial training for the trials, but now that he and the others were training in earnest, he treated them with contempt. Klöss seemed to fare worse than most, as if Verig had some reason for singling him out. He seemed to dole out seven hands of abuse with every hand of actual training.

“Go on. I'm done with you.” Verig said. He spat at Klöss's feet and walked away without another word.

Klöss bent to retrieve his practice blade as his legs trembled, sweat running down his face. He made his way to the water barrel at the side of the training room, and drank down three quick cups as fast as he could dip them out. Verig had yet to break more than a light sweat in their sessions, and had never yet gone near the water. Klöss had no idea how he managed it. The room was low-ceilinged, and lit with reflective lamps and torches. They served to make it hotter, yet somehow didn't seem to really shed enough light. Training was hard enough, without doing it in flickering torchlight that threw dancing shadows around the room. The shadows could make you think your opponent was moving when he wasn't. Klöss couldn't think of a worse place to learn to fight. Perhaps that was the point.

He wiped down the wooden blade with a soft linen cloth, and placed it back in the rack of weapons lining the wall. As he headed out of the doorway, he felt Verig's eyes burning into his back. Twenty minutes later, he was stripped out of his leathers and making his way into the mess. The room was only half-full, with most having already finished their meals. Of the fifteen who had won their trials with him in Frostbeard's reavers, only four were still eating. The remainder sat at the long trestle tables, talking and laughing loudly. The sound served to make Klöss even more bitter as he made his way to the pot. The stew was mostly gone and what remained at the bottom had congealed into an unappetising paste. He took up the long-handled ladle and scraped at the pot, trying to gather up the most identifiable parts. The stew had been left over the fire once it was cooked and had stuck and burnt at the bottom. Klöss grunted sourly as he filled his wooden bowl and moved over to the tables.

“No room,” muttered Henrick, as he shovelled stew into his bearded face.

Klöss looked at the almost empty bench. The fat man had thick, hard muscle under the rolls of flab and the soul of a bully. There was no point arguing with him. Klöss found and sat at an empty table.

He wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting. The training before the trials had all been good-natured, and the teams of men had worked well together. Back then of course, they had been working for a common goal. Whilst the final race around the island didn't guarantee acceptance, it didn't hurt and they had all known that. Klöss had been as useful as the next man and there had been no real competition between them. Now, things were different. Not everyone who made it through the schools would be chosen to work the reaving boats. Haulers, the huge warehouses of the seas that served to transport the goods reaped on the raids, needed crews too and the job was not a desirable one.

“Kept late again, Klöss?” Dallan called. “What were you doing this time? Holding the wrong end of the sword?” His jibe was met with scattered laughter, but there was a nervous tinge to it too. Since Klöss had started training three weeks ago, Dallan had dispensed his special brand of misery to almost all of the new recruits at one point or another. He now seemed to have settled on Klöss as his next target. It was odd, as Dallan was not an especially large man. He was perhaps four years older than Klöss, but then so were most of the other trainees. His dark hair hung loosely to his shoulders and his deep-set green eyes glittered as he watched Klöss take his seat.

Klöss knew better than to rise to it and sat on the plain bench as he began to force the stew down. He grimaced as he chewed but managed to swallow it down and take another spoonful. He knew from experience that the first bite was the worst. Your taste buds tended to run and hide after the first mouthful. This was the fifth time Klöss had been one of the last to the pot and this was not the worst it had tasted.

He looked around the room, quickly counting heads, and swore quietly as he realised he was the last to eat. This meant the task of cleaning out the huge pot would be his. It was an effective form of punishment. Those not pleasing their trainers would be kept later and later, ensuring that they not only ate the worst of the food, but also faced the task of cleaning the pot out. As the pot was essentially a huge cauldron this was not a small job. It would take a couple of hours to clean it properly which meant he would miss more training. It was one of the first things they had been taught. They were provided food, but were responsible for cooking it themselves and clearing up. No training would be given to the last man to eat until the pot was clean. Klöss forced the last greasy mouthful down his throat and then made his way over to the pot to begin the miserable task.

He grabbed the long-handled ladle and started scooping out the grisly remnants into a large leather bucket. The pot sides rang with a rasping note as he worked, so he didn't hear anyone approach until the bowl clattered into the pot, spraying stew and half-congealed gravy over his face.

Klöss swore and jumped back from the pot, as the room filled with laughter again. He turned to see Dallan, flanked by Henrick and another smaller man that he'd never caught the name of.

“Surprised a rich boy like you knows how to clean a pot, Klöss.” Dallan smirked as he looked him up and down. “Let's hope you make a better scullion than you do a swordsman, hey?”

Klöss felt his jaw clench as he dug his nails painfully into his palms. “Don't you have anything better to do, Dallan?”

“Why yes, scullion, I do.” The green eyes glittered. “I came here to train. Not just to clean the pots. We're not all destined for the hauler.” He threw a grin over one shoulder to his two companions before turning back, his face suddenly serious and full of mocking concern.

“Listen, Klöss, let me give you some advice. You don't belong here. You're here because you have a famous uncle and that's it. You better leave before you get hurt. It's not a game and it's not all about cleaning pots, you know?” He laughed at his own joke, pushing past Klöss roughly as he headed for the doorway.

Klöss muttered, picking bits of stew from his clothing as a half-dozen witty comebacks came to mind too late. He turned back to the pot and began scraping again.

“Do not let him get to you.” The quiet voice came from behind him. Klöss looked over his shoulder to see the huge Tristan looming over him. Mostly silent and keeping to himself, Klöss was not sure what to make of the quiet man. He had a thick accent from the Far Islands and had clearly made his way to Bresda just to train in the schools. “Thanks,” he smiled “I…”

“He speaks truth about one thing though.” The big man cut him off. “You do not belong here.”

Klöss gaped but Tristan was already walking away. He shook his head and turned back to the pot.

The schools worked to rebuild a man from the ground up. Trainees were isolated from their families and lived inside the schools themselves, with only one day every two months to visit. Even this visit must be earned and it was not unheard of for a student to go six months or more without seeing his family.

The oarsman's role was far more than simply rowing a ship through the waves. An oarsman must be warrior, scout, lookout and guard. When the ships landed, it was the oarsmen who were first through the surf with shield and sword. It was the oarsmen who would fight the villagers who tried to defend their stores. And it was the oarsmen who would help load up the larger hauler ships with the plunder from the raids.

Klöss knew that he would need to prove himself quickly, as it was only once the school's training was complete that it would be decided whether an oarsman was destined for a reaving boat or a hauler. Crewing a hauler was said to be no dishonour but it was not viewed in the same way as working on the reaving boats and, to Klöss's mind, it was little better than driving a cart. If he had to scrape the pot out every night for six months, he was determined to avoid the hauler.

***

He woke as the sound of snoring filled the long room mingling with the soft noise of bodies shifting in their sleep. It was still dark and the skies, just visible through the small window, had yet to shift from the inky hue of true night. He shivered in his narrow wooden bunk and pulled the rough woollen blanket more tightly around himself as he tried to identify what had woken him.

The days had settled into a rhythm of weapons training and gruelling physical conditioning which seemed designed to both train the muscles and also cause the maximum discomfort. Yesterday had begun at the crack of dawn when they were awoken and broken into teams of four before being sent on a five mile run carrying long wooden canoes. The boats were large enough to hold five men and were not overly heavy for their size, but they were bulky and unwieldy. By the end of the first mile, all of the men with Klöss were sweating and breathing hard. By the end of the fifth mile, they could barely walk and the upturned canoe dug into their shoulders with every step. They'd come in dead last and the others had all blamed him. He had washed the pot again that night.

He lay in the darkness for a time, but sleep would not come. As the first hint of light began to tint the skies through the tiny window he gave up and dressed silently in the gloom. Carrying his boots, he padded to the doorway and left his bunk-mates to their snores.

He made his way to the mess and made a large pot of porridge, eating it quickly and quietly in the empty room. Despite the fact that he had not a single friend among the trainees, the mess felt strange. Klöss dumped his bowl and spoon into water to soak and made his way through the halls to the training room.

The schools had been established for centuries as a place for the initial training of those joining the ships. Every Shipmaster could use them, although some chose to take a different approach and simply train their new recruits on the ships themselves. Frostbeard was one of the few Seamasters who insisted that everyone who served aboard his ships had worked through the school. There were several of them dotted about the islands, small camps keeping crews separate from each other and only working together occasionally to aid training.

He went to the racks of weapons against the wall and took out a simple steel sword, marvelling at the difference in the weight between it and the wooden swords they had been training with. Glancing around guiltily he replaced the weapon before drawing out the same wooden weapon he had held yesterday.

Moving slowly, Klöss went through a series of stretches to limber up his still waking muscles, before moving through a series of sword strikes and blocks. He did not grunt or posture. He worked slowly making the exercise appear more of a dance than anything else, but moving with glacial slowness. Finally, satisfied with the movements he slowly increased the speed, moving from stroke to stroke, from thrust to strike to block. The sword whistled through the air and sweat began to drip from his face.

A noise behind him caused him to spin in shock and his sword flew from startled fingers to clatter noisily against the wall. Verig raised an eyebrow and then made his way past him without a word to retrieve his own weapon from the racks.

“I didn't expect anyone to be up,” Klöss stammered. “I hope I didn't wake you?” Verig ignored him as if he hadn't spoken, and began to work through his own series of stretches and exercises.

Klöss looked at the small man in shock. It is one thing to ignore somebody when in a group. To do so when you are alone together is something quite different, and it bit more deeply than any of the foolish stunts the other trainees had tried in the past few weeks.

Verig continued to ignore him and worked his way through the same series of thrusts, strikes, and blocks as Klöss had. There was a smoothness to the movements that had been lacking with Klöss. Where Verig moved flawlessly from one stroke to another, Klöss had paused. It was more than that though. It was a thousand tiny details. It showed in his balance and the set of his feet, in the line of his shoulders and the snap he put at the end of each stroke. Klöss watched as Verig moved faster and faster until the blade became a whirling curtain of steel, before finishing without flourish or fanfare. Klöss found his heart pounding as Verig turned to face him.

The small man pointed at the ground next to him. A short stabbing motion with one thick digit. “Again.”

Two hours later, Klöss sat in the mess, eating another bowl of porridge. He was covered in a thick sweat and his limbs trembled visibly. A light filled his eyes, however, and a grin sprang to his lips between every mouthful. He had vaguely registered the morning gong strike a few minutes ago and trainees were beginning to file into the mess. Some few showed surprise to find the fire lit and porridge steaming but none offered a word of thanks, although Tristan seemed to give him a slight nod as he came in.

“Right lads,” came a deep, rumbling voice from the doorway. Klöss looked up from his bowl to see Christoph standing with a vicious grin on his face. “Who's up for a little race this morning?” the Shipmaster asked, with deceptive light-heartedness. The hall erupted with a chorus of groans as the trainees grasped his meaning. They had been informed the night before that a reaver would be at the docks for them the next day. There had been no mention of a race though, and they'd all hoped it would simply be working the ship with full crew.

“Eat up and get to the docks. You have one hour.” Christoph smiled thinly. “Oh and let's make it full kit boys.” He smirked at the groans, and then was gone.

A race meant working in an undermanned ship. They'd done it on the first day of training. Manoeuvring the huge reaver was hard enough with a full crew, but the Masters split the trainees into two teams, with four seasoned oarsmen with them, just in case things got completely out of hand. In any event, even the smallest reaver held a rowing crew of thirty. Whilst they might be able to move the thing with a crew of ten, it was agonisingly slow and brutal labour. Klöss knew they were trying to get them to work together whilst training their bodies, but this was slim comfort.

He stood and looked around, as the trainees shovelled porridge into themselves. Making his way to the kitchen area, he quickly scrubbed out his bowl. He turned just in time to see Dallan scooping out the last of the porridge. Klöss smiled at him and nodded meaningfully at the pot as he walked past the man whistling cheerfully as Dallan stared daggers into his back.

An hour passes very quickly when you have things to do and Klöss soon found himself on the docks, in his stiff leathers, awkwardly trying to juggle sword and shield, whilst boarding the narrow reaver. The wind whipped at the quay and the harbour water was choppy, despite the high cliffs and the Harbour Island opposite. Klöss struggled onto the pitching boat and made his way to his seat. He secured his sword and shield in one of the racks built into the edge of each bench in the oarpit. Brushing away the wood shavings from his seat, he took his place quickly and looked to the oarsmaster.

The boat rocked gently and strained against the hawsers as more of the trainees climbed aboard. The true oarsmen were easy to spot, their leathers older and scarred thrice over from weather and battles. It was more than just their leathers however, it was the simple way they carried themselves with a casual arrogance, a sureness of purpose. Klöss watched them openly, as awestruck as an eight-year-old watching a juggler with knives.

The Shipmasters chatted idly on the quay, clearly in no particular hurry, as the crews manned the two reavers. The oarsmaster on each boat moved slowly from bow to stern, checking crew and vessel with equal diligence. Finally, the Shipmasters clasped hands formally and stepped aboard. Hawsers were loosed and the two boats moved off slowly towards the narrow channel on the right side of the harbour.

The ship moved ponderously, unlike the sleek creature she had been designed to be. She seemed sluggish to Klöss and the oar felt strange in his hands. The two reavers moved slowly towards the channel and took up positions fifty feet apart, level with a large red buoy. He adjusted his grip on the oar. It was already rubbing at one of his fingers. He glanced across at the other reaver and saw Dallan watching him with a broad grin. The other man waved at him, smiling.

“Okay, lads, we're going for a nice little row around the Harbour Island this morning,” the oarsmaster called out. “It's only a little hop, so there'll be no sails. Oh, and you'll be steering by oar too. Stand ready!”

Klöss grasped his oar tightly as he looked across the water at the other reaver. The other oarsmaster stood on the decking between the two oarpits on his reaver, a red flag held high. He looked over at Klöss's boat, catching the eye of the oarsmaster, then nodded and dropped the flag.

“Stroke!” the oarsmaster roared. Klöss hauled back hard on his oar, bracing his feet on the wooden panel in front of him. The drummer started up a slow rhythm and Klöss fought to keep in time with it.

The oarsmen were spread evenly throughout the boat, with three empty benches between each of them. The oarsmaster stood high in the prow with the Shipmaster, looking back over the boat, and the drummer sat below them on the decking. Normally, the Steersman would have stood in the stern and followed the dictates of the Shipmaster, but today the rudder was locked and the navigation would be up to the oarsmen themselves.

Klöss heaved back and tried to adjust his grip on the oar again. Normally, the oars were as smooth as glass, having been crafted smooth and then polished by a thousand hours of hands straining at them. This one, however, seemed to have a nasty little ridge that caught just under the knuckle of his middle finger. It was a small thing, but even after a scant five minutes of rowing, he could feel a blister forming.

They were moving agonisingly slowly through the harbour, ten men were simply not enough to drive it forward at the speed it was designed for, and it pitched and wallowed through the waves. Klöss glanced across at the other boat but they were both moving so slowly it was hard to see if either had lost or gained. He strained at the oars, fighting to contain a hysterical giggle as the image of the snail races he had played as a child came to his mind.

“Are we having fun, Klöss?” The oarsmaster stood on the decking beside him, scowling down. Klöss felt the grin falling from his face like hail from the skies, as he heaved back hard on the oars again.

“If this is too easy for you, I'm sure a couple of the lads would be happy to take a break,” the big man suggested, as he knelt and thrust his angry face at him.

“No, sir,” Klöss gasped between strokes, fighting the urge to adjust his grip again.

“What do you think, Tristan?” the oarsmaster shouted back over one shoulder to the big man at the rear of the reaver. “Klöss is finding this all too easy. Do you want to take a break?”

“No, sir,” Tristan called back.

“And why is that, lad?”

“I want to win, Oarsmaster. We need him,” Tristan called.

“That's right! You all need him to win this. And we are going to win this, Klöss. So stop pissing about and grinning like a girl who's found her mother's brandy, and damned well ROW!”

“Yes, Oarsmaster,” Klöss shouted and pulled hard at the oars, feeling the blister burst as he did so.

After ten minutes, his muscles burned and his hand stung from the seawater in the blister. After thirty minutes his shoulders and back were just a mass of pain. The aching no longer altered, whether he was straining back against the oar or moving forward to set for another stroke. Blood dripped slowly from his hand and he sought a quiet place inside himself.

The wind was picking up and it caught the top of the waves in the choppy waters, blasting spray over the oarsmen as they rowed. They were approaching the turn and the oarsmaster called out instructions over the wind. As they passed the rocky outcrop that marked the far point of Harbour Island, the men on the left of the reaver stopped rowing and quickly shipped their oars. The reaver swung sluggishly into the turn and after a barely a minute, two men began rowing again at the oarsmaster's signal, before the boat lost too much speed.

He strained as he tried to keep to the drummer's rhythm, but his grip was ruined. The ridge on the oar had worn away at his skin and no amount of adjusting his grip had helped. He tried putting more of the strain on his other hand but it made it too hard to keep to the rhythm. With half of the oarsmen waiting for the turn to end, his oar mattered more than ever and he knew he wasn't pulling his weight.

He could almost feel the black looks coming from beside him and behind him, as the other oarsmen felt the extra load and noticed him slipping off the stroke. With the turn complete, he stole a glance at the other reaver as it finished its own turn. Their turn was far tighter, he noticed, as the other boat had two oarsmen on the inside of the turn rowing backwards. It was an awkward thing to attempt. The seats would not allow for a man to brace himself properly and so the oarsmen lacked the power they would normally have. For all that, though, the tactic seemed to work and the other reaver turned far inside of them, gaining maybe three boat lengths on them.

Klöss cursed just a fraction of a second before he heard the oarsmaster stood slightly behind him mutter, “Why that crafty bastard!” and turn to the drummer.

“Right you lot,” the oarsmaster called out. “We are not going to be beaten today. I've beaten that whoremonger the last four times and his fancy tricks are not going to change that. I want everything you have now.” The drum beat increased and men bent their backs to the task, as the wind lashed them with spray.

“Come on, you Dernish scow. Move!” he roared at the uncaring planks beneath his feet, and darted forwards to stand in the prow, as if he could speed the reaver by force of will alone. He stormed and raged on the decks like a man possessed, laying about with both lash and curse. The trainees and true oarsmen bent their backs to the work and sweat ran freely, as the Shipmaster looked over the crew impassively.

After the final turn, with the docks in sight, Klöss was past the pain. It felt like the oar had cut clear through to the bone on the inside of his knuckle, but he was more afraid of what the oarsmaster might do if they lost the race than he was of his finger falling off at this point. They had closed the distance, though the gods only knew how, and they weren't telling. The lead reaver was a scant handful of yards away, and the oarsmaster stood in the prow hurling abuse and curses at both his own men and the other reaver's crew with equal ferocity. As they came to the final ten yards, Klöss glanced across and saw Dallan watching him openly as he rowed. He risked the wrath of his own oarsmaster to wiggle his fingers at him in an insolent wave and then they passed the buoy and it was over.

Klöss prised his hand from the oar with some effort, and examined the mass of raw and bleeding flesh under his knuckle.

“Has he got a little blister, then?” The oarsmaster sneered down at him. “I don't know how you got it with that piss-poor performance. Your stroke was all over the place. I've seen fishermen's daughters row harder than you just did.”

Klöss opened his mouth to protest, but the man thrust a hand in front of his face. “Don't,” he advised. “I don't want to hear your excuses. Just get your idle self out of my oarpit!”

There wasn't much he could say to that, so he grabbed his sword and shield from the rack beside his bench and made his way out to the dock. There was a brief congratulation for the crew of the other reaver but Klöss wasn't paying attention. He watched, disinterestedly, as the dock crews secured the boats with massive hawsers, and then, dismissed, he walked dejectedly back to the small compound that housed the school.

“Nice work on the turn there, Klöss,” Dallan called mockingly from behind him. “Is keeping to a drumbeat too complex for you? Or this all just too much for you?” Klöss ignored him and carried on walking.

“I heard you got a little blister and that's why you couldn't row. Your precious rich-boy hands too soft for real work? Is that it?”

Klöss ignored him and the chorus of sniggers and laughter that accompanied the digs. Dallan was growing in popularity and seemed determined to make his life miserable.

“Leave him, Dallan,” Tristan's deep voice rumbled.

“What's it to you?” Dallan turned to face the big man, a feral look on his face and his hand clenching and unclenching, seemingly of its own volition. “He doesn't belong here. You know that. He's barely good enough for a hauler!”

“If that's true, then surely you want him here?” Tristan said calmly. “Some will be chosen for hauler crews. If he leaves, then does this not increase the chance it is you?”

Dallan grinned as he met the big man's eyes. “I like the way you think!” He turned to Henrick, who stood with a smile on his fat, pig-eyed face. “Come on, let's go and make some work for our scullion here!” and he set off, whistling happily.

Tristan caught up with Klöss with no real effort. The big man's strides were half again the length of his own on a good day and Klöss was in no hurry. “You are not as strong as some, Klöss, but I do not understand this?” he said in his thick Far Islanders accent.

Klöss held out his hand to Tristan by way of answer, exposing the raw flesh on his hand.

“That is nasty, but how did you come by it? Not from just rowing?” Tristan shook his head.

“There was something on my oar, a ridge in the wood,” Klöss explained slowly.

“How could this be?” Tristan asked. “The oars have been used for many years. They are all smooth.”

“He waved at me,” Klöss said, half to himself, as his feet first slowed and then stopped.

“What?” replied Tristan, perplexed, as he halted beside him. “Who? And why are we talking about this?”

“Damn him to hell. The damned sawdust!” Klöss spat at his feet, as if something foul had filled his mouth.

“You are making no sense, Klöss. What are you talking about?” Tristan demanded with frustration.

“When I got onto the reaver, there was sawdust on my bench. Not much, but just a few shavings of wood,” Klöss explained.

“And what? The boat is made of wood. Some worker had probably been repairing the bench or something,” Tristan argued.

“No! You aren't seeing it,” Klöss said in frustration.

“Because you are not explaining it!” cried Tristan in equal frustration.

“When we were racing, I saw Dallan wave at me,” Klöss explained. Tristan nodded and motioned with his big hands for him to carry on. “You felt how hard it was to move the reaver, how heavy the boat was? It took all of our efforts to get the thing going, didn't it? Why would you take the time to wave at someone on the other reaver? Especially someone you hate,” Klöss said, his face animated as he spoke.

“It does seem odd,” Tristan admitted, confusion clouding his face.

“It's more than odd, it's bloody stupid,” insisted Klöss. “We were close. Really close! Would you have risked the oarsmaster seeing you take a hand off to wave? No, of course you wouldn't. He wasn't even waving normally, he was wiggling his fingers at me, like a little girl would. No, now I think about it, he was making a point. His fingers were working fine. He knew! He damn well did it!”

“What are you suggesting? That Dallan sneaked out, got to the reaver and carved up your oar?” Tristan asked doubtfully. “How would he know where you sat? Or which oar? Or even which reaver?”

“I still think he did it.” Klöss shook his head. “Somehow he knew.”

“And how do you know it was not just a rough patch on the oar?” Tristan asked. “It is a big thing you suggest. A serious thing.”

“It was more than that. Anyway, what about the wood shavings? It's all too convenient,” Klöss insisted. Tristan shook his head doubtfully, clearly not convinced.

“Look, come and look at the oar yourself.” Klöss said as inspiration struck him.

“We are expected back at the school. We are late as it is,” Tristan objected.

“Tomorrow then?” Klöss pleaded. “Early, before training?”

“I suppose,” Tristan agreed and turned towards the school. Klöss walked slowly behind him, silently seething as he stared at his hand.

The mess hall was quiet by the time Klöss made his way to it. His freshly bandaged hand felt strange and now the race was finished and he'd had time to calm down, the pain was intense. He made his way into the room and found it empty except for Tristan who was scraping away at the inside of the pot with a long wooden tool. He turned at the sound of Klöss's footsteps and glowered at him before turning back to the pot.

“Why?” Klöss floundered. “I mean, I'm the last one here. I've not even eaten yet. Why are you stuck with this?”

“Your hand,” Tristan muttered. “You are not to get it wet, they said. So I get the pot, as I was the last to eat before you.”

“But that's not fair!” Klöss objected.

Tristan shrugged. “Fair or not, it is what was decided.”

“Well, let me help you with it at least.”

“You can't,” Tristan said flatly. “Your bandage. You must not get it wet.”

“I don't care about the bandage,” Klöss said, his temper rising. “I'm not going to stand here and let you scrape out the pot just because I hurt my hand.”

“No,” Tristan replied flatly. “We will need your hand for group training. You must not get it wet.”

“Oh,” said Klöss in a small voice. “I'm sorry. I didn't understand.”

“Sometimes speaking your language is not so simple for me,” Tristan explained.

“You don't speak Islik on the Far Isles?”

“Yes, we do,” explained Tristan. “It is just older there, purer. Islik is much changed over the years. It is not so similar now.” He turned back to the pot and handed Klöss a wooden bowl with some cold potato soup and a heel of bread. “I save this for you.”

Klöss nodded his thanks and began to spoon down the soup. It wasn't bad, despite being cold.

***

He awoke in a panic as a hand closed over his mouth. Kicking and thrashing out wildly, he felt his foot connect hard and was rewarded with a muffled grunt of pain.

“Is me, you stupid man,” grunted Tristan in the dark. “You wanted we should look at the oars, yes?”

Klöss nodded in the darkness, before realising how stupid that was. “Yes. Sorry.” He threw his clothes on and they left as silently as they could, picking their way between the bunks.

The streets of Hesk were dark and a light drizzle misted down from the still, black sky, as they warily crept out of the doors to the school. The courtyard was deserted and the heavy, tar-smeared gates were barred shut against the night. Klöss spun around in a slow circle and then turned to face Tristan in the dark.

“I never really even looked at this place in the daytime,” he admitted in a whisper. “How are we going to get out?”

Tristan sighed, and motioned for Klöss to follow him, as he trotted between two buildings towards the tall stone walls surrounding the courtyard. He stopped in the darker shadows of the wall where it passed behind one of the storehouses. “Climb here,” the big man whispered, gesturing to the old stone wall. Klöss turned to examine the wall and reached up for a hand-hold. The wall was made of huge limestone blocks, set close together and well-mortared. His hand scrabbled vainly for purchase until he heard Tristan's despairing sigh again.

“Not like that. Here, watch.” He planted his feet firmly against the wall of the storehouse and braced his back against the courtyard wall, working his way up the wall with small steps and then shifting his back. Klöss grinned and followed.

They climbed down the other side of the wall using a worn rope that Tristan pulled from over one shoulder, and then made their way quietly through the pre-dawn murk towards the docks. Hesk was a different city at this time of night. Usually, the place was alive with the sounds of the street hawkers and the bustle of city life. Now the streets were almost silent, the only noise the faint hiss of the rain on the slate rooftops and a dog somewhere, barking at the night.

The docks were not far away and the two made their way through the alleyways easily. There was no need for concealment, as nobody would have been able to see them in the darkness. The torches and lanterns had long been snuffed or allowed to burn out, and the city was wreathed in an almost inky blackness, the starlight held back by a heavy blanket of clouds.

The reavers were still tied up at the school's docks. Usually the docks stood empty, reaving boats were simply too valuable to leave unused. They were borrowed, when available, from the various Seamasters and Shipmasters who used the schools to train their own crews.

Klöss crouched down in the shadows of a building, noticing that the skies were starting to lighten. They wouldn't have much time. The boats appeared to be unguarded, which was an odd but happy turn of events. Motioning Tristan to follow, he moved quickly and silently to the first reaver. It was hard to tell which was which in the dark.

“You check this one, I'll go to the other,” he whispered to Tristan, gesturing at the closest reaver. “Check the oar on the left-hand side, six rows back.” Tristan nodded and bent to shift the heavy gangplank into place from where it lay on the dock.

The planks were heavy and it was hard work to move them alone. Klöss eventually managed his and it locked into place with a heavy thud. He stepped across it easily and onto the gently swaying reaver, moving swiftly back past the rows of benches. As he stepped down into the oarpit, a soft noise suddenly froze him. Any noise sounds deafening in the night and Klöss was impressed he hadn't jumped and made noise himself. As it was he crouched by the bench, his heart pounding as he strained his ears. Being caught out of the school would be bad enough, but being caught on the reaver would raise questions he couldn't yet answer.

Slowly Klöss raised his head so he could see over the side of the boat. Dawn was fast approaching. He could make out the docks easily, but there was no sign of movement, or of Tristan. He sank back into a crouch and turned to examine the oar. It was drawn in and lashed to the bench, the blade protruding two or three feet out the side of the boat. The handle extended through the oarpit and the supports of the wooden deckway that ran the length of the ship.

Klöss worked the ropes holding it in place and began to slide the oar slowly out. He worked quickly but as quietly as he could, extending the oar out and feeling for the sharp, ridged section. He winced at the soft scraping noise the oar made and searched frantically with his fingertips as he went. Finally, he conceded he must be on the wrong reaver. This oar was as smooth as a river stone. He swore under his breath and began to move the oar back into its stored position, before moving down the gangplank and shifting it back onto the docks.

The docks were silent but faint noises were now coming from the city, as people began to rise and begin their day. He moved quickly over to the other reaver, searching for Tristan but the big man was nowhere in sight. Klöss went to the gangplank and stepped silently aboard.

“Did you find it?” he called softly.

“No, he didn't,” a voice said from behind him. Klöss spun like a startled cat. Verig stood on the end of the gangplank, and he did not look amused.

“Can you tell me, young Klöss, why you have snuck out of the school and crept about this reaver in the middle of the night?” The man's eyes were black holes in the darkness but the greater darkness was in his voice. An anger lurked there, like a great sleeping wolf, and Klöss felt as if he had just jabbed it with a pointed stick.

An hour later, Klöss sat waiting on his bunk in the school. The room was empty, the other trainees having already eaten and gone to train, and the silence only seemed to make the wait worse. He'd not had a chance to speak to Tristan, as Verig marched them back to the school and through the now unbarred gates. Verig had insisted on silence and cut off his explanations, saying only that the seamaster would speak to them himself.

Klöss was more than a little worried. Some children and nephews would consider it a reprieve to be dealt with by their uncle, but he knew he faced serious repercussions. Frostbeard had not wanted to sponsor him when he'd first sought him out, almost a year ago. It had taken several months of long conversations and blatant pleading to even get him to consider the idea. Since taking the trials, and then finally admitting he had done so to his father, Klöss had avoided his uncle as much as possible.

He sat up quickly as the door opened and Tristan came into the room, his face drawn and tired. “You are to go and see him now.” His deep voice held none of the camaraderie of yesterday or the gently mocking humour of that morning. Klöss sighed and made his way through the doorway.

Frostbeard was only in the school once in a blue moon. He was simply too busy to pay much attention to his newest recruits, so the day to day running of the school was left to the Training Masters. It was just Klöss's bad luck that he happened to be in the school at the moment. Had he known, he would never have attempted going near the reavers.

He forced himself through the cold stone corridors and stopped outside a solid mahogany door, intricately carved and varnished to a deep rich shine. In a nation with little or no woodlands, which was dependent on raiding for anything that could not be gleaned from the sea, the door spoke volumes as to the wealth of its owner. Klöss steeled himself and knocked. He might look older, but he was still only fourteen, and right now he was keenly aware of just how young he was.

“Come,” came a firm, gravelly voice.

Klöss entered boldly. He was not going to be the timid mouse here. He had crept out of the school, but he was the one who had been wronged, after all.

His uncle sat in a large chair, behind a cluttered but beautiful desk. His eyes looked tired as he surveyed the young man in the doorway and he sighed visibly as he motioned Klöss into the room and pointed at a straight-backed chair opposite him at the desk.

“Sit,” he muttered. He had piercing blue eyes that looked out from under heavy, steel grey eyebrows. His mouth was a tight line buried in a thick beard. There had been a time when his beard had been black as coal and his name earned from his taming of the Vorstelv. Now his beard was more a deep grey with fleck of white in it, and a person could have been forgiven for thinking this was the reason.

“Explain yourself,” he said flatly and glared over the desk at him.

“My oar had been tampered with before the training race yesterday, sir,” Klöss began. “Someone had worked a ridge into the wood, so it would grind against my hand and make it impossible to row properly.”

Frostbeard grunted and motioned for him to continue.

“I wanted to show someone and ask their advice before I brought it to a Master's attention,” Klöss admitted. “I wasn't sure if I should just let it go.”

“So you convinced Tristan to sneak out of the training compound in the middle of the night and visit the reaver,” Frostbeard finished for him. “And did you find your damaged oar?”

Klöss shook his head mutely.

“No, neither did Tristan,” Frostbeard said quickly, holding up a hand against Klöss's startled outburst. “I have heard the reports of your injury and I have no doubt that the oar was tampered with. Whoever did it had no doubt switched the oar with one from stores by this time.”

“It was Dallan, I am sure of it,” Klöss blurted, his anger mixed with relief.

“Perhaps or perhaps not,” his uncle continued. “I suppose you think he should be brought in and questions asked?”

He slammed his hand down onto the desk, scattering papers and spilling ink that poured unheeded across the polished surface. “You think you are the victim here? Let me ask you, boy, did you check your weapon and shield before you boarded that boat?” He continued, without waiting for an answer. “You think your oar is not just as important? You should have checked it the second you sat down. There was space on that boat to have moved you or you could simply have swapped oars but no, you didn't even think to look until it was too late, did you?”

Klöss was scrambling to keep up. He had come into the room full of righteous indignation and this had caught him as unprepared as one of Verig's strikes.

“Damn it all, boy. I already have half the Masters thinking I let you in here just because you're my nephew. That you're too young, too soft. Then you go and pull this stupid stunt, sneaking out of the school, like a girl climbing from her bedroom window to meet a lover.”

Klöss took a deep breath. “You are right, Seamaster,” he began respectfully. “I should have checked the oar and brought it to the oarsmaster's attention before we sailed. But the oar itself should have been fine. I neglected my duty to check, but this does not alter the fact that it was tampered with.”

“And was your reaver not guarded?” Frostbeard said, with deceptive mildness.

Klöss swallowed carefully. They hadn't even discussed guarding the reaver when they'd been informed it would be at dock for them the night before.

“Of course it wasn't,” the old man said scathingly. “Go on, boy. Get out and find your Masters. Perhaps they can teach you something.”

Klöss turned to the door, his hands clenched tight and shaking. He left quickly, before his mouth betrayed him, but the colour of his cheeks already told the tale of his anger.

Chapter Six

Klöss slammed the gate hard behind himself and swore. The afternoon was warm and it was too nice a day to waste, but he was furious. It had been a full three months since he entered training and he had finally been allowed a day off, to visit his father. After the incident with the oar and the reaver, he'd been expecting to be denied it again, but things seemed to have blown over. He hadn't expected his father to welcome him with open arms, but it had been three months. He should have calmed down by now.

He turned down the cobbled streets, letting his feet guide him whilst his head was elsewhere. The man had barely let him into the house before he'd started on him about shirking his responsibilities, leaving him to scramble whilst he went off to play with boats. When he'd started about how disappointed his mother would have been, Klöss could take no more and had stormed out.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to force himself to calm down. The day was sunny and bright, he had money in his purse, it was too good to waste worrying about the old goat. He muttered to himself darkly as he wandered towards the market and tried to shake off his mood. The city was alive with a thousand scents and colours. Klöss knew this was only because he'd been locked away from it for a time, but he revelled in the sights and sounds. He stopped at a street vendor and bought some hot pork in flatbread. He'd been living on porridge and fish stew for so long, it felt good to have some real meat between his teeth.

A cart trundled down the street laden with sacks of grain, he stepped aside easily, and wandered aimlessly for a time.

“For these are the New Days!” a deep voice cried, from a set of stone steps. “Cast off your old pagan ways, for they are the shackles of the past. The Lord of New Days will show you a better way!”

Klöss glanced at the priest, clad in his dark robes with bell in hand. The church steps were half full with a small crowd of onlookers. The religion was growing with leaps and bounds. He wondered for a brief moment where they were getting the money for the churches. A young woman stepping past the priest caught his eye and his breath caught in his throat. In three quick steps, he was behind her as she hurried down a side street.

“Ylsriss?” he called out. She stopped and glanced back, catching his eye and raising an eyebrow with a smile.

“Well, hello rich boy,” she smiled, as he caught up. “I didn't think I'd be seeing you again. Aren't you supposed to be on a reaver somewhere, stealing some poor farmer's crops?”

“Aren't you supposed to be robbing a young man in a dark alley?” he grinned back.

She pointed to a narrow passageway behind them. “Well, I was in a hurry, but I suppose I could fit you in if you have the time.” They both laughed.

“What are you doing here? I thought they locked you all away while you were in training?” she said.

“They do,” Klöss replied, nodding. “They let us out once every five weeks or so for family visits, if we earn it.”

“So why aren't you with Daddy dearest then?” She brushed her long hair away from her face and then caught the expression that flickered across his features. “Never mind,” and then, “Oh! Is that pork?” He offered the bread across to her and she reached in to take a chunk quickly, popping it into her mouth. He studied her while she ate. She hadn't changed. She was wearing a pale green dress today, that was little more than rags. On her though, it seemed to flow and she looked like she'd just stepped out of a meadow.

He shook himself. “So, New Dayers? You don't strike me as the religious type.”

“Still my innocent rich boy,” she said. “Everyone with a hungry belly is religious. At least, until they stop handing out bread to the poor.”

“Faithful until the kitchen runs empty then?” He scratched at one bearded cheek.

“Yes,” she said, serious in the face of his joke. “It's more or less that way with everything, isn't it?” Klöss didn't know what to say to that and so they walked in silence for a minute or two.

“Are you busy?” he asked finally. “You said you were in a rush.”

“No, not really. The children will be fine for a while.” She licked the grease from her fingers and then dusted her hands together.

“Well, I have until sundown until I need to be back so...” he said, drawing out the last word and raising an eyebrow.

“Are you asking me on a date, rich boy?” she laughed, mocking him gently, and then laughed again as his face reddened, a genuine and delighted sound. “I have nowhere I really need to be. It would be nice to spend some time away from the cellar for an afternoon.”

He couldn't help grinning, and she reached in and linked arms with him in one smooth motion.

Ylsriss walked Klöss around the city and he felt like a young child stepping out into a strange place. He'd lived his whole life in Hesk, but she showed him things he'd managed to never quite see. They walked to the fishing docks, a place he was more than familiar with, having visited with his father many times to buy fish for the shop. He pointed out the vessels he knew and she pointed out the beggars he'd never noticed. Her education was harsh and brutal, but it was tempered by her company. She was a cool breeze on a hot day. She was the first taste of summer's mead. She was the thief who had held a blade to his throat and he realised he was smitten.

As they walked, he found his gaze drifting more and more often to the smooth skin of her neck. She had an unconscious grace that one so often sees with dancers and acrobats that carried across as she walked. Each step deliberate and careful yet with no more attention than one takes to blink or to take a breath. She was dressed in little more than rags, her clothing patched and scuffed to the point of ruin. On her however it didn't seem to matter. She took no notice of her clothing and her grace eclipsed it anyway. She had a ready smile and a gently mocking humour that she shared freely with him, herself, and anything else that fell under her gaze. She was never cruel however. Her humour was a gentle dig but never too harsh and never intended to hurt.

He bought a bottle of honey mead and they sat on steps by the docks, idly watching the labourers unloading the massive haulers, as they passed the bottle back and forth.

She drew her feet up under her, smoothing her dress down over herself. “Did you know that the New Dayers are saying we should stop the reaving?”

He shook his head. “They'll never stop the reaving. There are just too many of us on these islands now for us all to live on fish.”

“That's not what they're saying,” she protested. “They say it would be better for us to trade or something.”

“Trade what, Ylsriss?” he laughed. “We have nothing anyone wants. We stand alone, we always have.”

“I'm just repeating what I heard,” she said. “I'm not saying I agree with it.”

He shook his head. “No, I can't see it happening,” he said slowly, chewing over the idea. “It's probably not a very clever thing for them to be saying either. It's not going to make them very popular.”

“Do you think they care?” She nodded up towards the palace in the distance. It was an imposing building, built high upon the hillside, gloating greedily over the city as it glared out to sea.

“The Lords or the Thane?” he asked, and then answered his own question. “I don't suppose it matters. The Sea Lord and the First of Merchants wouldn't be too happy. They've always been allies of a sort. The merchants would have to function in a completely different way if we managed to find a way to trade with other nations.”

“I had no idea you were so political,” she teased with a lopsided smile. “What about the Thane?”

“I don't think he really has all that much power anymore. He's more of a figurehead than anything else.” He reached over and took the bottle back, taking a sip. “I don't expect he wants anything upsetting the way of things though.”

“So when do they set you loose on the seas, then?” she said, stealing a sideways glance at him.

“I'm not sure,” he admitted. “I doubt it will be too much longer. We've learned just about all we can without actually taking part in a raid.”

“Are you really sure this is what you want to do, Klöss?” Ylsriss asked, with serious eyes. “It won't be much of a life, you know? It's not all like the tales, I'm sure. The last fleet that came back had lost two-thirds of its oarsmen.”

He started at that and looked at her sharply. “I hadn't heard that.”

“No, I didn't imagine you would have. They wouldn't want you to know, would they?” She reached out and took his hand in both of hers. “These are not simple, unprotected farmers anymore. I suspect they haven't been in some time.”

Dropping his hand, she hopped down from the steps. “Come on. I want to feel the grass under my feet for a change, instead of this lifeless stone. Take me to the park.” She took his arm again and tugged, until he relented and climbed down.

Hesk was divided by a river running through its centre which parted to flow around a sizeable island in the middle of the city. Bridges arched over the river at four points leading onto the island which was the only green area of any size. An island in the river, and an island of green in a sea of grey stone. Klöss had been there many times as a child but since his mother had died, some years ago, he could count the number of times he'd entered the place on the fingers of one hand. Even then, it had simply been as a means to cut through.

He followed Ylsriss gladly, his calloused hand held in her tiny grip as she pulled him, laughing, through the city. They paused on the bridge while he showed her the tiny carvings of men on each of the white stones that made up the sides. In turn, she pointed out the family, huddled in rags, living under it.

They wandered easily around the garden for a time, pausing only so she could remove her shoes. “I like the feel of grass in between my toes,” she said, with an embarrassed smile. Eventually, they came to the old standing stones and sat in the grass, leaning back against them. The stones had been fashioned at some point so long lost in history that nobody could say who built them or for what purpose. Fashioned from two massive standing stones with another lying flat across the lintel, they seemed to create a doorway of sorts. It was a popular spot for picnics and lovers, and Ylsriss raised an eyebrow as he pulled her down to sit on the grass beside him.

“And is this where you bring all your conquests?” she asked, archly.

“Only those who hold a knife to my throat in a back alley,” he grinned.

“How long are you going to hold that against me?”

“Funny, that's more or less what I was thinking at the time.” He laughed and batted her hands away as she made to swat at him.

They passed the remains of the mead back and forth and Klöss could feel his cheeks become slightly numb as the potent wine took effect.

“How long have you been there?” he asked, watching the swifts swoop and dive after insects as the sun began to sink behind the tallest buildings.

“Where?” She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “With the children?”

He grunted his agreement.

“Two years or so. I don't really keep track.”

He sat up from where he was lying in the grass. “Will you always stay with them?”

“Why are we talking about this now?” She twisted towards him and fixed him with her eyes. “Why are we talking at all?” He froze like a startled deer and his heart started to pound. Her arms snaked around his neck and she kissed him lightly. Her lips tasted of honey mead, as she pulled him down into the grass.

***

Rhaven sipped at his whiskey and stared into the fire, watching the glow of the embers. He slumped in his deep armchair, his leg propped up on a beaten stool to allow the heat to soak into his knee. The sun was long gone and rain lashed at the windows, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to close the shutters.

He took a deep drink of the whiskey and sighed as it warmed his throat, the burn running down inside his chest. The bang at the door made him jump and his leg dropped from the stool, slamming down onto the hard stone floor.

“Gods damn it!” he roared in pain, as he fumbled for his crutch and hauled himself across the room. He tore back the steel bolt and ripped the door open. “What!” he snapped out, into the night.

The old man standing on the doorstep recoiled a little and then grinned. “You've still got that temper, Rhaven,” he said mildly.

Rhaven glared at the man. “What do you want, Aiden? Isn't it enough that you've taken my son?”

“I thought you might like to know how he's doing,” Frostbeard replied, as he leaned in to escape the drips from the roof.

“Hmm, you might as well come in then,” he muttered, as he turned awkwardly and walked inside to sink gratefully into the chair again. He bent to lift his leg onto the stool and picked up his glass. “Close the door, you're letting all heat out,” he barked. “You can fill this too,” he said, waving his empty glass in the air.

Aiden took the glass and went to the tall cabinet against one wall, busying himself with bottle and glasses. He found a seat and handed a glass to Rhaven.

“So, how is he doing then?” Rhaven asked, eyeing the glass in Aiden's hand sourly.

“Quite well, actually, despite his age,” the old Seamaster replied.

“He's too young,” muttered Rhaven.

Aiden smiled broadly, the expression at odds with his fierce face. “That's not what Verig says.”

“Verig? Is that whoremonger still with you?”

“He says the lad has a natural talent. One of the best he's seen.”

“I'd wager he doesn't say that to Klöss though,” Rhaven said, a smile cracking his face for the first time in what felt like days.

“Gods, no!” Aiden laughed. “The seas would boil dry before he paid a compliment. You know that!”

“I'd worried that the other lads... well, you know how it was with us.” Rhaven said, softly.

“I'm not saying he's having the easiest ride of it,” Aiden admitted. “He had his oar messed with the other day. A lad cut an edge into the handle for him, made a mess of his hand.” Rhaven sat up at that and drew a breath to speak, but stopped as Aiden held a hand up. “He's fine, it'll heal. Besides, you won't believe what the little bastard did!”

“What?” Rhaven said, his expression darkening.

“He only snuck out of the damned compound in the middle of the night to go and get proof.”

“What?” Rhaven blurted. “How did he get out?”

“He chimney-climbed the wall behind the eastern storehouse,” Aiden laughed.

“What, you mean...”

“Yes! Right where we used to sneak out to go to the tavern.” Aiden pounded the arm of the chair with laughter. “They even used the same place to tie the rope. Honestly, I had to talk to the boy and it was all I could do to keep my face straight!” He watched, as Rhaven convulsed with laughter and drained his glass.

Rhaven waved his brother over to the cabinet. “Bring back the bottle,” he said with a grin.

Aiden turned with a serious expression on his face as he examined the bottle. “Listen, there is something I need to talk to you about.”

“I knew this wasn't simply a social call,” Rhaven said, as his eyes narrowed. “What do you want this time?”

“What do you know about the reaving lands?” Aiden asked, curious. “I mean, really know?”

“What do you mean?” Rhaven replied. “I know the same as everyone and better than most. It's where we go to raid. The Islands, the Storm Coast, Dern and now your route to the Farmed Lands.”

“It's the Farmed Lands I was talking about, really.” Aiden explained. “Most have stopped bothering with anything else these days.”

“Well then, not much. You know full well I never made it there before...” He looked meaningfully at his leg.

“Hmm, I suppose that's true.” Aiden grunted. “Well, they've started resisting. Not enough for it to matter but it's strange behaviour. We always thought of them as ignorant peasants, but maybe there is something more to it.”

“Like what?” Rhaven said.

“I don't know. I'm starting to question just how far those lands stretch though,” Aiden replied. “I assume you've heard about Kieron's fleet?” He raised his eyebrows as Rhaven shook his head. “He's done a better job of keeping things quiet than I thought, then. Well, he limped back into the Stormport about a week ago. Only sixteen reavers out of thirty, and most of them were full of dead and dying.”

“What the hell happened?” Rhaven demanded, his whiskey forgotten.

“He won't tell me all the details, but apparently he'd lined up raids on five villages that he'd hit a few years back. Anyway, a bell was ringing as they landed and they thought nothing of it. They hit their first village hard and were loading up the haulers when they were attacked.” He grimaced and refilled his glass hurriedly. “Not just twenty farmers with pitchforks, either. I'm talking five hundred men, armed, trained and half of them on horses.”

“Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky!” Rhaven breathed “Those that got away were lucky to have lived.” Aiden said, looking down into his glass and swirling the whiskey.

“So, what's your point?” Rhaven said, as he took a deep swallow.

“My point is that we don't know how many of the bastards there are or how big this land is.” Aiden said. “Why are we sat huddled on this damned rock when the sodding land of plenty is right there?”

“Now you sound like a New Dayer,” Rhaven laughed. “Shake off your shackles of mindless tradition,” he intoned. “What do you want to do? Trade with them?”

“Gods, no!” Aiden laughed. “What have we got that they'd trade for? No. I want to invade the bastards,” and his face split with a long cold smile.

“So why come to me with this?” Rhaven asked after a long silence.

“Because I need you to take it to the merchant's council,” Aiden replied. “If we can take enough land, then this will create new towns and villages. Whole new areas of opportunity will open up.”

“Why not simply take it to the Thane?”

“Because he's a puppet, Rhaven,” Aiden spat. “He's a puppet who hasn't much more sense than the marionette he reminds me of.”

“Unless you happened to be the one holding the strings?”

“Which I am not.” Aiden said, wearily.

“I thought you were the great favourite?” Rhaven asked, curiously. “You certainly used to be.”

“Ah, that's because Frostbeard, the discoverer of new lands, was of use,” the old man said with a wry smile. “I distracted the people of these islands, Rhaven. I brought in luxuries we'd not seen in a generation, and filled young minds with the thoughts of great deeds in far-off lands. It was useful, and it kept them from realising the truth.”

“The truth?” Rhaven prompted, setting his foot back down onto the floor and holding his glass between his legs as he leant forwards.

“The truth,” Aiden repeated, his voice heavy and quiet. “The truth is that these islands are dying. We soak the seas in blood each year for nothing.”

“How do you mean?”

“We are dying as a people, Rhaven,” Aiden said sadly. “We do a wonderful job of pretending otherwise. We muddle along, fishing and farming where we can, supplementing this with the reavings, but it's not enough. Too many people in too small a place and simply not enough food to go around. Take a walk around the docks some morning and look. I mean really look. There are three times as many beggars as there ever used to be.”

“And you think this plan of yours is the answer?”

“It's an answer,” Aiden said, with heat. “It's better than sitting here with our head under our wing like a sleeping bird. We have to do something.”

“You'll need to give me a more complete plan than this, Aiden,” Rhaven said in exasperation. “These are serious people. I can't go in there with a half-hatched scheme.”

“So you'll do it?” Aiden asked, a sudden light shining in his ice blue eyes.

“Yes, I'll do it, fool that I am! If not for you, then for Klöss.” Rhaven sighed. “If you're lucky, we can take it to the First of Merchants. What about the Sea Lord, though? You know you'll need to get them both on side for this to go anywhere?”

Aiden nodded. “The Sea Lord is as worried as I am. He's been convinced for years that it's only a matter of time before some sea captain in the Farmed Lands figures out the trick of the Vorstelv and finds us.”

“I never took him for a coward.”

“He's not scared, Rhaven. Don't underestimate him. He just thinks that the time of reavings will eventually come to an end.”

“Fine. I'll see what I can do.” He fixed Aiden with a steely glare. “But you look after my boy, Aiden. I hold you responsible for him.”

***

They stood in lines, silent as he walked in. For some of them, he was a figure out of legend come to life and, though they'd all seen him more than once, he was something quite different when dressed in furs, armour, and cloak. He had a breastplate worked onto his leathers, with golden scrollwork and elaborate etching. A man could have been forgiven for thinking he was a self-indulgent old man, until he stood before him and really looked at him. He would easily measure six foot in his bare feet and his frame was undiminished by his age. His ice-blue eyes were fierce as they stared from above his grey and white beard, and they missed nothing as he walked slowly down the line.

Klöss stood with the others, dressed for raid in full leathers and furs. His helmet felt heavy upon his brow and his shield hung loose from one arm, as the morning breeze stroked his cheek. The sun was just starting to rise and long shadows stretched across the docks. They all knew why they were here. It had been explained to them all the night before by the school's Masters. They were to participate in their first reaving. Admittedly, they would be surrounded by seasoned men with many years of experience but this did little to diminish the thrill. Not only was it to be their first reaving, they would be crossing the Frozen Sea, travelling directly through the Vorstelv, the icy current that passed through the centre of the seas.

Three great galley reavers rocked gently by the docks, like they were eager to be loosed their hawser, and plough through the seas. Beyond them, two huge haulers sat at anchor, their crews already aboard and the great red sails furled for the moment.

Frostbeard spoke quietly to each of the Masters. It seemed to Klöss that his eyes sought him out for just a moment, before he turned to address the group.

“This will be your first reaving,” he said. His voice was deep and sonorous as it flowed over the docks. “An easy task to test the skills you have developed here under your Masters. This reaving will determine who of you will man my reavers, and who is better suited to work my haulers, but I expect you all to work as you were trained. We work together and anyone who thinks they work better alone will be given the honour of swimming home.” He paused and let that sink in for a moment. “You all know your jobs and you'll get no flowery speeches from me. I am no Lord. I am your seamaster. Do your jobs and earn your places. To your ships!” He ended with a roar, which was taken up by the men as they ran to the reavers, and thundered up the gangplanks.

Klöss followed Tristan onto the ship and then down into the hold to stow his weapons and shield, before making his way to the oarpit. This was a deep-water ship and he'd not need arms or armour until they landed. He made his way to his bench and checked the oar carefully before looking around and taking in the huge vessel. It wasn't his first time on a galley reaver, as they'd trained on them several times over the past three months, but he was honest enough with himself to admit that all he'd really learned was how much there was left to learn. Rowing was rowing, when you got right down to it, but the galley reaver had a hundred ropes snaking this way and that. They led to the sails, and down this mast and that, tied off to rings set in the hull or twined round themselves. He couldn't even begin to understand them but knew enough to stay well away from them, and to mind the sailmen and the Sailmaster.

He waited in his bench and took in the vastness of the vessel. The galley reavers were four times the size of a standard reaver and had been created at Frostbeard's insistence, after he'd discovered the Farmed Lands. Able to hold more than a hundred and fifty oarsmen, and bearing mighty sails, they dwarfed anything else in the harbour, save the massive haulers. Where a standard reaver had little space below the deck, barely enough room for hammocks to be slung in three shifts, the galley reavers had a complete hold. They sat low in the water, with evil-looking rams attached to the prow and extending down below the waterline. Archers' platforms sat high on each side of the deck, and large ballistae were mounted in the prow and stern. They were far more a weapon of war than the standard reaver.

Klöss watched, as the oarsmaster and Shipmaster spoke briefly with the Steersman and Sailmaster, and then made their way to the prow. The Steersman walked to the rear of the massive reaver. The drummer struck two hard blows on the drum, signalling them to make ready, and Klöss took up the oar, noting again that it was far thicker than those on the standard reavers. With a quick grin at Tristan, who sat behind him, he focused all his attention on the oarsmaster and saw him nod to both Steersman and Drummer as he called for the first stroke.

The huge galley reavers moved ponderously away from the docks and towards the channel leading out of the harbour. The drummer held them to an easy rhythm and, in less than half an hour, they had cleared the narrow channel. They took up a position in the choppy swells whilst they waited for the haulers to come up behind the three evil-looking ships. Once they were in place, the drums signalled again and they began the row in earnest, out to deeper waters.

The sails were hoisted after the first hour and oarsmen divided into three shifts. Once the reavers caught a good wind, the oars would be of little use anyway, as they would only slow the ship down, but until then they would split the duty. Months of training had hardened Klöss's muscles and given him strong powerful shoulders, but he had no desire to row for the whole three weeks it would take them to sail to the Farmed Lands.

The first day was a mixture of excitement at being aboard the galley reaver and actually being part of a reaving, combined with hours of rowing. The oars were slightly larger around than any others they had used for any real length of time and Klöss found they made his hands ache. It was odd, the pain in his hands seemed worse than the pain in his arms and back.

When they weren't rowing, they were expected to be out of the way, so he found himself spending many hours below decks, drilling with his sword, eating the rough fare that was served up in the ship's galley or lounging in his hammock.

By the end of the first week, the boredom was interminable. This ended abruptly midway through the second week. Klöss woke with a chill penetrating to his bones, shivering uncontrollably in his hammock. He cursed and managed to roll himself out onto his feet, before stumbling to the galley in search of heat. He found the room crammed with men dressed in full furs, thick fur-lined gloves and heavy boots. He looked around in confusion, sleep slowing his brain, until he caught on. They had reached the Vorstelv.

He made his way to the tiny stove and huddled as close to it as he reasonably could, gratefully taking a hot mug of tea and hunching over it, as if he could leach the heat from it with his hands.

“Cold weather gear, Klöss,” came Verig's gruff voice, from deep inside a mound of fur beside him. “In the chest against the wall, by your hammock.” Klöss nodded gratefully and made his way back to his hammock, tin mug in hand. He pulled out a collection of fur and climbed into it quickly. It took a while to find boots and gloves that fitted properly. By the time he was done, he could barely bend his arms and legs, but at least he was warm.

“Hot food! Three days of this, Klöss,” Tristan enthused, by way of greeting, as he came into the galley again. Klöss grinned at him and went back to the stove to grab a large bowl of steaming porridge. As he spooned it down, he felt the warmth spread from his core and it wasn't until he stopped shivering that he realised he still had been.

The oarsmaster worked his way through the ship, rousing the shivering trainees and thrusting furs at them, before calling them all together. He didn't seem overly affected by the cold. He stood with the hood of his furs thrown back, holding his gloves in one hand as he spoke.

“This is the Vorstelv. You've heard of it, but there's no point talking about it until you get here. People just don't understand,” he began brusquely. “It's an icy current in the ocean. I can't explain it; it's just how it is. The water goes from a normal temperature to freezing within the space of three boat lengths. We will be rowing in two shifts, half on, half off. When you are not rowing, you eat and then you sleep. You do not take your furs off, even to piss. We're only just on the edges here and it's going to get a damned sight colder.”

Klöss's eyes widened in wonder and shock at the words. He could see a similar impact on the faces of the others.

“It will take three days of solid rowing and that's if we have a good wind. Ropes will freeze, sails will shatter and fingers, lives and the occasional cock have been lost here. I wasn't joking about the pissing.” The man spoke plainly, and there was no humour or enjoyment on his face as he spoke. The sudden change away from the veiled threats and bravado served to highlight just how serious he was.

“You will be cold. You will bloody freeze. But understand this, it can be done and you will get through it,” he said. “Keep an eye on both yourself and the man in front of you. If you stop shivering, or you start to feel warm all of a sudden, then you damned well tell me or the man closest to you. The cold tells you you're still alive. When you stop shivering, it's your body giving up.” With that he turned and strode out onto deck, as if this was all the most natural thing in the world.

Klöss was in the first shift. He ate quickly and made his way out onto the deck. His breath came in great clouds in front of him as he walked, and the deck and lines were already white with frost. He made his way to his bench and tapped the oarsman there on the shoulder. The man wasted no time. He quickly shipped the oar and climbed out of the oarpit. He didn't speak, and did nothing that would delay his passage to warmth.

Klöss sat quickly before the bench could cool and took up the oar. The gloves were thick but were well used to the girth of the oar and Klöss found they gripped it better than he had expected. He braced his feet and took up the drummer’s rhythm.

The air was cold. So cold that it hurt to breathe in. Klöss tried breathing through the edges of his thick fur hood but found it left a sheen of moisture in his short beard, which quickly froze in the icy air. In the end, he gave up and tried to lose himself in the rhythm. It wasn't so bad after a while. The act of rowing itself was keeping his body warm, though his hands felt cold, despite the gloves. He took to clenching and unclenching his fingers tight around the oar as he worked, in an effort to keep the blood flowing.

It was three days of hell, broken only by moments of terror. The frigid seas gave off mists and it was impossible to see any further than another ship length ahead most of the time. Five watchmen were posted at the prow and on the archers’ platforms, switching in and out every half hour because of the cold. Klöss wondered what they were watching for. Then the first cry came out.

He was lost in the rhythm of the drum, working at a steady but gruelling pace, when the watchmen at one of the archer's platforms screamed out, “Sea Mountain!! Starboard!”

The response was immediate as the oarsmaster yelled, “Stern-stroke!” ordering every oarsman to row backwards as best he could. Klöss stood up on his bench and turned around as fast as he could, bracing his feet on the bench now in front of him rather than the brace-board, and hauling back on the oar. The drumbeat slowed to allow for the unnatural stroke and the galley reaver shuddered as it slowed. Men dashed to the stern and began shouting to the other reavers, whilst a red flag was hoisted. The sailmen worked desperately to furl the frozen sails, moving as fast as they dared to without cracking the canvas.

Klöss struggled with the unnatural stroke, pulling as hard as he could, but he didn't have the space to lean fully into it or anything to truly brace himself against. He felt them slow and then he saw it. A colossal white mountain, moving with the current and heading directly for the reaver.

“Port side! Double-man!” the oarsmaster screamed. Klöss turned back to the normal position, shifting over as far as he could to allow room for the other oarsman to sit beside him. The drumbeat increased and they worked together, straining with all their might against the oar. Sweat, born of equal parts labour and terror, ran down Klöss's face and joined the frost in his beard. The mountain moved closer and closer, made even more terrifying by the total silence.

“What is it?” he muttered, half to himself, as they worked to turn the reaver.

“Ice!” His partner said shortly. “A damned mountain of ice.”

The icy behemoth drifted silently past them. Less than two oar lengths lay between Klöss and the icy cliffs, and he found himself holding his breath. They backed off another fifty feet and then sat, silent as the iceberg slowly drifted into the mist.

The days passed slowly but, at the same time, shifts would fly past when the call to stern-stroke came through. Klöss learned that crossing the Vorstelv was a gamble. It had to be tackled at breakneck speed, before the men succumbed to frostbite or the sails and lines perished in the cold. At the same time, utmost caution and alertness was required to watch for sea ice.

It was with a combination of relief and exhaustion that Klöss collapsed over his oar as the call came out that they had cleared the Vorstelv, and made their way into warmer waters. From the corners of his eyes he could see other oarsmen doing the same thing, but at that point he wouldn't have cared if he were the only one. They travelled on for another hour. Then all oars were shipped, the sea anchors dropped and the men sent to their hammocks, with only a skeleton watch left on deck.

After only two days beyond the Vorstelv, the trip transformed back into boring drudgery. Klöss learned two things during his three weeks at sea. Firstly, that gambling with someone who has a strong accent is never a good idea. It's almost impossible to tell when they are bluffing. Secondly, that the galley reavers whilst huge, seemed to shrink each day and it was never possible to find time alone. Klöss was not overly solitary by nature, but he was not popular in the training school. Dallan might have eased off a little, with his sick little games, but a week did not go by without some form of dig or petty attack. Klöss had taken to training early in the morning to gain some respite. The exercise was a good way to hone his skills and also to vent frustration. He was denied this on the ship, and there was always someone awake. A sleeping ship is a sunken ship.

The land began as the faintest smudge on the horizon. For a good hour, Klöss was convinced that it was a cloud bank, though Tristan was insistent that it was land. Then the smudge slowly grew features: a cliff face, tiny trees and surf. All hands were at oar. The reavers had to close with the shore as quickly as possible, to allow the canoe-like longboats to be lowered and men put ashore. The haulers would stay at anchor in the deep water, protected by the reavers once they had unloaded all but a defensive crew.

He glanced at his sword, shield and helm again, despite the fact he had checked they were there three times already. He could see the land clearly now. It was lush and green, and a yellow sand beach awaited them. It was markedly different to the Barren Isles. The only sand there was coarse and dark, and what few trees did grow tended to be tall pines. He could see broader, bushy trees here, unlike anything he'd ever seen at home. A large fire burned on a clifftop next to the bay they were about to enter, but for what purpose, Klöss could only guess.

The oarsmaster called out orders and Klöss shipped his oar, pulling it into the reaver and lashing it tightly to the bench as he'd been taught. He grabbed up his sword and shield, and set the helm on his head before stepping up onto the deck and lining up with the others.

The canoe-like longboat felt tiny after being on the massive reaver, and it pitched and bobbed alarmingly as they paddled madly through the surf. It was with no small sense of relief that Klöss felt the sand crunch against the bottom of the boat. He leapt out, grabbing the side and hauling it up onto the beach out of the reach of the tide, before drawing his sword and looking around for Verig. The fire on the cliff was belching great clouds of white smoke. Green wood, he surmised.

He stood with the others as Verig explained that the village was less than an hour away by foot. They were to be split into three groups, the smallest of which would proceed to the village, whilst the larger groups would be sent with felling crews from the haulers to harvest trees or left to defend the boats. Klöss glanced behind him to see a number of longboats making for the shore from the haulers with the felling crews.

The raiders were swiftly split into the three groups with all of the trainees in the group making for the village. Supplemented by experienced reaving crews, they numbered sixty men in all. Verig split them again, into groups of fifteen. The felling crews from the hauler were landing and the escort crews were already making their way over to them. With one last look at the galley reavers and haulers sitting at anchor, Klöss followed Verig and his team into the trees.

Klöss had spent all of his life in Hesk and so had only a very limited experience of anything outside the city. The Barren Isles were rocky and what limited green space there was tended to be dominated by farms. There were very few trees on the islands at all, and he found being surrounded by so many to be awe-inspiring and a little unnerving. They stretched up to fill the skies, their leaves creating dancing shadows as the sunlight filtered through the canopy. He found it was also almost impossible to be stealthy, and they crunched and cracked as they snapped twigs and crushed fallen leaves underfoot.

Verig's path took them through the woods and then up a steep incline, to skirt around the edge of the village. Through the gaps in the tree-line, Klöss could make out a small farming community of perhaps two hundred souls, with a small river meandering its way past a watermill. A number of houses dotted the area and Klöss could see three or four farms scattered about the village. Verig motioned the team close and sank down to his haunches in the ferns.

“Listen up, then,” he began, in a low voice that carried no further than the trees. “You can see how small this place is, but that's no reason to get cocky. Stay close to each other and remember your training.” He brushed a clear space in the dirt and scratched at it with a stick. “We're all going to come in at once, from these four directions. I don't expect much resistance. These are farmers, not warriors. If they surrender, that's fine but if not, well...” He shrugged. “We're here for lumber and food this time. This does not include women. Understood?”

“We're going to run into the village from here. I'll set the pace, so don't pass me. I don't want anyone too winded to fight.” He looked around at the trainees and experienced raiders. “Any questions?” When none were forthcoming he stood, and made a point of checking his weapons and armour.

They strung out in a long line at the edge of the trees, just barely concealed by the bushes and thick leaves, but probably visible to anyone who really chose to look. Klöss drew his sword, and checked his shield and helm for the hundredth time. Then Verig charged. He was silent as he ran and the sudden movement caught Klöss by surprise. He'd been expecting a shout or yell. For a second, he froze. Then he caught hold of himself and hurtled down the slope towards the village.

Klöss kept pace, with Tristan at his side. The big man was carrying an ugly-looking axe with both hands, his shield slung on his back. The hill passed in a blur and Verig finally let out a scream as they approached. The cry was taken up by the others and they howled as they flew past the first building and into the village proper.

The shout faltered and the men came to a halt in confusion. The village was empty. The Islanders spun slowly as they looked around but there was not a villager in sight. The three other groups of raiders charged in, and they met in confusion in the village square.

“What the hell?” Dallan swore, as he looked about.

“Quiet!” Verig barked, as he made his way to the other team leaders.

“I don't like this,” Klöss muttered to Tristan.

“No. You are right, something is wrong here.” The big man murmured, as he fingered his axe.

“Can you hear what they're saying?” Klöss nodded to where Verig was speaking with the three other leaders.

Tristan shook his head and continued to look about him with a worried frown.

Verig turned and struck his sword on the rim of his shield, calling for silence. “It looks like this place is deserted. I don't like it, but we're already here, so we might as well have a look about.

“Klöss and Tristan, go and look in the large barn and see what you can find. Dallan,” he said, turning to the smaller man, “Go to the mill and see what there is in terms of flour. I'm going with some of the others to check out these farms.”

Klöss looked to Tristan, who met his gaze calmly and nodded towards the large barn on the outskirts of the village. It was a two-storey, sturdy-looking structure, with a loading platform and winch on the upper floor. They walked through the village and then circled the barn once, to be sure. Klöss went to the large wooden door and found it wouldn't budge. He looked inquiringly at Tristan, who shoved it hard. A clatter came from inside and Tristan raised an eyebrow at Klöss before pushing the door open. A pitchfork lay across the doorway, fallen from its position against the door. Tristan stepped over it without comment, and into the gloom of the barn.

The barn was silent and seemed dark after the bright light of the morning. Shafts of sunlight filtered down through small gaps in the planking, picking out motes of dust that danced and spun in the air. Empty stalls showed where livestock was usually penned and traces hung from the walls, demonstrating that at least one horse was missing. The hayloft appeared well-stocked from where they were standing and a ladder stood propped against it to give access.

The two made their way further into the barn and slowly around the edges by the walls. A faint rustling made Klöss think of rats. It made his skin crawl. Fighting another man and spilling his blood was one thing, but rats had always made him squeamish.

“Klöss, those are barrels in the loft, yes?” Tristan said, in his sing-song accent. He turned and saw where the big man pointed. It did appear to be a stack of small barrels.

“Toss one down and we'll have a look?” he suggested. Tristan shrugged and, laying his axe on the floor, began to climb the ladder. It bounced and shook as he made his way up. He had just placed a knee on the floor at the top, when a boy erupted from the piled hay. Screaming and armed with a pitchfork, he charged at Tristan, burying the fork in his shoulder and sending him toppling from the loft. Klöss watched in shock as the big man fell and landed on the floor with a resounding crash. The boy, his balance spent by his furious charge, fought to keep his footing. He teetered at the edge of the loft for a second and then fell, arms pin-wheeling

Tristan cursed and rolled, scrambling to his feet. He took two quick steps and spun to face the boy, his huge axe raised and ready to strike. The child lay on his back, eyes wide with terror as the huge man advanced.

“Damned fool boy!” he raged, and lowered his axe slightly. Klöss suddenly found he could breathe again. He heard a muted squeak from the loft and glanced up to see three young girls peering over the edge.

“Pere, tash velen cur?” called down the oldest of the three, with fear clear in her voice. Klöss didn't understand the words but the tone was clear enough. She was blonde and couldn't be more than ten summers, by Klöss's guess. He sighed and turned to the child. “Get back up the damned ladder and be silent boy!” The lad looked at him in confusion. He looked at Tristan, who was fingering the hole poked almost through his armour where the fork hadn't quite penetrated, and muttered to himself. He crouched and grabbed at the child, dragging him to his feet in one swift motion. The child's eyes grew wide in terror. Gritting his teeth, Klöss propelled the boy to the ladder and pointed upwards, before pressing his finger to his lips. The boy nodded mutely and scurried up the ladder.

“We'd better find Verig and tell him. There might be others hiding.” Klöss said. Then both their heads shot round towards the open door, as the call of a hunting horn sounded clear and sharp in the village.

Tristan dashed to the front of the barn and peered around the corner, before waving Klöss closer. The village was a scene of chaos. Uniformed men in blue and bright steel were charging into the streets to meet the oarsmen, who seemed hopelessly outnumbered. Dallan stood closest to them, alone beside the smithy, his back to the wall as two men with long-swords advanced.

Klöss didn't hesitate. He threw himself into the fight. He charged without battle-cry and ran up behind the closest of the two men. The man heard his approach and turned in time to have Klöss's sword slice into his neck, just underneath the reach of his tall, conical helmet. The sword bit deeply and blood geysered out as the man collapsed, gurgling, to the grass. Dallan took advantage of the other man's distraction and thrust deep into his back.

Their eyes met briefly and Dallan gave a small, grudging nod, before they turned to survey the scene. The oarsmen were fighting a retreat out of the village, passing up opportunities to strike in favour of chances to move back towards the trees. Tristan, Dallan and he seemed to be behind the line of battle and Klöss realised that, unless they acted soon, they would be cut off and left behind.

He led them along the side of the smithy and a small row of cottages, running low in an awkward hunched position to keep below the edge of the wall. The oarsmen were only fifty or sixty feet away now, but were outnumbered by almost two to one. As Klöss watched he saw Henrick go down, a bloody rent in his leather chest plate. He glanced behind him and could see more soldiers marching into the village and past their position with more men on horseback behind them. They were going to be slaughtered to a man unless he acted. He looked carefully at the scene in front of him again, taking note of how the men were bunched, and then turned to Dallan and Tristan.

“We're going to have to make our own way out,” he said. “We're cut off.”

“Well, we can't stay here!” Dallan objected. His face was pale and his eyes looked a little wild to Klöss. The man was on the verge of panic.

“No one is staying anywhere,” he said, in what he hoped was a calming tone. “Let's head for the river.”

He led the three of them out from the cover of the wall and they ran towards the small river. The ringing clash of steel on steel filled the air and Klöss grimaced at the sounds of screaming. The bank was low and he slid down on his side into the thick reeds. The water was shockingly cold, but he forced himself to crouch low in the shallows, bringing the water up to his shoulders as the murk at the bottom sucked at his boots.

“Great, now we're trapped and wet,” Dallan said, as he slipped into the water next to him.

“Shut up, Dallan,” Klöss muttered back at him as he peered out through the reeds. He turned slowly, so as not to disturb them and reveal their location, and looked across the river. It was not a great expanse of water. The slow current and muddy colour hinted at a shallow depth, or he hoped it did. Beyond the gently sloping bank lay open ground leading to the woods in the distance. It was not exactly the right direction, as it would take them more south-easterly than south, but it was still away from the enemy and towards the ships.

He could no longer see any of his own men and the sounds of fighting were growing fainter.

“We're going to have to swim across and then break for the trees, I think.” He pointed at the edge of the woods in the distance.

“That's a lot of open ground, Klöss,” Tristan said, in a low voice.

“I don't like it either, but I don't see we have much of a choice,” he admitted.

“Sounds like a great plan, Klöss,” Dallan said scathingly. “First you get us wet, then you get us killed.”

“Shut up, Dallan,” Klöss and Tristan said in unison, both looking out across the far bank.

They made their way across the sluggish river, half-swimming and half-walking along the shallow bottom, allowing them to keep their weapons and shields, which Klöss had feared they might need to drop.

The bank was another gentle slope and, within moments, they were climbing out through the reeds and running low towards the distant trees.

The first signs they'd been spotted were the arrows hissing past them. Klöss risked a glimpse over his shoulder and saw half a dozen archers lining up on the far bank of the river, along with two men on horseback. With little to do but run, they doubled their efforts and ducked their heads down as they sprinted for the trees.

Dallan screamed out, as an arrow glanced off his helm with a loud clang. He faltered for a moment and Klöss looked back at him as they ran. Within another fifty feet, the arrows were falling short and the trees were growing closer, but then he heard the hoof beats.

They turned to see the two horsemen bearing down upon them. Both men were heavily armoured in an all-over steel plate that Klöss had never seen the like of. If it were not for the horses bearing them, he doubted the men would be able to stand under the weight of it.

“Scatter!” he roared, leaping to one side, as the first horseman thundered past, swinging down with an odd hammer-axe but finding only empty air. Klöss rolled, as he'd been taught and sprang back to his feet, readying his sword and shield as the horses wheeled and began the charge back to them.

Dallan, he saw, had not been so lucky and lay face down on the grass. Tristan stood over him, his fearsome axe in hand.

“Go for the horses,” Klöss called across, and saw Tristan nod in response.

They spread apart, wide enough to force the horsemen to split up, and then set themselves. Klöss planted his feet firmly in a low stance, his shield held up and slightly to the side of him. The mounted man was coming in at the perfect angle, his weapon raised as he leaned slightly into the stroke.

Klöss caught the axe on the way down. His shield was angled and the hammer-axe scraped along the wooden face, before biting and almost tearing it from his grasp. He used the force of the blow to turn himself and hacked hard as the horseman passed. The horse screamed as his heavy blade hacked into its rear leg, before falling heavily to the ground and throwing its rider, who landed with a metallic crash.

Klöss wasted no time and ran past the flailing horse that rolled screaming in the grass. The rider was on hands and knees, struggling to stand in his heavy plate. Klöss dropped his shield and swung his sword with two hands at the base of the man's helmet. The thick steel stopped most of the force, but Klöss's sword was well made and sheared through, cutting deeply into the neck. The man dropped like a stone, pulling the sword from Klöss's hand.

Klöss stooped and pressed hard with one boot, as he yanked the sword from where it was caught in the armour. He heard Tristan finish the other horseman with a sickening crunch. A quick check on Dallan revealed a sizeable dent in his helmet, but he seemed to still be breathing. Tristan threw him over one shoulder, like a sack of grain, and they made their way into the trees.

Dallan came to after a few more moments and was able to walk, though his eyes looked glazed and Tristan doubted he could be trusted if it came to a fight. The distant sound of combat was easy to follow and they caught up quickly as they ran through the trees.

It was hard to see how many of the raiders were left, but Klöss could see enough to see they were outnumbered. The oarsmen flowed easily around the trees, while the soldiers were clearly more used to fighting in ranks. It was probably a matter of training, Klöss thought, as he readied himself. The oarsmen were taught to fight individually. These men were clearly trained to be part of a unit.

The three of them charged silently, weapons at the ready. Some might say there is something dishonourable in stabbing a man in the back, but these are not the men who are in danger of being slaughtered to a man. Klöss and the others tore into the packed mass of men like a tornado into a wheat field and the effect was instant. The oarsmen moved easily, not holding to a unit and taking advantage of the gaps as they fought with sword and axe, but still just holding their own. Klöss had evened the score but the fight was far from won.

Then Verig was there. He flew into the fight like a man intent on suicide, spinning and striking, with axe in one hand and sword in the other. To the layman, he looked like a lunatic but to a swordsman, there was a beauty in his movements. He never overextended or took more effort than necessary. Where Klöss and the others hacked, he would slash lightly. Cutting just deep enough to do the damage required and no more. Where they buried their weapon into the enemy up to half its length, Verig dipped his sword into his foe almost delicately. Around him, men fell gently to the earth with tired sighs and, almost between one breath and the next, the tide was turned.

The oarsmen went to with vigour and, within moments, the last of the enemy lay screaming between the trees. Verig pointed through the woods with his bloody sword, “Go!” he gasped, his arm pressed tight against his chest.

To say it was an orderly retreat would have been a gross overstatement. They numbered fewer than twenty now, and Klöss couldn't see any of the trainees, other than Dallan and Tristan, as they lurched between the trunks. In the distance behind them, a line of fires burned on hilltops leading into the distance. As he ran, he wondered how they hadn't noticed them on the way into the village. Verig swore and cursed beside him, as they fled for the beach.

***

Aiden stood on the stone steps and waited. The cold wind caught his long black cloak, tossing and whipping it behind him. He reached back, absently, and caught an edge with one gloved hand.

“A little fine for a reaving, isn't it?” Rhavin called out to him, as he approached the steps, leaning heavily on a polished oak staff.

“What?” Aiden replied, confused.

“Look at you, you're as well preened as a girl at her first dance.” Rhaven gestured at Aiden's clothes and laughed a rough laugh.

Aiden looked down at his freshly oiled, black leathers, which had been buffed until they shone. His chest and forearms were covered in a polished steel plate, inlaid with gold scrollwork.

“It's expected, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Are we prepared?”

“It's as I told you,” Rhaven replied. “The merchant's council met last week. It was touch and go but, broadly speaking, the First of Merchants will support you in this.”

“Broadly speaking?”

“There was some opposition,” Rhaven admitted. “There were those that said we should try simply trading with the Farmed Lands and other nations like Dern.”

“Do they suggest what we might trade?” Aiden scoffed. “I'd not like to try and haul iron through the Vorstelv, and that's the only thing we have in any quantity. As for Dern, they have more than enough of their own iron.”

Rhaven smiled. “These are the kind of merchants you despise, Aiden. They know little of the Vorstelv, let alone the problems of shipping goods through it.”

Aiden grunted and looked up at the huge stone building, surmounted by a dome and spires. “Shall we, then?”

Rhaven left him at the door and made his own way through the maze of hallways to his seat at the back of the merchant's circle. Aiden paused for a long moment by the glowing brazier inside the main door and held a hand out, as he tucked his gloves under his belt with the other. It wouldn't do to appear cold and shivering before the council.

Finally, he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, before making his way along the short corridor, with its plush red carpet, towards the double doors at the end. He had been in the Thane's palace a thousand times for council meetings. This was one of the few times, however, that he would be speaking as a petitioner, and he found himself oddly nervous. The doors were swung open without a word by the guardsmen posted there, and Aiden stepped into the antechamber and stood by the black and gold clad guardsmen at attention with their long halberds before the two massive gold-inlaid doors.

“Seamaster Aiden Kurikson, to address the Thane's council,” he said, unnecessarily, to the black-robed attendant behind the long desk that filled one side of the chamber.

“Not Frostbeard this time then?” the attendant said with a small smile.

“Not this time, no.”

“Very well then, Seamaster, if you'll follow me? I will announce you.”

The attendant joined him in front of the guards and nodded to one, signalling them to pull the doors open. Frostbeard followed him into the massive chamber. The doors led onto a gently sloping path that led upwards, towards the centre of the hall. On either side of the path sloped walls revealed rows of benches rising towards the back of the room.

Aiden glanced to his left, knowing Rhaven would normally be seated far at the back of the chamber, with those of little influence, before remembering he would more likely be with the First of Merchant's this time. Both Rhaven's and his own reputation would rest on the outcome of this petition. The thought did little to calm his nerves.

The attendant touched his arm softly and bade him wait, while he stepped forward into the circle of light at the centre of the room, which was formed by cunningly-wrought lamps positioned around the raised platform.

“Seamaster Aiden Kurikson begs permission to address your council, my Lord Thane,” his deep voice made thunderous by the acoustics of the large room.

“Then let him approach and he will be heard,” the ritual response was returned. Aiden knew the voice was not that of the Thane. It was just a servant, positioned close to the throne. The Thane was probably asleep by now.

He walked forward into the light, as the attendant stepped to the side and melted into the gloom. The chamber was designed to impress and overawe. The rows of benches were all filled with council members. Aiden could see red-robed merchants and the First sat in the centre row, his gold chain of office glinting in the faint lamplight. To his right, the Sealord sat, surrounded by his fellow Seamasters. Behind him would be the rows of the Keeper's council, formed of farmers, fishermen and miners. Aiden nodded minutely at the Sealord, turned his attention to the end of the chamber and gave a deep bow.

The throne was raised upon a stepped dais covered in thick red rugs and bordered with tall scarlet drapes climbing up into the darkness towards the roof of the chamber. The Thane himself appeared to be an old man, though Aiden knew him to be little older than himself. A succession of illnesses had aged him prematurely and he was a pale shadow of the vigorous man Aiden had once known. He sat, dressed in a simple white woollen robe with a plain iron circlet about his forehead. Peering down at Aiden with uncharacteristic interest in his pale eyes, he leaned against one side of the throne.

“My Thane, Lords and members of this council,” he began, his deep voice spreading easily to fill the chamber. “I come before you to discuss the reaving. For more than two hundred years, we have survived on these Barren Isles by eking out an existence using the skills of our farmers and fishermen,” he said, gesturing towards the Lord Keeper, “and the reavings.” He said the last with a nod towards the Sealord.

“The times are changing. It is time we changed with them. Our people grow hungry as the reavings begin to fail. Our docks and alleyways groan with beggars, whores and thieves. Our farmers and fishermen struggle to feed us all. It is only a matter of time, my Lords, before we outgrow our islands, if not in terms of land then in terms of their ability to feed us.” He saw eyes narrow in thought as they shifted nervously. He was touching on truths that they all had considered, but that none spoke of openly.

“Thirty years ago, I stood as the Shipmaster aboard the first vessel to face the Vorstelv and return. The reavings of the Farmed Lands have provided for us, given us new sources of food and riches. Some, including myself, have prospered. I tell you now, this will not last much longer. Already our reavings face greater opposition. More and more boats return to our isles with empty places in the oarpits. Are we to constrain ourselves, then? To limit our growth when our nation touches the edges of its true strength? I say no! I say we travel to these lands, not to reave, but to conquer. To take new lands for ourselves and to settle them. Why do we live crammed into our isles when there are lush green lands, ripe for the taking? Where our farmers can work to their potential and our children need not go hungry?”

He paused to draw breath and a voice from the darkened benches took advantage of the silence. “So you suggest we stop the reavings? Turn our back on centuries of tradition and honour to become simple farmers? Has your blood grown so thin, Frostbeard? Where is your honour?”

Aiden turned, seeking the speaker but the bright light he was surrounded by made it impossible. “I do not suggest we stop the reavings. I tell you that they are failing. We face opposition in the Farmed Lands, enough to question whether the reaving is worthwhile. The Storm Coast and Dern are poor alternatives.” He paused again and took a long breath before continuing.

“There is one other thing also that I would ask my Lords and council members to consider. The Vorstelv itself is the only thing that prevents ships from the Farmed Lands from following our reavers back to our own islands. We face increasing opposition with every reaving. How long do you imagine it will be before these people discover for themselves the technique to passing through the icy waters? How long before we must face them in our own waters? On our own shores?” He fell silent. The quiet filled the chamber for the length of a long breath, before it erupted in chaos.

He stood in silence as council members shouted from bench to bench, even as the Sealord and Lord Keeper stood to call for order. A clashing of steel on steel brought silence and wide eyes. The Thane handed the sword back to his guards and stood leaning heavily on a polished oaken staff.

“I would know your meaning, Frostbeard.” His voice was weak but in the sudden hush it easily carried to the farthest edges of the hall. “Is it your intention to conquer these people and bring them under my rule? I fail to see how adding more mouths will solve the problems you have presented here.”

Aiden took a moment before replying. The Thane rarely spoke up in council meetings and the power rested in unstable alliances between the factions. “My Lord Thane,” he began in a respectful tone. “I do not suggest we conquer the people themselves. Rather that we drive them westwards, taking their lands for our own, where we can build settlements and farms.”

“And what honour is there in that?” a voice shouted from the benches.

“Silence!” roared the Thane, drawing to his full height and showing a light in his eyes that Aiden had not seen in thirty years. “I will not have our future decided by squabbling children in the guise of farmerfolk and shopboys!” He lifted the iron circlet from his brow and waved it in the air above his head. “I am Thane here. The rule is mine!”

A black-robed advisor stepped close to whisper into the old man's ear, but the Thane turned and glared at him so furiously that he faltered and stepped back, muttering apologies.

“This session is at an end. The council will have no vote on this matter. I will receive the Sealord and the Lord Keeper in my chambers, along with the petitioner.” Howls of protest followed his announcement, but the man was clearly unmoved. He stepped down from the dais and moved around it, towards the back of the chamber, flanked by his guards. Aiden stood, stunned, for a moment before he was ushered along by the Sealord towards the doors and the Thane's private chambers.

Aiden raised his eyebrows at the Sealord as they entered the chambers and saw his own surprise mirrored back at him. Whilst the Thane still had the power to rule as he wished, he had handed more and more decision-making powers to the council. In recent years, almost the entirety of the governance of the Barren Isles had been conducted by the three Lords and the council.

The Thane's chambers were surprisingly plain and utilitarian. Where the council chambers and the anterooms were dripping with opulence, these rooms were comparatively spartan. Aiden found himself ushered along into a simple room with a large, well-polished table in the centre. The Thane lowered himself down into a wooden chair and fixed his pale eyes upon him “Talk,” he said, as Frostbeard and the others were settled into seats by a trio of servants.

“My Thane,” he began, but stopped as the old man held up his palm.

“None of that. That's fine for out there but in here, we're just men.” He eyed Frostbeard until the man nodded. “Now, tell me your plan and what you think you would need.”

“It would need to be a sizeable force,” Frostbeard began, cautiously, as the others at the table leaned in to listen.

Chapter Seven

The goat bleated again, loud and insistent. This time, the door to the cottage opened and a man stepped out into the daylight.

“I'm coming!” he called out, as he made his way gingerly across the grass to the small barn that housed the animals. He walked slowly, like a man not far from his dotage but he wasn't old, not in the normal sense. His was an age born of endless fatigue and it showed in his pale blue eyes, his frequent heartfelt sighs and the lines on his face. His was the kind of face that comes from bearing an endless, relentless responsibility that knows nothing of respite.

He made his way into the barn and climbed in with the animal, reaching a stool and pail in with him, and settling down to milk her.

“All that fuss, hey?” he said, soothingly. “I was barely awake when you started all that noise. You'll wake the neighbours!” He chuckled at his own joke.

He hummed as he worked and the milking was soon finished. He moved mechanically, then set the pail aside and moved around to the side of the barn, opening the doorway to the fenced in paddock and letting the animals out to graze.

“Do you think I can have some breakfast myself now?” he asked the animals, as he tossed a scattering of grain out for the chickens.

“Never a word of thanks, either,” he tutted, as he made his way back through the barn and out into the clearing. It was simply a hole in the forest. No visible paths led into it or to the cottage. The paddock sat next to a well-worked square of land with vegetables growing in orderly rows.

He walked back to the cottage and set about putting some water on to boil over the iron woodstove. The building could have been mistaken for a ruin from the outside. It looked like nothing more than a pile of branches and twigs that had somehow combined to form walls and a roof. Moss and ivy grew freely over the structure, and it seemed far more like a part of the forest than any form of dwelling.

Inside, it was orderly but plain. A simple cot to sleep upon and a serviceable kitchen took up much of the space. A chair by the small fireplace and a corner filled with a cluttered desk and bookshelf were the only home comforts.

He waited until the water began to boil before dumping in a double-handful of oats and a splash of the goat's milk from the pail. As he stirred the porridge, he stared out of the window, his thoughts far away.

He could feel it again. The Wyrde fluttered in his mind, like a minnow caught between two cupped palms in the shallows. His brow furrowed as he bore down and clenched around it, forcing it onwards.

His eyes drifted to the centre of the clearing and the great stone circle that stood there. He sighed and lifted the pot from the stove, leaving it on the burn-scarred table and making his way outside. The porridge would finish itself off now, anyway.

A rust-encrusted pole leant against the side of the cottage. It was fashioned from iron and utterly unadorned, though it was so pitted it would have been impossible to tell. The rust had bubbled and formed nodules along the length of the staff. It resembled a long orange candle which had been allowed to burn and collect rivulets of wax along its length.

Taking up the staff, he began to shuffle around the clearing. A keen observer would have noted that his path took him along a clearly marked trail. Not so much one that had been cleared, but rather one that had been worn and marked out by the fall of endless footsteps.

The stones were irregular, showing no signs of tool marks, and formed the roughest of circles. They were not especially large, the tallest being no higher than the man's thighs. Despite the moss growing freely on the earth between them, none had taken hold on the stones themselves. In fact, a small bare circle surrounded each of them, as if the plant life feared to come too close.

The centre of the circle held a monolith, roughly seven feet in height, and deeply scored and stained on the sides with rust. Two more lay on their sides nearby, as if they had once formed some manner of structure which had long since toppled.

His shuffling steps covered the path surprisingly quickly, moving him in and out of the stones. They formed a square here, a triangle there and then some nameless shape that was, nonetheless, clearly defined. He tapped the staff sporadically as he went, but the taps seemed to have nothing to do with balance. He moved in silence, his eyes unfocused and his mind somewhere else. His dance was mechanical and nothing he needed to pay attention to. In his mind, the Wyrde calmed, ceased its writhing and then flowed on, maintaining.

As the resistance faded, he allowed himself to relax, and think of other things, though a portion of his mind was always focused on the Wyrde. There should be others, he thought, for the thousandth time. The task was possible with just one, but only just barely. Others had been with his master long ago. He could still vaguely remember them. There had been visitors arriving in a panic, men and women talking late into the night. He'd been just a boy then. It suddenly all seemed such a terribly long time ago.

He sighed in resignation as he shuffled the last length of the path, performing the final steps of the ritual only to begin again. His was the spider's web against the hurricane, the hands holding back the tide. His was the task that would fail. He would be swept away eventually, that was a certainty. First though, he would hold, and perhaps just long enough for another to be sent as he had, and trained.

***

Lady Selena Freyton read the dispatch again with care, before crumpling it into a ball and hurling it across the opulently appointed room.

“When did this arrive?” she demanded as she turned to face the page.

“Just this hour, my lady,” the young man stuttered, still kneeling with the silver tray held out in front of him.

Selena took a deep breath and wished she had something else to throw. “Get up, boy! You look ridiculous down there on the floor.” The blonde boy scrambled to his feet, trying to straighten his blue and green livery without it appearing too obvious.

“Fetch me Hanris,” her green were eyes lost in thought.

“The chamberlain, my lady?” the page replied, frowning.

“Unless you know another Hanris in my household's employ?” Her eyes snapped back into focus and she glared at the boy. “Of course, the chamberlain! Oh, and bring me Captain Rhenkin as well.” The boy bowed quickly and fled the room.

She paced while she waited, from one end of the parlour to the other and then back again. Rain lashed against the expensive windows and the dark skies seemed to reflect her mood. She moved across the room again to retrieve the report, smoothing it out against her leg through the teal gown she wore. She read it again, as she went over to the hearth and warmed herself by the fire, holding her hands out in front of the gleaming brass fireguard.

A knock at the dark-panelled door preceded its opening. The young page stepped in and to one side as he announced “Chamberlain Hanris, my lady.”

Hanris was a small, bird-like man, with thinning black hair and brass-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a long nose. He walked in odd little steps towards her and gave a perfunctory bow.

“You sent for me, Your Ladyship?”

She waved the paper at his face as she stepped closer. “Have you seen this, Hanris?”

He recoiled from the report slightly, before collecting himself. “I have not, as yet, had the pleasure, Your Ladyship.”

She pressed her lips together tightly and closed her eyes, as she took a deep breath. “It's from Squire Thorpes, he...” She broke off and thrust the paper at the little man's chest. “Just read it.”

Hanris smoothed it out, frowning with unconscious disapproval and examined the message, reading slowly and meticulously.

“He reports that those thrice-damned raiders have attacked again,” Selena fumed, before he could read more than the first line.

“That is most unfortunate, Your Ladyship,” Hanris said, cautiously.

“I'd say it's a little more than unfortunate! That inbred idiot has allowed three villages to be razed to the ground.”

“The Bjornmen are reputed to be most savage, Your Ladyship,” Hanris murmured.

“He reports that tax collectors left empty-handed from Fallows Deep and Heston,” Selena said, watching for his reaction.

A crimson flush spread up Hanris's neck, creeping above his tight collar and cravat. “What?” he spluttered. “I mean, that is simply not acceptable, my lady. The King's tithe is due in a matter of months.”

“I am quite aware of that,” she said, in an icy tone which was lost on him.

A soft knock at the door interrupted them and the page entered again. “Captain Rhenkin, my lady,” he announced in a firm voice, before withdrawing.

Rhenkin was everything that Hanris was not. Tall, confident and resplendent in his grey and green uniform, he bowed slightly at the door before striding across the carpet. “my lady.” He spoke in a firm, serious tone, making it both a greeting and a query, before offering a nod to Hanris. “My Lord Chamberlain.”

“Rhenkin,” she said, her voice softening. “How familiar are you with the Eastern Reaches?”

“Passing fair, your grace,” he admitted, silently rebuking himself as the flicker of annoyance touched her green eyes.

“What about defences, garrisons and the like?”

“It has a number of small garrisons,” he advised. “Nothing of any consequence. There is nothing to really defend against.”

“Except the Bjornmen raiders,” she finished for him, biting off the words.

“Except the Bjornmen,” he agreed. “An inconvenience, at most.”

“If I may, Your Ladyship?” Hanris said quickly, noting the colour rise in her long elegant neck. At her sharp nod, he turned to Rhenkin. “The... ahem...situation appears to have changed somewhat, Captain. The raids are interfering with tax collection and this has an obvious financial implication.”

“What he means,” grated Selena, “is that my incompetent and deficient husband, your duke, has squandered funds right, left and centre, and now we have to scramble to find every copper penny. We can ill-afford to be losing money to raids.”

If Rhenkin was fazed by her outburst, he didn't show it. “As you say, my lady. I gather you have some manner of remedy in mind?”

“I was under the impression that the uniform indicates some form of military training?” She moved closer and plucked at the epaulettes on his shoulder. “However, not enough to venture military advice, it would seem.” She glanced at Hanris. “Perhaps we should find a Lieutenant worthy of promotion, Hanris?”

“I'm sure you are aware that the issue with the Bjornmen has always been the speed with which they strike,” Rhenkin said quickly. “By the time any alarm has been raised, they are already gone.”

“Then, clearly, we will need to raise the alarm faster.” She turned abruptly and moved towards the far end of the room. The entire wall was painted with a map of the known world. She'd always hated the thing, ostentatious and gauche. How funny that now it would become useful.

“Show me where the garrisons are.” She pointed vaguely towards the Eastern Reaches, at the very edge of the map.

“From memory, we have several in the area.” He moved to the corner. “This is also not the best map but I believe we have three within reach.”

“So the issue is purely the speed with which the alarm is raised?”

“Precisely, my lady.” He nodded.

“Tell me, Captain,” she turned to him, tapping her lips with the now folded report. “How would we raise the alarm if we were to be invaded from the south?”

“From the south?” He frowned. “Baron Rentrew's lands stand between us and the border, my lady.”

“How does he do it then?” she snapped.

Rhenkin flushed and moved to a different area of the wall. “He has signal towers along his southern border, Your Ladyship. They light a fire when invasion or troops threaten and…”

“Yes, I am quite aware of what a signal chain is, Captain,” she cut him off. “I believe he has also been visited by the Bjornmen on occasion, has he not? Why can't we implement the same system in the Eastern Reaches?”

“The principle is sound, my lady,” Rhenkin replied smoothly. “The garrisons, however, are undermanned and too small to support the necessary troops.”

“So expand them.” Her eyes flashed.

“There...um...is the issue of cost, my lady,” Hanris interjected, apologetically. She whirled to face him. “Cost is precisely why it must be done,” she bit the words off. “Draft something, Hanris. I want signal towers running inland to these three forts.”

“Garrisons, my lady,” Rhenkin corrected, in a soft apologetic voice.

“No. Forts,” she said firmly. “They need to be expanded and the muster increased.”

“Now, Hanris.” She pointed to the desk in the corner of the room.

“Of course, my lady,” the chamberlain agreed, seating himself at the desk and readying pen and paper. “It will, of course, require the duke's signature.”

Selena grunted and tapped her foot as she watched the little man scratch the pen across the page. Slippers and carpet were simply not designed for tapping one's feet. There was no point in acting impatient if nobody noticed. She sighed and cast sideways glances at the window and at Rhenkin's rather impressive physique in equal measure, until the little man finally offered up the sheet.

Grasping the folded document firmly, she stalked through the halls of the ducal palace, silently wishing again that she was wearing proper shoes. She could stalk perfectly adequately and her teal gown was more than suited to the task, but padding silently was simply not the same as heralding her arrival with the clack of decent heels.

She made a mental note to remedy this, as she turned the corner and approached the double doors to the formal dining room. Two men-at-arms stood to attention as she approached, drawing their halberds across themselves.

“Is my husband in there?”

“He is, indisposed, your grace,” the taller of the two advised, with a faintly pained expression.

“He's drunk, you mean,” she retorted. “And do not address me by that title. My family had land and title three hundred years before this idiot's ancestors crawled out from their cattle shed.”

“Yes, my lady,” the guard managed.

“Were you planning on opening the door?” she asked sweetly.

“At once, my lady,” he said, and stepped inside to announce her. She didn't wait and swept past him in a flurry of silks.

The formal dining room was dominated by an enormous oak dining table and was richly appointed, with thick, red, velvet curtains on the windows and heavy tapestries on the walls. A cavernous hearth in the centre of the wall was filled with a roaring fire and, directly opposite it, sat Duke Freyton, Lord of Druel, The Wash and the Eastern Reaches.

Freyton was a fat, bald man in his mid to late forties. His jowls hung heavy below his cheeks and down to his double chin, and his skin glistened with sweat in the light of the fire. His collar was undone, as were the uppermost fastenings of his shirt, and pink flesh strained at his remaining clothes in a bid for freedom.

His head lolled slightly to one side and he was snoring loudly. A large meal lay mostly untouched before him and a silver goblet listed precariously to one side, held in one pudgy hand as it rested on his belly.

“Freyton!” Her voice cracked like a whip as she slapped her hand down on the table beside him.

“Wassat?” the fat man jumped. The wine in his goblet sloshed over the side and onto his shirt and garish yellow pantaloons. He sat up and tried to brush the wine from himself before it soaked in. “Damn it, woman, am I never to have any rest from you?”

“If only you could!” She stepped away from the table to avoid any drips from the wine. “I need you to sign this.” She waved the paper at him from a safe distance.

“What is it?”

“Provisions for the expansion of the defences in the Eastern Reaches and measures against the Bjornmen.”

“Foolishness,” he snorted. “I won't sign,” he said, as he lurched to his feet unsteadily and blinked at her owlishly.

Selena stood her ground before the fat man and suddenly realised how ridiculous he looked. To think she had allowed this idiot to run their affairs for so long! “Listen to me, you revolting little toad.” It took an effort not to laugh at the foolish creature, as his face coloured. “You may be my husband but we both know that is only for the convenience of both of our families. You are a paper duke with no more pedigree than the hounds of your huntsmaster.”

“Now just you see here!” Freyton protested as his temper rose visibly, his face now a brilliant scarlet against the grey and white of his moustache and sideburns.

“No,” she said, in a dreadfully quiet voice. “You have run the affairs of our estates and lands since we were married two years ago. Oh, that someone could take that day from my memories! Since you laid your drunken hands to the reins of our estates, the ledger has been bled dry on one foolish excess after another. Now we will do things my way!”

“By the Lord of New Days, we will not!” he shouted again, and staggered to the side slightly. “Get out of my chambers and return to your parlour. You ought to be sewing or something. Women do not possess the intellect required for statecraft and the managing of estates.”

“Listen well, little man. You will sign this provision and anything else I bring to you from now on. You will do this and more. And then, perhaps, I will allow you to sit here and drink yourself into insensibility and eat yourself even more stupid.”

“And why, foolish woman, would I do that?”

“Because if you don't,” she replied, allowing a cruel little smile to show on her lips, “I will inform my father of your drunken excesses, your inability to get me with child, and your unwholesome inclinations towards some of the younger pages. Our marriage is of no use to my family if the line dies with me.”

“What are you talking about, woman? I've never so much as…”

“It doesn't matter what you've done, idiot!” she snapped, interrupting him. “It matters what my father and the King believe.” She stood and watched his reaction, fighting the smug smile which fought to show on her lips. He drew back. First shock, then anger and finally affronted resignation passed across his sweaty features.

“Give me the paper,” he finally sighed.

“Not there!” She batted his hands away. “You're all covered in wine and food. Honestly, Freyton, you look like a drunk in a tavern's gutter.” She moved to a small serving table at the edge of the room and set the paper down. “Send for pen and ink,” she instructed, without bothering to turn.

“Why do we need extra defences there, anyway?” he asked, returning from the door. “There's nothing there to defend. Small villages, at most.” She moved adroitly away from the stench of stale wine on his breath and faced him.

“Not now, no, but we need more revenue. I have plans for this land. We could have five score more farming villages here without even scratching the surface of the land's potential. The only reason it's never been done before is the threat of the raiders.” Her eyes were filled with ambition and almost as unfocused as his.

“Why bother? One village of peasants or a thousand. They do little but complain,” he protested.

“Because, you fool, peasants produce revenue.” She shook her head wearily. “We could have the taxes on the homes, the farms, the revenue from the sheep. Lords of Midwinter, Blood and Sky, do you truly not understand? You cannot honestly be this stupid, surely?”

He flushed again. “Stop your pagan blathering, woman. I understand well enough, but this will cost a small fortune. How do you plan to raise the funds for it all?”

“How else?” she smiled. “Taxes. If we need to bleed the peasants a little more now to make this estate work in the future, then that's what we'll have to do.” She turned away, as a servant arrived with pen and ink on a silver tray, which she took with a self-satisfied smile. Motioning Freyton towards the paper with one hand, she handed him the pen, her smile fading. “Now, sign.”

***

Devin leaned back against the broad trunk of the elm tree and sighed in contentment. The woods were still, with just a faint breeze rustling the leaves and gently caressing his face. The sunlight danced and weaved through the ever-changing gaps in the canopy. It was the beginning of autumn, when summer has not yet truly given in and there are still more warm days than crisp, and Devin was hiding. It wasn't so much that he was avoiding the work itself, more that he was avoiding the boredom and drudgery of it. It helped assuage his guilt somewhat if he justified it in those terms. That said, the guilt was not strong enough to stir him from the woods and bring him back to the village in time to help with the harvesting. Crops were for girls and men too old to hunt, Devin had decided, the numerous young farmhands in the village and his own adopted father not being strong enough evidence to the contrary.

He ought to be hunting. He would catch an earful from Hannah regardless, but he had more chance of avoiding the worst if he came back with a deer or a brace of pheasants. Groaning wearily, he rose to his feet and took up his hunting bow. It wasn't the greatest weapon, by any means, but it was one of the few things that Devin truly owned and he loved it with a fierce pride. Checking his pack to make sure all was still in order, he set off at a light pace deeper into the woods.

He'd gone into the woods to the north of the village. It was only a day's walk at most from here to the road to Savarel, but there were some nice game trails to be had. Besides, if he'd headed to the south, he'd have had to pass half a dozen people who would have remarked on it to Hannah. Devin was arguably lazy, but he was no fool.

He cut a slight figure. At a little less than five and a half feet, and slender along with it, he could and had, been mistaken for a young girl on more than one occasion. His fair features did little to help this and Devin longed for the day when his beard would finally begin to sprout in earnest. He was dressed simply, in green homespun and a sturdy travelling cloak, hardly the ideal clothing for trying to find a deer. At least they were a few days on him and wouldn't carry the scent of soap.

Devin had always been at ease in the woods. They felt more like home to him than Widdengate itself. The village had taken him in when he'd needed it to, and Khorin and Hannah had cared for him as if he were truly their own, but he'd always be the outsider. Even five years later, he still felt the eyes on him and the hushed words. In the woods, he was free.

Amongst these trees, he had been the greatest hunter. He had fought off ravaging Bjornmen. He had battled dragons and barrow revenants. He was not a child though, not any longer. That child had died shortly after his mother.

It was small wonder then that Devin's woodscraft was mostly self-taught. Who had there really been to teach him? Khorin knew his way around the woods in terms of what mushrooms not to eat, and the difference between an oak and a beech, but little more. Devin had learned through trial and error. How to move quietly through the woods, by seeking out soft earth, moss or hard tree roots to step on. How to place his foot down flat instead of rolling it when there were no other alternatives. How to make sure he was upwind of his quarry. Most importantly, he'd learned how not to be quiet when there was no other choice. The woods were full of sounds. Animals that moved through the brush were not entirely silent themselves. The trick was to make the right kinds of noises.

He smiled to himself as he reached a small game trail meandering into the woods. Setting down his pack, Devin reached into a pouch and then strung his bow in one smooth motion, bracing one end against the soft forest floor. He ran his hands through his dark hair, sweeping it back from his forehead, and nocked an arrow to the string. He set off slowly along the game trail, his eyes alert now and showing none of the glaze they had during his last half an hour or so of daydreaming.

He walked in an odd half-crouched stalk that would have looked ridiculous to anyone watching, his eyes and head tracking slowly back and forth but not settling on anything. The woods were oddly quiet today. Normally, he'd have spotted a game bird or two by now, but so far he'd seen nothing. He skipped lightly over a shallow stream, his feet finding large stones that extended above the rushing water easily. The bank was steep and he had to hold his arrow along the length of his bow, using his free hand to grasp at bushes to assist him.

It was as he made it to the top that he spotted the stag. It was a truly beautiful creature, fully sixteen points on its antlers, and easily as tall as he was. It stood proud and tall at the edge of a small clearing. He was so captured by the scene that he almost didn't think of his bow. Swearing silently and praying the breeze didn't carry his scent, he nocked an arrow and pulled back to just past his eye. He carefully sighted along the shaft and took a deep breath, holding it. Before he could release, the deer tensed and sprang out of the clearing to the north.

Devin cursed quietly and made his way slowly across the clearing in the hopes that the creature had not gone too far. An old and winding trail led northwards. From the look of the leaves, it hadn't been used by man or beast in some time. The stag's tracks were plain to see in the disturbed leaves and soft earth beneath them. The animal itself, however, was gone.

More from idle curiosity than anything else, he followed the path. He knew he had little chance of finding anything, given the pristine state of it. For whatever reason, animals seemed to be avoiding it. He largely ignored the trail itself, concentrating his attention on the trees in the hopes of seeing a pheasant at roost. The path meandered for a time and then opened out into a small clearing. Devin looked around in confusion, not really sure what he was looking at. It felt familiar somehow, yet he could have sworn he'd never set foot in it before. The ground was covered in a thick blanket of leaves, blown free by the autumn winds. He walked towards the centre of the clearing, turning to scan the trees as he did so, and caught his heel on the edge of something. He fell hard and landed on his backside in the brown leaves. Devin muttered a curse and pulled himself up, relieved that no one was around to see. “Can't even walk across a clearing without falling over!” he chided himself. He picked up his fallen bow, thankful he hadn't had the string pulled back.

He chuckled at his own foolishness and kicked at the leaf-covered log he'd tripped over. He spun in a slow circle noting the humps buried by the fallen leaves. They formed a circle of sorts. He shivered, despite the warm day and wondered at himself. What was this place? Why did he have this reaction to it? He took a cautious step towards the centre of the clearing and a scream cut through the silence of the forest.

Devin jumped violently and muttered a curse that would have turned Hannah's face white. He turned towards the sound, the strange reaction he'd had to the clearing forgotten. It was definitely a woman's scream and Devin set off towards it at a dead run. He knew the woods like the back of his hand up to about three or four miles radius from Widdengate, this odd clearing aside. He'd travelled about two miles into the forest today and so knew roughly where he was. There was little ahead of him but woods, aside from a pretty clearing with a stream in it. A good place to catch trout if the weather was right, but no use for anything else.

He slowed as he heard voices and, without really thinking about it, began to move as quietly as possible.

“I told you, no!” a woman's voice snapped. Devin peered from behind a tree to see Erinn and Artor from the village. They lay beside the stream on a checked picnic blanket, the remains of a meal scattered about them. Well, Artor lay. Lounged would be closer to it. Erinn sat bolt upright, her arms clasped around her knees over her pale yellow dress, with a look of embarrassed outrage on her face.

“You know what you are, Erinn?” Artor said. “You're a damned tease, is what you are. You lead a man on, flirting an' kissing, and then when it's time to do more, you blush and run like some nervous maid.”

“I am a nervous maid, you fool!” she spat at him.

“Of course you are,” Artor said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He was a big man, about three years older than Devin. Working with his father in the watermill had given him a strong physique and his blonde hair, blue eyes and chiselled features tended to attract girls like moths to a candle flame. Devin privately despised him.

“What do you think I am? Some kind of slattern?” Erinn's voice rose with her temper and she climbed up from the blanket, dusting off her dress. “Some bitch in heat you can just pounce upon?”

“Well, what did you think we were going to be doing? Why do you think I asked you out here?” Artor said, disbelievingly. “Come on, you know you want to.”

“I most certainly do not!” Erinn flushed and her lips pressed together in a thin pale line as she folded her arms over her breasts.

“You may as well. I'll tell all the other lads you did, anyway,” he smiled a sickly-sweet smile.

Her temper snapped at that and the sound of the slap filled the clearing. Her face went from angry to smug to scared in the space of two breaths, as Artor's face rocked back from the blow, and he turned back to her with anger in his eyes.

“Maybe I should just take what I want anyway?” he said, in a low, dangerous voice.

“You wouldn't dare!” Shock swept over Erinn's face and she backed away slowly.

Devin had been preparing to move back through the trees, as this was clearly a private moment, but Artor's words stopped him cold. He hadn't been particularly close to Erinn for a few years now, but he wasn't about to let this happen. He reached for his quiver again and set his arrow in place by feel, his eyes never once leaving the scene.

Artor lunged for her and she backed away again, just out of his reach. She turned to run and he grabbed her long, red hair in one fist, twisting it around his hand for a better grip. “Now, let's just see if you're as sweet as you look,” he said softly into her ear.

“My father will kill you, if you do,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes watering as he pulled her hair.

“Why would he do that? When I was working in the mill all afternoon?” He pulled hard and forced her down onto the blanket.

Devin stepped out from between the trees, his bow taut and aimed squarely at Artor's rump. “I think she said no, Artor,” he said, with a calm he definitely did not feel. The boy's head shot round in a way that would have been funny if it had been in any other circumstances, and his eyes narrowed in recognition.

“What are you doing here, boy?” he said with contempt. “Peeking at your betters, you little pervert?”

“Let her go,” Devin said, trying to control the trembling in his knees.

“Or what? You'll poke me with your little squirrel killer?” Artor released Erinn and she slumped down, as he got to his feet to face Devin. They stood only thirty or forty feet apart and, all at once, Devin was keenly aware of just how big the miller's son was. He had six inches and easily two stone of muscle on him. If it came to a fistfight, Devin would not only lose, he'd be lucky to be alive.

Devin nodded towards the trees. “Good. Now, I think you'd better go.”

“If anyone is going, it'll be you.” Artor laughed, incredulously. “Honestly, sneaking around the woods, so you can catch a glimpse at a couple. You little pervert, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“We didn't, Devin,” cried Erinn, her face a mixture of outrage and shame. “I mean, I wouldn't!”

“Shut up, girl!” Artor snapped, before turning back to face Devin. “I'll tell you what, boy. You leave right now and get back to hunting for hedgehogs, or squirrels, or whatever it is you do with that little toy of yours and I won't mention this to anyone.”

“I don't think so, Artor,” Devin said, hoping no one could hear the tremor in his voice. “I think you better put your little weed away. Nobody is interested in playing with it today.”

“Why, you little...” Artor began, and came at him with fists high. The shock that came over his face was priceless, as the arrow buried itself in the earth, not six inches from his foot. He froze, looking aghast, as Devin smoothly nocked a second arrow. “You shot at me!” he cried, incredulous.

“No, Artor. I shot at the ground.” Devin replied slowly, as if explaining things to small child. The shock on Artor's face had robbed him of any menace, and Devin was finding it hard to keep a straight face. “If I'd shot at you, I'd have hit you.”

He nodded towards the trees again. “Go!” he snapped, trying to put some menace into his voice.

“This isn't over.” Artor glared at Devin, then at Erinn and stalked off into the woods. Devin watched until he was out of sight and then relaxed the bow. “Well, shit...” he murmured and leant heavily against a tree. He looked up to see Erinn's eyes upon him, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Are you okay?” he asked, trying to read her face.

“I'm fine,” she snapped. And then, “I'm sorry, Devin. I'm not being short with you. I'm cross with myself.”

“With yourself?” Devin wondered. “I can't see that you did anything wrong. He was the one like a stag in rut.”

“I went to the woods. For a picnic. Alone.” Erinn said, wondering at her own stupidity. “With Artor!” she laughed a helpless little laugh. Devin smiled, unsure just which part of this it was that was so funny.

“Oh, stars above and all the droos -scarred altars. What a fool I am!” she cried, still laughing. The laughter had a touch of hysteria about it that spurred Devin forward. He went to pull her close but she flinched away.

“Devin,” she said, sniffing and rubbing at her eyes, “if you hadn't come along...” She left it hanging.

“You'd probably have slapped his face and sent him off with his tail between his legs,” he finished for her. They smiled at the image, both knowing it wouldn't have played out like that.

“What were you doing out here, anyway?” she asked, with a shaky smile.

“Well, it wasn't because I was hoping I'd catch a glimpse of Artor's bare arse, I can tell you that!” snorted Devin. She laughed with him and, for a moment, it was like they were both children again.

“I suppose we better gather these things up.” He moved about the clearing, gathering up the bowls and empty bottle. Erinn watched wordlessly for a moment, before shaking out the blanket and folding it up.

“Come on,” Devin smiled. “I'll walk you back to the village.”

She pulled the arrow from the soft earth with an odd expression and handed it to him, before walking away towards the village without another word. Devin replaced the arrow in his quiver and followed her.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they made it back to the village and Devin was ravenous. He left Erinn with vague promises to spend more time together and catch up, but they both knew it probably wouldn't happen. He walked quickly through the long grass, as he made his way toward the road and home, replaying the day's events in his head. He vaguely noted a heavily laden wagon coming along the road towards him, heading in the direction of the inn. A middle-aged man held the reins loosely. Devin was immediately struck by the soft black robes the man wore and the bone white rope about his waist.

“Boy!” called the black-robed man in a condescending tone. “Hey, boy!” Devin stopped and looked over at the man expectantly.

“Is there an inn in this village?” he asked, a smile upon his face. It was the type of smile that a childless man uses with a friend's children. Patronising and tolerant.

“Along the path you are following, sir,” he replied, Hannah's manners coming out before he had a chance to realise it. “Another five minutes or so.”

“Blessings of the Lord be on you, my son,” the black-robed man said pompously, and clucked his horse on. Devin stepped to the side of the path to allow the wagon to pass. He watched for a moment, before his stomach spoke to him again and he headed on to the cottage.

“Any luck?” Hannah said, as he came down the steps into the kitchen.

“Luck?” Devin replied, his brow twisting into a tight frown.

“Your bow. I assumed you were hunting,” she replied, with an edge in her voice. “At least, I assume that's why you left before sun up, without saying a word to anyone?”

“I...umm,” he fumbled.

“You what?” She wiped her dough-covered hands on her white apron and frowned at him. “You know Khorin wanted your help today? Honestly, Devin, sometimes I don't know what to do with you.” She sighed, obviously biting back harsher words. “Did you at least manage to bring anything back for the pot?”

“I nearly did,” he replied, moving on quickly as he saw her expression fall. “I had a deer, but it was spooked by Erinn screaming.”

“Erinn? What was Erinn doing there?” Devin stalled for a minute, kicking himself for his own stupidity. He hadn't planned on talking about this with anyone.

“Devin?” She drew out the word, managing to make it both a question and a threat. He gave in and, before he knew it, had recounted the entire tale, right down to shooting the arrow at Artor's feet.

“That damned fool girl,” Hannah sighed. “She's going to get herself into all manner of trouble if she doesn't start thinking a little more.” She sat back at the table and began working the bread dough she'd been kneading.

“She's hardly the one at fault, Hannah,” Devin said.

“You sound like Khorin,” she said, over her shoulder. “That's exactly the type of innocent nonsense he would come out with.” She laughed again at his nonplussed expression. “Yes, Devin, Artor is the one at fault, but Erinn should know better than that. A girl as pretty as she is needs to be careful, especially with men like Artor.”

“So she's at fault for going on a picnic with him?”

“For going alone, with a man like Artor, miles from anywhere? Yes! And she knows it!” she said, jabbing a flour-covered finger at his chest. “She carries on like that, she'll be travelling to Cobton to find a priest to marry them both before the year's out.”

“Looks like she wouldn't need to go to Cobton, at least not today,” Devin replied. “There's one at the inn.”

“Oh, my stars!” Hannah said, with a gasp. “Maryanne mentioned a pastor was coming when I had lunch with her last week, but you know how she is. Running that inn has put gossip so far into her mind that she spouts it whether it's true or not!” She spun on her heel and dashed out of the room without another word. Devin watched in amusement, as she hurried halfway up the stairs, only to stop and run down again.

“Be a dear and sweep up in here for me, would you?” She waved an arm vaguely at the kitchen.

Laughing quietly to himself, Devin took up the soft broom and began sweeping the floor. He was only just finishing the first corner when Hannah bustled back into the room. She had changed into a bright flowery dress and twisted her hair up into a complex arrangement. “Now then, dear, would you please run and fetch Khorin out of the fields and tell him to wash up, while I go and invite the pastor over for some tea?” She climbed up the three stone steps and was out of the door before Devin had a chance to answer. For a short woman, she could move deceptively swiftly.

By the time Devin had found Khorin and they had made their way back to the cottage, Hannah was already outside with the dark-robed priest. As they approached, Devin could see that the man wasn't as old as he'd first thought. His hair was fully grey, but his face was young. He was barely out of his twenties, by the looks of things.

“It's not much,” she demurred, “but we like to call it home.”

“It's lovely,” the robed man said, with that condescending smile again.

“Oh and here they are!” Hannah said, as she noticed them both approaching. “Khorin, Devin, this is Father Trallen.” She gestured as she spoke. “Father, this is Khorin, my husband, and our son, Devin. Father Trallen is going to be building a church here in Widdengate, Khorin,” Hannah gushed.

“A church?” Khorin gave the robed man a frank and appraising look.

“Well, a chapel,” Trallen clarified. “And it will be workmen building it, not me.” He laughed a small little laugh. “For now, at Mistress Maryanne's insistence, I'll be lodging at the inn and holding regular services on the green beside it.”

“Well, you must come over for tea whenever you need to escape,” Hannah said, smiling. “She's an awful gossip, you know,” she confided, as Devin and Khorin exchanged a glance and fought to keep their faces straight.

The priest coughed and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I am sure that would be lovely.”

“And, of course, you'll be attending the harvest festival? It's only a week away,” she enthused.

“Ah well, I'm not sure,” the robed man said hurriedly, with a halting gesture. “Sometimes these things don't go very well with the teachings of our Lord of the New Days, you know? Old pagan ways, and dances and the like.”

“Oh,” she said, in a small voice, and her face fell. “It would have been such a nice way to introduce you to our little community, as well.”

“Well, we will see,” Trallen said, in a mollifying tone. “It's just as I will be speaking about tomorrow in my sermon. People sometimes find it too hard to let go of the old ways. Things like that horseshoe over your barn door,” he continued, somehow not noticing Hannah's stricken expression. “Some people put them up for luck. Really though, it's a symbol, meant to keep away those things that we fear in the night. These are the things that shackle us to the past, you see? How can we grow as people, when we hide in fear of the ghosts and goblins from children's tales?”

Hannah nodded, smiling. “It's a silly old thing. Been up there for years, I'll have Khorin take it down this afternoon.”

“My grandfather and I put that up!” Khorin protested, in a hoarse whisper, as Hannah made frantic flapping motions at him behind the priest's back. Devin coughed into his hand and turned his face away.

“Anyway, let's go inside for some tea, shall we? Listen to me, gossiping on the doorstep!” She laughed a silly little laugh and led the robed man down the steps into the cottage, leaving Khorin and Devin on the doorstep.

“The woman's as giddy as a young girl at the Midwinter's dance!” Khorin muttered in a low voice to Devin. “She's not been this bad since we had that messenger here, who'd had a tumble and had to spend the night. Cooing and gushing all evening, she was. To think, she dragged me back here for this. I've half the field left to do.” He gave Devin a pointed look. “Tomorrow,” he said, firmly.

***

The following day, Devin was woken by Hannah at dawn. She forced him into a shockingly cold bath to scrub himself until she was satisfied with his pink and slightly sore skin. He and Khorin sat out of the way, at the kitchen table, in freshly laundered shirts whilst Hannah busied herself with getting ready. They waited in silence. The woman had disturbingly good hearing. Devin could tell that Khorin was not happy. There was a definite atmosphere in the kitchen, as if the harsh words that hadn't been spoken were still fighting to be heard.

Eventually, she descended the stairs and marched them off to the green beside the inn. Neither Khorin nor Hannah had shown the slightest interest in religion in the years Devin had lived with them. They made a bow to the Lord of Midwinter when the snows first fell and at the Midwinter's dance, but that was really as far as it went.

Trallen had arranged things simply beside the inn, with a semicircle of benches and chairs, and then an empty patch of grass next to an old stump for himself. Devin sat with Khorin and Hannah, curious as to what the mysterious new figure would have to say.

The villagers filed in quietly, driven by curiosity more than anything else. Less than ten families attended, though Devin noticed that many of the womenfolk were wearing dresses which were definitely not for everyday use. His was also not the only pink, well-scrubbed face in attendance. He hadn't been to a religious service before and wasn't quite sure what to expect. He jumped as Hannah poked him in the ribs, without seeming to have moved, to draw his attention back to the priest, who had moved to the centre of the patch of grass, ready to begin.

“Welcome all,” began Trallen, “and thank you for such a wonderful welcome to your village. The Lord bless you and keep you safe always.” He looked up from his folded hands with a broad smile, “I wanted to start by asking what you have heard of the Lord of New Days, and see if there are any questions I can answer?” He looked over the small crowd expectantly, but was faced only with silence.

“Come now, someone must have heard something. It doesn't matter if it's wrong or even insulting. I promise not to be offended.” He said the last with a smile.

“I heard how he don't like holidays, and you're forbidden from dancing and the like,” Kainen said from the back row, while his mother, scarlet-faced, tried to hush him.

Trallen laughed and replied, “That's a new one, I must confess. I hear all sorts of stories and it's nice to be able to set the record straight. I quite like holidays. Some festivals can be a great deal of fun. I'll confess, I'm not much of a dancer, but the only thing stopping me is my two left feet.” He chuckled at his own bad joke, as a nervous ripple of laughter went through the small crowd.

“The Book of New Days,” he said, pointing to a large, leather-bound book he'd set on the stump beside him, “tells us that the Lord loves us and protects us. He created everything around us and He wants us to prosper. Some things hold us back, but dancing isn't one of them.”

“I heard you New Dayers don't hold with old beliefs and traditions, and you work to stamp 'em all out.” The crowd turned as one, to see Samen leaning on his stick behind them. The old man was still hale and hearty, despite his advancing years, but age had done nothing to tame his cantankerous nature or to blunt his tongue.

“I think that 'stamp out' might be a little harsh,” Trallen replied, mildly. “We simply want our Lord's children to progress as He intended.” He turned to Erinn's father. “You, sir, unless I am mistaken, are the blacksmith in this lovely village, aren't you?” The large man nodded. “Now, let me ask you something. If you were making a new plough, would you use iron or steel?”

“Given the choice, I suppose I'd use steel. It's stronger,” the bear-like man said, slowly.

“But years ago, we used iron or even wood, didn't we?” Trallen said, smiling indulgently at the man's nod. “Now, should we continue to use iron or wood, just because tradition tells us so? Of course not, that would be foolish. This is the heart of the Lord's message. He wants us to progress and to be the best we can be. To achieve the future He has planned for us.”

“So why not just give us steel to begin with?” Samen called out, earning himself a glare from both Hannah and Maryanne, who had arrived late and now stood beside him.

“Well, let's ask one of the mothers here something. If you have a child who wants something, is it better to just give it to them or to make then earn it in some way?”

“Earn it,” said Hannah firmly. “That way, they value it more.”

“Exactly,” the priest said with a warm smile.

“Don't see what that has to do with stamping out the old ways,” Samen muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. He clamped his lips shut, as Maryanne whispered furiously into his ear.

The rest of the service passed quickly with a short sermon and, finally, a brief prayer. The new pastor was clearly no fool and realised that a short, successful sermon would be much better than a long-winded failure. His choice of location was obviously not just by chance either. As the service finished, the men drifted into the inn while most of the women stopped to chat to the new priest.

Devin wandered towards the inn, hoping to catch Kainen for a short time. It felt like months since they had really spent any time together. It seemed the older they got, the more chores they were given.

He walked through the door of the inn and made for the bar, spotting Kainen polishing glasses. A large hand came down on his shoulder and he turned to find Harlen, the blacksmith, looking down at him over his thick red beard. “I heard what you did for Erinn,” the big man said simply.

“What? How?” Devin replied, caught flat-footed.

“Parents do speak to each other sometimes, Devin,” Harlen rumbled with a smile. The expression looked odd on his usually dour face. “Artor, his father and I, we will be having a conversation.” He managed to make the word 'conversation' sound like a dire threat and Devin nodded quickly, not wanting to aggravate the man.

“Anyway, I wanted to say thank you. I owe a debt to you.” He squeezed Devin's shoulder, in what was supposed to be a comradely fashion but was one which very nearly sent the boy to his knees. He walked back to his table before Devin could protest.

Devin made his way quickly to the bar, leaning over it and grinning at his old friend. “Did you get an earful for asking questions then, Kainen?” he said.

“Too right!” the pale lad replied. “You've never seen such a simpering and carrying on. Between her and your Ma, there's enough calf eyes and scraping to please any priest.”

“You'd not say that within earshot, though,” Devin laughed.

“I'm no more fool than you,” Kainen grinned back, before casting a guilty glance along the bar. The once sickly-faced lad had sprouted like a new tree once he hit thirteen. Now, at fifteen, he was already almost taller than his father. He'd grown tall but not broad and so had the gangly, over-stretched look of some young men his age. An overly prominent Adam's apple did little to improve his appearance.

“So what did you think of it all?” Devin asked, in a conspiratorial whisper.

“I don't know, really,” Kainen replied, seriously. “It's things I've never really thought about. I mean, some of it made sense. Like the thing with the plough and there being no point in holding onto things just for the sake of tradition.”

“Not all tradition is bad though, is it?” Devin argued. “I mean what about Midwinter? We have the feast, and the dance and presents. Everyone has a good time. Where's the harm?”

“Would he have a problem with that, then?” Kainen wondered.

“Of course he would,” Devin snorted. “There's the bow to the Lord of Midwinter, isn't there? I can't see him putting up with that.”

“It's only a bow,” Kainen protested.

“True, but then it was only a horseshoe on our barn, and he made it clear that it ought to come down too,” Devin pointed out.

“You'd better get a drink,” Kainen advised, as he watched his father pulling drinks. “You know how Father hates to see sleeves polishing his bar with empty hands.”

“I'll have a cider then.” Devin looked over at the innkeeper. The man could be welcoming and jovial to his customers, but he'd brook no nonsense from Kainen and his friends. It was more than once that he'd been chased from the inn with harsh words.

“He's in a foul mood, anyway,” Kainen said, just softly enough for Devin to hear. “Mother's made him cancel the morris, both for the harvest and Midwinter.”

“Why?”

“It's this priest again,” the gangly man admitted. “He said it was a relic of a pagan past, honouring false and forgotten gods. Or something like that.”

“I bet your father didn't like it, though,” Devin said.

Kainen shook his head vigorously. “Bloody droos, no! You've never heard such a row. I mean, they argue a lot anyway, but this was nothing like that. Father was calling Trallen every name under the sun. He must have heard it all too. He's only one floor down from them. She gave as good as Father did though.” His voice took on a high-pitched, nagging tone, “Owen Taplock, I'll not have you offending Father Trallen with your silly dance! He's only just arrived!”

“He's never really had enough men for it anyway though, has he?” Devin said, laughing at the image of the tiny Maryanne berating her husband.

“I don't think that's the way he feels about it, though.” Kainen shook his head slowly. His eyes brightened suddenly. “Hey, I hear you're best friends with Artor now though?”

“What are you talking about?” Devin asked, with a suspicious look, as he set his cider back onto the bar.

“Your little conversation yesterday. Got a little pointed, did it?” Kainen grinned.

“Is there anyone who hasn't heard about this?” Devin muttered despairingly, as his head sank into his hands.

“I doubt it. You know what this place is.” Kainen grinned, enjoying his friend's misery. “So, did you really threaten to shoot him?”

“I wouldn't have done it really. Well, probably not,” Devin whispered.

“You really did it?” Kainen giggled madly. “I thought she was making it up or exaggerating.”

“Wait a minute,” Devin said, as he fixed his friend with a suspicious look. “Just who are we talking about here?”

“Karren.” He grinned at Devin's blank expression. “You know, the cooper's daughter?”

“Karren!” Devin exclaimed, his voice breaking and coming out as a girlish squeal. He cursed and cleared his throat. “Karren?” he repeated, in a normal voice. “How does she know?”

“I expect she was there when your mother was telling her father and Samen,” Kainen gave a wicked chuckle, having saved this bit until last.

“Samen?” Devin moaned. “I might as well scream it from the rooftops then.”

“I shouldn't bother,” Kainen advised, smiling. “Telling Samen is much faster.”

***

The harvest was always a busy time in the village. Devin found himself torn in two directions, as Khorin demanded more of his time to help bringing in the crops and Hannah made him help with preparations for the festival. Secretly, Devin was pleased to be busy, as it gave him fewer opportunities to run into Artor. He'd been reasonably certain that the incident in the woods would quietly blow over, until he'd discovered that half the village knew about it. He'd avoided Artor as much as he could during his childhood in Widdengate. The boy was a prime example of an only child, pampered, indulged and someone who gave little thought to others. Devin had secretly despised him for years but had usually managed to stay out of his way. After the incident in the forest, this would probably be impossible.

The days trundled by. Harvest was an awful time of year and Devin hated it openly. It meant hours of backbreaking labour in the fields, working from sun up until almost dark, reaping and threshing. To make matters worse, Hannah had offered his assistance to Father Trallen too.

Devin made his way reluctantly into the village. Although the cottage he lived in with Khorin and Hannah was technically inside Widdengate, there was a goodly distance between them and the nearest structure. He found the priest beside the inn, speaking to a number of burly-looking men. Five large wagons stood next to them, weighted down with building materials and large stone blocks. He stood quietly, not wishing to interrupt, and watched three of the youngest village children skipping, and singing a song as old as time.

“I'm to keep a fairer way,

With horses' shoes and miller's weigh,

From wax to waning moon, we pray

Keep us warm 'til light of day.”

He watched the children disinterestedly, his mind working over the issue with Artor and how best to avoid another confrontation. He worried at it like a dog with a piece of meat, but couldn't see a way through it and his mood grew darker as he waited.

“Deep thoughts this close to a festival, young man?” Trallen's deep voice startled Devin. He spun in shock and then flushed at the grey man's smile. He truly was a grey man. It extended from his hair, of course, but his eyes were a pale grey and his skin held no trace of tan. It was as if the colour had been leached out of him.

“Not really, Father,” the young man said, politely. “Just wool gathering, really.”

“Artor?” the priest asked pointedly. Devin felt his mouth fall open and closed it with a snap. Even the priest?

“I just don't want any more trouble with him,” he said, in a low voice, looking down at his shoes.

“You don't know what trouble is!” Trallen laughed. “But I know what you mean.” Devin cocked an eyebrow at that.

“What? You think I was born a priest?” The grey man laughed again, a deep infectious laugh and Devin smiled a true smile for the first time in days.

“Your mother generously offered your assistance,” Trallen smiled. “It's not much really. I need to travel away for a day or two and I have these men here to work. I wonder if you could show them to the site I have picked out for the church and school.”

“School?” Devin asked quickly.

“Yes, for the little ones.” Trallen replied in an offhand manner. “There are so many here who don't even have their letters.” Devin flushed slightly, remembering the years it had taken Hannah to drill the skill into him.

“Anyway, I must be away or I'll never make it back in time for your festival,” Trallen said. “There'll be another four or five deliveries in the coming days. If you could make sure they get to where they are supposed to be, I'd be in your debt.”

Devin nodded easily. It wasn't a great task. Trallen shook his hand firmly in thanks and turned to go back into the inn.

The site the priest had picked out was on the other side of the village, but only about five minutes' walk from the inn. A large area had already been staked out and marked with string. Devin led the workmen over to the site, listening openly as they chatted about local gossip.

“I heard Baron Rentrew got sick of Bjornmen raids.” A short, thick-bodied man confided. “He built signal fires.”

“What, to let him know when his villages were burning?” laughed Lorn, the foreman of the crew.

“No, fool. So they could send warning when they saw the boats coming,” the short man said scathingly. “My cousin Jasper worked on 'em. He said they stretch over a hundred miles, going this way an' that.”

“So now he gets to know they've burnt down, just faster than he used to?” Lorn laughed again.

The short worker's face flushed. “Why do you think they've stopped raiding so much then, hey?” he demanded. “The fires worked, is why. Couple of year ago, they got men there from the garrison in Holt and nearly wiped a whole load of the thieving bastards out.”

“I hadn't heard that. You serious?” Lorn said, his laughter gone.

“Almost to a man, Jasper reckons,” the man said, seriously. “He reckons Old Freyton caught word of it and he's so impressed, he's going to build forts.”

“I can't see that, Len,” Lorn replied. “Not enough villages to make it worth his while, is there?”

“Just what I heard, is all,” Len said, sourly.

Devin left them bickering at the site, as they started to unload the stones and supplies, and walked slowly back towards the farmstead, his head reeling. The Bjornmen had always been a thing of myth and legend to him. They'd never penetrated that far in from the coast and Widdengate, being three days from the closest shore, had never been touched by them. They'd always been like a force of nature to him, a storm that struck and devastated farms and families alike. Hearing they'd been forced back gave them a human element he'd never considered before. For the first time, he wondered what sort of people they were. Did they have homes and families? He supposed they must have. What could drive a people to inflict such suffering on others? The thought kept him going all the way back to the farmstead.

Chapter Eight

Samen leaned back in the chair with a satisfied sigh and admired the colour of the glass of red wine, holding it up and watching the glow of the firelight through the blood red liquid. There had been a time when you would have been hard-pressed to find any wine this far east, at least anything worth drinking. The cask of wine had travelled further in the last few months than he had during his whole life, from the vineyards of southern Surama, through Feldane and then into Anlan, before finally being transported east, to his tiny corner of the world. He savoured the aftertaste, before turning back to the small crowd of expectant eyes at his feet.

“A story, then?” he said musing. “Do I even have any stories left that you haven't already heard?”

“You know all the stories in the world, Samen!” cried a young girl.

His eyes crinkled at that and the ghost of a smile played over his lips. “I know one or two, it's true, Daisy.”

He glanced around the inn, noting the farmers pretending not to listen, and Owen and Harlen at the bar with more than half an ear cocked his way. Khorin's foundling, at least, was more honest and sat at a table with his father, listening openly. His dark eyes were fixed upon Samen, his mug of ale sitting untouched before him.

A glance at the windows showed the snowflakes dancing against the glass panes as the wind howled. It was late, but none of the people in the inn seemed inclined to brave the weather to return home to cold cottages. He was in a whimsical mood and, when the children had approached him for a story, he'd barely bothered to put up a fight.

“A winter's night calls for an old tale, wouldn't you say? Winter is the oldest season, after all. The world was born on a winter's night just like this.” The eyes at his feet grew wide and glittered in the firelight, as he leaned in towards them. “A story, then. The story, you might say. I'll tell you the story of the beginning and of the droos.” The inn was silent as Samen took a sip of his wine. The blood red colour of the vintage was not lost on him or his audience, both young and old.

“Well, now, the droos,” Samen began. “This world is old, older than most people imagine. Its countries and empires are children when compared to the history of the droos, though. Their tale stretches back into the farthest misty reaches.” He looked up at his audience. Even Owen and Harlen were no longer bothering to hide the fact they were listening. His mouth twitched with a tight smile, as he watched Father Trallen come in through the doorway, kicking snow from his boots before making his way to the bar.

“The world was spun out of the darkness by the Master of All Skies and the Lady of Deepest Night, or created by the Lord of New Days, depending on which version you want to believe. I doubt any man really knows the truth of how our world came to be, but it matters little. It's enough that you realise it is old and that few men, if any, know the truth of its beginnings. We have always sought the truth, however, and it is this search for the truth, and maybe for meanings which aren't there, that lead us to search in dark places. We raised churches and gods, when perhaps they had best been left alone.” He stopped suddenly, as Trallen stormed to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste. The priest marched over to Samen, white-faced with fury.

“I think that will be quite enough!” he hissed.

“You just get back to your sherry, Father,” Samen said mildly, not bothering to stand.

“I don't think so,” Trallen spat. “I'll not have you filling the children's minds with that sort of nonsense. Or the minds of the good people of this village, either!”

Samen climbed to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick. He squinted up at the priest and poked him hard in the chest with one gnarled finger. “You listen here. You've done a lot in this village since you arrived. Some of it good and some of it bad. You can make people stop the morris, and maybe talk them into getting rid of horseshoes and luck charms, which never did anyone any harm. One thing you can't do, though, is stop a story.”

Trallen gaped open-mouthed at the old man. “It's a load of old nonsense and it…”

“It's older than you or I put together, young man,” Samen said, with a hint of steel in his voice. “It's older than the pages of that book you wave around and call the sole source of true knowledge. I'll tell you this for free, young man. If you think all the knowledge of the world comes from a book scarcely five years old, then you're a bigger fool than I thought you were.”

The inn was silent, and the children and customers watched on in amazement, as the gnarled old man, who barely came up level with the priest's shoulders, dressed him down before young and old alike.

“Now, just you see here!” Trallen tried again.

“No!” Samen cut him off, raising his voice for the first time. “You just close your yap for a minute.” Trallen closed his mouth slowly, as the wizened old man went on. “It's a story. Maybe there's a grain of truth in it, maybe there isn't. Thing is, it brings a bit of joy to these children and I'll not have you taking it from them just because of the scratchings in that book of yours.” He moved closer and his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “Or maybe I need to be having a chat with our good miller about just what it is you've been teaching his lady wife in those meetings of yours? She makes some very strange noises for a lady studying scripture. I could hear her clear outside the window. I'll wager the miller could work a way to fit more than wheat between the stones of that mill.” He looked down meaningfully before giving the priest a pointed look.

Trallen swallowed hard and took a step back. “How did you...? Who else..?” He stopped himself and looked around guiltily, before turning on his heel and marching out of the inn without another word.

***

The clearing was silent. A light covering of snow dusted over the fallen leaves and twigs. It was the last night of the full moon and the ground was bathed in a light almost as bright as day. A hand slowly reached out to touch the monolith at the centre of the clearing. It was gnarled and thick-fingered, the long thick nails more than halfway to being claws. Coarse hair covered the back of it, extending as far as the middle knuckles in wisps and tufts. The hand extended, not from an arm, but from empty air, which rippled gently around the wrist like the waters of a still pond. It hesitated, as if fearing the stone would burn, or feel as sharp as the blade of a knife. It jerked back suddenly but then reached again. It grasped the stone firmly, as a laugh, high and wild, filled the glade.

The few leaves that the wind had not tossed to the edge of the clearing crunched lightly as the feet stepped through the snow and frost. Cloven hooves leaped high and landed lightly, as the laughter carried around the stones. The creature cavorted in and around the circle, with a delight few men ever have the luck to experience. There was a brief trill on a wooden flute as it danced in the moonlight, and then it froze, head on one side like a bird, though no sound disturbed the stillness of the night.

It stood only as high as a tall child and was naked, other than two leather straps which came down from each shoulder and crossed over its chest, before looping around its waist. The dark leather mirrored the colour of the short horns jutting from the thick hair atop its head and the short beard sprouting from its chin. The bottom edge of its belt was lost in the dense wool-like fur that covered the creature's legs and haunches. A fierce grin split its face, bright white teeth catching the moonlight as it stood up straight, as if it had just finished listening. It turned abruptly and shifted into a run, making its way into the trees.

It moved with a hircine grace as it darted through the woods, giggling quietly to itself as it glanced around at the trees, the stars, the moon. It sprang easily over the small stream, weaving its way through the tightly packed beech trees. The woods were silent in the wake of its passage. Animals which had never seen the like huddled down into burrows or lay quiet under bushes, as ancestral memories bubbled to the surface, warning that this, more so than any other creature, was a thing to be feared and avoided. Its eyes burned with a cold amber fire whenever the moonlight caught them and the grin never left its face. At last, it burst free from the trees and stopped, chest moving lightly as its breath misted away in the cold winter night. It gazed down the hillside towards the lights of the village, its own eyes mirroring the warm light shining from the lanterns in the windows.

A small collection of buildings and barns stood close to the edge of the trees. The satyr moved silently through the long grass, towards them. A dim light shone from an upstairs window of the cottage, but it was otherwise dark. It reached behind its back to pull a long horn knife from where it lay tucked under the back of the broad belt, as it moved slowly towards the quiet house.

It stopped at the gate, as if expecting something. Its black tongue flicked out for a second, almost seeming to taste the air, and it giggled madly again, as if overcome with some unexpected delight. Slowly now, it moved closer to the buildings, its head darting this way and that, stopping every few steps to listen to the silence in the darkness.

It glanced up at the large barn. The large doors caught the light of the moon fully, and the old wood appeared silvery. Above the doors was a dark horseshoe shape, formed from flakes of rust and wood that had been covered for a generation and protected from the elements. The satyr grinned at the shape formed by the darker wood and sneered at the few flakes of rust, though it made no move to go closer. Instead, it skirted around the barn, seeking another entrance.

The side door opened easily beneath its gnarled hands and it stepped lightly inside. The darkness within was almost absolute but it moved easily, clearly having no problem picking out a path. The barn was rich with the smell of animals, and they shifted uneasily from a scent that was both new to them but also sparked instinctive warnings. It stared through the gloom into the goat's pen for a moment through the gloom. The goat stared back into the pitch darkness. It could see nothing, but the scent was tantalising its nose and its nostrils quivered.

The satyr laughed and danced in a tiny circle as it gazed at the goat. The animals shifted nervously at the sound and the cows let out a worried lowing. Smiling to itself, the satyr went out the way it had come and continued on through the night.

***

Samen muttered spitefully to himself for a minute as he lowered himself into his chair, wincing as his old joints protested. “Where was I?” he said softly, more to himself than to anyone else.

“The droos,” a red-haired girl breathed in a carrying whisper.

“Yes, yes,” Samen said into his glass, as he drank down the last of the wine. He waved it at the bar, catching the eye of Owen and noting, with satisfaction, that no other conversation stirred the air of the inn.

“So, this quest for knowledge was probably best left alone.” he began again. “The droos began as one such people. A people driven by the quest for understanding, to discover their place in this world and the starry skies above. They had no temples, no churches. They gave no Setday services, unlike our good priest.” He nodded towards the door Trallen had so recently stormed out of. “They spent their time, instead, in the study of all things, and of the secret workings of the world. The unseen flows of power that turn the seasons and lift the tides. Some say they succeeded in finding answers. Some say they discovered dark and terrible things, and this is how they shattered the moon.”

“You've seen how the moon changes its face as it moves across the skies?” He smiled as the children nodded as one. All traces of the sour-faced old man had been wiped away by the telling of the story. “Only for the shortest time each month does the moon hold itself together. Too soon, do its parts fall away and drift, all unseen, into the darkness. This is the legacy of the droos, of a magics gone so terribly awry that they destroyed the face of their own silvery mistress. For, you see, they loved and revered the moon. Some say that was where they drew their power from and, when this disaster happened, then they were left as helpless as a child in the snow on a winter's night. So there they were, this wise and ancient order, suddenly as powerless as the lowliest peasant.”

He stopped for a second to take the full glass of wine from Owen, who had picked his way silently through the crowd. Nodding his thanks, he took a sip and cradled the glass to his chest.

“So, where now were they to draw their power? The order crumbled and splintered. Many simply faded away, living simple lives the same as anyone here. Others, though, they clung to their lost power like drowning man clings to a plank of wood. They travelled the lands and sought out new ways to draw it to themselves. They constructed circles of stone and carved their dark runes into the cold slabs, even as they hunted down those who had a fire in their blood. A fire that shone through to the very roots of their hair,” Samen stopped and looked pointedly at Daisy, smiling a cold smile as realisation dawned, and her hand flew to her red hair as the other covered her mouth in shock.

“Have you never wondered why there are so few people with hair like yours, Daisy?” The girl let loose a terrified sob and she fled to the comfort of her mother at a nearby table. The woman shot a look like daggers at the cackling old man, but Samen had been on the receiving end of far worse than a mother's glare over the years.

“So they hunted for those with the most fiery hair and dragged them screaming across the altar stones of their circles. Children were highly prized and yielded the most power. And, for a time, their power grew and they became a force close to what they had once been.” He trailed off and stared into the fire for a time, as if reliving painful memories, his old face twisted into a grimace. Despite the silence, no child complained. No conversations struck up in the shadowed corners. The inn waited, almost holding its breath.

“This was a time before the empire had fallen, almost before it had risen. Feldane was just a collection of squabbling duchies and Anlan, our fair land,” he said the last with a sarcastic lilt, “was a tiny fraction of what it is today. The man who would become our first emperor was a vicious-minded wastrel by the name of Caltus. Whatever else you might hear about Caltus is almost certainly wrong. The man was little more than a thug who happened to be in the right place at the right time. However, he managed it. Caltus became a force and took it upon himself to oppose the droos. These were not two nations at war, though. The droos never built fortresses or cities. They lived solitary lives, coming together in the light of their wounded moon to work their magics and feed the runes of their stones. Warring with a group like this was like trying to fight the wind. They were here and then gone, striking a village in the night and then vanishing, leaving little trace of their passing. No, the greatest victory Caltus could claim was in raising the people against the very idea of the droos, driving them even further into the shadows. It was probably this common cause that allowed him to seize power the way he did and build the foundations of the empire.

Caltus became Emperor Caltus the First, also known as Caltus the Bloody-Handed, Caltus the Red-Eyed, and Caltus the Priest-Killer. It's said that Caltus became completely obsessed with the droos and this eventually tipped him over the edge into madness. Some say the droos cursed him with his madness, but I think it's more likely that he was just terrified by them. He saw them in every shadowed corner, every quiet room. His very name Caltus the Red-Eyed comes from the fact that he was too terrified to sleep. This fear drove him to madness. He was convinced that the droos were behind all religion, that they controlled all of them from the shadows, and so he declared war on every one within his reach. For ten years, churches burned from one end of the empire to the other. Priests were hunted down with as much glee as the droos had been themselves.

Finally, after years of searching, his men rooted the droos out. A small gathering of tired old men and women hiding in huts in the woods. A greedy farmer with an empty purse had been supplying them with grain for their animals and he sold information about their whereabouts to Caltus's agents.

It was a dark business, but they were butchered almost to a man one night, under the full moon, while Caltus hid in his fortress and huddled under his blankets. Only one of the droos was allowed to live and he was dragged back to Caltus and thrown before him in chains. Caltus sat quivering on his gilded throne, staring at this bedraggled old man, who wore only a thin, grey robe and the chains he'd been bound in. Caltus's men demanded to know the location of the treasures of the droos, because none would believe that over centuries of power that they'd hoarded nothing. The old man lay on the cold stones and said nothing, though they beat him and kicked at him with savage blows.

Finally, Caltus gave the order. and they dragged the droos to chambers far below and had at him with glowing coals and spikes of iron, until he screamed out into the night. Not a word about their treasures did he utter, though. In disgust, Caltus had him brought before his throne one last time and demanded himself to know the nature of their treasure.

The droos pulled himself up onto his knees and stared Caltus in the eye, shaking slightly from his pains, but showing no fear or deference. “You wish to know the nature of the treasure of the droos, small king?” He cackled, as blood ran from his wounds and his eyes fought to close.

“Yes!” cried Caltus. “I demand it!”

“You sit upon it, foolish man.” The droos laughed, and then bent double with a hacking cough, as Caltus screamed at him to make his meaning clear.

“This whole world was our treasure, you fool,” the droos wheezed, as he lay upon the stone floor. “The treasure of all mankind. We guarded it against a foe more terrible than you.”

Caltus was enraged. He grabbed a sword from one of his guardsmen and drove it down into the old man's back, twisting and wrenching the blade to force the droos to speak. The droos didn't seem to even notice the pain though, and laughed and howled on the floor. “Spent your life searching for a treasure you already had, and then worked to hand it to an enemy you never knew,” cackled the pitiful man. Then, bright blood boiled from his mouth and he dropped dead at Red-Eye's feet.”

Samen looked around slowly, meeting each pair of eyes briefly before moving on and catching another. “Some say that was the end of the droos right there. Others say they never existed, that they are just creatures from a tale. That they're stories designed to scare children in the night, like the tales of the fae. But then, there are others who say the droos had a terrible secret, and that they are out there still, hidden away in the dark places of the world, watching, and waiting.”

He drained his glass in one slow, deliberate motion and rose to his feet, his hand grasping at his stick. Weaving amongst the tables, Samen fought the urge to smile, as questions flew at him like stones, as he made his way to the door and out into the night. The inn came slowly back to life in his wake, conversations starting slowly and quietly, as if its patrons were waking from a deep sleep.

“He may be a miserable old sot, but he does spin a good tale,” Khorin offered to Devin, as he lifted his drink and peered mournfully in at the dregs. He looked at the young man's tankard. “You going to drink that? We ought to be heading back soon.”

Devin looked at his ale and was surprised to find it almost untouched. He was not a big drinker, mostly through lack of opportunity, but when Khorin bought him a drink, it didn't usually sit in the cup for long. He took a long drink, savouring the malty taste as his eyes roamed around the, now noisy, taproom.

“She's grown into a pretty one, I'll give you that. I'd not want to take on her father, though,” Khorin said to him softly. Devin realised he'd been staring unseeing at Erinn, who sat with her father across the room. “I wasn't. I mean, I don't think of her like that. We're just friends. Really,” Devin protested, as Khorin smiled at him, clearly not believing a word of it. Devin drank deeply, hoping the tankard would hide the deep blush on his cheeks, and then caught Erinn smiling back at him from across the room.

“Are you sure she knows that?” Khorin asked slyly, and laughed as Devin coughed and spluttered into his cup.

***

It moved with caution now, on its graceful hooves, as it stalked towards the farmstead. The satyr stopped and sniffed the air every few steps, licking its lips often with its long, dark tongue before moving on. It moved in a curious fashion, inspecting the windows and the brass door hinges, and looking closely at the lintel above the doorway. It circled the cottage three times, still grinning wildly, before returning to the front door. An old iron ring set into the dark oak served as a knocker and the creature hissed at it, as if fearing it might bite. It grasped hold of it with both hands and wrenched at it forcefully. Its face twisted in pain, as a bright blue light flared from between its hands, accompanied by a faint hissing noise. With a tortured squeal, the nails tore out of the wood and the knocker came free. The sudden force was enough to bowl the creature over backwards, and the knocker came down and landed on its chest.

With a scream of pain and fury, it batted the iron ring aside, for once heedless of the noise it was making. The cry was high and visceral, like the cry of an owl in the night or a cat fighting. There was another element to it, however, something primeval which spoke eloquently of fury and blood and hurt. The sound carried well in the still night and the animals, still penned in the barn, began to panic at the noise, crashing against their pens and crying out in the inky blackness inside the barn.

***

Hannah didn't mind when Khorin and Devin went to the inn together of an evening. It was nice to see them spending some time together. Devin had changed as he'd grown older, all boys do. He'd changed in different ways, though. He'd always had a guarded way about him, ever since Khorin had first brought him home. It was as if he was never quite sure how what he said would be taken, and if there might be consequences. As he'd become a young man, he'd become more sullen, but then this was the way of boys the world over. He'd also become adept at avoiding his chores and helping Khorin with the farm work, but this also was no different to any of the lads in the village.

No, it was something almost indefinable. He looked at people just that little bit too long, gauged their reactions just that little bit too carefully. It wasn't that he seemed to be scared of the responses to anything he said, it was more as if he simply didn't understand how people would take things. As if he didn't truly understand people at all.

So it was nice when they went off to the inn together. She could have gone along of course, but that wouldn't have been the same for them and this way, they could both be that little bit more foolish and free. That said, it was definitely time they were back now. It had been dark outside for a good few hours and the snow was coming down hard. She'd sat for a time in her favourite chair in the corner, sewing in the light of the fire, but it had mostly died down now. She felt little inclined to put more wood on it this late at night.

She looked around the darkened room and decided it was high time she went off to bed. If the fool men wanted to traipse home through the snow in the middle of the night, then let them! She laughed to herself at the image of them trying to get into the house and up the stairs whilst being quiet. They never drank too much, but they were incapable of not waking her. She was a light sleeper anyway, but the whispered conversations on the stairs were enough to make her split her sides as she lay under the blankets, pretending to still be asleep.

She left the fire to die on its own and lit a small hand lamp. Little more than stub of candle on a mounting really, but it would light her way. She could have made her way around the cottage with her eyes closed, of course, but she'd never been fond of the dark. Not that she'd ever have admitted that to either Khorin or Devin. Give them something to tease you about and they were on you like a terrier on a rat. She went up the stairs, stopping after two or three steps. A cup of tea might be just the thing. She smiled as she made her way down into the kitchen, lighting the lamps from her candle's flame. The stove was still hot, not hot enough to boil a kettle full, but enough that she would be able to boil a cup's worth. She busied herself with cup, water and kettle and went into the pantry for the tea leaves.

A sudden noise from the barn stopped her. The animals were hardly ever this loud. The goat, in particular, was making a frantic bleating. She muttered to herself and glanced through the window. The snow was still coming down hard. Fetching a thick fur-lined cloak from a peg by the door, she lit a large, heavy oil lantern and opened the door to the darkness. The barn was only a two minute walk from the house but it always felt longer at night. She huddled against the snow and cursed herself for not putting on boots. Her slippers were covered in snow already and, really, what was the point in grabbing a cloak if you walked out in felt slippers? She scuttled to the barn quickly and wrenched open the side door, hanging up the lantern on the hook and shutting the door against the weather.

“What's all this noise about, then?” she asked, in a soothing tone. She didn't feel like soothing, she felt like bed. Shouting at animals rarely soothes them though, so she worked to keep her voice calm, low and even. She looked quickly around the barn but could see nothing amiss. She popped some oats in for the horses, and made sure the goats and sheep had plenty of hay. She even tossed some food to the ducks. “No reason you should miss out is, there?” she said softly, then wondered why she was almost whispering. “Right, you lot, no more noise tonight. Understood?” With that, she stepped out into the snow.

***

The satyr shrunk back against the wall, as the human slipped and slid her way to the barn. Even under the covering of snow and the heavy cloak, there was no mistaking the scent of human female. The smell almost overwhelmed it for a moment. It had been so long since it had touched the flesh of a woman. It shook its head violently, dislodging snow from the thick hair on its head, and fought down the urge to chase after the woman and take her where she stood. It moved up to the side of the cottage and pushed open the door. The smell of iron was stronger in here, but not as strong as it remembered. The kitchen stank of it, the stench of iron and fire grating at its nose. It could spot the hateful items from the small hallway.

Forcing itself, it moved into the long, low kitchen. The firebox was solid iron and hot, at that. The satyr grimaced and muttered. There was a counter against one wall, under the window and a rack of knives stood close to the sink with its simple pump. The smell was less. The satyr cocked its head, confused. Knives, but not the stench of iron. It moved quickly to the rack and plucked out a long carving knife, the steel shining brightly in the lamplight. The satyr stared at the metal. Gingerly, it reached out a finger and touched the steel, flinching in anticipation. The hard, dark nail scraped down the length of the knife and the satyr laughed in delight. It reached out and licked the blade and then laughed even harder, tossing the knife away. Playing a trill on its flute, it danced and twirled in a joyful caper.

The barn door slammed in the wind and the sound brought the creature to attention. Fixing its gaze on the window, it cocked its head and turned its ear to the glass. A slow smile spread over its lips, as it tucked the flute back into its belt next to the long bone knives.

***

Hannah pushed the barn door shut and scurried to the house, eager to be inside and warm. That cup of tea was even more appealing now. She stumbled in through the door, a tangle of cloak and lantern. Kicking off her frozen slippers, she danced her feet on the rug by the door, trying to force some heat into her toes from the friction.

The smell hit her like a wave. An overwhelming scent of musk. She smiled a wicked smile. Khorin must have got back while she was in the barn. She hoped Devin was already in bed. The scent was giving her ideas already. Tossing her cloak carelessly on the floor and primping her hair with one hand, she went in search of him.

She made her way into the kitchen and stopped dead. The man was tall, dark-haired and definitely not Khorin. Other than that, the features were indistinct but the sheer presence of him was intense. She didn't scream, she didn't start at the sight of him. She couldn't care less who he was. He was here and Khorin was not.

He smiled broadly and walked confidently towards her. By all that is holy, even the way he moves is sensual! She smiled a shy smile, but there was nothing shy about the way she moved to meet him. He gathered her up in strong arms and she met his kiss fiercely, gasping for air.

“We must be quick. My husband,” she managed to gasp, before his mouth found her lips again. She buried her hand in his dark hair, caressing the horns on his head. She stiffened in his arms. Horns? He nibbled on her neck lightly, painting a portrait of lust with his lips, and she was lost again.

They stumbled about the kitchen, crashing from one surface to another in a drunken dance of passion. He threw her back against the work surface, strong hands roaming over her body and tearing at her dress. She grinned and gasped with equal measure, as he ran a calloused hand up her thigh, and they sank sideways to the hard stone floor in front of the stove.

“Please!” she gasped. It was half request, half order, her mind lost in the passion, in the scent! He moved above her and they rolled slightly towards the stove. A violent shudder ran through his body and he screamed, a shockingly animalistic sound, as he threw himself away from her. A stink of scorched fur suddenly filled the kitchen. He frantically brushed blue sparks from his arm, where it had touched the base of the iron woodstove. Hannah shook her head as if waking, pressed her hands to her cheeks and screamed.

The man was gone and in his place stood a creature out of legend and nightmare. Slightly shorter than Devin, it had the hooves and legs of a goat, and a thin covering of fur. A dark beard covered its chin and two small horns peeked out from the curly hair atop its head. It glared at her as she screamed and made a strange motion with one hand. A look of confusion crossed its face as nothing happened.

Hannah stood paralysed with shock until the creature reached behind it and pulled out a long, intricately carved knife from the leather belt that crossed its chest. The weapon was a dull yellow colour and she would have wondered at it, had she not been so terrified. She looked wildly from side to side for anything she could use as a weapon, but she was pressed almost up against the stove and all of the knives were on the counter by the window. She felt down and behind her blindly, her eyes fixed on the creature as it moved slowly towards her, grinning.

Her fingertips touched a rod of some kind and her hand closed around it even as the monster sprang at her. She grabbed and swung blindly, and the poker slammed into the side of the creature's face. She would have screamed anyway from the sheer terror of the situation, but she was not expecting the explosion of blue sparks that came from the side of the beast's face. It flew across the kitchen, smashing to the floor, as if she'd stuck it with a sledgehammer rather than an iron poker.

The poker was shaking in her trembling hands, but she clung to it desperately with both fists. The creature rolled slowly and came to its feet. Its face was charred on one side, but its eyes were ablaze with hate, glowing amber in the lamplight. It raised the knife again and she lifted the poker in response. Its swarthy face paled at that, and it turned and bolted for the door, its hooves clattering on the flagstone floor.

She followed, slowly enough to maintain a distance, but fast enough to watch it flee through the door and into the night. Then, and only then, did she allow herself to sink to the floor, wrap her arms around her knees and sob like a broken child.

Chapter Nine

Winter hit the village hard, leaping from the shadows whilst some were lulled into complacency by the gentle embrace of autumn. It seemed that hardly had the golden autumn apples been harvested when the first snows fell. The wind howled down from the hills and the little collection of cottages seemed to huddle together against the cold.

Devin shuffled through the snow, bundled down in thick, heavy furs, as he dragged the sled towards the door of the cottage. It was heavily loaded with wood and, though he'd tried to move smoothly, he already knew he'd have to make another trip to retrieve the logs that had fallen off on the journey from the barn.

The day was bright but the sun seemed to do nothing about the cold. It seemed cruel that the light provided no heat, but yet reflected so blindingly off the snow. The snow had frozen overnight and hadn't softened during the day at all. A thin crust of ice crystals lying on top of the frosty crust tore loose in the wind, flying at his face like a thousand tiny daggers. He cursed into the scarf covering his mouth and held up one mitten-clad hand against the wind, as he unloaded the wood into the bin, and began to trek back for the rest of the logs.

Thankfully, the snow wasn't deep, just four or five inches. Widdengate only ever seemed to receive either a light dusting, like this one, or a foot or more in one night. In either event, it was a rare thing and Devin was usually glad to see it, until he had to go out into it.

He was thoroughly frozen by the time he had stomped his way down the steps and into the cottage. He paused only long enough to kick the worst of the snow from his boots, before slamming the door hard behind him. He stripped off the furs, soaking in the heat from the woodstove. Water was already pooling around his feet and he looked around for a cloth to wipe it up with. He had just walked across the kitchen towards the sink and pump when shouting from above froze him in his tracks.

“It was not a dream, Khorin!” Hannah's voice, harsh and brittle, filtered down the stairs. “You don't wake up from a dream huddled in the hallway with half your clothes torn off, as your husband comes in.”

He couldn't make out Khorin's response, but his tone was clear enough, frustration and helplessness. Devin silently rebuked himself for listening in. He wrenched open the inside door of the woodbin to pull out a single log and then slammed it closed. The voices above stopped immediately. He stripped the rest of his furs off in silence, listening as the footsteps crossed the room and made their way down the stairs.

He stood beside the woodstove awkwardly as he listened to Khorin approach. He'd spent too many years for him not to know the man's footfall in the little cottage.

“You heard?” Khorin said, in a soft voice. It was not a question really, just words to fill the silence. Devin turned and shrugged awkwardly, meeting his eyes fleetingly before his gaze slipped away. There was too much hurt and confusion in those eyes.

“She's going to take a nap,” Khorin said, but they both knew it was a lie. Hannah hadn't really left the bedroom in days. She came down long enough to do what was required, but soon drifted away, back to the room that she seemed to regard as her refuge.

“Is she going to come to the festival?” Devin looked at the man who had become his father, and really saw him. Saw through the front that Khorin put on for the sake of those around him. He looked old and tired. Helpless.

“I doubt it, lad. She's not much in the mood for dances and music.” Khorin sighed as he moved to put the kettle over the stove.

“Will you?” Devin asked, with a lump in his throat. The whole cottage felt strained at the moment.

Khorin was silent as he put the heavy kettle in place. “I'm not really much in the mood for it myself, Devin,” he said finally, in an odd voice.

“I think you ought to, Khorin. You need a break, even if she won't come. Give her some space and get out yourself.” He spoke firmly, not really thinking about where the advice was coming from.

Khorin gave him a quick appraising look. “I forget how big you're getting sometimes.” He gave a sad little laugh. “Life is passing me by while I'm busy fretting about things I can't fix.” He looked Devin in the eyes. “You're right. It's good advice and I will try. It'll probably be later than most, but I'll be there, lad.”

“I'm going to head over early.” Devin advised. “Kainen wants me to give him a hand with the fires to get the place warm enough.”

Khorin gave him a confused look. “The inn's never been cold that I've noticed?”

“It's not at the inn, Khorin.” He shot older man a concerned look. “It's in the church hall, where Trallen runs the school. It's been the talk of the village for a week or more.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I've had other things on my mind.” Khorin grunted, his gaze flickering to the stairs and then back to Devin. “Well, you go on then. I'll find my own way there a bit later on.”

The church had taken months to build, but the hall beside it seemed to have sprung up almost overnight. It was an odd fusion of a building, built with excess stone from the church, and finished off with sturdy timbers and thatch. Devin and Kainen came to a stop beside the large building, each grabbing an armful of wood before hurrying in out of the cold.

The hall was busy with children working to hang holly boughs and decorations fashioned from pine cones. Maryanne stood in the centre of the hall like a tiny general, as she directed children and men alike. Her breath steamed from her lips in the cold air.

She turned as they crashed in through the doors. “Oh, finally!” she said, with obvious relief. “Get the main fire going first and then we'll see about the others.”

The hall had an open fireplace, which was easier to light than a woodstove, if less effective at heating the place. They set to work, with Kainen splitting off kindling while Devin carried in the rest of the logs. Within ten minutes, a large fire was burning and the room was beginning to warm.

Maryanne worked them all mercilessly, ignoring most of the calls for breaks or drinks, as she arranged the decorations, tables and food. Lanterns were strung from the beams in the ceiling and the cold, shadowy hall was transformed under her direction.

The food began to arrive soon after, and it seemed every time Devin and Kainen returned with more wood to stack in the corner, another delicious smell filled the chamber. A clattering outside announced the arrival of Owen with casks of ale and wine, and the two lads were again pressed into service, rolling the large barrels into the hall as Owen gossiped in the doorway.

A whole ox was set to roast over a large iron trough, filled with glowing coals from the fire, and a host of children took it in turn to be in charge of working the handle to the spit. In spite of the strange atmosphere at home, Devin started to relax and the excitement of the festival began to build in him. Winter was a miserable season and the folk in the village had little or nothing to do but endure it. It was more than just the cold, although that was bad enough. It was the endless slog of making sure there was enough dry, split wood for the fire. It was the sheer effort of dressing in enough furs to keep the cold at bay while you worked. It was the dark evenings that seemed to start almost before the day was half over, and countless other small things that combined to make life hard work. Everyone looked forward to the Midwinter dance. It was more than just a recognition that half of the winter had passed. It was a day to forget the strain of the season and allow yourself to relax.

Devin flopped down into a chair and grinned at Kainen across the table. “I reckon your Ma is busy enough now not to notice if we take a few minutes.”

“I don't think she ever gets busy enough not to notice, but I'm sitting down anyway,” Kainen laughed. He looked around at the transformed hall. “It does look good though, doesn't it?”

Devin admired the hall. “It does. It feels a bit weird with it being in here instead of at your place, though.”

“Don't let Da' hear you saying that.” Kainen glanced about quickly. “He's been grousing for a week about how much of a pain it's going to be to drag all the ale over and everything else. Says it won't be the same.”

“It wasn't really all that much bother, though, was it?” Devin looked over at the barrels piled in the corner next to the table, which was already covered in cups. The innkeeper stood behind the table, handing drinks to villagers thirsty from a day's work under his wife's direction.

“I don't think so, no. He's still sore about the morris, I think,” Kainen replied, in a soft voice.

“Where is Trallen, anyway?” Devin asked, as his eyes searched over the hall.

“Bothering his Lord still, I expect,” Kainen muttered darkly.

“Still not his biggest fan, then?” Devin asked, his eyes still wandering over the growing crowd. The hall was filling quickly, as more and more villagers stamped their way in from the cold, brushing off the snow, and piling their cloaks and furs on chairs near the doorway.

“It's alright for you. The shine soon wore off for your Ma. I get dragged along every Setday to listen to him ramble on.” His face twisted into a sour expression. “They've started singing now. Did you know that? Singing!”

Devin knew better than to laugh, but Kainen was not making it easy. He stifled what they both knew was not a cough, and made a show of looking around the hall.

“There are some things different though,” Kainen said. “The Midwinter's Wreath is missing, for one.”

Devin turned to look where his friend pointed. He hadn't even noticed the easternmost wall was bare where the huge wreath fashioned of fir, holly and pine cones should have been hanging. “What are the girls going to bow to then?” he wondered aloud.

“Don't know if they even will.” Kainen muttered. “Trallen's been all over Ma about this. Look, there he is now.” He pointed through the growing crowd at the black-robed priest, who was speaking earnestly to Maryanne with a concerned expression.

Devin chuckled. “At least someone else is getting an earful this time. I think it's about time we got a drink, don't you? This place is starting to fill up.”

The table that served as a bar was busy and it took some time for them to both get a drink. They settled back down at their table just as the music started. Samen was perched on a stool at the end of the hall, working his fiddle, with two other villagers on flute and bodhran, and the music soared.

Devin watched, grinning as the doors opened at the end of the hall and the girls filed in. The village girls were dressed identically in dresses which flared at the waist. Their close-fitting black and green tops should have been enough to draw the eye, but instead your eye was drawn to the dark woodland green skirts with the flash of berry red. Whirling around in the complex dance, they resembled nothing more than boughs of holly whisking about the room.

The girls' dance carried on for three or four minutes when the music paused and they stopped as one to bow to the empty eastern wall, though more than one of them shot a confused look at Samen. Then the tune started up again and the girls took another turn around the room, before spinning off into the crowd and searching for partners to pull in.

Devin sat grinning at the spectacle and almost missed Erinn in her midwinter's gown twirling towards him. She flashed him a mischievous smile and he stood uncertainly, before reaching out for the hand she offered. Suddenly, a large body shoved its way rudely between the two of them and Artor took her hand.

“I think the lady needs a man tonight, not a little squirrel hunter.” He laughed and led Erinn onto the floor. She shot him an apologetic glance and then was gone.

“Utter bastard!” Devin exploded, in a combination of shock and anger, as he sank back into the chair. He turned to look at Kainen, but the chair was empty. Then, he caught a glimpse of him being whirled around the floor by Karren. Kainen wore a slightly startled expression, but was clearly enjoying himself. Devin swore and finished his drink in two long swallows. He glanced over at Kainen again, muttered to himself and then finished his friend's cup too.

Trallen was furious about something by the looks of things, red-faced and gesticulating wildly as he spoke with Kainen's mother. It was only then that Devin realised that the morris had indeed been cut out of the festivities. The girls should have danced around the four men in the centre of the room, who would be dancing their own steps and clashing the large iron staves. He was surprised to find that he did actually miss it. Tipping the last drips of Kainen's ale into his mouth, he made his way to the bar. The line was long and the music had stopped by the time he made it to the front and refilled the wooden cups.

He weaved his way through the crowd, heading back to their table. He was looking more at the level of the ale than where he was going, in an effort not to spill it, so he didn't spot her until he was almost on top of her.

“Sorry about that, Devin,” Erinn said with a smile. “He's hard to say no to sometimes, but I promise to come and find you before the night is out.” She was truly stunning. The dark forest green of her dress served to make her hair stand out even more. He gaped at her for a second, until her wry smile forced him to speak before she laughed.

“I was surprised to see you with him after...well...you know?” Now what had made him say that? He silently kicked himself for spoiling the opportunity, as the smile slipped from her face.

“Well, he's just a little jealous, I think. It wasn't anything I couldn't handle, you know?” she replied as her face coloured at the memory.

Devin certainly did not know, and doubted Artor would have stopped if he hadn't come along, but he had successfully killed the moment. He muttered a meaningless goodbye as Erinn nodded at him, and slipped away into the throng. He doubted he'd be dancing with her at all now.

“Stupid bloody fool,” he whispered to himself, as he made his way through to the table. Kainen sat with Karren on his knee, her arms wrapped around his neck. Devin caught the pointed look Kainen shot him as he approached and he set his friend's ale on the edge of the table, before making his way back into the crowd. The night was not working out at all as he had expected. The fire and the sheer number of people in the hall had made it uncomfortably warm, and he was suddenly desperate for some fresh air. He fought through the crowd and stepped out into the night air with relief.

There was a small group of men outside. Samen and the musicians drank ale and laughed loudly, as they sucked smoke through hand-whittled pipes. The night was clear and the stars shone brightly over the snow, lending a cold light that showed the village in shades of midnight blue and grey.

He stood and enjoyed the cold as he drank his ale in silence, ignoring the door as people came and went. It was with some surprise that he noticed that Samen and his men had gone back inside, and he was alone. He drank down the last of the malty ale and was about to go back in, when the door opened and Artor stepped out. He stopped as he saw Devin and an arrogant smile spread over his face.

“Sorry about taking her away from you like that,” the dark-haired man said, with a smile which showed very plainly that he wasn't sorry at all.

Devin grunted and moved to step past him, but Artor stopped him with a hand on his chest. “You need to stay away from her though, boy.” The arrogant sneer was back on his face and Devin clenched his fist tightly. That look had always made him want to smash it off the miller's son's face.

“Why is that, then?” he said, feigning ignorance.

“Because she's mine and you'd do well to remember that.” Artor took a half step towards him, so he towered over him.

“She's not a sheep, Artor,” Devin said, putting as much scorn into his voice as he could muster. “Though that might be more your type.” He barely had time to realise just how stupid that remark was, when Artor's fist drove into his stomach. Devin staggered back from the blow into the side of the porch and doubled over, wheezing as he tried to force his lungs to work. The next blow caught him high on the cheek and his head crashed back into the wooden beam supporting the side of the porch. He slumped to the ground, as his head spun and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

“You're nothing but a child.” The distant voice was scathing, but Devin couldn't focus on it. By the time he had come to, he was alone. The snow underneath him was starting to melt and soak through his clothes and his face felt three times its usual size. He pulled himself to his feet and probed at his face, his fingertips coming away smeared with blood. He wasn't about to let anyone see him in this condition. He spat blood into the snow and prodded his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Scooping up a handful of fresh snow to press to his face, he lurched off into the dark towards the edge of the village and the path home.

***

The morning was cold and a thick frost lay on the ground. The pale, winter sun shone onto the grass and leaves, throwing a thousand sparkles back. It was a beautiful sight in its own way, if there had been anyone to see it. The frost covered the stones too, highlighting designs and whirls in them which would probably have been invisible otherwise. Even then it would be obvious to any observer that the marks were ancient. That once they had been carved deep into the stone, and that hundreds of generations of wind, rain and ice had scoured them down to make them this faint.

Inside the cottage the old man sat staring into the fire. The fireplace had been stacked high with wood at one point, but this had burned down to ruddy embers and a few stubborn chunks of charred wood, with the flame licking tiredly at the ends. He sat in a well-worn wooden rocker, possibly the only thing in the cottage that could have been classed as a luxury by even the most generous of observers.

A long clay pipe poked from his mouth and the man sucked on it sporadically, not noticing that it had either gone out some time ago, or had never been lit in the first place.

“Footprints,” he muttered quietly to himself.

He'd felt the weakening, of course. How could he not have? The ritual was such a part of his life now, after a lifetime of walking the path, that he felt every ripple and push. He'd felt it weaken with every passing year, even as he'd felt his own body age. There was a perverse symmetry in that, but it had increased over the past few years. He pulled himself to his feet and threw a thick woollen cloak over his rust-stained robes. Stamping out of the door, he decided to forego the frost-covered iron staff and he made his way out to the centre of the stone circle, following his own footprints in the frost.

He stared at the ground with a sour expression and chewed the errant wisps of his white-streaked beard. Kneeling, despite the cold, he brought his face closer to the footprint and sniffed at it gently. It was as clear as if it had been made in potter's clay. A perfect footprint. A single cloven hoof print.

He stood again and moved back to view the whole scene. The footprints began beside the hubstone, that was the rub. He'd had a hundred deer in here over the years, but their prints didn't look quite the same. His own goat had even got loose one time and the shock had nearly killed him when he had seen a thousand hoof prints leading back and forth across the glade.

The prints started about a foot from the stone and made their way directly to the cottage, circling it two or three times. Here and there, he could see faint scorch marks on the now frost-covered ground, where iron spikes protruded from the dirt. Hard enough to see in the day, they'd be almost impossible to spot in the dark, even for one of that kind.

He wasn't overly concerned. The Wyrde wasn't perfect and never had been. There had always been the odd one or two slip through between full and new moons. They'd never approached the cottage before, though. The staff beside the door was usually enough to deter them. In all his time at the glade, it'd only happened half a dozen times. He laughed a mirthless chuckle as the memory of the first time bubbled up from the hidden corners of his mind. He'd sat huddled in the cottage, feeling it move back and forth around the clearing before it dashed into the woods.

Inside his head, a pressure was growing as the Wyrde continued to fail. He'd felt it weaken over the years, though he had no idea why. The pressure increased at every full moon and he could almost feel them pushing, pressing, fighting to get free. It only lasted from the full moon until the new and then it ebbed, until the moon grew full and it began again.

The piteous bleating of the goat stirred him to action, and he opened the door to the barn and made his way inside. Tossing hay into the goat's pen, he looked into the animal's black eyes. “You saw it, didn't you, girl?” he said softly. “You saw our little visitor, hmm?” The goat didn't answer. She was far too busy with the hay and, in truth, she seldom had much to say anyway.

He went about his business in the barn mechanically, feeding the animals and giving them fresh water from the barrel in the corner. It wasn't until he turned to leave that he noticed the knife embedded in the door.

He moved towards it, holding his breath despite himself. It was made from horn, but then it would be. Beautifully carved, with a long curved blade and a hilt fashioned into the shape of intertwined roses, it had been rammed in with terrific force, sticking a full two inches into the thick wood of the door. He touched it briefly with his fingertips and felt the cold suck the heat from his hand. For just the faintest second, he could smell the rich red wine and hear the wild flutes. He tore his hand away, biting down hard onto his lip.

He paced back and forth, ignoring the occasional stares from the animals. “We'd tell someone, wouldn't we?” he asked the goat. “But who is there left to tell?”

Finally, he pushed his way out of the barn and made his way back to the cottage, where he rummaged through cupboards until he found parchment and ink. The ink was solid, of course. It hadn't been touched in a decade. The man swore and poked at the crumbling remnants with the end of a quill for a moment. He sighed and fetched a small bowl and knife, setting them on the table. He made a quick cut in one forearm, hissing at the pain, and held the small wound over the bowl as the blood began to drip. Then, dipping the pen in the fresh blood, he began to write in a tiny, cramped hand.

An hour later, he stood out in the glade once more. His arm freshly bandaged and hanging loosely by his side, as he watched the speck that was all that was visible of the bird fly out over the trees. He sighed a forlorn sigh and made his way over to retrieve the iron staff. Then, with a meticulous care he hadn't shown in years, he began to trace the path around the stones that formed the core of the ritual.

***

Winter passed uneventfully and gave way to an early spring. The ground began to thaw weeks before anyone really expected it. The river rose and lapped teasingly at its banks, but the light snows meant the spring thaw was not enough for it to burst them.

Devin hacked again at the ground with the pick and swore. The ground was still half-frozen and he was having a hard time making much of a dent in it. Hannah had insisted that it be done, however, and so he stood in the vegetable garden, vainly trying to turn the earth. He wasn't, it must be said, trying especially hard. The ground also wasn't, if he was honest, really all that frozen. He wanted to make the point though and he'd felt her eyes on him several times from the windows of the cottage.

It wasn't that he was deliberately deceitful. He just firmly believed that effort ought to be recognised, and if that meant slightly exaggerating the levels of effort required for a task, then that is what he would do. He'd never dream of trying it with Khorin, however. The grizzled farmer would laugh in his face and tell him to stop being so wet. Devin had learned the hard way that, given the choice, a day spent working at Hannah's chores was infinitely preferable to a day spent working with Khorin. Unless it was in the woods, of course. Some things never changed and he would still find any excuse to be under the trees.

He cast the pick aside and took up the spade, stabbing down hard and ramming the blade home with his booted foot, before turning the earth over. The wind was picking up and he decided it was time to start putting some effort in. He stabbed it down into the earth again and then turned, as the voice came over the fieldstone wall.

“What did that patch ever do to you?” Kainen asked. Winter had been good to him and he'd finally started to fill out. His gangly appearance had been muted slightly by the addition of five or six pounds.

“It's not the dirt I'm worried about,” Devin said, with a nod towards the kitchen window.

Kainen nodded in understanding. “Do you think you can sneak away for a time?”

“Sneak?” Devin laughed. “From Hannah? Are you serious?”

“Good point. There's not much chance of it, is there?” Kainen leaned heavily against the wall and looked over the vegetable plot. “It looks like you've a fair amount of work here to do. I hope the soldiers haven't moved on by the time you've finished.”

“Soldiers? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, didn't I mention it?” Kainen said, with feigned innocence. “There's a great troop of soldiers making their way along the road.”

“What would they want to come here for?” Devin looked across the fields towards the village, as if he could see through the slight hill that blocked his view.

“Who knows? But they've got men on horseback, as well as walking troops.”

“You mean infantry and cavalry,” Devin corrected him.

“Whatever.” Kainen dismissed him with a waved hand. “Mounted troops, infantry, and huge carts of tools and stone. Wherever they're going, they're building something big there. In the meantime, though, they're coming here.” He looked meaningfully at the vegetable plot and grinned evilly. “Shame you're tied up here.”

“Bastard,” Devin muttered.

“Well, I can't stand around here talking to you all day.” Kainen gave him a calculating look. “I wanted someone to talk to, but then I'm sure Erinn will be there, alone, looking at all the soldiers. Did I mention she'd be alone?”

Devin cursed and dropped the spade. “A real friend would have just helped me dig the garden out, you know?”

“You're right. You know, you really ought to see if you can find one of those,” Kainen called back over his shoulder, as he walked away. Devin swore again and hopped over the wall.

The soldiers were visible from the top of the small rise near Devin's cottage. Though Widdengate proper was a good twenty minutes away, the line of men and carts was easily visible. Kainen and Devin walked towards the village, speculating about where the troops were heading, and then watched as they established a large camp just outside of the village itself.

Erinn wasn't easy to miss. Her red hair stood out like a beacon against the dark green grass of the freshly born spring. The tall man behind her, with his arms wrapped possessively around her, was also hard to miss but for different reasons.

Devin stopped in his tracks and looked at Kainen. “That's never Artor with her?” His words were both an incredulous question and a disbelieving statement.

“Apparently,” muttered Kainen, busy looking at the soldiers. Devin shook his head silently and began walking again into the village.

“You're not truly still sweet on her?” Kainen gave his friend a calculating look.

“No!” Devin's face coloured as he glowered. “Just don't see what she sees in the dumb lummox.”

“No, I know what you mean. He's not my type either,” Kainen said, shooting a grin at the boy beside him, but the smile dropped from his face when Devin ignored it. “Look, Devin, she made herself clear at Midwinter, didn't she?”

“How's that, then?” Devin replied sourly.

“She's made her choice, is all,” Kainen said with a shrug.

“He's not good enough for her.” Devin said, with a rough edge to his voice.

“Probably not,” Kainen admitted, with an honesty that he wouldn't have shown had there been anyone else there to listen. “I expect he'll fall foul of Harlen soon enough, anyway.”

Devin grinned as he imagined what the barrel-chested smith would do to the arrogant miller's son if he caught him hurting his only daughter.

The soldiers were dressed in the dark blue and green of Duke Freyton. Devin gawked as they marched past in an orderly fashion. Rank after rank of men clad in hard boiled leather, and shining plate on their arms, legs and chests. A sword or spear, shield and gleaming helm finished off each uniform and Devin couldn't help but be impressed. He watched for a while, as they moved in groups of fifty or so and were directed to a clear area to make camp. He and Kainen ambled closer, looking on as the arriving men quickly stacked their weapons and worked together to erect white tents. Another group of men was busy digging latrines and the boys faltered as they were met with flat, unfriendly stares from the men.

“Hoy, you boys!” a tall man, with a slightly different uniform, called. “Be off with you!”

Turning quickly, the two made their way back to the road where they could gawk in peace.

“None too friendly, are they?” a deep voice rumbled from behind them, and they turned to find Harlen approaching the village green. “I expect they're just busy and don't want curious lads underfoot is all it is, though.”

“Why are they here? Who are they?” Devin asked, glancing back to the road, as a company of cavalry arrived in a flurry of hooves.

“Freyton's men,” Harlen grunted, folding his thick arms over his burn-scarred leather apron. “They're just passing through. I expect Samen would know more. He usually does. Would you two like a closer look, then?” He chuckled at their open mouths. “I ought to go and see if they need any work doing while they're here. You two can tag along, so long as you behave yourselves.” He held their gaze until they both nodded.

They followed in the red-bearded smith's wake, as he made his way through the growing encampment. Harlen led them to the long line of wagons being secured at the edge of the camp, in search of the quartermaster. The man wore a slightly more embellished uniform, with green flashes on his cloak and upper sleeves, to show his higher rank. He stood directing the wagons with one hand, whilst speaking from the corner of his mouth to two sergeants. He broke off as the trio approached and looked at Harlen appraisingly. “You'd be the village smith then,” he said, in greeting. “I'll probably have an order or two for you before the day's through, I expect.”

“Fair enough,” Harlen replied, reasonably. “Just don't leave it to the last minute. I don't like putting other things off, and I don't do rush jobs.”

“A man that does things properly. That's a rare thing, these days,” the quartermaster said, with approval. “Do you have a mayor or village council? The commander's going to want to talk to them later.”

“Not as such,” Harlen replied. “There's a council of sorts, which is the miller, the innkeeper, me, and one or two others. We make any decisions which need to be made. Why?”

“Orders from Freyton.” He pulled the helm from his head and scrubbed a hand through his black hair. Despite his young face, his hair was shot through with grey. “Do you think you could gather your council together for noon-hour?”

“I expect that could be arranged, if it's important enough,” Harlen grunted.

“Good man.” He held out his hand and Harlen engulfed it in his burn-scarred paw. “The name's Danner,” he said, as he gave a firm shake.

“Well met, Danner,” Harlen replied, a rare smile cracking his red-bearded face. “Harlen,” he added.

“Where shall we find you?”

“I reckon the inn's as good a place as any.” Harlen nodded towards the large building. Danner's smile looked odd on his hard-bitten face, as if it wasn't quite at home there. “That's an excuse I can work with. Noon-hour, then.”

“We'll be there. The innkeeper has a back room we can use.” Harlen nodded once and led the boys out of the camp. “Kainen, you go and let your father know we'll be needing his room,” he said, as they stopped by the inn. “Devin, you go down to the mill and let Cedril know what's going on too, would you?” With that the big man was gone without waiting for their replies.

Kainen watched the man walk away and turned to Devin. “Sounds like something major is happening.”

“I'd give a lot to be in this meeting,” Devin agreed, his eyes bright.

“That could be arranged, you know?” The innkeeper's son had a sly glint in his eye as a slow smile grew on his face.

“How?”

“Well, you run down to that mill and see Cedril. Assuming Artor doesn't find another excuse to pound on you, I'll let you know how when you get back.”

“Artor!” Devin's face showed his dismay at the prospect.

“Haven't you two made nice yet?” Kainen spat in disgust. “It's been two months now.”

“I haven't really been around him,” Devin said, trying to hide his embarrassment at being caught in childish behaviour.

“Of course you haven't.” Kainen didn't bother to soften his scathing tone. “It's too easy to sit and hate him from a distance, isn't it? What if he and Erinn end up together? What if they get married? Are you going to hate him then? She's one of your oldest friends, Devin.”

Devin kicked at the ground and tried hard to avoid the gangly man's eyes. “You're right. I know you're right. It's just...”

“Just what?”

“I don't know. It's just...does he have to be such a massive prick?” Devin asked plaintively. Kainen stared at him for a full five seconds before bursting into laughter. “I would recommend you don't mention that if you run into him.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” Devin said, dryly.

The mill was on the far side of the village due to the river. Wide and slow-moving, the waterway provided a strong, steady current, but it had burst its banks during more than one spring thaw. Whilst the mill itself was unlikely to be affected by this, the village was set back a ways from it for this very reason.

The great creaking mill wheel had always been a source of fascination and Devin reflected back on the numerous afternoons the three of them had sat watching it turn ponderously as the current drove it. It took him twenty minutes to walk there, his speed not especially helped by his lack of enthusiasm.

Millers don't tend to be a popular people and Cedril fulfilled every stereotype. Devin found the fat man shaking out sacks beside the set of wooden stairs that led up into the structure. He was drenched in sweat, despite the chill in the air. There was a broad, moist line down the back of the thin shirt he wore and large damp patches under his arms. The cloth was sticking to his skin and the fat pink flesh was clearly visible through the wet fabric. He jumped slightly as Devin approached, and scowled at being surprised.

“You're Khorin's foundling, aren't you? What do you want here, boy?” He scraped his thinning, mousy hair back from his forehead with one hand.

“Harlen sent me, sir,” Devin replied, as politely as he could, whilst trying not to openly grit his teeth.

“And?” The man had a whining, nasal tone to his voice that grated on Devin's nerves. Even if it weren't for his half insults and rude manner, Devin would have found it hard to like the man, based on his voice alone.

“There is a division of soldiers in the village. The commander wants to meet with the council at noon-hour at the inn,” Devin explained, wishing he wasn't quite so close to the sweaty man. “Harlen sent me to fetch you.”

“To fetch me?” Cedril's eyebrows rose. “What am I? A sheep wandered out from pasture? Fetch me indeed!”

“I apologize, sir. It was a poor choice of words on my part,” Devin backtracked. “I meant to say he sent me to let you know.”

“Hmmm,” the fat man frowned, trying to find something wrong with that. “I see. Well, you scurry back and let them know I'll be there.” He stomped his way up the wooden stairs, wheezing with each step.

Devin watched him go. The fat little man had annoyed him so much, he'd almost forgotten Kainen's plan to get them into the council meeting, although he had no idea how he would manage it.

“Devin?” a voice came from the long grass behind him, and he turned to see Artor walking towards him from the path to the village. He felt himself flush. Despite the fact that the fight they'd had at Midwinter had not been started by him, he still felt guilty for some reason. “What?” he managed, as evenly as he could.

“Did I hear you say something about a council meeting?”

“You might've done,” he grunted. Where his father was short and fat, Artor was dark and tall with a strong physique. Devin had speculated on his parentage more than once.

“Where are they holding it?” Artor asked, excitement shining in his dark eyes. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Devin forgot his awkwardness and surly attitude as he answered.

“At the inn,” he offered.

“I'd give a lot to be in that.” Artor grunted. “He's not likely to tell me anything.” He nodded towards the mill with a grimace. Devin smiled despite himself.

“I'm sure you'll find out soon enough,” he replied, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.

“What do you know?” Artor asked, suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Devin's face was a picture of innocence.

“Look, Devin, I know I was a bit of a swine to you at Midwinter,” Artor began. “I know we've never been friends really, but...” He walked down the steps to stand in front of Devin. “Erinn really likes you and maybe it's time we just moved past all this, hey?”

Devin looked up at the larger man and bit back a dozen responses. His hands fought to curl into fists. The miller's son was everything he despised. “Don't think I can help you there,” he said meeting Artor's eyes, and walked away towards the inn.

Kainen met him behind the main building of the inn and ushered him over to a quiet corner filled with barrels where the inn met the outbuildings. “They've all gone in already,” he advised, in hushed tones.

“So, what's this big secret then? How are we going to get in?” Devin said, in a hoarse whisper.

“We're not getting in,” Kainen explained. “We're getting under.” He grabbed one of the barrels and rolled it on its rim to move it to one side, motioning to Devin to do likewise. In a few short minutes, a low wooden hatch was revealed.

“We stopped using this a few years ago. It's too damp these days to store barrels in it for long,” he explained, as he struggled with the hatch. “It does go right under the back room though, so if we're quiet, we should be able to hear a bit.”

The cellar was low and Devin had to duck down to fit through the narrow hatch. He slid down the wooden ramp designed to accommodate the barrels of ale and into the darkness. Kainen followed, pulling the hatch closed behind him.

There was a soft scraping noise and a burst of sparks, as Kainen lit a small lantern, turning the flame low. It provided just enough light to show his face. He pressed his finger to his lips, calling for silence, and led the way through the cellar.

The damp was evident as they made their way through the gloom. A chill in the air and a slippery feel to the stones of the walls and wooden beams, which were enough to make them place their feet with extra caution. Noises filtered down from above, the footsteps loud enough to make Devin realise that a single noise made at the wrong time would have the two of them discovered.

Kainen led the way through the cellar, past disused racks that had once housed barrels and shaped shelves designed for wine bottles. He stopped close to the wall and pointed upwards, before cupping his ear.

They sat on the damp floor for a while and Devin began to wonder if they had wasted their time as he tried not to think about the possibility of rats. A loud set of footsteps made both of them look up and they came silently to their feet.

“Thank you all for coming together so quickly,” an unknown voice carried down through the floorboards. “I won't keep you for long. I just need to inform you of our orders from Duke Freyton.”

“It's no trouble, Commander,” Father Trallen said, his pompous voice carrying just as clearly.

“Why don't we all take a seat?” Owen said and a scraping of chairs and muted thumps accompanied their seating themselves around the large table. Devin had been around the rooms of the inn enough times to be able to picture the room they sat in. A simple chamber, dominated by a large circular table able to seat ten or twelve, it was probably originally intended for private functions, but it had little use beyond the council meetings these days.

“To business, then,” Harlen growled, as glass clinked and a liquid gurgled.

“As you probably know, the Bjornmen raids have worsened in recent years,” the commander began, to a rumble of assent. “The duke has ordered that we put in a relay of beacons leading in from the coast. They've proven effective to the south in Baron Rentrew's lands, so we've been sent to put them in place here, along with forts.”

“What does this have to do with us?” Cedril's voice was harsh and bordering on outright rudeness.

“That's hardly civil, Master Miller,” Father Trallen said, with a reproachful tone.

“Civil or not, this is building up to something and I doubt we'll like the smell of it,” Cedril snapped.

“Gentlemen, please!” Owen staved off the developing bickering. “Commander, please carry on.”

“We've been ordered to put in a beacon tower on the hill near your village,” the commander explained. “We're also looking for some good young men to help man it.”

“It'd keep some of them out of trouble,” growled Harlen.

“For a proper wage, I trust?” Cedril asked.

“Wage, uniform and training,” the commander said, reassuringly. “It's not the most glamorous job in the world, but it is important and we need responsible lads for it.”

“Alright. What else?” Owen sighed.

“His Grace has ordered us to fortify all of the villages within twenty leagues of the coast.”

“Fortify?” asked Owen softly, in the silence that followed. “How?”

“A stone wall or wooden palisade is the usual method,” the commander advised. “Widdengate is hardly ideal, however. You're a little spread out for my liking.”

“We're built the way we're built.” Cedril said. “Mill near the river, farms near the fields. How do you put a fence around that?”

“The only thing I can suggest is that we leave some of the outlying structures outside of the palisade,” admitted the commander. “We'll have to set up some form of warning signal calling people into the village.”

“The bell tower on the church might suffice,” Trallen said.

“I can't say I see the need for all of this,” Cedril said, scraping his chair back. “Widdengate is miles from the coast. It must be close to twenty leagues away, as it is. ”

“I'm just informing you of my orders,” the commander said, in a tone that left no room for argument.

“Yes, but it's not you having to scurry through the dark to the village every time a boy gets drunk and sneaks in to play in the church, is it?” snapped the miller.

A silence fell for a moment, as both the men above and the boys below absorbed the information. Finally, Harlen spoke. “Who will pay for all this?”

“You're a wise man, Master Smith,” the commander said. “Nothing comes for free in this life. I've not heard anything about it, but if I were you, I'd expect an extra visit from the tax collectors this year.”

Harlen grunted and his chair scraped against the wooden floorboards above Devin's head. “Is there anything else?”

“I think that covers everything,” the commander said, briskly. “I will place notices in the village about the recruitment. Any lad interested should come and see my sergeants before sunset this Noonday.”

Devin hunched low without thinking, as the scraping of chairs indicated the end of the meeting. Dust fell from the beams above their heads and long-abandoned spider webs shook in the light of Kainen's lantern.

The sunlight burned Devin's eyes as he pushed the hatch open, but he ignored it and clambered out of the cellar. The smell of dust and damp still filled his nose and he took deep breaths of the fresh spring air to try and clear it. Kainen closed the hatch and pushed barrels back into place.

“So, it looks like we're getting our own beacon tower,” Devin said with a broad grin.

“You going to try for one of the jobs?” Kainen asked, as he brushed the cobwebs from his hair.

“I'm not sure,” Devin said, as he picked dust and dirt from his clothes. “It sounds good and all, but I bet it'd get awful boring before long.”

“I'd wager you our friendly miller's son is one of the first in line, though,” Kainen said, with a knowing smile.

“If he wants to stand guard over a bonfire, he's welcome to it.” Devin spat. “That's if anyone's stupid enough to trust him with an open flame.”

Chapter Ten

Klöss leaned against the tree and looked out over the bay. Ships at anchor filled the waters and the shore itself was packed with crews working on the new vessels that would become the fleet. Keels, sprouting ribs, extended out as far as he could see along the bay in either direction, and another five camps just like this dotted the shores of the surrounding islands. The morning was grey and menacing clouds hung low in the sky. The weather was a good match for his scarred and bearded face and he seemed to reflect the mood of the skies, as he glowered down at the ships. He scratched at his thick beard and rolled his shoulders inside his well-worn leathers. The wind grabbed at his long, black cloak, whipping and tossing it as it tugged at his shoulders. He grabbed at it irritably and made his way down the hillside towards the camp.

The camp was surrounded by a high wall, made of thick, sharpened poles, and a deep ditch filled with short, vicious stakes. He grunted at the guards on the gate as he strode through without challenge, and made for a long, low building at the edge of the camp. The smells of cooking food filled the air, mingling with the ever-present smell of sawdust and pitch.

The streets were not paved and the spring rains had turned them to into an oozing mess. Wooden walkways had been laid down to try and help, but they seemed to make little difference. They didn't cover everywhere, the lay of the land prevented that. Sooner or later, a man needed to cross the street and this meant trudging through the thick, clay-like mud. This, in turn, was tracked onto the walkways and by mid-morning, on any given day, the walkways were only marginally better than the streets.

The camp was busy. He didn't know why he even still thought of it as a camp. It was closer to being a small town now, with men and women bustling through the mucky streets, dressed in thick, practical clothing. There were subtle differences, though. The camp had no hawkers on the streets selling this and that. No one stopped to chat idly with friends. There were few children and those there were worked as hard as their parents. This was a camp preparing for war and it showed in a thousand tiny ways.

He stamped up a set of wooden steps and stopped to scrape the mud from his boots on an iron scraper set into the wood beside the top step, before going inside.

“Klöss!” Verig said, opening his arms wide. He was sitting at a long table, behind a huge platter of food. The man had changed in five years, turning greyer and harder. “How is my Lord of the Mud Camps, this morning?” He belched hard and wiped his mouth on his dark, leather-clad sleeve before returning to the plate in front of him.

Klöss grunted in response and went to the fireplace, lifting the kettle from its hook and shaking it experimentally to listen to the water slosh. “As well as any other day in this god-forsaken place,” he muttered. He swung the kettle over the fire on the bent iron rod set into the stone fireplace.

“How do things look?” the old trainer asked, more for something to say than from any real curiosity.

“Bad. The same,” Klöss said, without looking around. He rested his forearm on the stones of the chimney. “We're still behind schedule. We will only have two-thirds of the ships ready in time, at this rate. It's all I need.”

“You wanted it, Klöss,” Verig reminded him, drinking deeply from a tankard.

Klöss grunted again and then looked curiously at the man. “What is that? Mead?” The older man nodded and smiled. “It's barely past sun up, man!”

“You sound like you have a point, Klöss,” Verig said, with dark eyes. “Were you planning on making it?”

“Just don't let it interfere with the training, is all,” Klöss said quickly. “My uncle is due here today to inspect things and, given the state of the fleet, the last thing I need is men who aren't ready either.”

“Listen to yourself, man. You're whining like a petulant child,” Verig said, his voice stern. “You asked for this post. Badgered him for a month or more, if I recall rightly. Though why you'd want to give up a decent reaver and crew to sit in a muddy camp is beyond me.”

“Because, Verig, here in this muddy camp, he has me. On the reaver, all he has is sweaty men,” a soft voice carried in from the doorway.

“That's a good reason to go to a muddy camp, Ylsriss,” Verig said, unruffled by her nearly silent entrance. “Not a good reason to stay there, though.”

“You have too little soul in you, Verig,” the willowy blonde said, as she moved behind Klöss to wrap her arms around him. The thin, grey dress clung to her body beneath the thick fur-lined cloak she wore and the swell of her belly was just starting to show. It wouldn't have done, if the dress had been slightly less clingy. Verig was almost glad when she pressed herself to Klöss's back. Some things you shouldn't be caught looking at.

“You're not the first to say that, Ylsriss,” the small man said easily. “The New Dayers seem to say it all the time.” He turned back to Klöss. “Are you sure letting them in the camp was a good idea? I mean, I understand bringing the women, but priests? Really?”

“She's right, Verig,” said Klöss, with a dry chuckle “You do have too little soul in you.” He disentangled himself from Ylsriss gently and went to the fireplace to pull the hissing kettle from the fire. “Luckily, you have the finest sword skills I've ever seen. I'll take that and let the priests worry about your soul.” He busied himself with kettle, ground leaves and cups for a moment, before handing a steaming mug to Ylsriss. “Nettle, I'm afraid,” he said, with a wink. “As for the priests, Verig,” he said, blowing on his own cup, “the men need something to take their minds off where we are and what we do. Not every man is as lucky as I am, or as soulless as you.”

Verig grunted and drank deeply from his tankard, before thumping it down on the table and pushing his chair back as he stood. “Well, I suppose I ought to be turning these downy-faced lads into something more than walking targets,” he said.

“As a once downy-faced lad, I know they'll appreciate it some day,” Klöss said, with a tired grin. “Just probably not today.”

“Definitely not today,” Verig said, with an evil glint in his eye, and left.

“He's a bad man, rich boy,” Ylsriss said, in a low voice.

“You haven't called me that in years,” he chuckled. “As for bad men, sometimes I think we all are.” He turned to her as a thought struck him. “What are you doing this morning?”

“I'll have to check my calendar,” Ylsriss replied, with a straight face. “There is so much to occupy a lady's time here.”

Klöss ignored that. “I need to walk through the shipyards and speak to the work crews. Would you like to come?”

“And miss the opportunity to wade through all that sludge?” She smiled her crooked smile. “Not for all the stars in the sky!”

He set his half-empty cup down on the table and moved towards the door. “What? Now?” she said, as he laughed and held the door open for her.

The sun was bright, but carried little heat, as it peeked through the hazy clouds, and the breeze coming in from the sea brought a wet chill along with it. It was a welcome breeze, however, as the camp always seemed to have the lingering stink of burning pitch about it. They huddled into their cloaks, as they walked along the wooden walkways towards the edge of the camp. The distant noises of the shipyard drifted up to them, mingling with the ever-present ringing from the smithy.

“Was what Verig said true?” Ylsriss asked, after a few minutes.

“About what?” Klöss replied, in a distracted fashion, as he scowled out at the distant waves.

“About you asking to come here.” Ylsriss replied, with a dangerous lilt in her voice.

“Oh. That.”

“Yes. That.”

“Yes, I did.” Klöss replied, shortly. “It's a big thing Uncle Aiden intends to do. I want to be a part of it.”

“And you will be,” Ylsriss said firmly. “He'd not likely leave his most successful Shipmaster out of his scheme. But why this?” She waved her hand vaguely at the camp and distant shipyard.

He looked around and frowned.

“What's wrong, Klöss? You've been in a foul mood for days,” she demanded.

“It's just not possible!” he burst out, stabbing a finger at the shipyards. “We're falling further and further behind, and I just can't see a solution. Frostbeard wants the ships and men to be ready in three months, and he just doesn't seem to see a problem with that. I had to build the camp from nothing, harvest the lumber and get Gareth to design the landers. There simply wasn't enough time.”

“Why don't you just tell him, then?” Ylsriss replied, reasonably.

“Because he doesn't damned well listen!” Klöss exploded. “He doesn't see it. I only have so many men. I needed them all to harvest the lumber and build the camp. Then I needed to get the ships built as fast as possible. I couldn't have them harvesting lumber and training to be halfway decent oarsmen at the same time.”

“So what have you done?” she asked, in a small voice.

“I've let the ships suffer,” he admitted. “We're only going to have two in three of them ready in time.”

He stepped off the end of the walkway and led her along a shingle path running alongside the beach. Almost the entire shoreline of the bay had been transformed into a shipyard, with space only spared for the docks. The huge boats were in various stages of construction. Some were waiting to be moved down towards the sea on the massive log rollers. Others were little more than skeletons, with just the keel and bare ribs completed.

Workmen scurried around the bones of the ships like so many ants. Massive cranes worked to move the huge beams into place, while ponies walked docilely inside the large wooden wheels that drove the winches.

Klöss spotted a grey-haired man standing high on the deck of one of the ships that looked close to completion. He held his arm high as he hailed him. “Gareth!”

The man looked across and raised a hand in greeting, before turning back to the men he was talking to. Some of his long, grey hair was tied at the nape with a simple leather thong, but most of it had come loose and whipped wildly about his face in the wind.

As they drew closer, Gareth waved his arms at the men, his whole air one of frustration. His shouts could be heard through the wind, though the words could not. He climbed nimbly down one of several ladders leaning against the sides of the hulking ship and made his way over to meet them, adjusting the large rolls of parchment he carried under one arm.

“My Lord Campmaster,” he said formally, offering a slight nod of the head that could have grown up to become a bow, had it had slightly more ambition. He turned to Ylsriss and the bow bucked its ideas up as he greeted her. “my lady.”

“I'm not a lady, Gareth,” Ylsriss said, with a wicked smile. “And I'm certainly not yours.” She placed a hand on her stomach and gave Klöss a meaningful look.

“Gareth, I've asked you not to do that,” Klöss muttered. “I'm no more a lord than you are. If you must call me something, call me Shipmaster. At least that implies I go somewhere. This camp seems to be going nowhere!”

The grey-haired man responded with a tight grin.

“Tell me you have some good news for me, old man,” Klöss said, his eyes showed his worry and plead more urgently than his voice.

“Nothing's changed, Shipmaster,” Gareth said, without apology. “I told you six weeks ago that we needed more men.”

“And I explained to you then that you couldn't have them,” Klöss said, as his face grew hard. “I told you to find a way to get the work done with what you had.”

“I can't work miracles, Klöss,” the man said firmly. “I've done the best I could with what I was given and if that's not good enough for you or your uncle, you need to find another wright.”

“Is that a threat, Gareth?” Klöss said, his eyes turning flat and hard. “You'd walk out on me and on this?”

“No. I'm just saying you need to tell Frostbeard to be more realistic.”

“You can tell him yourself,” Klöss snapped. “He'll be here in a few hours.”

“He's coming here?” The old man's face paled visibly.

“Yes, so I hope you can understand why I might be a little short.” Klöss ran a hand through his hair and swore under his breath.

“Children, please. Can't you play nicely?” Ylsriss said, cheerfully, drawing dark looks from both of them and smiling a sunny smile back.

Klöss sucked air in through his teeth as he turned back to the old shipwright. “Alright,” he breathed out explosively. “Tell me what we do have.”

It was nearing sunset as the ship came into sight. Klöss stood on the end of the docks with Ylsriss beside him. Gareth stood slightly behind them as they waited. The reaver was still some distance away, but the man stood in the prow was still recognisable over the water. The years pressed down upon him but Frostbeard stood tall, resplendent in his leathers and shining breastplate, his blue cloak streaming out behind him.

“Bloody old poser,” muttered Verig behind him and Klöss had to fight to keep from laughing as the reaver came in to dock.

The old raider leapt onto the dock before the first hawser had been tied, and grabbed Klöss up in a rough embrace. “You're getting more of your uncle's good looks the older you get, my boy,” Aiden laughed as he stepped back to look at him. “You've a lovely collection of sticks on this beach, Klöss.” He waved expansively towards the shipyard. “I have to tell you though, I was hoping for some ships.”

Klöss gave a sick smile and ushered his uncle towards the camp. “Let's go somewhere we can talk.”

Klöss's quarters were nothing extravagant. Other men in his position might have insisted on grander accommodation, but the log cabin he shared with Ylsriss was simple, at best. It consisted of just a living area and a bedroom, and the main room was taken up by a long, wooden table, which was half-covered in maps and parchments. He ushered the seamaster inside and quickly filled a tankard with strong honey mead, passing it to him before getting one for himself.

“I don't think I know you, do I?” Aiden said, looking curiously at Ylsriss, as he sat back in a wooden chair at the table. She stared in shock at the white-bearded man and then at Klöss.

“You didn't tell him?” she asked, through clenched teeth.

“I've been a little busy, Ylsriss” Klöss said.

“Obviously,” Aiden said, looking admiringly at Ylsriss and then pointedly at her swelling midriff.

“I'm Ylsriss,” she said, with a warm smile, before Klöss could make introductions. “Your nephew has told me a great deal about you. It's interesting to finally see the man. It brings a different side to the stories you hear in taverns and the like.”

“And you frequent taverns a lot, do you?” Aiden replied, with a grin.

“Not so as much as I'd like,” she replied. unabashed.

Aiden laughed uproariously. “You've picked a fine one here, Klöss,” he grinned and raised his tankard to Ylsriss in mock salute.

“What makes you think he picked me?” Ylsriss said with a wicked smile. Aiden's eyes widened and he lurched from the table as he fought to keep from spraying his mouthful across the room. Klöss groaned and ran his hands through his hair.

Aiden walked across to the window as he chuckled, wiping mead from his beard. He stared in silence out of the window for a moment. When he turned back to the table, all traces of humour had gone. The man that walked back to the table was not the friendly uncle, laughing and flirting with Ylsriss. This man was all business, and his eyes were ice as he sat again.

“Send your woman away, Klöss. We need to talk.” His voice was flat. Hard. Klöss felt Ylsriss stiffen beside him, but she stood without a word and walked quickly to the door. Aiden waited until she had closed it behind her before he began.

“So. You're behind, that much is obvious. How bad is it?” His voice was level, calm. The lack of emotion was even more disturbing than if he'd been slamming his fist on the table and screaming into Klöss's face.

“I'd say we're going to hit two in every three, Seamaster,” Klöss said firmly, refusing to let himself be cowed.

“Two in three,” the old man muttered. “Both ships and men?” He grunted as Klöss nodded and gazed across the room to the small window in silence.

“You assured me you could handle this task, Klöss,” he said, in a quiet voice. “I passed over several men in favour of you, because you sought me out and pursued it. You made it clear that you wanted this.”

“I did,” Klöss said, simply.

“I sent you here with the best men I could offer you. You had engineers, carpenters and shipwrights. I even sent you Verig.” His voice was still low and even. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“You asked for the impossible, Shipmaster.” Klöss said, fighting to maintain his calm. “To establish this camp, work on the ships and get the men trained in the time you allowed was simply not possible. I needed either more men or more time, and you've given me neither.” He grabbed the bench below the level of the table and squeezed, trying to hold his temper in check.

“I sent you reports, Frostbeard. Hell, I sent you letters directly with the supply ships, explaining what the issues were. You never replied, not once.”

Aiden sat silently, his eyes locked on Klöss's face. The only sign of emotion was a slight twitching of his lip, as Klöss's voice began to rise.

“You knew I was falling behind and still you ignored my messages. Damn it, old man, you've set me up to fail!” He slammed his hand down onto the table at the last, three months of frustration forced into a single blow. Klöss sat slowly. He hadn't even realised he had stood until he'd found himself leaning over the table. His heart was racing and his chest heaved. He forced himself to meet Frostbeard's eyes, waiting for the tirade. The man's gaze dropped to the table, and the reports and piles of parchment, then a dry chuckle slipped past his lips.

Klöss looked on in confusion, as the old man's shoulders shook and tears began to roll down his cheeks. Eventually, as Frostbeard began to pound on the table, he snapped.

“What?” Klöss roared. “What is so damned funny about all of this?”

“Two in three,” Aiden wheezed. “You've managed two in three.” He grabbed up his mead and took a drink, clearing his throat. “I never expected anybody could achieve more than one in two!”

“What?” Klöss frowned, confusion plain on his scarred face. “You expected me to fail? Well, why the hell didn't you send more men?”

“You've got it all wrong, Klöss, you haven't failed. You've performed better than I could ever have hoped.” He laughed as the confusion on Klöss's face deepened. “I knew you'd strive for this. You chased me for a good two months, badgering me for this command. I knew you were hungry for it.” He smiled a cold smile. “So I decided to see just how far you could go when pushed.”

“You mean...” He cut off as understanding dawned.

“You probably passed what I expected you to achieve a month ago,” Frostbeard admitted.

“You miserable old bastard!” Klöss breathed.

“Well, yes,” the old seamaster admitted. “Frostbeard isn't the only thing I've been called over the years.” He grinned again. This time, Klöss managed to crack a smile himself.

“Why don't you run and find that woman of yours.” Aiden suggested. “I owe her an apology for being so rude and it looks like we have a few things to celebrate. Drag Verig out of the training halls as well, if you've a mind to.”

***

Klöss was breaking his fast on cheese and the remnants of the last night's chicken when Aiden thumped on his door. The sun was just barely over the horizon and the sea had that silvery sheen it gets in the early morning light. He opened the door quietly, so as not to wake Ylsriss, and saw his uncle on the step. Despite the early hour, the man looked fresh and had clearly been awake for some time.

“It's time to talk about the next steps,” Aiden said, not bothering with a greeting. Klöss glanced into the cabin without thinking and Aiden nodded in understanding. “Get your cloak, we'll go for a walk.”

The shipyards were quiet, the only sounds the mournful calls of sea birds and the crunching of the pebbles under their feet.

“I've still not forgiven you,” Klöss said, as they stopped beside the hull of a ship.

“I imagine you'll get over it in time,” Aiden replied, smiling slightly as he patted the thick beams. “Besides, it worked. You'd never have got these results if I'd told you the real targets.”

Klöss grunted, unconvinced.

“Do you remember your first raid?” the old man asked, suddenly.

“It's not something I'm likely to forget,” Klöss replied. “It was a bloodbath. We lost fifty men or more on that reaving. The soldiers came from nowhere.”

“Not nowhere,” Aiden corrected. “They were warned.”

“Warned by who?” Klöss asked, sharply. “Who could have known we were coming?”

“We've been reaving those lands for twenty years, since I first found them. We've never run into anything close to that level of defence,” Aiden said, a faraway look in his eyes. “We can't continue in the face of that. There hasn't been a proper reaving in the Farmed Lands for two years now.”

“So that's why?”

“That's why we need the fleet. We're not going to raid, we're going to take the lands ourselves. But you're no fool, Klöss, you knew that.”

Klöss nodded. “It's obvious you planned something on a large scale. The landers alone…”

“We were caught with our britches down on that raid of yours. We'd never had to face more of a defence than a handful of farmers with pitchforks, so why would we expect beacons? We can't let that happen again,” Aiden said, as he met Klöss's eyes.

“So what are you saying?” Klöss asked, scratching his beard.

“We need to scout the landing area and the lands surrounding it.” Aiden admitted.

“Scout?” Klöss turned to face him, his eyes wide. “It's a damned long way to send a small party like that. Getting through the Vorstelv alone means you'd need a larger ship.”

“I know. We'd need to send a galley reaver. That's not the worst of it, either.”

“Tell me,” Klöss said, with a resigned sigh.

“A reaver couldn't sit at anchor waiting for a team to return. It'd be seen.” Aiden said. “It couldn't sit further out either. There's too much risk of a fishing boat or something passing, and it'd need too many supplies.”

“So what would it do?”

“It would need to go through the Vorstelv, leave the scouts and then return.” Aiden looked out over the bay.

“Leave them there?” Klöss was aghast. There was something about the prospect of being cut off in a foreign land that repelled him at the deepest level.

“And then return for them in a month or two, yes,” Aiden said.

“Who were you thinking of?” Klöss knelt and picked up a handful of stones and walked towards the distant surf.

“I was hoping you might have a few ideas,” Aiden called, as he watched the younger man walk off.

Klöss turned to face the seamaster, walking backwards over the pebbles. “No, you weren't. You were hoping I'd volunteer.”

“Well, would you really trust it to anyone else?” Aiden said, with a grin.

“Ylsriss would kill me, you realise.” Klöss warned, as he turned and threw a stone out into the surf.

“One of the reasons I've never married,” the old man laughed, following his nephew. “Look, I'm not going to force you to go. We could pick someone else.”

“I can sense a but..?” Klöss leaned into the next throw, whipping it out, skimming the stone across the waves.

“Well, there are very few I'd trust with this, Klöss. You, Verig. A handful of others.” Aiden came to stand beside the man. They watched as the small waves broke over the shingle.

“So you plan to send us all,” Klöss finished for him. He paused and threw the rest of the stones into the surf. “When?”

“In a week or so. For now, continue to prepare the troops and ships. We need to be ready in three months. A month after you get back, I want to be ready to sail.”

***

“You're doing what?” Ylsriss said, folding her arms over the sheet she had wrapped around herself.

“It's the only way, Ylsriss,” Klöss explained. “We have to scout the landing site if there is to be any chance of success.”

“I understand that, you fool.” She climbed out of the bed and stormed into the small kitchen. “What I don't understand is why it has to be you.”

“There are only a few people that he trusts to get the job done properly.” Klöss stood and followed her across the small cabin. He reached out and grasped her shoulder gently, but she jerked herself away.

“Don't touch me!” she hissed, and moved away from him to face the wall.

“What?” His voice was incredulous. “You knew this was going to happen, Ylsriss. There's a war coming! You know that better than most.”

“That's different,” her voice was strange, tight.

“How is it different?”

“I don't know!” She spun round and he was shocked to see tears on her cheeks. In the years he'd known her, she'd always been the fierce, controlled woman who had once held him down with a knife to his throat. He'd never seen her lose control, seen emotion like this.

“Are you crying?” he asked, regretting it instantly.

“Of course I'm crying, you great damned idiot,” she snapped. “You've gone and gotten me with child, and now I cry all the time. You needn't think I'm crying about you!”

“Oh.” He didn't know how to respond to that and was suddenly acutely aware of his nakedness. For some reason, being naked in the kitchen with a woman in tears seemed very wrong.

“Klöss, yesterday I cried because I dropped butter.” She threw her arms in the air, pulling the sheet tight against her body.

“I'll be back before you get used to having me gone,” he said, rubbing her arms.

“What makes you think I want you back?” She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “You get in the way and mess up the place.”

“Is that how it is?” he said, playfully.

“Just because you're naked in the kitchen doesn't mean you can charm me, rich boy.” She stepped back away from his growing smile. “You just keep your distance, I've learned what happens when you get too close.” She gestured towards her stomach through the sheet.

“You weren't complaining at the time,” he said with a smile.

“You just keep telling yourself that,” she shot back. “When do you leave?”

“In a few days.” He moved back to the bed and pulled back the furs. The cabin was definitely too cold to be naked in for long. “Time enough to get provisions, and make plans with Verig and Tristan.”

“Verig and Tristan,” she muttered. “At least you should stay in one piece, provided you can avoid the ale barrel. Who else are you taking?”

“I'm not sure. That's why I need to talk to Verig,” he admitted.

“So why are you still here, then?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well,” he replied, drawing the word out and shooting a less than subtle glance at the bed. “I was hoping that…” He left it hanging.

“Oh no, rich boy!” she smiled sweetly. “You're far too busy for that. You have planning to do. Off you go now.” She made shooing motions towards the door, then grabbed his clothes from the floor and tossed them at his chest.

***

The small boat cut through the waves in the darkness. The night held just the barest sliver of moon, and the light it shed was only just enough to turn the darkness from pitch-black, despite the faint reflection in the water. Klöss hauled at his oar, reaching forward to tap the back of the man in front, before leaning back into the next stroke. He was gratified to feel the tap on his own back was less than a second out from his own motion. Rowing at night was difficult and rowing in silence made it worse, but it could be managed.

The surf was a silvery line in the distance, the moonlight catching the white foam as it hit the beach. The cliffs, oddly, didn't reflect the faint light and appeared as a dark wall in the night. The boat finally crunched softly into the small pebbles and he leapt out with the others to haul the ship up out of the waves.

They'd scouted the coast carefully, in a small boat dressed with nets and fishing gear, several times over the last few days, before picking this beach. Working as silently as possible, they carried the boat up to the cliffs, pressing it hard up against the rock face, and covering it with a tarpaulin, sand and bushes. It would never pass close inspection and it was doubly hard to be sure that it was well-concealed in the dark, but the boat would be hidden from a casual glance.

The six men took up their packs and weapons, and Klöss led them along the base of the cliffs towards the path they had spotted days earlier. He stopped at the top of the path and motioned the men closer, hunkering down and speaking softly. “You all know the plan and our purpose. We will meet here on the second full moon. Work to avoid any contact but also make sure no word of our presence survives. If it comes to it, remember no one must be taken alive.” The men nodded in the gloom and split into two groups of three, one heading north over the clifftop, the other inland to the west.

Klöss, Verig and Tristan travelled through the darkness, until they found a tight copse of beech trees to make camp in.

“We'll rest here for a few hours and then move on,” Klöss said, sighing as he sank down to the dirt.

“He's getting old,” Verig muttered to Tristan. “Tired out after a little row in the evening. That woman must have worn him out before his time.”

“A sad thing,” Tristan replied, ignoring the look Klöss was giving him.

“If you two are quite finished?” Klöss said, shortly. “I'll watch for an hour, then you, Verig.”

Tristan and Verig wrapped their cloaks about them and were soon dozing, with their heads on their packs. Klöss sat listening to the wind in the leaves and thinking how different it was to be back in this place. They'd landed far to the north this time, but it was the same land where he'd watched his training class being decimated by soldiers. It had been a long time ago and he wondered if the place had changed as much as he had. Before long, he found himself nodding off and forced himself to stand up in the blackness. He moved out of the copse, so as not to awaken the others and began to pace quietly.

It felt odd to be among so many trees and so much grass. The Barren Isles were a rocky place and so there was little grass to be found. All arable land was already used for farming and so any place grass would grow was either used for crops or pasture for sheep and goats. He'd had little cause to travel outside of Hesk much. There were any number of small towns but they tended to be mostly fishing villages or the occasional farming community. His only real experience of woodlands and greenery came from reavings.

He wondered idly what life would be like for those that came to settle here. Would Ylsriss want to come to this new land? Would he? His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Verig rousing himself and crunching through the bushes towards him.

“Your turn to get some sleep, Klöss,” his old trainer whispered.

“I expected to have to kick you,” Klöss replied, in a soft voice.

“I didn't sleep. Not really,” Verig muttered.

“Nerves?” Klöss's eyes widened. “You? I'd have thought that after all this time…”

“No. I still get nervous. You should too,” Verig advised. “It's your body's way of telling you that what you're doing is a damned stupid idea, so you better pay attention.”

Klöss chuckled quietly and squeezed the man's shoulder, before seeking his own pack to lay his head on.

Morning came too quickly, and Klöss woke to the sound of Tristan and Verig packing up and making ready to leave. He drank quickly from the skin, and grabbed a quick bite of dried fruits and ship's biscuit before grabbing his pack and making his way out of the copse.

The dawn had just passed, and the early spring air was crisp enough to clear his head and chase away the cobwebs. Still, it was a shock when he saw the tower in the distance. It was a small squat thing, positioned close to the edge of the cliffs where they jutted out into the sea. From where he stood, he could just make out the surrounding wall, clearly still under construction.

“How, in the name of all that's holy, did we miss that?” He pointed at the tower and looked across at the other two.

“It was dark,” Tristan shrugged. “They had no lights.”

Klöss bit back choice words and turned back to the tower. It was set back from the edge of the cliff just enough that it would be hard to see from the sea itself. The ground rose immediately before it, on an incline ending at the cliff's edge. It would be hidden from anyone aboard a ship.

“Verig, you remember the fire on the cliff during my first training raid?” he said slowly, receiving a confused nod in response. “I think they've gone a bit further than that here.”

“Signal tower.” Verig nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. It's in a good position.” He scanned the horizon inland for a few moments, before pointing sharply. “There! There's the next one. It's a chain.”

“A chain?” Tristan said, clearly confused.

“A signal chain,” Verig said, and then sighed at the blank look. “A beacon. The tower here will have men keeping watch over the sea. They see invaders coming and light their beacon.” He turned and pointed again. “The men in that one see the fire and light their own, and so it goes on. It could stretch for miles.”

“There must be a garrison not too far off, or a fort or something, though,” Klöss mused.

“Probably in a central location so they can respond to other beacons. I doubt they are that close.” Verig chewed at his lip as he stared at the tower. “That thing would be burning long before the landers ever got near the beach. I'd bet they have a spyglass or something, as well. They can probably see for miles.”

Klöss looked more closely at the tower, paying attention to the details. It was not that large, just a small stone building, really, with a platform on top, presumably for the signal fire. He couldn't see it from where he was standing. The entrance must be on another side, but the stone walls looked new and well made. The approach itself was either by means of a thin and winding road that snaked back and forth as it rose up the hill, or over steep but open ground.

“I'd not want to attack it, though,” Tristan said, echoing Klöss's unspoken thoughts.

“It doesn't matter anyway,” Verig said, pointing at the distant tower on the horizon. “That's the one we want. That or one beyond it. We've no chance of taking this place by ourselves and any ships would be spotted on the way to land if we left it until the fleet attacked.” His face was grim as he faced the others. “We need to leave this one alone. Let them light their fire as we land. If the chain is broken further on, the signal goes nowhere. I say, we follow the line of beacons and see if we can find one that's less well protected.”

Klöss nodded and shrugged his pack into a more comfortable position. “We may as well get started then.”

The clifftop tower had a road built for its approach but it travelled in the wrong direction so they were forced to hike across country. The terrain looked fairly flat, but the long grass was deceptive and the way was full of hidden ditches and mounds. After a few hours, Klöss could feel his legs burning and his head ached from lurching unexpectedly into holes. Tristan was offering an almost constant stream of complaints. Verig, Klöss noticed, was neither suffering nor complaining.

The small copse of trees they had slept within the previous night was one of the few sheltered places on the broad plain, although a dense wood stood some distance away to the south. Klöss gave the wood more than one passing glance as they travelled, remembering a different time here. A time when he was fleeing through the trees with Tristan and Dallan in tow. A time when the blood rushed in his ears as he battled not to give in to terror, and the temptation to just stop and hide.

The plain eventually gave way to woodland and, before night fell, they had made camp amongst the trees, not far from a small stream. Tristan surprised them all by producing fish hooks and line and, after a time, fresh fish to eat, which he cooked on sticks positioned over the well-concealed firepit. Verig scouted through the trees, returning with large forest mushrooms which he baked on stones beside the fire. Supplemented with some of the dried fruit from their packs, it proved to be a pleasant meal and not something Klöss had expected.

Verig eyed him and gave a small smile. “The trick is to take the small pleasures when you can find them, Klöss.” He sighed and picked at his teeth with a vicious-looking dagger.

“We will reach the next tower tomorrow, most likely,” Tristan said, as he pawed through his pack. He pulled out a folded square of parchment and a thin charcoal stick, and began tracing their progress. Klöss watched him curiously, before pointing to the coastline. “Did you do this from the boat?”

Tristan didn't bother to look up but nodded. “Whilst you were admiring the pretty cliffs and looking for a beach to play on.” He folded the map carefully and tucked it into his pack, before squinting up at the darkening sky. “I will do first watch. We move at first light, yes?”

Klöss looked to Verig but the small man was already tucked into his cloak and bedroll. He turned back to Tristan and nodded curtly, before rolling into his cloak himself.

The morning brought a drizzle that woke Klöss long before Verig could wake him for the final watch. The soft rain misted onto the leaves of the trees and collected there, before dripping down. Klöss started awake when a very fat and very cold raindrop splashed onto the small part of his neck that was exposed. Enough of it ran down his neck to make him shiver and twist to swat at his neck as he lurched up into a seated position. Across the small clearing, Verig laughed softly as he oiled his sword with a linen cloth.

Klöss moved over to him. Verig had hung his cloak and blanket between two branches to make an effective shelter against the rain. It was not yet light but not entirely dark either and Klöss reasoned it was shortly before dawn. “You ought to have woken me sooner.”

Verig shrugged in the half-light. “I didn't feel like sleeping. You might as well get the rest, if I'm not going to.”

“Something bothering you?” Klöss said, as he pulled out his own sword and held his hand out for Verig's oil-soaked rag.

“Something, but I couldn't say what.” Verig grunted, passing the rag across. “You up for good now?”

Klöss stretched his neck, rolling his head around in a circle to work the kinks out of his shoulders. “I expect so. Tristan is the only one likely to sleep in this.” He held his hand up, as if to catch the raindrops.

“Well, I'll be buggered if I'm going to sit in the wet while he snores.” Verig snorted and pulled himself to his feet. He marched over to Tristan, who was wrapped in his cloak and blankets close to the base of a thick fir tree, and planted his foot firmly in his side. “Wake up, princess.”

Tristan mumbled something indecipherable. The words were indistinct but the tone made it clear that it whatever he had said was not flattering. “Yours is not the face I want to see waking me up in the morning, Verig,” he finally managed, as he wiped his face and ground his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I'm crushed.” Verig said, shaking out his blanket and rolling it up into his pack. “Next time, I'll get Klöss to kick you.”

Tristan sniggered as he loaded his pack. He unhooked the large arbelest from the back of it and Klöss gave him a quizzical look as they set off.

“I am sick of this dried stuff,” he said, holding up a chunk of dried fruit. “If I am lucky, we can eat some meat tonight.” He hefted the large weapon with one hand.

“Anything you shoot with that thing will be in too many pieces to eat!” Verig scoffed, as they set off through the trees.

Their pace was slow as they made their way through the woods, but by the second day, they had joined the road and moved steadily inland. They were forced to flee the path several times, as travellers passed. Whilst Verig knew a smattering of the language, possibly enough to get by, they were clearly not from this land.

The second signal beacon proved to be surrounded by a small garrison. They spent several tense hours skirting around the area, as Tristan marked their route on his map. The terrain became steep and rugged beyond the beacon, and the trees fell away as they made their way into the foothills. The next signal tower was just visible on the horizon, perched on a barren hilltop protruding from the woods.

Klöss trudged over the rocky ground in silence. His stomach was gnawing at him again and he was in a foul humour. The tower seemed no closer to him, although he could now see that, unlike the first two beacons, it was not made from stone.

“Klöss!” Tristan called again, his irritation thick and clear in his voice.

“Hmm? What?” He stopped and turned. Tristan had stopped some distance behind him and was crouched down, sketching, his map braced on the back of his pack.

“I do not think there is profit in this.”

“What are you talking about?” He stared at him.

“He means 'benefit', I think,” Verig said. “He's right, there's no need to get any closer. We only came to scout and we've done that. Frostbeard will need a way to stop this signal and we've mapped it out for him.”

“Shouldn't we check to see how many troops are there?” Klöss objected.

Verig shook his head quickly. “No. Absolutely not. Our job now is to get out of here as quickly and safely as possible. This map is more important than anything else.”

“I don't know, Verig. I don't like leaving the job half-done.”

“It's done,” The small man said, firmly. “We're leaving. Besides Ylsriss is going to kill you, anyway. You don't need more danger out here. You have enough at home.”

“Fine,” Klöss sighed and turned, walking down the rocky hillside towards home and the fleet that waited for them.

***

He sat in the cottage, on a simple wooden chair, and watched the sun through the window, as it went down over the clearing. It was the last night before the new moon, but he knew they would come again. They had come every night for the past week and a half, and so, with a growing sense of dread, he sat, and watched, and waited.

The sun sank beneath the treetops and all too soon the moon began to rise, casting a thin, pale light over the ground that seemed to leech the colour from everything it touched. The first few nights, he'd sat in the gloom, not wanting to attract undue attention. He'd since learned that this didn't make a difference and he refused to huddle in the darkness, so now every lamp was burning and the fire was built high. And he watched. And he waited.

They came as soon as the moonlight finally filled the glade, when the sliver of moon was high in the sky. They stepped out of nothingness, close to the monolith at the centre of the circle. He watched from the window, sucking in his breath through clenched teeth as he saw not one, but three of them, arrive. The first was tall and pale, the second darker, shorter and with a hateful glint in its eyes. The last was darker still with fur that looked black, even in the moonlight, and a long curled beard.

They danced in delight around the stones and one trilled a tune on his pipes that he could hear clearly inside the cottage. Then their heads turned as one, as if he'd made some noise and their eyes met through the glass. In a flash they had drawn long horn knives and hurled themselves at the cottage. The ground had been well prepared with tiny spikes and iron filings. He'd made a special point of doing it during the previous week. They screeched as they got close, blue fire exploding from under their hooves, and leapt backwards, screaming hate at him in their strange lyrical tongue.

He watched for a time, flinching whenever they flung themselves towards the cottage, but never once did they get any closer than three good, man-sized strides away. His fear faded after a while and he gazed openly through the window at them. They circled this way and that, the lightest-coloured one capering in a mad dance and occasionally singing, its voice a rich tenor. He lost sight of the short one after the first five minutes. The darkest one, though, stood stock-still, facing the window, and glaring at him with eyes full of hate as it stroked its beard in thought.

It stepped forward slowly, probing at the ground with its hoof as it moved. It hissed in pain as the blue fire flared, but did not move back. Instead, it crouched down and examined the ground, poking at it lightly with a gnarled finger to make it flare again. Looking up, it caught his eye in the window and smiled.

The man shivered and drew back from the window. “It's okay. It's fine. They can't step on that ground. They can't get in,” he muttered, reassuring himself. He forced himself to leave the window and made his way to the tiny kitchen, putting the black iron kettle onto the woodstove to boil. “A nice drink will help,” he whispered. “Why am I whispering?” he whispered again and burst into laughter. After a moment, he stopped abruptly as he heard himself. His laugh had been high and hysterical. “Control in all things,” he said in a low voice. “Who am I trying to fool?” he snorted and went to a small cupboard against the wall and rummaged around until he pulled out a dusty, dark brown bottle. It was two-thirds full and hadn't been touched in a decade. The corked top came free easily enough though, and the strong aroma of the spirit filled the little cabin instantly.

“Medicinal,” he whispered and took a gulp.

For a while, he was able to shut it out. There was no way to actually tell the time in the cottage. He'd had a mechanical timepiece years ago, but it had never been consistent anyway. He'd kept it mostly for the tick. All he could hear now was the occasional flare of the iron, as the satyr got too close to the cottage. He'd give anything to hear that tick right now.

He had just tipped the bottle up for another long swallow when a massive crash filled the cottage. The wall shook and he dropped the bottle to the floor, where it bounced on the wooden floorboards, spinning and spilling the rich brandy out. He let loose a whimper of pure terror and scurried to the window. He peered through it, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. A large branch lay close to the window. If he pressed his face to the glass, he could just see the mark on it, where it had struck the wall. He scanned his limited view for the satyrs, but he couldn't find them in the darkness. He raced to the other window and peered out, but the clearing was still.

“Damn them,” he muttered and moved back to his chair. A spreading pool of brandy lay under it and the cottage was thick with the smell. He swore again and went to the kitchen to fetch a cloth. Then the scream came.

It was high-pitched and piteous, a scream of absolute agony, but clearly not human. He thought for just long enough to hope that it might be one of the satyrs themselves, and then he heard the frantic sounds of the other animals. The panicked screeching of the chickens joining with the sounds of the other animals in a sickening harmony of terror and pain.

Without really thinking about it, he rushed to the door of the cabin and wrenched it open. At the last second, he caught the frame and held himself, one foot hanging across the threshold, as three dark figures raced across the clearing towards him. The satyrs launched themselves into the air, throwing themselves at the doorway, their eyes glowing in the moonlight and their teeth bared.

He scrambled back into the cabin, losing his balance and landing hard on his rump, as he slammed the door with one desperate kick. Bright blue fire flared outside, and he could see the light shining through the gap in the door frame. He scurried backwards, crab fashion, until he felt the wooden wall pressing hard against his back. The screams of the satyrs filled his ears and then there was silence.

He forced himself to leave the wall and step over to the window again. He was six feet from it when the glass shattered. An object smashed through it, crashing to the floor, and spraying liquid and glass everywhere. Screaming, he threw his arms up against the flying glass to protect himself. A moment later, he dropped them and saw it. The severed head of his goat lay on the floor, blood still running from the hacked and jagged remnants of its neck.

Broken for the moment, he sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees. Silent tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks and were lost in his tangled grey beard as he rocked back and forth. Outside, he heard the high, wild laughter of the satyrs and he huddled and wept.

Morning came eventually, or at least the sky began to lighten. He couldn't have said when the satyrs vanished, but he stood at the window looking over the clearing for hours until he saw the sun finally climb above the trees.

“New moon,” he breathed and with an effort, forced himself to leave the cottage. Two steps took him to the iron staff and he held it across his body as a shield, rather than the instrument of a failing ritual. He could feel the Wyrde slipping faster from his grasp. It was like trying to cling onto the hand of someone hanging from a cliff. Moment by moment, day by day, he felt more of it slip away from him.

The clearing was silent, save for the faint rustling of the leaves in the morning breeze. Blood and feathers were scattered everywhere and scorch marks covered the ground around the cottage. Silently, he thanked the one who'd been paranoid enough to riddle the ground with iron rods, and stud the walls and door.

A foolish impulse forced him towards the barn. The door hung from one hinge, battered inwards and the smell of blood carried even in the morning breeze. The silence was telling, but he forced himself inside, regardless. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. Then he bolted from the building, crashing through the wildly swinging door, and falling to his hands and knees as his stomach heaved. The sight filled his mind and he heaved, spat, and retched again.

Eventually, he pulled himself up onto his knees, spitting the foul taste onto the grass. He stared blankly at the hoof-turned earth in front of him, tears running unnoticed from his face, until the flutter of wings disturbed him. The dove settled down on the roof of the barn and began to preen its feathers. He looked at it disinterestedly, almost unseeing. His eyes followed the bird as it hopped across the rooftop, until he finally registered what he was seeing. A small leather tube was attached to its leg.

A wild hope seized him and gave him the strength to go into the barn. He retrieved a handful of seed to coax the bird down from the roof. It flew to his hand easily and he quickly removed the leather canister. Hands trembling, he pulled the message free and unfolded it, his old eyes straining to read the faded script. Then it hit him. The script had faded because it hadn't been written in ink. It had been written in blood. The message was his own. The dove, unable to deliver its message, had simply returned as it had been trained to. His sigh was heartfelt, the final resignation of a broken man.

Chapter Eleven

Klöss stood at the stern of the great reaver, the massive ship rocking gently in the calm seas. Dawn was still two hours away and the dark waters reflected the lights of a thousand lamps. He watched the lights of the closest ships as they moved into position, and unconsciously shifted his weight to feel for his weapons. He wondered idly what Ylsriss was doing right now. Probably tucked into bed like anyone else with any sense. Then he remembered that she would be travelling too, heading back to Hesk, and to his father. He smiled at himself and went over the sections of the plan again in his head. So much hinged on the beacons being brought down.

A light footfall behind him alerted him before the man spoke. “Almost time, Klöss,” Aiden said, as he joined the younger man at the rail. “Is everything ready?”

“As ready as it can be, Seamaster,” he shrugged.

“An awful lot depends on Dallan and his team,” Frostbeard said, echoing his own thoughts. “You're sure we've given them enough time to get there?”

“More than enough, really,” Klöss replied. “They're travelling light, so they don't have a lot of supplies. He can't afford to sit around once the job is done.”

“Why Dallan, anyway? You never told me,” The old man asked.

“He came to me, shortly after we returned from the scout,” Klöss explained. “Asked for it. Much like I was with you, when I wanted the camps.”

“I remember,” Aiden said, with a smile. “You were like a dog with a bone, wouldn't leave it alone.”

Klöss chuckled. “Well, Dallan was much the same. Said he needed to prove himself, make something of himself. He has a good team with him, though.”

“Fair enough,” the old man grunted. He slammed his hand down on the rail in frustration. “I hate this, you know?”

“Waiting?” Klöss ventured.

“No! Though the waiting beforehand is bad enough, you're right.” He stared out at the ships as he spoke. “I hate sitting on-board like some old woman while younger men fight and die.”

“You're too important to risk, Uncle. The whole plan is yours. It'll fall apart without you.”

“I know, I know,” the old man sighed. “You're quite important yourself, you know?”

“I'm just an oarsman with a famous uncle who had a few lucky reavings, hadn't you heard?” Klöss glanced sideways at him.

“I hadn't heard that one,” Aiden smiled. “Be careful. Your father would never forgive me if you did something stupid, like dying. The Sealord is quite interested in you as well.”

“I'll do my best,” Klöss said, dryly. “Besides, if I died, you'd have to deal with Ylsriss too.”

“There is that,” Aiden admitted. “You know, you ought to do something about that woman.”

He shook his head. “Not now Uncle. Not before the battle.”

“You're right, of course.” The seamaster looked over at the position of the closest ships. “You're clear about the plan?”

“We've been over this, Uncle.” Klöss sighed.

“And we'll go over it again. And again and again,” Frostbeard snapped, “until I am certain that you have it.”

“The first wave goes with the landers.” Klöss recited from memory. “We attack the signal tower and establish a beachhead.”

“And the other towers?” Aiden quizzed.

“We only know of the one signal chain.” Klöss explained. “Dallan's team will move inland ahead of our strike, find a weak link and destroy it.”

“And then?”

“Then we fortify our position and land the rest of the troops.”

“What about ships?” Frostbeard asked, a smile on his lips.

“We've not encountered anything larger than a fishing boat. I don't know if they have any, but there are enough great reavers here to handle just about anything. They'll patrol up and down the coast, keeping within sight of each other.” Klöss looked over at the ships. “I know the plan, Uncle. Trust me.”

The old man sighed. It felt unnatural to be playing such a small role in his own campaign. He glanced out over the water and realised he could delay no longer. “It looks like they're about ready,” he said. “You'd better get over to the lander.”

Klöss grasped his uncle's forearm formally and gave it a firm squeeze. “Luck,” he said and headed for the steps leading down to the deck. The wind was picking up, he noted, and the waves growing taller. He glanced up at the skies. There was no sign of the moon and the stars were hidden by clouds. Tiny raindrops pricked at his face and he smiled grimly to himself. A good cold spring rain. Just the thing to keep a sentry inside in the warm. He climbed down the rope ladder strung from the deck and stepped lightly into the small boat that would ferry him to the odd-shaped Lander.

He hardly noticed the short trip pass. The two oarsmen manoeuvred the craft alongside the lander and he clambered up the ladder onto the deck.

“Shipmaster aboard!” called out the guard posted by the ladder, but Klöss didn't hear him. His mind was deep in the plan and the events of the next several hours. He looked across the water at his uncle standing in the lamplight, then took the lantern from the guard, raising it high and moving it back and forth. He watched as the old man turned and a second later the horns began to sound. The noise started on Frostbeard's craft and spread out from ship to ship, until it seemed the very ocean should tremble at the sound. The beating of the drums soon followed and slowly, ponderously, the fleet began to move towards the unseen coast.

***

Stefan blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them vigorously together, as he silently cursed himself for not bringing his gloves out with him. It was supposed to be spring, wasn't it? The light rain had been falling for hours, but he'd learned the hard way that there was no such thing as a light rain here. The wind caught it and hurled it at you, somehow finding all the tiny gaps in a man's armour and clothing and forcing the wet through, until you were as soaked as if you'd stood in a torrential downpour. He drew his blue and green cloak tighter about his shoulders, and turned to the guardsman at the other side of the tower platform.

“Jeron?”

“What?” the lean man answered, huddling down against the cold stones at the corner of the platform in an effort to stay out of the wind.

“You ever think this is a bit stupid?”

“How do you mean,” Jeron replied, cautiously.

“Well, here we are, right? It's as cold as a witch's tit, and we're stood next to a bloody great bonfire, freezing our arses off!” Stefan laughed, waving at the mound of oil-soaked wood under the treated tarpaulin.

“You're a card, Stefan,” laughed the lean man.

“I'm bloody freezing is what I am!” Stefan stamped his boots. “You feel like getting us a cuppa?”

“Corporal'd go nuts if he caught me!” Jeron hissed. “You know that.”

“So be quick then?” Stefan suggested, with a wink. “I'll stay here and freeze while you go into the warm for a few minutes, eh?” Jeron gave a worried smile but nodded in response to Stefan's shooing motion, and made his way down the spiral stairs to the guardroom below.

The sun was just starting to come up, though Stefan could barely see it through the clouds. He strolled around the platform to look out at the trees in the distance. When you spend your life staring at the sea, it's nice to look at something green once in a while. He could just make out the distant hilltop which was home to the next beacon, though he couldn't see the tower itself for the rain.

He looked down over the side of the stone wall at the new fort, half constructed beside his tower. It would soon be home to three times its present number. He wondered, for a moment, what that meant in terms of promotion opportunities and then laughed at his own naivety. New troops meant new officers, and new corporals to go along with them. He was doomed to being a lowly guardsman for a good while longer.

The site looked a mess to his eyes, with building supplies, timber and freshly quarried stones piled with no apparent order. The tower and its beacon were the only things that were really complete. A defensive wall had been staked out along the clifftop, with trenches half dug for the foundations. Two lonely ballistae and a catapult glistened in the morning's rain.

His breath steamed in the dim light and he walked to the stairwell. “Jeron, stop fiddling with yourself and get your bony arse up here with that tea!” He stamped his feet again and muttered to himself. “Bastard's probably stood drinking his at the fire.” He glanced out to sea for a moment but the waves mirrored the slate grey sky, both as miserable as his mood.

“Lords and Ladies, keep your voice down, will you?” Jeron swore, as he climbed out of the stairwell with two steaming mugs. “You'll have the corporal up here, for sure!”

“Don't be daft. He's tucked up in a warm bunk,” Stefan scoffed. “It's only us idiots up at this hour.” He shook the rain from his cloak in an attempt to keep it from soaking through, and took the tin mug from Jeron's outstretched hand.

“Oh damn, that's good!” He savoured the heat from the tea, feeling the warmth spread all the way down.

“It's hot, is all it is,” Jeron argued, as he held the cup tight, warming his hands. “I'd take hot ditch-water right now.” He followed Stefan's gaze towards the newly built defensive wall, the ballistae perched behind it like malevolent insects. “That'll give 'em a bloody surprise next time they try an' raid, eh?”

“Bit late though, isn't it?” Stefan said.

“How d'ya mean?”

“Well, this fort an' the beacon an' all.” The blonde man waved his hand vaguely at the half-finished construction. “It's all well an' good, but it don't help those people in Fallows Deep who nearly starved three winters back, does it?”

“Stops it happening again though, don't it?” Jeron said, plainly disapproving. “You talking like that's going to get you in the shit, Stefan.”

“Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't want to get put on a night shift in the rain on this bloody tower now, would I?” He stared out at the sea morosely. The rain was easing as the unseen sun lightened the eastern skies. The distant waves cast odd shadows against the rising light and he enjoyed the sight for a moment. “Sorry mate, I'm just a miserable sod this morning.”

“You're just missing your woman, I expect.” Jeron waved his apology off.

“Yeah, well, she smells better'n you.” He forced a smile. “Makes a better cup of tea too!” He spat and poured the remainder of the now cold tea over the edge of the stone wall.

“Ungrateful sod,” Jeron muttered. “You know it'd have been my balls on the block if I'd been caught down there. You can bloody well go yourself next time!” He frowned at Stefan, who hadn't bothered to turn.

“Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, preserve us,” the guardsman breathed.

“Enough of that too!” hissed Jeron. “You'll have that damned New Dayer up here with us.”

Stefan turned to him, his face pale and drawn. “We need to light the beacon,” he said in a quiet, urgent voice.

“What?” Jeron said, confused.

“Light the gods-be-damned beacon!” Stefan screamed, pointing desperately out to sea. Jeron turned and the blood drained from his own face. The ocean was stained dark in the distance before the rising sun. Dark from the shadows of hundreds upon hundreds of ships.

Jeron's cup fell to the floor and clattered about, spraying tea across the icy stones, as the two men wrestled with the tarpaulin. Stefan ran for the large lantern and touched a pitch-coated torch against the wick, before he thrust it into the oil-soaked wood. It caught hesitantly for a moment, blue-tinted flames hungrily consuming the oil, and then the fire shot heavenwards. The two men staggered back from the sudden onslaught of heat, and then Jeron dashed to the corner of the platform and took up the bell. As the inky stain that was the Bjornmen fleet spread further across the sea, the fire crackled to tune of the desperate clang of the watch bell.

Stefan went to landward side of the platform, barely even aware of the heat from the fire. He clutched at the stones, his eyes desperately scanning the horizon. Long minutes passed before finally a flame shot up as the beacon was lit in the distant tower. “Gods above and below, let it be enough,” he breathed, as men began boiling out of the barracks and up the stairwell in response to Jeron's frantic ringing.

The fleet closed with shocking speed, as the fort came frantically to life. Crossbowmen lined the short sections of completed wall, and the ballistae and catapult were manned and made ready.

Stefan half heard orders being barked, but stood frozen on the tower, watching in horror as the ships coursed towards the shore. The lead vessels had a strange design, their hulls splitting into three sections at the prow, almost as if the ships had runners like those of a sled. Oily smoke rose from prows of the ships, and men clad in leather and furs scurried around the long-armed catapults mounted at the foremost portion of each ship. He stood frozen to the parapet as the first ballistae hurled its massive spear towards the oncoming fleet, lurching forwards on its ties and tearing a hole through the deck of a Bjornmen vessel. He could hear the drums clearly despite the distance, and they somehow sounded clearer than the screamed orders of his officers.

The lead ships crunched into the surf, the split hulls acting as supports as the vessels drove themselves onto the beach, holding them secure and level. Stefan flinched, as the catapults on the ships lurched as one and hurled pots streaking fire through the sky. He vaguely heard the command to get down but stood, rooted to the spot, as the ball of flame came closer and closer.

“Stefan! Move!” Jeron yelled, grabbing him by the arm, and hurling him down the steps, into the tower.

The flaming beacon was eclipsed, as the pitch struck the tower and exploded, transforming the building into a pillar of fire far larger than the beacon had ever been. Men screamed and ran in a mindless panic as the flames consumed them, collapsing like broken toys.

The uppermost portions of the prows on the split-hulled ships slammed down onto the beach, forming a ramp. Men boiled forth roaring as they sped to the narrow path leading to the stricken fort. Crossbow bolts hissed into the fur-clad mass, as the defenders fired their weapons and struggled to reload the awkward devices, working with a speed born of terror, as the howling raiders surged closer and closer.

Stefan found himself being dragged along through the darkened tower by Jeron. Finally, they staggered, drunk with smoke and terror, out of the entrance. The fort was a scene of chaos. Men still lined the walls, firing bolts at the mass of Bjornmen as fast as they could, while others ran forward with drawn swords. Bodies lay everywhere, and the stench of burning flesh and pitch filled the air. The slope leading to the beach was littered with the dead and dying, as the guardsmen found themselves pushed back as fast as they could form a line.

“Stefan! Get over here!” the corporal yelled from the walls. Blood ran freely from a gash on his forehead, and chips of stone and dust clung to the wound. He wiped the blood from his eye with the back of his hand, and dropped the crossbow as they approached.

“I want you and Jeron to grab horses and go to the Abbot's Hill tower,” he said, quickly.

“What and just leave?” Jeron said, aghast. “Can't just leave the men.”

“Stupid prat!” Stefan said roughly, shoving at the small man who fell to one knee. “This place will be gone in an hour.”

“He's right,” the corporal said, giving Stefan a black look. “This tower was built for raids. This is far more than that. You need to get to Abbot's Hill and warn them. Don't let them send the garrison. It'll be a bloodbath!”

“Come on, you fool! Time for me to return the favour” Stefan pulled Jeron to his feet. “Take a few of the bastards with you, sir,” he said to the corporal, but the man was already turning back to the wall.

“Come on!” Stefan shook Jeron roughly and ran, almost dragging the man, to the stables. The building was smouldering on one corner from bits of pitch that had fallen from the tower. Inside, the horses were screaming and kicking at their stalls. He wrenched open the door and smoke billowed out past the terrified horses. Thanking whatever gods might be listening that someone had either had the sense to saddle the beasts or had been too lazy to strip them down, he grabbed a bridle and led one of the horses out through the smoke.

It was a trained warhorse, but any animal will go mad with panic in a smoke-filled building, and it took all his strength to keep the creature from bolting. He threw himself into the saddle and, glancing back to make sure Jeron had followed his lead, he gave the horse its head, letting it charge across the fort, and out past the building supplies which lay forgotten in the smoke.

They stopped and looked back, as the road started to turn. The screams and sounds of steel on steel carried this far, but they couldn't see men through the smoke. As more pitch fell upon the fort and exploded in flame, they kicked the horses into a canter, and headed for the next tower, with its flame burning bright on the horizon.

***

Dallan crouched down beside the tree and looked out at the hill. The woods ended at this point and the rest of the hillside was wide open. White rocks poked through the long grass that had fought through the stony ground in search of the sun.

The tower was little more than a wooden watchtower with a platform on top. It had been hastily built and Dallan didn't need to move any closer to see it was not the sturdiest of constructs. A flat platform, surrounded by a low rail, topped it. From where he crouched Dallan could clearly see the beacon fire. It was just a massive pile of wood, covered with some form of tarpaulin. He briefly wondered if the tower itself would burn down if they ever lit the beacon.

A small cabin stood beside the tower, smoke rising from its chimney. It also was new but showed more care in its construction. A woodpile was stacked up against the side of it, the eaves of the roof sheltering it from the rain. It was little more than a hut, really, and Dallan doubted it could hold more than two men in comfort.

They'd arrived three hours ago, approaching slowly through the trees and working hard to remain silent. As it turned out, they needn't have bothered. The cabin had been silent since their arrival and the smoke from the chimney was the only sign of life.

“What do you think?” Dallan said, over his shoulder, twisting a leaf between his fingers.

“Hard to say,” Scoth replied. “Can't see there being more than three in that cottage, but I can't see the top of the tower from here. Can you?”

“Not really.” Dallan replied. “Could be someone up there.”

“Better to wait for nightfall,” Khel interjected. “We take it at night, then they can't see us coming over this ground.”

“Unless the other beacons go up between now and then,” Dallan said, turning awkwardly, so he could face the others without standing.

“It's a risk,” Khel admitted. “But then so is charging over this ground in broad daylight. Bet they've got orders to fire the beacon if they're attacked. That's how I'd do it.”

Dallan nodded at the two men. Both had more experience than he did and he'd wondered why they were deferring to him. He glanced at Khel, who was squatting down in the dirt, toying with his dagger. Dressed entirely in black leather, the man was a fearsome sight. His long, black hair was caught in a thong at the base of his neck and, unlike most men from the Black Isles, he was clean-shaven. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, testament to their time spent travelling, and a long silvery scar ran down one side of his face, extending from just below his eye to the side of his lips. The scar and the puckered skin around it were hairless, Dallan noted. It was probably why he didn't grow a beard.

“You want to take the tower?” Dallan said, seriously. “When it's time?” The scar-faced man looked past him, towards the structure in the distance, his eyes squinting as he went through the exercise in his mind. It was no small task. Climbing the narrow, winding stairs in the near darkness, at full speed, whilst trying to be quiet would be difficult. If he alerted the man at the top, the beacon would almost certainly be lit, and if he moved too slowly, he may well be seen before he even reached it. The darkness would help, of course, but the tower was only a stone's throw from the cottage itself.

“I'll do it.” he said, after a long moment. Khel was a man of few words. Dallan could count the conversations they'd had on the trip from the coast with the fingers of one hand.

“That leaves you and me with the cottage, then,” Dallan said to Scoth. Scoth was everything Khel was not. Where Khel looked like a man better suited to a dark alley, Scoth was bright and fair, with an open and friendly face. His weapons looked out of place strapped to his body and his smile was never far from his lips.

“We wait until dark, then?” the blonde man asked.

Dallan nodded, inwardly chafing at the delay. “If the fire is lit, we'll rush the tower and kick it off the edge, or put it out somehow. If we're lucky, we can stop it being seen by the next tower.”

“It's not much of a hope,” Scoth said, with a glance at the tower platform. “But then, we wouldn't have much choice by then. If we do manage to take the tower, though, we should see if we can destroy it.”

“How? Why?” Dallan asked, confused.

“We don't know how often supplies come in,” Khel said, still playing with his dagger. “It doesn't do us much good to kill this crew, only to have the tower lit the day after we've left.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Dallan admitted. He felt a fool in front of these two, like a child playing at being soldier. “What do you think would be the best way to destroy it? It's not like we can just burn it down.”

“It doesn't look too sturdy. Looks almost temporary, like it was thrown up in a hurry.” Khel replied, examining the distant tower. “I bet if you were to just chop through one of the supporting legs, it'd go over. Even if it didn't, two would definitely topple it.”

“That's a lot of work to do with a sword.” Dallan objected.

“I doubt the squirrels piled that wood there, boy,” Khel replied, with a sardonic smile, pointing at the side of the cabin.

“Oh, yeah.” He looked away for a moment, forcing the flush from his cheeks. “We wait for nightfall then.”

The men nodded and settled down to wait. The day was grey but dry, and the woods were full of the sounds of small animals. Dallan found it hard to relax, jumping with every little noise. He had noticed that his two companions seemed to have no such problems. Khel was working over his weapons, a curved sword and a nasty-looking dagger. Scoth was lying back in the leaves with his head on his pack, his regular breathing enough to show he was already dozing. It wasn't a bad idea. They'd been travelling hard for the last few days but, despite this, he found it hard to sleep at night. The need to keep a watch meant what little sleep he did get was inevitably disturbed.

Dallan met Khel's eyes and gestured towards the ground, wordlessly, cocking an eyebrow. The silent man nodded once in understanding. Dallan lay down in the leaves, closed his eyes and tried to sleep, the odd harmony of Scoth's breathing and the regular rasp of the stone against Khel's already razor-sharp blades strangely comforting.

He woke to find Khel's hand pressed over his mouth. “It's time,” the man said, in a hoarse whisper through the twilight. Dallan sat up and tried to force his heart to slow down. The man was clearly good for the mission, but he was definitely not the sort you wanted waking you up like that.

“Scared the shit out of me,” he muttered, with a grin. Khel looked at him, his face impassive.

“He doesn't do humour,” Scoth advised quietly, from where he sat with his back against a tree.

Dallan looked around, assessing the light. The dark ground was already a stark contrast to the light sky, and the shadows were long and growing longer by the minute. He looked through the trees towards the clearing and was pleased to note he couldn't see more than thirty feet ahead of him. Turning back to the others he nodded and said softly, “Let's go.”

They made the short trip through the woods in silence and dropped to the ground at the edge of the trees. Lamplight was shining through the windows of the cottage, but the clearing itself was still. The night calls of birds and the occasional rustle of small animals in the bushes were the only sounds to be heard.

“Any movement while I was sleeping?” Dallan whispered to Khel.

“Three men, I think,” the man whispered. “Two have climbed the tower and come down again. One, I suspect, is still in the cottage.”

“What were they wearing?”

“Looked like some kind of uniform. They don't look to be farmers, if that's what you're asking,” Khel replied.

They moved over the rocky ground, keeping low but not crawling. Moving smoothly they closed the distance in minutes. Dallan stopped, facing the windowless side of the cottage. The edge of the tower was just visible around the corner.

He pressed his face to Khel's ear and whispered more quietly than was probably necessary. “We'll circle to the door, while you go to the tower. When you're halfway up, we'll go in.” The man gave a silent nod, and dropped to his hands and knees to work his way around the cottage.

Now that they were close, Dallan could hear sounds coming from inside the building and make out different voices, though the language was strange to him. He didn't know if Khel or Scoth could speak any of it, he'd never thought to ask.

He crawled under the window until he was level with the door, then drew himself up and pushed his back up against the wall. He watched Scoth lean in and press his ear to the wood to try and determine where people were in the cottage.

Khel made his way quickly to the tower and drew his weapons without flourish or noise, moving silently up the stairs. He concentrated on staying on the very inside of the narrow stairway, to try and blend into the structure in the darkness. The stairs were new, as was the whole tower, but some still creaked softly under his light steps. As he reached the halfway point, he waved down to the watching Scoth and the blonde man kicked in hard at the door as Khel began to sprint up the steps.

Khel dashed up the final steps and threw himself to one side, expecting an attack. He rolled easily to his feet as none came and moved quickly around the platform. A shadow moved on the other side of the mound of logs, giving him the only warning he had as a crossbow bolt flew past his arm. The twanging report of the weapon was impossibly loud in the darkness and he grinned to himself.

“That was stupid,” he said, conversationally, as he darted round the beacon to attack. He saw the figure drop to the ground, crossbow in front of him, and he raised his weapon to strike. At the last second, he realised the man was not reloading the weapon but picking another up. He twisted to the side in desperation, but it was too late, there was just no way to miss at this range and the bolt slammed into his ribs as he crashed into the beacon's guardian.

The guard was not expecting Khel's sudden weight, and Khel used this to his advantage as he grabbed the man and rolled. The pain was excruciating and the edges of his vision were growing dark. In desperation, he slammed the guard over him and into the railing. The wood splintered loudly in the darkness. He heaved with one arm and the guard toppled off the platform, into the night. Too late, he realised his own balance was gone and he screamed as he too dropped off the edge.

***

Scoth kicked hard and the door flew inwards on its hinges, he followed it in, his weapons drawn and ready. A young man, little more than a boy really, in a simple white shirt, sat at a plain wooden table holding the lamp. His eyes were wide with surprise but Scoth didn't slow. He lunged and the dark-haired boy gasped, making no attempt to defend himself. Scoth drove both swords into his chest, twisting the weapons savagely to ensure the job was done. The boy groaned and lurched backwards as a bloody froth poured from his mouth.

Dallan stood at the doorway. There was no room to move past Scoth, but he saw the thrust as he killed the guardsman. He relaxed for a fraction of a second as the blonde man twisted the weapons he had rammed into the boy's chest and then, from nowhere, Dallan saw the blade sweep through the air from one side.

Scoth never saw the strike that took his head and his body collapsed to the side, driven by the force of the blow. Dallan screamed out involuntarily and took a step backwards as the third man filled the doorway. His eyes widened as he saw Dallan and he raised his blade again to strike.

The figure was wearing blue and green over his armour but the chainmail didn't appear to slow him down as he struck out at Dallan. The lamplight filled the doorway and the backlit man was a creature of darkness as the sword swung down towards him. The silence of the hilltop was shattered by the sound of steel on steel, as Dallan met the strike with his own sword and tried to bring his own blade to bear.

He realised within seconds that he was hopelessly outmatched, as the soldier flicked his blade away and thrust savagely at his belly. Dallan lurched backwards to avoid the thrust and buy himself time, but the guardsman simply followed the movement of his weapon, smoothly stepping in behind the thrust and turning it into a deft flick towards Dallan's eyes.

Desperately, Dallan brought his sword up to block the blow and, like a snake, the man struck. Bringing a dagger up with his other hand, he thrust it under Dallan's arm, the blade biting deep into the oarsman's side. He gasped in pain and staggered back against the side of the tower, dropping his sword as he bent against the wood, and waited for the guard to raise his weapons and finish him.

The man moved in for the kill, anger and contempt plain on his clean-shaven face. Dallan had no doubt he was about to die. He looked on in terror, as the soldier began the thrust that would kill him and felt a hot wetness spreading between his legs. He tried to close his eyes but couldn't seem to make his body respond. Then he watched in amazement, as Khel and another guard fell, screaming, a mass of tangled limbs, swords and armour, onto the guard with a resounding crash. The three men crumpled to the ground and lay still.

Dallan scrambled backwards, crab-like, away from the tower. Searing pain shot through his side, but he couldn't bring himself to care right now.

Shit!” he cried to himself. “Just... Shit!”

His chest ached from breathing so hard and his throat burned, but his eyes were wild and terrible. With an effort, he managed to uncurl from the semi-foetal position he'd hunched into and drag himself to his feet. A low moan came from the mound of limbs and he lunged forwards, grabbing up a sword and stabbing wildly into the pile of bodies, thrusting over and over as the tears poured down his cheeks.

“Just die! Just die! Just fucking die!” he screamed, until his voice failed him and he collapsed to the ground and sobbed hot tears of panic.

It was some hours before he came back to himself. He couldn't bring himself to pull the bodies apart to look for weapons, so instead, he went into the cottage and searched until he found a woodcutter's axe. Dallan was small, but years on the reavers had piled the muscle on where he needed it. The axe was well-maintained and the sharp head cut deeply into the wood. Within the space of half an hour, Dallan was sprinting out of the line of the tower as it fell crashing to the ground. “Light your damned beacon now!” he laughed and then stopped suddenly. He didn't like the way he sounded, high and hysterical. Casting guilty looks about the clearing, he half ran, half staggered to the trees, making his way back to the place where they had sheltered while waiting for nightfall. It was hard to find in the dark, and he found himself stumbling over fallen limbs and protruding roots.

Eventually, he found the packs by falling over them. He slung his onto his back, leaving the others where they lay out of guilt or panic, and staggered through the trees. Finally, exhaustion claimed him and he collapsed by a shining, silver birch. He stared into the darkness, the silence of the forest a counterpoint to the thundering tumult inside his head.

***

The sun rose over the clearing slowly, as if it feared to reveal the contents. As slants of sunlight came through the ruined window, the man woke and threw back the blanket he'd used to cover himself in the chair. For some reason, it hadn't seemed right to sleep in the bed.

The light picked out the pile of things he'd put together the night before. He'd packed hurriedly, more a general throwing of things into a travel sack than packing, really, but then in truth, he didn't have much to take.

“Not much point in waiting around, I suppose,” he said to himself.

He ate quickly, a simple porridge made with the last of the goat's milk. He ought to have butchered the remains of the animals, but he couldn't bear to go into the barn. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice informed him he was being stupid and would regret his wastefulness, but he paid it no heed.

When he was done, he stood at the entrance to the glade and stared at the circle. If he had to go, then this would be the time. It was the first day of the new moon. He looked at the battered barn which had housed his animals, now surrounded by buzzing flies. A sigh escaped his lips and he turned to face the path. He hadn't left the glade in more than twenty years and now that the time came to actually leave, it was hard to make himself take the first step. He glanced over at the monolith at the centre of the circle and his resolve hardened. Leaning lightly on the iron staff, he made his way down the track in search of civilisation.

He made good time, despite the overgrown track. The woods had mostly reclaimed it, but he was spry despite his age, and managed to negotiate the undergrowth and roots that sought to trip him with ease.

He reached the bottom of the track and looked about for a moment, trying to get his bearings and to remember landmarks. There had been a time when he'd had a map of the area, but he'd long since stopped caring about such things and hadn't managed to find it as he packed.

His eyes fell on a distant hill protruding from the trees. If he could get up there, he would have a better chance of finding a proper path or a road.

It took the better part of three hours before he stumbled upon the road. It was little more than a worn, muddy track but it ran in the right direction and showed signs of recent use. He clambered his way down the bank and onto the road itself, a feat which required some less than elegant sliding on his rump.

The road made for much easier travel and he caught himself almost enjoying it. “Stupid fool,” he berated himself out loud. He clenched his grasp upon the Wyrde, feeling its oily texture slip under his grip in his mind. He relaxed his grip slightly. The slipping had been enough to remind him of what he was about. This was not a happy jaunt through the woods.

He was drawing level with the hill when he saw the track. It turned off the road he was on and led directly to the hill. From the cart tracks that turned also, he could tell it was in more or less frequent use and he made the turn himself gladly. It would be good to see past the trees for once. He paused to take a drink from his skin before trudging up the hill.

A crack from the bushes was the only warning he had before the man tumbled from the bush and down the slope onto the road. He was short, little more than shoulder height as compared to himself and dressed in boiled leather armour covered with furs. He carried a long sword in one hand and a pack on his back but what caught his attention was the man's eyes, wide and terrible. Filled with horror and self-loathing.

He held a hand out. “Are you okay?” he asked gently and flinched back as the man crouched into a defensive posture, raising his sword.

“K'rak hu talaad!” the man barked at him. “Su vetesh?”

It was obviously a question, but the language was like nothing he'd ever heard. Then he noticed the gash in the man's side and the blood covering the hand that was pressed to it.

“I'm sorry. I can't speak that tongue,” he said slowly, calmly. “Your side, can I help you with that?” He gestured to the man's injury.

“Suranum ka latutha!” the man barked again, brandishing the sword and lifting his bloody hand away from his side to point at the ground.

He moved back a step cautiously. The strange man was becoming more and more agitated. He didn't have time for this. He stepped to the side, keeping his eyes on the man, his iron staff held between them.

“Look, I think I'm just going to go, my friend,” he said carefully, easing his way around the man.

“K'rak harlan su revek larn!” the leather-clad man screamed, pointing at the ground again.

“I don't understand you!” he snapped, growing exasperated himself.

The man suddenly flung himself forward and thrust with his sword as he kicked the staff away. The old man gasped as the blade bit deeply into his side and he tumbled into the mud. The pain was excruciating. He clenched his eyes tight and fought to keep control, but it was just all too much. The Wyrde flailed in his grasp, slipped. He clenched his grip convulsively but it twisted like an eel and then it was gone, escaping like the last breath of a drowning man. His eyes flew open and he glared at the strange foreign man “You fool!” he gasped as he slumped back in the mud. The man looked at him with an odd mixture of fear and anger and turned. As his eyes slowly closed he heard him run off towards the road with the frantic pace of naughty child.

He couldn't say how long he lay in the dirt. His side burned and throbbed with each pulse, but the pain told him he was still alive. Gingerly, he probed at it with one hand, keeping the rest of himself still. His robe seemed to be soaked with blood but the wound itself didn't appear too deep. Pressing down hard on it, he found his way to his feet and looked around at the empty track.

“You're worried about your modesty? Now?” He wheezed a painful laugh, as he pulled open the robe to get a better look. The blade had skidded along one rib before stabbing deep into his right side. He swore and cut a makeshift bandage from his robe, wadding it up against the wound and binding it tight.

Bending awkwardly against the pain and hooking it with one foot, he managed to retrieve his staff and he leant on it heavily as he staggered up the small path towards the hilltop. He silently thanked the fact that the main road had been rising for some time, so this side track wasn't overly steep. He was gasping as it was and the pain in his side threatened to overwhelm him with each step.

After what felt like hours, but which was probably no more than half an hour, he reached the end of the path. His heart sank as he took in the wreckage. A mass of splintered timber was all that remained of what had clearly been some form of tower. A small cabin sat near the wreckage but the violence that had occurred here was visible even from the edge of the muddy track.

“Hello?” he called cautiously. His side prevented him from taking too deep a breath and so the shout he'd intended came out weak and querulous. His only answer was silence and as he staggered closer to the cabin, he realised that the odd pile beside the doorway was a collection of bodies. He muttered to himself as he drew closer, there would be no salvation here. Perhaps inside at least, he might find something to better tend his wound.

The ground was slick with blood as he reached the doorway, and he held on tight to the frame as he pushed the door further open and stepped quickly inside, away from the blood-spattered grass. Letting go of the doorway, he turned swiftly to find a lamp, and his foot skidded out from under him in the pool of blood that covered the floor of the cabin. He slammed hard against the table and cried out. As the light faded from his vision, he saw the young man sat at the table with two swords embedded in his chest. He had just enough time to wonder what he had blundered into, when the darkness took him.

Chapter Twelve

Selena strolled through the gardens towards what had become her wing of the palace. The sun was bright this morning but the air was still crisp. Spring was definitely here, she decided, as she examined the buds on the roses. She was alone for once, having sent away her ladies-in-waiting and the ever-present pages.

She breathed deeply, enjoying the crispness of the air and the solitude of the gardens. It was so nice not to be surrounded by toadies and hangers-on. The power structure in the palace had changed and everyone was aware of it, from the chambermaids to the guards. It was nothing official, of course. The world wasn't even close to being ready for that. Everyone knew, however, that it was she who now held the reins and the sycophants already trailed in her wake.

She sat in the gazebo for a time, and admired the tintias vines that ran up the side of the trellis, their fiery orange blooms already out and basking in the sunlight. The flaming blossoms matched her hair. Closing her eyes for a moment, she enjoyed the silence. The sun felt nice on her face. She was not one to sit still, however. Had she been content to do that, she would never have worked to seize effective control of the duchy. She stood and brushed her gown with the backs of her hands, as if wiping away the peace of the garden to make room for other things. It was time for business.

She made her way inside, through the decorative patio doors and her chambers, until she reached the parlour. As she entered the room, her manner became sharp and businesslike. She strode to her favourite chair by the window and made herself comfortable, positioning her gown just so and pulling the little table closer.

“Mikel?” she called. The page, who had been waiting attentively by the door, stepped forward. “my lady?” he replied, with a small bow.

“Be so good as to invite Chamberlain Hanris to attend me with the accounts at his convenience,” she said. At his convenience would, of course, be interpreted as an immediate summons.

“At once, my lady.” The page bowed again and stepped back three paces before turning and moving swiftly to the door.

She looked out the window as she waited, enjoying the view as the light wind blew the puffy clouds across the sky. The sound of distant running brought a slight smile to her lips and she glanced expectantly at the door as she imagined Hanris puffing and blowing in the hallway and trying to put himself in order.

The door opened and the page entered, slightly ahead of Hanris who, remarkably, had managed to get his breathing under control.

“Chamberlain Hanris, my lady,” the page announced unnecessarily, as both he and the bird-like Hanris gave small bows.

“So good of you to come, Hanris.” She flashed a warm smile. “You needn't have come immediately you know?” He was wearing another of those black coats and ruffled white shirts. She briefly wondered how many of those outfits he had. He seemed to regard it almost as a uniform.

“It's no bother, my lady,” he replied. He was clutching a thick, leather-bound ledger under one arm.

“Why don't we have Mikel bring over a chair and you can talk me through the accounts?” she suggested, with a smile that made it clear it was nothing remotely like a suggestion.

“Of course, my lady,” Hanris said, in a defeated tone as the page struggled with a heavy wooden chair.

“Now then,” she said brightly, as he sat. “Why don't you dazzle me with how well our new estates are doing in the Eastern Reaches?”

“We've had, some success,” Hanris said cautiously without releasing the ledger from his grip. “The new villages of Frenton's Cross, Shayton and Selene are well-established now, and they should be planting fields as we speak.”

“Selene?” She cocked an eyebrow but sounded pleased, almost girlishly so.

“The villagers named it themselves, my lady.” Hanris coughed, apologetically.

“It's an...interesting name for a village, I suppose,” she mused, and tapped her elegantly painted nails on the deeply polished rosewood table. “And the tithe?”

“We have sent collectors throughout the duchy, my lady.”

“What a delightful way of avoiding the question!” She clapped her hands in a giddy fashion and then fixed the little man with a piercing look. “I had assumed that much, unless you were planning to totally ignore my order. How much success are we having?”

“Moderate at best, I'm afraid,” he sighed. “I've given instructions to the collectors to take no more than the village can afford to spare without causing hardship, as per your instructions.”

“And?” She leaned forward, one finger tapping out a staccato rhythm onto the tabletop.

“And we are bringing in revenue, my lady. Of course, it will be more in years to come, when the new villages and farms have had a fruitful season or two.” He smiled a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes.

“What aren't you telling me here, Hanris?” she asked, suspiciously, as she stared into his eyes through the spectacles perched on his beak-like nose.

“Whilst the revenues have increased, my lady, our position is unchanged.” He sighed and suddenly looked very old and tired. She wondered how she'd never noticed before, but the man had to be at least in his late forties. “The expenditure on the forts and beacons has been enormous, and frankly your husband's donations are exacerbating our situation.” He winced apologetically.

Selena sat back and composed herself carefully before she spoke. “What exactly are these donations, Hanris?” She watched as the chamberlain's composure cracked for the first time in the five years she'd known him.

“I…I'm sorry, my lady,” he sputtered. “I assumed you knew!”

“Knew what, exactly?” She folded her hands in her lap and fought to remain calm as she held his gaze.

“I really can't say, my lady,” Hanris was like a startled bird in a cage, flapping to try and escape danger despite the knowledge that there is nowhere to go.

“I'm afraid I really must insist, Hanris.” Her green eyes turned as hard as her tone.

“Your Ladyship, you must understand my position,” he pleaded, wringing his hands.

“I understand your position perfectly, Hanris,” Selena said, in a soft, calm voice. “Your position is one in the employ of the ducal household. Now, much as I usually try to deny it, at present it is advantageous to me to accept that I am your duchess and, as such, your employer. It would seem to me, Hanris, this it is you who does not understand his position.”

“my lady...” She brought her hand up with a snap and made a short, shushing noise. He froze mid-sentence and closed his mouth with an audible clacking of teeth.

“Hanris,” she said, smoothly. “I understand your problem. You are caught between your duty to my husband and your common sense, which informs you that denying me would be extremely foolish.” She stood and walked over to the window, continuing to speak as she looked out into the gardens. “Now, whilst I understand your problem, and can even sympathise, it is your problem.” She turned to face him as he sat slack-jawed in the chair. “Now, are you going to answer my question? Or shall we see how long it takes Freyton to notice his chamberlain has been dismissed? Personally, I would wager it would take a good few weeks. You know how he can be.” She smiled sweetly at him and settled down behind the little table again, waiting.

Hanris gaped at her for a long minute before removing his glasses and cleaning them on a handkerchief he pulled from an inner pocket. “I see you leave me little choice, my lady,” he sighed. “In truth, I thought you knew.” He gave a sad little smile. “The duke has been meeting with a priest from the Church of New Days for some years now.”

“A priest?” She didn't bother to conceal her shock. “What on earth would Freyton want with a priest?”

“Honestly? I have no idea, my lady. The meetings are kept strictly private.” Hanris pushed his gleaming glasses back onto his nose. They completed his face, somehow, and he looked odd without them. “In any event, the donations have been quite sizeable.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Show me.”

A noise outside the door diverted her attention for the moment and the page slipped out to see what the commotion was. She turned back to the thick ledger that Hanris had spread out over the table.

“I don't care if she's with the King himself!” The shouting penetrated the heavy door. “You open this door now or I'll do it myself, you jumped up little piss-ant!” Selena raised an eyebrow at Hanris who looked back over his shoulder at the door.

The page entered, looking decidedly flustered. “Captain Rhenkin insists on seeing you immediately, my lady.” He gave Hanris an embarrassed look. “I did inform him that your meeting was private and not to be disturbed, but he is quite insistent.”

“My, my. An insistent man in uniform,” Selena purred and burst out laughing as she caught the look on Hanris's face. “Show him in, then. By the sounds of things, he's likely to do something painful to you if you don't.”

Rhenkin pushed his way past the outraged page with a dishevelled guardsman in tow. He gave the briefest of bows. “my lady, I apologize for this interruption but I felt this needed your urgent attention.” Selena motioned for him to go on. “It seems the Bjornmen raiders have invaded.”

She shot to her feet. “Why weren't we informed? If there has been a raid, why weren't the beacons lit?” She clenched her fists by her sides.

“It seems this is far more than a raid,” Rhenkin replied. “This is Guardsman Stefan. He rode all the way from Tibbets Shore to bring the news.”

She fought to calm herself. “That is a goodly way, Guardsman, but why were the beacons not lit?”

Stefan's uniform was covered in mud and dust from the roads, and his face was unshaven. He cleared his throat, and twisted his tabard in his hands as he spoke.

“Beg your pardon, M'Lady, but it was lit.” He plunged on, as her eyebrows rose, “I lit the first one m'self when I saw the bas... beg pardon, M'Lady. When I saw the ships arriving.”

She ignored the almost profanity. “If you lit the beacon, then why are we only just now hearing about this?” Stefan flushed and looked down at his mud-spattered boots.

Rhenkin interjected smoothly. “It seems that the chain has been interrupted, my lady. Stefan saw the second beacon had been lit from his position on the tower. The chain must have been broken farther inland.”

She paused, digesting the information. “You mentioned this was more than just a simple raid?”

“Yes, my lady.” He turned to the nervous guardsman. “Tell her.”

“There were thousands of them, Your Ladyship,” Stefan blurted. “They overran the tower an' the fort in minutes.”

“Thousands?” she scoffed. “Come now, the ships don't hold that many, surely?”

“Beggin' your pardon Ma'am, but yes thousands,” Stefan said, holding his head high. “I saw easily four or five hundred ships, with more in the distance behind them.”

“Five hundred,” she gasped, reaching blindly for the back of her chair. She sank into the seat and for a moment stared blankly into space. “The garrisons?” she asked, weakly.

“Ordered to stay where they are, for the moment, my lady,” Rhenkin advised. He stood at attention, shoulders back. It was probably his way of coping, she realised.

“Has anyone informed Freyton?”

“Not as of yet, my lady.” Rhenkin cast an embarrassed glance in the direction of the formal dining room.

She sighed. Her idiot husband was simply too much for her to cope with right now. Drawing herself up, she looked Rhenkin squarely in the eyes. “What do you suggest?” He seemed surprised by the question, as if he didn't expect her to ask for an opinion.

“We need to understand their forces and their intentions, my lady. For this, we will need to send scouts into the area. We will also need troops.” He gestured towards Stefan, who seemed to have calmed a little and was listening attentively. “If half of what Stefan says is true, then we simply do not have the troops or resources required to meet this threat alone.”

She nodded and turned to Hanris. “I want you to draft an urgent message to the King advising him of the situation. Send it by the fastest possible means.” She looked back to Rhenkin, as Hanris walked swiftly to the door without stopping to bow. “What of the villages?”

“Tebbits Shore and the next closest village to the tower are almost certainly in enemy hands,” the captain said, frankly. “I cannot predict the condition of the others.”

“Are you proposing we simply leave them to their own devices?”

“I propose nothing, my lady.” His retort was curt, the first sign of his fraying nerves. “Whatever course of action we take places them in danger. Evacuation is possible but who could take them in? It also places them at considerable risk of attack during the process.”

“I refuse to just leave them to these savages, Rhenkin,” she burst out, slamming her hand down upon the table.

“I am afraid we have little choice at this point, my lady. By the time any evacuation order reached them, they would most likely have already been overrun.” Rhenkin stepped closer. “May I speak frankly, my lady?”

“I wish somebody would!” she complained.

“We were not prepared for this. We planned for raiders and we've been met with an invasion. The best we can do is send word to the King and seek information ourselves.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Send word to our garrisons to withdraw to a central location, whichever you see fit. We may as well establish a forward staging post.”

Rhenkin nodded, approvingly. “A very good idea, my lady. We can make further decisions when we hear back from the scouts.”

Hanris returned and gave a small bow. “I've drafted the note, Ma'am, and had it sent by bird and messenger. The birds will probably arrive first, but I thought it best to send a messenger too.”

“Agreed,” she said. “I don't believe there is anything further for the moment, Rhenkin?” He shook his head, his eyes distant as his mind worked through the problems of troop positions and supplies. “I trust you will reward this guardsman for his exemplary service,” she continued. “For now, Hanris and I have other matters to discuss.” She waved Hanris back into the chair, and nodded in response to Rhenkin's bow as Rhenkin and Stefan withdrew.

“Now,” Selena drew herself up in the chair. “As to the matter of these donations, and indeed my husband in general, Hanris, something must be done.”

“I quite understand, my lady, though it is a somewhat delicate situation,” the chamberlain replied.

“It occurs that over these past few years, I have made somewhat of a fool of myself,” she said as she stared up at a point on the ceiling.

“I'm not quite sure what you refer to, my lady.” Hanris spoke cautiously, as if looking for the trap.

“I've avoided thinking of myself as a duchess,” she explained. “I've even made a point of avoiding the title.”

“You have been, quite clear, about your feelings on the matter,” Hanris offered.

Selena gave a small smile at that. Perhaps the bookish little man wasn't entirely devoid of humour. “In doing so however, I have neglected to note that the title carries its own authority. Not so much as that of my husband's perhaps, but authority nonetheless. Certainly over my own household.”

“I would have to agree, my lady, but I am not quite sure…”

She smiled broadly. “It's quite simple, Hanris. Since my husband has seen fit to squander the contents of our coffers on donations and his own gluttonous excesses, we will simply have to tighten our belts. You will inform the Master of the Kitchens that we will no longer be needing to restock the wine cellar.” She carried on as Hanris's eyes grew wide behind his spectacles. “I would also like to liquidate our holdings in this area, and so perhaps you can inform the owners of the local hostelries and dining rooms that we would be open to receiving offers for the contents of cellars.”

“my lady, the duke will be incensed!” Hanris appeared genuinely dismayed at the notion.

“Are you denying that, as duchess, I have this authority?” She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him sternly.

“No, my lady.” Hanris shook his head vigorously. “No, the running of the household has traditionally always fallen within the remit of the duchess. But…”

“Good, so then it's settled,” she said. “Now, as to this priest and these donations. I am afraid, Hanris, that you are simply going to have to try and reclaim them.”

“my lady, that is highly irregular!” Hanris seemed to be fluctuating between being genuinely appalled and shocked to his core.

“I think we'll dispense with the 'my lady' as well, Hanris. I am Selena Freyton, Duchess of Druel, The Wash, and the Eastern Reaches, and I will be obeyed.”

“Yes, your grace,” Hanris stuttered.

***

Erinn clucked the horses on through the wooden gates, smiling at the guards in their bright new uniforms as she passed out onto the road. The cart was heavily loaded with supplies and moved sluggishly through the soft mud, giving her the chance to take in the changes made to her little village.

A tall wall, fashioned from sharpened wooden stakes, now surrounded the village, with only the mill and a few scattered cottages left outside. The thick gates were the only way in or out, and these were guarded day and night by village boys who'd jumped at the chance to wear uniform and play with swords, though most were armed with long cudgels instead. The long shadow cast by one of the four watchtowers spread over the road as she trundled on in the early morning light, and she almost missed the shouting from behind her, due to the creaking of the wagon. She glanced over one shoulder and smiled as she saw Kainen running after her.

“The inn's back the other way,” she teased, as she pulled back on the reins. The cart slowed to a halt. He wheezed as he caught up to it, holding onto the side and blowing like a bellows. “Thought you...might like...some company” he managed, with two words between each gasped breath.

“Well, I can't very well send you back in this state, can I?” She looked him up and down. “Seriously Kainen, you look like you've run a day solid. Look at the state of you!” He ignored her and clambered up into the seat beside her, still breathing hard.

She fixed him with a suspicious look, narrowing her eyes as a thought occurred to her. “Did my father put you up to this?”

Kainen squirmed for a moment, before nodding.

“Honestly!” She raised her eyes heavenward. “I'm going to bring supplies to Artor and two other men, and he thinks I need a chaperone? What does he think is going to happen?”

Kainen shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, and looked back over his shoulder at the village. “It hardly looks the same at all, does it?”

She smiled at his obvious attempt to change the subject. He'd never managed confrontation well. “I know what you mean,” she replied, looking back herself. “It's changed so much in such a short time.”

The beacon was only about three hours away with a good horse, but the cart was well loaded with supplies and would take the better part of the day to make it there. Truthfully, Erinn was glad of the company, as she hadn't relished the thought of travelling back alone in the dark.

“Kainen? Umm, you know how Artor can be about me sometimes?” she said.

“A complete jealous fool with less sense than a stag in rut? Yes.” He laughed as she glared at him.

“Would you mind, waiting, when we arrive. You know...” She could feel her cheeks burning as she struggled to force the words out.

“Out of sight? So Artor doesn't get the wrong idea?” Kainen finished for her. “Fine, but only if you tell me that you know you shouldn't have to do things like this.”

“I know,” she said, her eyes downcast.

“Right, then. Good enough.” He looked around at the budding trees and then gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Did you hear that Father Trallen got so drunk at Midwinter that he asked three men to dance?” She laughed and the mood brightened. Widdengate might have changed, but she could always rely on Kainen to bring a smile to her lips and salacious gossip to her ears.

It was quite a bit past the noon hour when they finally arrived at the small track that led to the hilltop. The track was new and had been cut by the workers when they built the tower. Despite the efforts of the spring sunshine, the ground was still wet and the roads still soft. The cart made slow progress towards the summit.

“I'll go for a wander in the woods while you two canoodle then, shall I?” Kainen said, with a leer, as he hopped off the side of the cart. Erinn gave him a withering look and clucked the horses onwards.

It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the top of the hill. As she turned the last corner, her fingers went limp and the reins fell into her lap. She fumbled for them, and reined in the horses with one hand whilst the other flew to her mouth. The tower was in pieces. It had fallen across the hilltop, narrowly missing the cottage and shattering as it fell, by the looks of things. She clambered down from the cart and began to run, her legs trembling, towards the cottage, but then stopped dead before she'd travelled ten steps.

“Stupid, Erinn,” she whispered to herself. “Very, very stupid.” She hunched down without thinking and scanned the clearing. Seeing no movement, she turned and ran past the cart, back to the trail.

Kainen was not hard to find and the two of them soon stood at the top of the trail, peering past a stand of birch towards the cottage and the wreckage of the tower.

“Did you hear anything?” Kainen asked, his gaze still fixed on the cottage.

“No,” she replied. “But then, I wasn't listening for anything, either.”

“There's no smoke or anything. I don't think anyone's here.” He turned to look at her. “I think maybe we should just get the cart and go back,” he said. “If there is still anyone here, we really don't want to run into them.”

She shook her head violently, her red hair flying free of her green, hooded cloak. “No. No, I won't just go. Artor could be in there, wounded, for all we know. He could have been taken. Anything could have happened. We can't just leave.”

Kainen put his hands on her shoulders and held her facing him. “Erinn, this tower didn't just fall down on its own. It's a beacon tower. You know what must have happened here…”

“No!” She shook her head again, her dark green eyes serious and intent. “No, I won't just go. We need to go and look, Kainen.”

“This is not a good idea, Erinn,” he said.

“Well, I'm going to look. Are you going to come with me or are you going to hide in the woods?” Her eyes flashed with anger and hurt. She pulled back away from him as he reached for her, and pushed out of the woods to the hilltop. Kainen cursed in a loud whisper and followed her.

They made their way over the rock-strewn ground in silence, crouching low in the long grasses, although it would help them little if anyone happened to look their way. The clouds were scudding across the sky before the stiff breeze, and the hilltop alternated between being bathed in sunlight and cast into deep shade every few moments.

The cottage stood about four hundred yards from the end of the trail. The debris from the tower obscured their view, and they were more than halfway there before Kainen saw the bodies. He reached out and pulled Erinn to a stop. She shot him a cross look, thinking he wanted her to leave again, but then she saw the expression on his face.

“What is it?” she said, in a hoarse whisper.

“Why don't you stay here and let me check ahead?” he said, thinking out loud. “If there is someone here, one of us needs to be able to run and get word out.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you saying this now?”

He gave up and tossed his hands in the air in frustration. Sometimes there was simply no point in being subtle. “Because there might be things in there you won't want to see, Erinn,” he said. “Just let me check ahead, then I'll come and get you, okay?”

“Oh!” Her eyes grew wide as she considered it, but then she saw the tangle of bodies beside the cottage. “Artor!” she cried and ran, jerking her arm away from Kainen as he grabbed at her. She lifted her plain, grey skirts and sprinted towards the pile of men, her green cloak billowing behind her as the wind caught it. She was dimly aware of Kainen shouting for her to stop, but she was past hearing him. She came to a stop as she drew close. The men were caught in a tangle of arms, legs and armour. Swords lay on the ground and flies were thick on the bodies, buzzing this way and that. The wind shifted and then the smell found her. It wasn't the stench of rotten meat or something decomposing, but the iron-rich smell of blood. It was a smell she'd always associated with violence. She covered her mouth and nose with the end of her cloak and turned away.

Kainen stepped past her and moved closer to the bodies. “He's not here,” he said simply, as he looked back over one shoulder. She drew up to his arm. “Who are they?” Her voice was muffled by the cloak.

“Soldiers, by the looks of them.” He pointed. “These two anyway. This one looks different though.” The man was dark-haired and wearing close-fitting, leather armour. “They don't look like they've been here that long, though.” He glanced at her. Her skin, pale enough at the best of times, looked paper-white and her eyes were huge over the cloak she held pressed to her mouth and nose.

“I'm going into the cottage. Stay here.” For once, she didn't argue.

The cottage was silent and Kainen felt his heart pounding as he took in the broken door hanging on one hinge. He pushed it and the bottom corner dug into the floor, jamming after an inch or two. Grabbing the top corner, he lifted and walked it open.

The cottage was dark and thick with flies. The smell of blood filled the air. Kainen pulled his own cloak to his mouth and worked his way around the door. Only the fact that he was still clinging onto it saved him, as he tripped over the leg. There was blood everywhere, and he gagged as he took in the headless corpse at his feet. Then he saw Artor.

The man sat in the wooden chair, his face frozen in a grimace of pain and shock. The swords looked to have been driven through him, pinning him to the wall. Kainen gagged again and stepped backwards. The scream that flew from his throat, as the hand grabbed his ankle, was high-pitched and girlish, not the manly cry of surprise he might later claim it to have been. He jerked away, spinning around to face the body.

The man lay in a pool of congealed blood, his face and robes covered in gore. He looked up at Kainen with pain-filled eyes. “Help me.” His voice was little more than a whispered gasp, but it carried a depth of pain that brought Kainen to his senses.

Erinn jumped as the scream came from the cottage, and she moved cautiously closer, ignoring Kainen's implied instruction to run. The door scraped as someone dragged it inwards and she flinched. Kainen's back filled the doorway as he dragged a body out of the cottage. She prepared herself for it to be Artor, but instead it was an old man she'd never seen before. He was dressed in robes that might once have been grey, but which were now stained a rust colour and half-covered with blood.

Kainen turned and caught her eye. “Don't go inside, Erinn.”

“Is he...?”

“Yes,” he said. “There are others too. You don't want to see it, trust me. Can you give me a hand, here?” He lay the old man down on the grass. She knelt down beside him and took a closer look. The man looked dead, but his wispy, grey beard was moving where the whiskers hung over his lips. A darker stain on his robes led her to the gash in his side.

“Oh, Lords and Ladies,” she swore, as she took in the wound. “Get me a knife,” she ordered Kainen, suddenly all business.

“From where?” he demanded, looking about.

“Get me a sword, if you have to.” She leaned in peering closely at the wound. He ran to the pile of bodies and returned quickly with a bloody knife. She took it without comment and cut away the dirty robe around the wound. Whoever he was, he'd put a bandage of sorts over it, but he'd almost have been better off leaving it open. The rag he'd bound over it was soaked in blood and the few areas that weren't were filthy.

“There's not much we can do for him here. We'll have to get him onto the cart and back to the village. Can you go and bring it closer, while I try and clean this up?” She cut strips of material from the bottom of the man's robe and wadded one up, pressing it over the bloody bandage already in place, before binding another over the top.

It took both of them to clear enough of the supplies from the cart and lift him onto it. For a thin man, he was shockingly heavy. He gasped in pain once as they hauled him up, but then his eyelids fluttered and he lay still.

“You drive. I'll stay with him,” Erinn said, as she knelt down with the man.

“What about them?” Kainen nodded towards the cottage.

“We can't do anything for them. This man needs our help now,” she said, biting her lip as her eyes flicked to the cottage.

Kainen knew when to stop talking and shook the reins lightly to get the horses moving. They were eager to get away from scent of blood and the cart fairly bounded down the track. He reined them in as they reached the bottom of the trail.

“Why've you stopped?” Erinn asked, speaking back over her shoulder. She turned at the lack of response and her jaw dropped. The road was filled with people. Some were lucky enough to have carts and they were piled high with salvaged possessions, their families curled up in what little space remained. Others trudged wearily through the mud. Mothers carried crying babies and pulled young children along. They all had same expression in their eyes, a look of fear and exhaustion.

A young woman in mud-spattered clothes ran to them from the crowd. “Is there a town nearby? We've young 'uns that can't go much further.”

“Widdengate,” Kainen replied. “It's some miles away but we can lead you there.”

“Who are all you people?” Erinn managed, as an older man drew closer. “Where have you all come from?”

“We're from all over the east,” the man answered, as the young woman stretched her hand out to two young children. “I'm from Frenton's Cross. That fellow there was in Tebbits Shore when they came,” he said. “Bjornmen, burnt it to the ground.”

Bjornmen?” Kainen asked. “I thought they just raided the coast?”

“If this is a raid, young man, then I'm a mother of four.” He spat into the mud beside the road. “There were thousands of them. I think this is far more than that.”

It was nightfall by the time they came within sight of the walls. The torches were lit, and children and adults alike found new strength at the thought of warmth and shelter. A cry to “halt and be recognised” came up from the walls and Erinn stood up in the back of the cart.

“Don't be an arse, Gavin Treadler! You can see these people need help. Now, stop playing soldier and open the damned gates!” She folded her arms across her chest and fixed the boy in the tower with a stern glare until he began climbing down to pull the gates open himself.

The gates creaked as they opened, despite the fact they were less than a month old. Erinn jumped down from the cart, and dashed between them as they were still moving. People attracted to the shouting were already gathering to gawk and doors were opening in the small street as the word spread.

Erinn dashed along the street until she spotted Maryanne. “Mother Taplock!” she gasped, her chest heaving.

“Erinn!” the woman cried, looking her up and down. “Look at the state of you, girl. Whatever's happened?”

“The tower's been attacked. Artor's dead!” As she said it, the enormity of it crashed down upon her and she felt the burning of tears welling up in her eyes. She dashed them away. There simply wasn't time to be that girl now.

Maryanne was gaping like a landed fish, as she stared first at Erinn and then at the ever-growing crowd of strangers moving through the gates. “What? How? Who are all these people?” she asked, the questions tripping over each other in their haste to get out.

“Villagers from the east, seeking refuge. The Bjornmen have attacked.”

“Bjornmen!” The woman was fast becoming hysterical, her voice rising in pitch with every word.

“Listen, we don't have time for this. Where's Trallen?” she demanded.

“Don't you take that tone with me, young lady!” Maryanne snapped.

Erinn gave the woman an appraising look. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just...I need help with all this.”

“Well of course you do, dear!” the woman gushed. “Why didn't you just say so? Leave these people to me for a little while. You go and get something warm to eat and get yourself cleaned up. You look all done in!” With that, she waded into the chaos, snapping orders and giving directions.

Erinn turned to find Kainen beside her. “Your mother,” Erinn said, “is possibly the most infuriating woman I have ever met!”

“I know,” Kainen replied. “Try living with her.”

The refugees were settled in the church hall and the wounded were taken into the cottages of those who could accommodate them. Erinn and Kainen were pulled into the inn and sat before steaming plates of food, whilst first Owen and then Harlen peppered them with questions.

“How long ago would you say it happened?”

“How many bodies were there?”

“What was the old man doing there?”

The door flew open, cutting off the stream of questions in mid-flow. “There she is!” Cedril shouted, as he stormed in. “There's the harlot that got my Artor killed.”

Erinn drew back into the chair as Harlen rose to his feet. “Don't you talk that way about my daughter,” he growled, curling his hands into fists.

“Now gentlemen, please,” Maryanne said, moving to stand between the two and placing her hand on Harlen's chest. “We're all upset and we all want to know what's happened. Let's just try to stay calm.”

“Calm? My son lies dead, according to this young strumpet,” Cedril yelled, his fat face red with anger and grief.

“I can't see how it could be her fault,” Maryanne said, in a reasonable tone, while shooting pleading looks at Harlen.

“She's the one who encouraged him to take up this ridiculous soldier idea,” Cedril said. “If it weren't for her, filling his head with chaff and nonsense, he'd be home now. Safe as stone.”

“He didn't need encouraging!” Erinn said, rising to her feet. “He hates the mill and everything to do with it. You're always nagging at him, putting more work on him there and all he wants is away from it. The beacon guard was his idea. I didn't even know he'd gone for it until he had it.” Her face was red with grief and anger, and tears began to fall down her cheeks.

“Now then, lass, pay him no mind.” Harlen engulfed the girl in his huge arms and looked squarely over her head at the miller. “I know you've had a shock. I know what it is to lose someone. But I'll tell you now, Cedril, you stop badgering my girl or we will have a reckoning.” He spoke quietly and the threat hung cold in the silence that followed.

Cedril froze, his mouth open and the thoughts were clear on his red face. He looked at the crying girl in Harlen's arms and then at the smith's stony face, then closed his mouth with an audible clack of teeth. Owen came out from behind the bar and pulled the miller away. “You need a drink, Cedril, after a shock like this. I'll get you a nice brandy. It's on the house, this time.” He stepped back behind the bar and poured a generous measure.

“Now, then, what are we going to do about this?” Maryanne breathed out the words all at once.

“I think that's pretty obvious, Maryanne,” Harlen said. “We need to get word out good and fast. Send out a rider to the new fort near Cripps Brook.”

“That's still a goodly ride, Harlen,” she said, sitting back down at the well-polished table. “Even if you took two horses and changed every hour or so, it'd take a day or so to get there. From what these poor people have said, these Bjornmen could be here at any moment.”

“I don't know any faster way, Maryanne. We're just going to have to do the best we can alone for a time.”

“What about the beacon?” Kainen spoke up, his voice sounding too high for his liking.

“Beacon's gone, boy,” Harlen said, confused. “You told us that yourself.”

“The beacon is but the hill's still there.” Kainen explained. “It won't be as good, but surely all we need is a big fire. The cottage and the wood from the tower would do for that, wouldn't it?”

“I imagine it probably would, at that,” the smith said, as a broad smile grew on his bearded face. “That's a rare one you've got there, Maryanne.”

“I'll go.” Cedril spoke up, from the bar. “I want to see him anyway and a flame burns brighter at night.”

“You can't think to go now?” Maryanne said. “You'll blunder right past the trail in this dark. Leave it to the morning!”

Erinn extricated herself from Harlen's arms and made her way to the door. She suddenly needed air. The place was stifling, filled with too many opinions, and it was too loud for her to cope with right now. She stood on the front step, watching more carts arriving through the gates. The steady stream of them had slowed slightly, and they were only arriving in groups of ten or twelve now, but they were still coming in. She wondered idly where they were going to put them all, as she stepped down to the edge of the road and walked slowly towards the church hall. The night was cloudy, the faintest hint of the tiny crescent moon peeking through the clouds as they drove across the sky. Torches were burning outside almost every home and lanterns shone bright in windows. There would be little or no sleep in Widdengate tonight.

The hall was bustling. Lanterns were hanging on hooks by the double doors, the light a welcoming sight. Those lucky enough to have found chairs sat in them, but most were on the floor, wrapped in blankets. They huddled in small groups, sipping from steaming cups of tea and bowls of soup. Children, ever resilient, ran here and there, laughing as their parents enjoyed their first hot meal in days.

Hannah worked her way through the crowd, handing out blankets. She spotted Erinn in the doorway and made her way over to her.

“Come to lend a hand, dear?” she said, in the mildly condescending voice that parents always seem to use with children they haven't yet realised are grown.

“I came to look,” Erinn said, her mouth forming the words without the assistance of her brain. Hannah gave her a strange look.

“I mean, I came to look in on the old man we found at the hill,” she went on.

“He's in one of the other rooms with some of the worst wounded,” Hannah said, after a moment. “I don't think he's come round yet. Could you help me here for a while first, then we'll go and see?”

Erinn nodded dutifully and Hannah smiled in approval. “Right then, there's lots to do and none of it hard.” She stopped. “I tell you what. Why don't you run and fetch Kainen and Devin, and anyone else who's not busy, and bring them all here. It's time we pulled together on this, and there's plenty of those who haven't pulled their weight yet.”

Erinn ran to fetch them and, before long, she was handing out blankets, as Devin and others boiled up soup and made tea. It was a pleasant kind of busy, just enough to keep her too busy to think, but not so much that she was run into the ground.

Some time later, she found herself leaning against the doorway leading into one of the back rooms, which had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. The room was full of men and women lying on piles of blankets that served as makeshift cots. Trallen moved slowly through the people, most of whom were asleep or unconscious, checking to see if there was anything they needed or that he could do.

Erinn's eyes roamed through the room and fell on the old man from the hilltop. He looked older and more frail somehow, now that he was cleaned up and in a bed.

“I wonder who he is.” Devin said over her shoulder.

She turned to look at him. “We'll have to wait and see when he wakes up, I suppose. He certainly holds the answers to an awful lot of questions.”

“If he wakes up.” Devin said. “Hannah told me that's a nasty wound he has. The blade might have cut into some of his vitals.”

“All we can do is wait, I suppose. I'm going to go home Devin, will you walk me? I'm suddenly all done in.”

Devin looked her at with surprise. “If you want me to. Of course.”

“I know it's silly. I just don't want to be alone right now.”

“Of course,” Devin repeated, for want of something else to say. He took her arm and led her gently out into the darkness.

***

They worked deep into the night, farmers, hired hands, and villagers. They cut the wreckage of the beacon tower away, stacking it inside the cottage until it almost reached the roof. The larger timbers were lifted and leant against the side of the building until the final structure was almost as high as the tower had been.

Cedril stood near the doorway of the cottage with a flaming torch in his hand. His face was wet with tears, but he was unconcerned by the small crowd of people watching him. “One thing I always said, son,” he said, into the doorway. “Don't start the job unless you mean to finish it.” He paused, then tossed the torch inside. “I know you'd want to finish it.”

The stacked wood had been surrounded by thatch, which had been torn down from the roof, and it caught quickly. Flames licked away at the thick timbers, growing stronger and rising towards the remnants of the roof. Within a few short minutes, the whole cottage was ablaze and the fire soared high into the dark skies, as the villagers drew back from the heat.

Cedril watched the western skies, waiting. The flames were slow to come, but orders are seldom flexible, and eventually the distant beacon flared, followed by another and another, carrying the delayed signal onwards, westwards. The fat miller cried then, silently with his face turned to the darkness as the flames devoured the remains of the tower, the ruined cottage, and the body of his only son.

Chapter Thirteen

She walked into the kitchen to the rich scent of musk. The man himself was unclear, more the suggestion of a man than anything she could have described to anyone else. At the same time, he was so much more male than anything she'd ever known. He smiled at her as she walked in, a hint of dazzling blue eyes and perfect teeth.

“You're not supposed to be in here,” she said weakly, knowing it was a ridiculous thing to say.

“I was waiting for you, Hannah,” the man said, again with that smile. It wasn't arrogant or rakish. It just screamed confidence and self-assurance. The type of smile that made her go weak at the knees.

“F..for me?” she stammered, hating the way she sounded. Like a young girl who blushed at the sight of a man, not a woman past her thirties. He moved closer and every step was like a strut. Then, she was in his arms, his strong muscles bunching under his loose shirt as he held her tight. His mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, kissing her lips, the line of her jaw, her throat.

She threw her head back and let him do as he would, lost in sensation and the smell of him. He devoured her neck, moving lower to kiss the swell of her breasts, before coming up to kiss her lips again. Her eyes opened for a moment and the man was gone.

Instead a horned creature held her close. Its eyes glowed the colour of a summer sunset, and it grinned as it moved in to kiss her again. She screamed and lurched back, staring at it in horror. Naked and more than ready for her, it had the torso of a man and the lower body of a goat.

It reached for her again, grabbing her arm and pulling her to the floor. It slid a hairy hand up her thigh and under her skirts, tearing at her underclothes. It didn't seem to matter how much she struggled, he was able to hold her down with ease. Then he was between her legs and she felt him against her, his muscles bunched and…

Hannah screamed and sat bolt upright in the bed. Her hair stuck to her face with sweat and her heart pounded like the hooves of a galloping horse. She looked around the dark room in confusion, but saw nothing. The only sounds were the wind against the side of the house and Khorin's soft snoring in the bed next to her. A dream. Another dream.

She shook herself against a sudden chill and climbed out of the bed, padding across to the window. The night was dark and clouded, probably still some hours before dawn, though it was hard to tell. Throwing on a thick robe she made her way down the stairs, taking care not to disturb anyone. Another time, she might have laughed at the thought. It was almost impossible to wake Khorin. The shreds of the dream still clung to her, however, and she could not smile.

The kitchen was dark and cold, but the coals in the woodstove still produced a dull red glow when she blew into them, enough to light a taper so she could light the lamps. She busied herself with clearing the worst of the ash from the stove and lay thin strips of kindling on the coals, before putting a couple of larger pieces of wood on top and closing the door. The kindling flared after a moment as the air was sucked in through the narrow vents, and she moved to the pump to clean out the kettle while the larger pieces caught.

You're losing your mind, she thought, as she placed the kettle on the stove and opened the metal door again. The larger pieces of kindling had caught well and she added two thick logs on the top before closing the door again. Making tea in the middle of the night was a foolish enterprise. It simply took too long for the stove to heat up. She knew though, from the past few weeks, that there was little chance of her getting more sleep.

The thought of going across to the hospital crossed her mind briefly, but she quickly dismissed that idea. If she was needed she'd have been called, and she'd only wake those that needed the sleep if she went in there now.

She replayed the dream in her head and shuddered. She'd had the dreams almost every night for the past two weeks. They hadn't been this bad since right after it happened, before Midwinter. She'd thought she might have been coming through the worst of it, but then this.

The kettle was steaming and she busied herself with the mechanics of making tea. Cup and leaves and strainer. She toyed with the idea of adding a good slug of brandy to it, but settled for a generous dollop of honey.

“You've got to talk to someone,” she advised her reflection in the dark windows. The truth was she couldn't talk to anyone though, could she? Not without being thought a complete loon. The disastrous attempts to talk about it with Khorin had shown her that. Besides, reality was bad enough at the moment, what with refugees pouring in through the gates every five minutes. What were a few bad dreams in the face of that?

She blew on her tea and wrapped her hands tight around the cup, seeking comfort from the heat that was just this side of being hot enough to burn her, and waited for daylight.

Dawn came slowly, the sun burning its way through the clouds and shining down on the village. The once sleepy place had roused itself during the last few weeks. The residents had set up a camp outside of the walls to house the endless influx of people, and tents dotted the grass while workmen hurried to finish the larger wooden buildings that had been fashioned to house three or four families.

Hannah stepped out of the little cottage and headed towards Widdengate. The walls looked imposing, even from here, but the influx of the refugees made a mockery of them. There were more people living outside of them than could be protected by them. She doubted that the village could actually hold all of these people now, should it ever be necessary.

The village was already coming alive as the sun crept over the trees and the noises of village life began to fill the air. Smoke was rising from a half a hundred fires as people struggled to heat water. Chickens clucked and crowed amid the sounds of early morning, the low murmur of conversation, and clack of pots.

“They always manage to grab a chicken,” she said to herself as she made her way through the already open gates, past the young guards scratching at their new uniforms, and on towards the church. She glanced over at the hospital as she climbed the stone steps. How quickly it has become the hospital, instead of the hall and school, she thought.

She felt a sense of peace wash over her as she stepped into the church. Perhaps it was just that it was a few degrees cooler and so much quieter than the outside, but it never failed to give her a sense of calm. It was an impressive structure, even more impressive when she thought about how quickly it had been built. High stone walls with expensive, leaded glass windows gave way to a vaulted ceiling. Rows of silent pews led towards the altar, with its beautifully engraved lectern, behind which stood a statue of a hooded figure depicting the Lord of New Days. The figure held one hand out in welcome, as if asking the viewer to take it.

Hannah walked softly between the rows of pews, heading for the altar. Even at this early hour, all of the tall thick candles were lit. A woman stepped out from behind the deep red curtain that concealed a doorway leading to the back. It took a moment or two for Hannah to recognize her as Sarah, the miller's wife. She stopped as she saw Hannah, and rested the broom on the floor. “Can I help you?” she asked, in a proprietorial manner.

Hannah cleared her throat, unsure of her own voice. “I...I was looking for Father Trallen, if he has a few moments?” she asked.

“I'll go and see,” Sarah said, looking her up and down with disapproval, though at what Hannah could only guess.

The church suddenly felt cold and Hannah hugged herself, rubbing her arms, as she examined the statue again. Despite the fact it was carved from white stone, it seemed sinister and a chill coursed through her. The figure was supposed to be asking to hold hands, to show you the way. To Hannah, however, it seemed that the figure sought to lead you astray, to lead you onto darker paths. She chided herself for being ridiculous, and then turned as the door behind the curtain creaked lightly.

“Hannah,” Trallen said with a warm smile as he stepped out to take her hands. “I didn't expect to see you until later on this afternoon. You were up so late in the hall.”

“I know, Father,” she replied, a slight quiver in her voice. “I wondered if maybe you might have time to talk for a few minutes?” Her voice was hushed and hesitant, and had none of its usual calm assurance.

His expression changed to one of concern. “Of course, my dear. Why don't we go into my office?” He opened the door and ushered her through. The back of the church was simple, a small kitchen and living quarters and a cosy study. She followed him silently through the narrow hall, ignoring the almost possessive look she received from Sarah as she passed.

Trallen went into the study and settled into a comfortable looking chair behind a large desk. He waved her into a chair and folded his hands on the desk. “Now, how can I help you, Hannah?” he asked, gently.

“I don't know where to start.” she laughed, suddenly nervous.

“Is something bothering you? I must say, you don't look yourself.” Trallen said, his voice full of paternal concern.

She looked around. The room was lined with bookshelves housing more books than she had ever seen in one place. Deep red curtains hung at the window and a large fireplace filled another wall. She wondered for a moment just how much wealth this church had. Trallen had certainly spared no expense since the day he arrived. She forced herself to meet his gaze and swallowed.

“Do you ever dream, Father?” she asked in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. It was small and broken. Desperate.

“Dream?” He looked confused for a moment. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. Don't we all?”

“This is just between us, isn't it?” she asked, as the thought occurred to her.

“Of course, Hannah. You needn't worry about anything like that. Now please, tell me what troubles you.”

It was hard to get the words out to start with and then, like a dam had failed, they flew from her mouth in a torrent. The strange figure in the kitchen, how he'd changed into that monster, and then the flash of blue sparks as she defended herself with the poker. The distance that had grown between her and Khorin, and finally the dreams that she couldn't seem to shake off. Trallen's face was impassive throughout.

“And so, when Khorin and Devin came in and found you,” Trallen prompted, “what did you tell them?”

“Khorin sent Devin upstairs.” Hannah pressed her palms together between her knees as her eyes pricked and she bit the inside of her cheek. “We talked and I told him that something had attacked me.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn't believe me. He thought I'd had a walking dream.” She sniffed and rummaged in her skirts for a handkerchief.

“What do you think?” the man smiled. “Do you think it was a dream?”

“I don't know, Father. I mean, it was just so real. I had bruises on my hips from where I hit the floor, but I suppose if it had been a walking dream…”

She shook her head suddenly and spoke with conviction. “No. No, it wasn't a dream, I'm sure of it.”

“Sometimes, Hannah, dreams are sent to tell us something.” Trallen leaned back in his chair and looked up at the small window.

“Like what?” Hannah replied.

“I'm not sure, but the fact you keep having the same dream would seem to support this idea.” He stood. “Would you like some tea?”

He didn't believe her. He was being nice about it, but clearly he thought it was all a dream too. It was all too much and she stood in a sharp motion, clutching her handkerchief in a fist. “No. Thank you, Father, but no. I've wasted too much of your time already.”

“Now, Hannah,” he said, reaching out for her hands. “Don't take it like that. You've not wasted anybody's time.”

“Except perhaps my own,” she said, with some heat. “It's clear you don't believe me.”

“My dear, we all have dreams that confuse and even scare us sometimes…”

She cut him off, raising her index finger in front of him. “It was not a dream!” she said, biting off each word. She threw the door open and nearly barged into the mousy woman in the hallway, who tumbled away from where she'd clearly had her ear pressed to the door.

“As for you,” Hannah said, rounding on the woman, “you ought to be home with your husband instead of eavesdropping in here. He's just lost his only child, for pity's sake. It's disgusting the way you're carrying on. The whole village is talking about it!” With that, she swept down the narrow hallway, leaving Sarah with her hand pressed to her mouth and her cheeks flushed, as she exchanged guilty looks with Trallen.

***

He awoke, in some confusion, in a makeshift bed. It was little more than a pile of straw, well-covered with thick blankets and sheets, but straw nonetheless. Still, it was warm and the thick blankets under the sheets kept the straw from poking through and scratching too much. He rubbed his eyes and ran a dry tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to clear the stale taste as he looked around the room. It was well lit, with two large windows and a lantern burning in the corner. A large slate stood on a stand in one corner of the room, stained a paler colour with chalk dust. Tables and benches had been stacked in another, presumably moved to make room for the four beds. He tried to haul himself to a sitting position, gasping in pain as the movement pulled at the wound in his side.

“Oh good. You're awake,” a voice said, as he lowered himself back down into the bed with a grimace.

“I suppose I am,” he managed, in a weak voice.

“How do you feel?” The voice belonged to a red-haired girl of perhaps fifteen summers. She crouched next to his pallet, her plain grey dress pooling about her feet.

“Tired,” he managed. “Thirsty.”

“I suppose that's to be expected,” she replied. “Do you think you're up to trying to drink some water?” He nodded. She moved to a table in the corner and splashed some water from a jug into a small bowl. Kneeling down beside him, she set the bowl on the floor. “Do you want me to help you sit up a little?”

“Please,” he said. His voice was a dry croak.

She pulled gently at his shoulders, forcing him upright, as she wedged folded blankets down behind him. He coughed most of the water out as she supported his head and held the bowl to his lips, but he managed a few sips.

“Is that any better?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile. “Much,” he said. “What's your name?”

She laughed. “That was going to be my next question.” Her hand went to her long hair, which was tied back in a plait. “Erinn,” she said. “What can I call you?”

He frowned slightly at the strange way she'd phrased it, almost as if she were inviting him to choose one. “My name,” he laughed. “It's been so long since I've used it, I've almost forgotten.” She looked at him expectantly. “Obair,” he said. “My name is Obair.”

“That's a nice name,” she said, standing and crossing the room to check on the occupant of another bed, an older woman with dark hair. She seemed to still be asleep or unconscious. Erinn glanced back at him. “Are you having any pain?” she asked.

“Some.” He twisted in the bed, trying to find a position where the wound didn't pull.

“I can get you something for it, if it's bad. We have a tea.”

“Willow bark and birch?” he guessed.

She nodded and he pulled a face. “I think I'd rather be in pain.”

“It's not that bad,” she said, with an amused look.

He looked around, noting the sun streaming through the windows. “What day is it? Where am I?”

“It's Dawnings,” she replied. “The twenty-third. We found you five days ago and brought you back here. How much do you remember of what happened?”

“Is it full moon yet?” he asked, ignoring her question. She gave him an odd look. “Not yet, no. Not for three or four days, I think. Why?”

“That's something at least,” he said, softly to himself. He looked up at her. “Where is here, exactly?”

She flushed. “Sorry, I didn't think. You're in Widdengate, on the edge of The Wash.”

He nodded slowly. “What do I remember? I remember a strange man on the road.” His gaze slipped from her eyes and drifted around the room as if lost and seeking a place to settle. His forehead creased in thought. “He spoke a language I didn't recognize, which is a bit odd in itself really. He seemed upset about something, but we couldn't understand each other. I gave up in the end but when I tried to move past him, he attacked me.”

“What about the tower?” she said, with a catch in her voice.

“Tower? I'm sorry, Erinn, I don't remember anything about a tower.”

“That's where we found you. What were you doing there, anyway?” Her demeanour had changed. Her eyes were intent, but her lips were pinched. She was holding something back.

“Am I a captive here, then?”

“What?” She looked shocked and stepped back from him. “No! Of course not!”

“It's just your questions seemed...well...you know...”

“Oh, Obair, I'm sorry.” Her face crumbled, and her poise and assurance dropped away from her. For the first time, she sounded like a fifteen-year-old girl. “It's just that when we found you...when I found you...you were with someone who was...close to me.”

“Is he here?” Obair looked around at the other beds, but only one was occupied.

“No, he...he was dead when we found you. He'd been attacked.” She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I'd hoped you'd be able to explain things and answer some questions.”

He lay back into the blankets and sighed. “No, Erinn, I'm sorry I have no answers for you. Only more questions, I imagine.”

“I've tired you,” she said, leaning in to look at his eyes. “I'm sorry. I'll leave you to rest.”

“No, please.” He reached out and caught her arm, but let go quickly as she looked down at his hand. “It's just that it's been a very long time since I've been able to talk to anyone.”

“Alright, but only for a little while, or Father Trallen will have my hide. If Hannah doesn't have it first, that is!” She fetched a chair, scraping it along the floor to his bedside. “What would you like to talk about? Where are you from, anyway?”

“A question first, if I may?” He waited for her nod. “What do you know about faerie stories?”

***

Hannah was still fuming as she walked into the hospital, but the sounds and smells of the place soon drove the thoughts of Trallen from her mind. The ever-present sound of crying, combined with the low hum of conversation, and the constant smell of boiling water and willow-bark tended to put things into perspective. There were people here who had far bigger problems than dreams.

A blonde woman, in her middle years, looked up from where she crouched next to one of the beds closest to the doorway. A young girl with a nasty cut on her leg, which had turned sour, lay in the bed crying as the woman applied a new poultice. She stood as Hannah approached, brushing her hair from her face with the back of her hand as she turned to face her.

“How are we doing this morning, Lyra?” Hannah asked. The woman had been a godsend really. She'd arrived with one of the first group of refugees, and presented herself as soon as they'd begun turning the school into an infirmary. Though not fully trained, she was a good stretch closer to being a hedge doctor than Hannah would ever be, and Hannah deferred to the woman's judgement as a matter of course.

“We're getting there, I think,” Lyra replied, as she stood. “Three more gone since yesterday.”

“Gone? I thought we hadn't lost anyone since the first day?”

“No!” the blonde woman laughed. “Gone as in able to leave. Not the other gone.” She laughed again as Hannah breathed a visible sigh of relief.

“Are you about ready to hand over, then?” Hannah asked.

“I think so. There's not much to report, really. Most are on the mend now. Oh, and the old man Erinn found at the tower is awake. She's in there with him now.”

Hannah raised her eyebrows at that. They hadn't expected him to live, which was one of the reasons Lyra had insisted on putting him in the back room. “People who are sick don't need to be watching others dying,” she'd said. “Getting well is as much in your head as it is in your body, and if you watch others falling by the wayside, it makes you lose hope.” It had made an odd kind of sense to Hannah, so she'd gone along with it. Besides, they'd been running low on space anyway.

“Right, well, get you gone then, girl,” she said. “You look all done in.” She didn't actually. She was one of those annoying people who always looked fresh regardless.

The woman gave her a penetrating look. “I'm fine, Hannah. Actually if anything, you look more tired than I feel. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, fine,” Hannah said, with a lightness of spirit that she didn't feel. “Just not sleeping much at the moment.”

“Well, don't let this place drive you too hard, okay? You're no good to anyone if you're falling down in the middle of the day.”

“Yes, Mother,” Hannah said and stuck out her tongue.

“I'm serious, Hannah.” she said without cracking a smile.

“I know. I'll look after myself, I promise.” Hannah replied. “Now go on with you.”

“Now who's mothering?” Lyra teased, as she left.

Hannah stood for a moment as she took in the room. The majority of the beds were filled with people who probably shouldn't be in them any longer, but there was no other place in the village to put them. The camp outside of the walls was barely fit for a dog, and she had problems sending anyone to it. She walked through to the back, returning waves from various patients and visitors on the way.

Hannah stopped in the narrow corridor as her fingertips touched the door of the back room, listening to the voices coming from inside.

“...just stories for children, aren't they?” Erinn was saying.

“Are they, though?” asked the old man.

“Well of course they are, Obair,” Erinn laughed. “What else would they be?”

“I'll come to that,” Obair said. “Let me ask you this first. What do the fae do in these stories?”

“The fairies, you mean? Well, lots of things, really. They come in the night, and steal cakes and food. They pester farmers, and bother sheep and pigs. Oh, and sometimes they steal babies and replace them with a fairy child.”

“Hardly topics for a child's story, wouldn't you say?” Obair said. “Can you think of a single story where the fae are nice? Or friendly?”

There was a long pause before Erinn finally replied. “You know, I don't think I can. Isn't that odd? I never thought of that before.”

“So then these tales are not so much stories, as they are warnings, then.” Obair said.

“I suppose you could look at it like that.” Erinn giggled suddenly. “Are you saying that the fairies are going to come out from under their toadstools and get us all, Obair?”

“Did you ever play chase as a child and hold up your crossed fingers to stop someone from catching you?” the man asked.

“I suppose.” Erinn's confusion at the change of topic was clear in her voice. “We'd all shout 'fainites' and that would make you safe for a minute or two.”

“It's not 'fainites', Erinn,” Obair said softly. “It's 'fae nights'. It means that everything stops on the nights of the fae. All games and all foolishness cease because, on those nights, mankind must do everything it can to stay safe.”

Erinn laughed uncomfortably as he carried on. “What about the old skipping rhyme, 'Iron to Keep the Fae Away'?” He hummed a few bars.

“'I'm to Keep a Fairer Way'? I know that one,” Erinn said.

“Sing it for me?”

“I suppose,” she said, and sang in a clear, high voice:

“I'm to keep a fairer way,

With horses' shoes and miller's weigh,

From wax to waning moon, we pray

Keep us warm 'til light of day.”

He applauded with a weak clap. “How old would you say that song is, Erinn?”

“Oh, it's ages old. My grandmother taught it to me and she said her Nana taught it to her.”

“What if I told you there were older words to it? That your words have just replaced the original ones over the years?”

“Really?” She sounded intrigued.

“The version I was taught by my master went like this.” He sang in a quavering voice that lurched unsteadily from one note to the next:

“Iron to keep the fae away,

Horse's shoe or music play,

From wax to waning moon, they prey

Scarce safer in the light of day.”

“That's interesting, Obair, but I think I'm a little old to be scared of things that go bump in the night,” Erinn said.

“Of course you are. But are you old enough to wonder what is actually causing the bump?”

“You're confusing me,” Erinn replied.

“I don't think so,” Obair said. “I think you were already confused. Perhaps you're just starting to see the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That there is a meaning behind the stories, songs and games. Something that the druids have kept us all safe from for hundreds of years.”

“The droos ? What have droos got to do with anything?”

“Druids, Erinn. Not droos.” he corrected her with a sigh.

Hannah jumped as a door crashed open inside the room and she jerked away from the door for a second.

“I think we have heard quite enough of that, thank you,” Father Trallen said, in an outraged tone, as he stormed into the room. “Erinn, thank you for your efforts. You may leave.”

Hannah stepped back from the doorway before it opened. Erinn rushed out and disappeared down the hallway. Hannah looked over her shoulder to be sure the girl had gone before moving closer to the door again. A hope was kindling inside of her. A sad, quiet hope, but a hope all the same, and she held it tight, nurturing it, like a candle in the night.

“I appreciate you are still unwell, sir, but I for one will not tolerate that sort of talk in here.” Trallen's voice carried easily through the door Erinn had left ajar.

“What sort of talk?” Obair asked.

“Nonsense about fairies and droos. Superstitious bunk,” Trallen said. “These are good people here. God-fearing folk who have embraced the word of the Lord of New Days, and I won't have this foolishness.”

“Lord of New Days?” Obair asked.

“Yes, the Lord of New Days. The Saviour of the Righteous, leading us from the superstitions of the past to the glory of His future.”

“I can't say I've ever heard of him,” Obair said.

“That doesn't excuse your behaviour, and I won't have you corrupting these people.”

“Corrupting them?” the old man asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yes, corrupting, with that sort of heathen nonsense,” Trallen snapped. “I will have someone look at you and determine if you are well enough to leave. I think it may well be best if you were on your way, before you do any more damage.”

“I'm sorry, Father…?”

“Trallen,” the priest supplied.

“Father Trallen. I don't mean to offend you or anyone else here. I was simply asking the girl some questions.”

“Well, I will not tolerate that sort of foolishness sir. Not in my church hall. The holy text is quite clear that our task is to move beyond the superstitions of the past,” Trallen explained, his pompous voice irritating Hannah.

“I wonder how it is that I've never heard of your faith before, Father?” Obair asked.

“We are a fairly new church,” Trallen explained. “The First had the truth revealed to him only six years ago. The faith has been spreading ever since.”

“Interesting,” Obair said.

“I'm sorry, I can't stop to talk about this right now.” Trallen said. “I really must get on. I'll send someone to check on your recovery, and we'll get you up and about as soon as we can.” His tone seemed somewhat mollified as it carried towards the door.

Hannah realised, almost too late, that the priest was approaching the door. She dashed down the hallway and ducked into a small cupboard as she heard the footsteps approach. Holding her breath in the dark, she bit her lip to keep from laughing as the priest passed. “Hiding in cupboards now, like a naughty child,” she muttered, as she clambered out, and brushed the dust and cobwebs from her skirts. She glanced once down the corridor to ensure she hadn't been seen and then hurried into the back room.

He lay back on the pillows, with his eyes closed. His face was old, the kind of age that comes from a lifetime of hard and relentless work, rather than just the passage of years. She stepped to his side, her soft shoes making little noise on the plain wooden floor. Despite this, he opened his eyes and looked up at her curiously.

“Hello,” he said. “I seem to be very popular this morning.”

“You have had a few visitors,” Hannah admitted. “I'm sorry about Father Trallen. He has some odd ideas sometimes.”

“You heard then?” Obair cocked a bushy, grey-white eyebrow at her.

“It was hard to miss.” She fought down a flush and coughed into her hand.

“Has he been here long?” He tried to pull himself back up into a seated position and she placed her hand on the thin nightshirt to support his back whilst she pushed the pillow and folded blankets in behind him.

“Almost a year, I suppose. He arrived last spring, out of the blue.” She checked on the sleeping patient in the other bed, before pulling over a chair.

“I have a confession to make,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I heard a little more than just Trallen ranting at you.” She laughed an embarrassed little laugh. “I'm afraid I may have eavesdropped a little bit.”

“Did you now?” His voice was flat, emotionless.

“You were talking to Erinn about fairy tales.” She ignored his accusing eyes and forced herself onwards. The question was burning inside of her.

“Was I?” He gave her an appraising look. “Just indulging a child's curiosity, Miss.” He chuckled softly. “Sorry, that just sounds wrong on a grown woman. Do you think I might ask your name?”

She laughed along with him. “Sorry, Obair, my name is Hannah.”

“So you heard that too, then?” He raised both eyebrows this time and gave her a pointed look.

She gave in to the flush and her cheeks reddened as she nodded.

“So, have you come to scold me for corrupting the young, Hannah?” He laughed, but the sound died on his lips and he peered closely at her. “No, you haven't, have you? You've come to me with a question. I can see it on your face. You've seen something, haven't you?”

She nodded and glanced over her shoulder to the door. “Not here. I can't talk here,” she said quickly. “Let me have a look at your dressings. Trallen has made it clear he wants you gone. If you're well enough, you can stay with my family.”

“I don't want to cause you any trouble, Hannah.” His face was serious.

“Obair, something happened to me some months back. Something that has nearly ended my marriage and that I still can't explain.” She rubbed her upper arms as if feeling a sudden chill. “For a time, I thought I might even be going mad. If you can take this from me, as I hope you can, then you'd be welcome to stay for the rest of your life, let alone a few weeks.”

She stood, businesslike as she brushed down her skirts. “Now,” she said, as she took hold of the blankets, “let's take a look at that wound of yours, shall we?”

***

Rhenkin sat back in his chair and glared at the pile of papers before him on the desk. The room was bright and airy, twice the size of any office he'd ever worked from before, and handsomely furnished. The desk alone would probably pay any honest soldier's wage for a year. He went to the window, looking out at the courtyard below and watched his men drill at the pell post. Hacking and slashing first one way then the other. Darting in with low thrusts and pulling out quickly, before the return blow could land. “Lords and Ladies, I miss it,” he said, his breath fogging the glass.

He turned back to the desk, glancing with hate-filled eyes at the pile of paperwork. “To the frosts with it,” he swore, and made his way to the door. A man wasn't built to stifle indoors, drowning under papers, while children played at being soldier out in the good, honest air. Working up a sweat would help him, anyway. He laid a hand on the door handle just as the knock came at head height. He jumped and swore at himself, glancing around the room to make sure no one had seen, despite the fact that it was empty. He stepped back behind the desk and picked up a random sheet of paper before calling out. “Come!”

“Sorry to disturb sir,” the sergeant said, as he entered the room. “Only he insisted it was urgent.” He jerked his head at a man in the hallway. Rhenkin recognized the scout immediately and nodded. “That's fine, Sergeant, send him in.”

The man was stubbled and travel-stained but he stepped in and moved smartly to attention. Rhenkin looked him up and down. Usually impeccably turned out, he was a mess. His uniform was torn and stained with grass and dirt, and a dirty bandage covered the back of one hand.

“Roberts,” Rhenkin said, with a nod. “Report. Where is Stibbons?”

“He's dead, sir. Well, presumed dead,” Roberts said. His blue eyes met Rhenkin's and his gaze did not waver as he spoke.

Rhenkin moved back around his desk and sat, waving a hand at one of the two chairs facing him. He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers.

Roberts sank into the chair and collected himself for a moment before he spoke.

“We proceeded, as planned, through the Wash and into the Reaches,” he began, breaking eye contact and staring at a fixed point in space as he remembered. “We made good time, but left the horses at the last garrison. From there, we left the roads and cut across country.”

“Get to the point, Roberts,” Rhenkin said.

“Yes, sir,” Roberts replied, his face colouring slightly. “So far as we were able to tell, the Bjornmen have moved inland and taken all the territory within forty miles of the coast. We saw villagers fleeing inland with whatever they could salvage, but the villages themselves have been burnt to the ground.”

“All of them?” Rhenkin was aghast. “There must be ten or twelve villages in that stretch of land!”

“We didn't have a chance to check every one, sir, but we did see four that have been razed. They seem to have fired the barns, storehouses and crops as well, in those places where it was dry enough.”

“Nothing to come back to,” Rhenkin grunted.

“Sir?”

“The Bjornmen. They burn the villages and then the crops. They leave the peasants nothing to return to, just the scorched earth,” Rhenkin said. He closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair and ran both hands back through his dark brown hair.

“What about the peasants themselves? Are they slaughtering them or just driving them off?” he asked.

“They appear to be just driving them off, sir, for the most part.”

Rhenkin studied the man. There was more to this, something he wasn't saying. “Continue,” he said.

“They seem to have established a patrol cordon beyond which it's extremely hard to move about easily,” Roberts said. “They've established at least three villages that we could see. They're heavily defended, with high palisades, ditches and stakes for two or three hundred yards from the walls, and then farmlands out from there. The patrols are frequent but all on foot. We saw no sign of cavalry, or any manner of mounted troops.”

“What about their numbers? Could you make an estimate of their troop strengths?”

Roberts shook his head and looked down at the floor. “Impossible to say with any certainty, sir, but more than sufficient to keep us from getting close. They don't have troop encampments that we could see, but they have thrown up the villages in a remarkably short space of time. If I had to base it on the patrol strength alone, I'd say at least twenty thousand, but I think it could be far more than that.”

“Thank you, Roberts. We'd better relay this to the duke.” Even as he said it, Rhenkin realised how ridiculous it sounded. The entire staff knew Freyton was all but incapacitated by noon each day.

Roberts cleared his throat. “There is one other thing, sir.”

Rhenkin paused, half out of the chair, and looked up. “Oh?”

“Yes, sir. The Bjornmen. They've brought some kind of beasts with them,” Roberts said in a low voice, as if embarrassed.

“Beasts?” Rhenkin fixed the man with a stern look. “Explain.”

“I can't say that we ever saw them clearly, sir. It was when we were on the way back. We'd taken to travelling in the dark, as it was just past the full moon and, most nights, it was easy enough to see.”

Rhenkin nodded and motioned the man to continue.

“Well, the first we knew, there was some kind of flute or music playing, and then this high-pitched laughter from whoever was leading them. Then they loosed them on us through the trees. Three of the bastards, that I saw. Dark and horned, with claws like knives. We fought them off as best we could in the dark. But the way they fought, sir...I've never seen anything move that fast.” He clenched his fists and leaned against the desk, shaking his head as he drew in a shuddering breath.

“I'm not one for tall tales, sir, and I hesitate to tell you this, even now. I fear you'll think me mad, but they came at me and I slipped down onto the ground. One leapt right atop me and the moon caught its face. It had a man's face, sir. Eyes, nose, even a beard. But the moonlight was shining off the horns on its head. It'd have had me then, sir, if it weren't for Stibbons. He kicked it off me and led them off into the trees. I tried to follow, sir, but he was already screaming by the time I'd stood up and I had to get the report in.” He looked down at his shaking hands before meeting Rhenkin's eyes. “I ran, sir. I ran like a scared child and that probably killed him.”

Rhenkin stood and walked back to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back as he looked out at the grey skies. “I don't think you failed anyone, son,” he said without turning. “Your first duty was to get back here and report. Stibbons knew that and I don't think he'd blame you. A word of advice though, keep this to yourself. Men don't need to be worrying about things like this, not with what's already coming.”

“It's okay, sir.” Roberts said, in a quiet voice. “I wouldn't believe it, either.”

Rhenkin turned and moved to stand beside the scout. “I didn't say I don't believe you. You've no cause to lie to me and I've been living this life long enough to recognise real fear when I see it, Roberts. You've done your job well and you've a bright future ahead of you. Don't ruin it by telling others things they can't accept, no matter how much you know them to be true.” He held out a hand and hauled the scout to his feet. “Now, we're going to go and see the duchess, and you can give her your report.”

***

“I'm sorry, your grace, I didn't know what else to do,” the maid repeated, as she led Selena to the polished mahogany doors. “I knocked and I knocked, just as you said, but he made no sound.”

“It's alright, Claire, you did the right thing,” Selena said, as she took hold of the doorhandles. “I'll deal with this. You may go.”

“Yes, my lady.” The diminutive maid bobbed a curtsey and left, her walk just a shade away from being an outright run.

Selena watched her pass along the hallway before going into the sitting room and through to the bedchamber. She opened the door, grimacing at the smell that wafted out. It was the stench of dried sweat, coupled with the sickening smell of vomit and sour wine. She gasped and scrambled in her sleeve for a lace handkerchief to press to her nose, before stepping into the gloom.

The curtains were drawn across the tall windows with just the barest crack allowing a slit of sunlight to cut across the room, illuminating the dust that hung in the air. She marched across to the one window and pulled them apart and then forced open the stiff window frame. The spring air caught the curtains, and they billowed out like scarlet sails, as she moved to the other window to do the same.

“Freyton!” She tried to shout, but the stench had robbed her voice of its strength, and it came out as little more than a croak. She tried again. “Freyton, wake up!” She grabbed hold of the heavy drapes surrounding the grand, four-poster bed and ripped them open wide.

The foul stink filled the chamber again as she took in the scene. Freyton lay fully dressed on his back. His face was pale and his eyes were vacant, as he stared lifelessly at the canopy of the bed, one hand still cradling the bottle of brandy to his chest. Vomit trailed from his mouth, running along the line of his jaw to where it had pooled beside his head.

“Oh, Freyton,” Selena said as she looked at the man who had been her husband for little more than half a decade. “You poor, stupid, little man.” She reached out and removed the bottle from his hand, ignoring the cold touch of his fingers, and gently brushed her hand over his eyes to close them. She took one last look and backed away calmly, stepping out into the sitting room and closing the doors firmly behind her. She tugged on the bell-pull and perched on one of Freyton's frightful scarlet divans while she waited.

“Claire,” she said, smiling a greeting as the little maid appeared around the door. “Could you please make sure that His Grace remains undisturbed for the rest of the day? He's feeling rather unwell.”

“Yes, my lady.” She curtseyed. “Should I send for a healer?”

“No, I don't think that would be much help to him,” Selena said, quickly. “Just leave him to rest. He'll call if he wants something. Let him sleep. Is that understood?” She fixed the brown-haired maid with a firm stare until she nodded. “Good, and send Hanris to my rooms please.”

“Very good, my lady.” She nodded. “Should I direct Captain Rhenkin to you, as well? He's been asking after you with some urgency.”

“You know, Claire, that might be just the thing.” She ushered the maid into the corridor.

Rhenkin was waiting for her as she came into the parlour. He snapped to attention as she made her way to her usual chair by the window with its little side table.

“Rhenkin,” she said. “I understand you've been scampering all over the grounds looking for me.”

“Indeed, your grace,” he replied. “I have a scouting report from the Eastern Reaches.”

She stood at that, all thoughts of Freyton forgotten. “And?”

“It's not good, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “The Bjornmen have pushed some forty miles inland and driven off all of the peasants they came across. They have razed at least four villages to the ground, and we suspect many more.”

“To what purpose?” Selena said. She was seething. Years of work developing these lands was going to waste at the hands of that barbarian rabble.

“It appears they are building their own villages, heavily fortified, and also beginning their own farming efforts.

“On my lands?” she cried. “Damn them! Damn them all!” Selena cried, clenching her hands into fists and digging her nails into her palms. “What are their numbers? Can we push them out?”

“We were unable to obtain a clear picture of their numbers, my lady, but it would be perhaps, unwise.”

“Don't dance around it, Rhenkin,” she growled. “Can we force them out or not?”

“I don't think so my lady, no,” he admitted. “Without the King's forces to support us, I believe any campaign would be doomed to failure.”

“Yes, well, King Pieter would appear to be a bit less than concerned about our situation.” She strode to the map filling the rear wall of the chamber. “Which ones?”

“my lady?”

“Which villages, Rhenkin?” she grated.

“Frenton's Cross, Selene, Harton's Fields and Sonlan have been burnt to the ground. I don't have information on any others as of yet.” He paused as she fumed to herself under her breath. “They...um...also appear to have torched the fields in a number of locations.”

“I won't have this, Rhenkin,” she said, in a low voice as she glared at him. “I have dragged this duchy back from the edge of the abyss with these villages and this expansion. I won't have it turned to ash by some hairy idiots from across the seas who want to play farmer!”

“The refugees have largely settled at the edge of The Wash.” He gestured to the map.

“Where?”

“Widdengate, mostly, your grace.”

“Where?”

“Widdengate,” he repeated as he searched over the map. “It's a small village near to one of the beacon towers we had built. I believe it's in this area, but I don't think it's marked on this map.”

She frowned at the spot he was pointing to. “That's it, then. I refuse to lose any more lands.” She turned to him. “Where did you have the garrisons muster?”

“Carik's Fort,” he said, pointing again.

“Fine. Move them all to Widdengate and fortify it. We will not lose another village.”

“I'll see to it, my lady.”

“One more thing, Rhenkin,” she said as the thought occurred to her. “This delay in communication is crippling us. I want you to go there and personally take charge.”

“Me, your grace?”

“Oh, don't bother to hide your joy, Rhenkin. Your hatred of paperwork is legendary.” She allowed a wry smile to flicker across the edges of her lips. “Who is your second?”

“Coulson, my lady,” he said. “He's a good man.”

“Sort out an introduction before you go.” She ran her hand lightly down his arm. “Protect my lands, Rhenkin, but come back safe to me. I'd miss having you around the place.”

“I would miss being around the place,” he said with a tight smile.

“See if you can have someone find Hanris, would you? I can't think what's keeping him.”

She did not have to wait for long once Rhenkin had left until Hanris arrived. Hanris was dressed in his elegant black coat and white shirt, as usual, and his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He entered the room and bowed.

“Hanris, I'm afraid we have a problem,” she said, dispensing with the pleasantries.

“Your grace?”

“Shut the door, Hanris.” She chewed on the inside of her lower lip, as she considered how to begin. He closed the door and turned to her, cocking his eyebrow.

“Freyton's dead,” she said, simply. “I think he choked during the night. It looks like he was drinking again.”

He didn't bother with condolences, to do so would have been hypocritical. “I will send messages at once to inform the family,” he said simply.

“You will do no such thing!” Selena snapped in a shocked gasp.

“Your grace?” Hanris said in confusion.

“Think, Hanris. What happens if Freyton dies?”

“Well, of course you will be provided for, my lady, but the duchy would pass on to the next male in the line of inheritance. A cousin, I believe, since there is no direct heir.”

“We are at war, Hanris!” She bit off the words as she glared at him “Do you really think we can afford for another bumbling idiot to take control now? Now, of all times?”

“I really don't see that there is any other choice, my lady,” the stuffy little man persisted.

“There is always a choice, Hanris, even when it isn't immediately apparent.” She walked over to the sideboard and filled a goblet with a pale, white wine. She was normally not much of a drinker but today, Lords and Ladies, today she needed it. She took a deep drink and turned back to the chamberlain.

“Where is the will, Hanris?”

“With the palace records, my lady. With the deeds and suchlike.”

“And has anyone inspected it in recent years?”

“No, your grace, why would they?”

“So no one would know whether it had been updated or not, then?” She watched his face, as understanding finally dawned on him.

“No, my lady, they would not,” he replied, picking nervously at some unseen piece of lint on one arm of his jacket. “Of course, any alterations would require your husband's signature.”

“Oh, come now, Hanris, you do Freyton's signature better than he ever did himself,” she chided.

Hanris flushed and coughed into his cupped palm. “Even if that were true, my lady, it would be highly irregular for the duchy to pass to yourself. It flies in the face of tradition recognised for scores of generations.”

“I am quite aware of that. It would never pass to a mere woman,” she said, with a twist to her lips. “What if I were pregnant however?” she asked, her eyes flicking towards the barracks and Rhenkin's office, before darting back to Hanris's face.

“A regency, you mean?” Hanris mused. “Yes, that might work. Of course, when the baby failed to appear...” He trailed off.

“Women lose babies all the time, Hanris,” she said, gently. “For that matter, it wouldn't be that difficult for me to get pregnant, you know?” He looked genuinely shocked at that.

“What you're suggesting, my lady, would be nothing short of the grossest form of fraudulence.”

“Needs must, Hanris. Needs must,” she said. “The Bjornmen have moved forty miles inland. They are burning villages to the ground, and driving the peasants before them. Do you want to wait until they are ready to torch the palace itself? Or do you want to work with me to save the work we have put all our time and effort into for the past few years?”

He stared at her in horror for a long moment, before shaking his head slowly.

“Just do it, Hanris,” she grated. “I don't have time for moral objections right now. Do what needs to be done and then bring it to me once it is ready for signatures.”

“I…my lady…I…”

“Now, Hanris!”

He gave her a hurt, worried look and then fled.

She sat for a time, staring into space, and didn't really even notice she'd moved until her hand was pressed against the wall. She stared at the map grimly. “No more,” she whispered.

Chapter Fourteen

Hannah held the mug tightly between her hands and looked down at the table. It was sturdy and well made, polished by a thousand hours of having flour and pastry scrubbed off its plain surface. It showed scorch marks in more than one place where she'd had to put a pot down quickly and had nowhere else within reach.

“I don't know where to start.” she confessed as she glanced up at Obair.

He sipped his own tea and nodded. “Was it night-time?”

“Late evening,” she replied, looking down again. “Maybe ten of the clock?”

“Go on...”

“Devin and Khorin had gone to the inn. It's something they do once every few weeks. I think they need the time to just be men without me tutting at them.” She smiled at the thought.

“Anyway, the animals were making a fuss, so I went out to check on them. When I got back, there was a stranger in the kitchen, here.” She gestured across the room to the counter near the woodstove.

“So much of this was like a dream, you understand? I couldn't really even tell you what he looked like, but I knew he wasn't Khorin. He walked over to me, pulled me close and kissed me, and I wanted him to...” She looked at the old man and blinked away the brimming tears. “Do you understand what that feels like?” Her voice was fierce as she forced the words out. “I wanted him to. I wanted it all. And in that moment, I didn't give a damn about Khorin or Devin, my family… any of it.”

“What happened then?” Obair prompted, watching her intently.

“Then, something happened. I remember him jerking back away from me, almost like he'd been burnt, and he wasn't a man anymore. He was some kind of beast.” She laughed a bitter little laugh and shook her head as she looked away from him. “Listen to me. This sounds crazy, even to me.”

“Can you describe it?”

She looked at him curiously for a moment before she spoke. His eyes were eager and he was leaning towards her, across the table.

“It was short, not much taller than Devin,” she began. “I remember it had the face of a man, except for the horns. And its eyes. It was the eyes I remember most. They were the colour of sunset and solid, no whites at all.” She shook her head and her eyes followed the steam curling from her cup as she stared unseeing at the shapes it made. There was a long silence before she spoke again. “This is hard to say. I can't help but think that it all sounds like some nonsense from a child's tale. It's no wonder Khorin wouldn't believe me. You won't either.” She stood and moved to the window, it was too dark to see out. It didn't matter, she wasn't really looking. It was just a means not to see the scorn she knew was coming

“The creature you saw,” Obair said, in a quiet voice. “It had the legs of a goat, as well as the body and face of a man.” He carried on as she spun to face him. “It was probably mostly naked, perhaps with a belt, and it almost certainly had a knife made of horn or bone.” She nodded in silence, as her mouth hung open in disbelief.

“You've seen this thing?”

“Thing? It's called a satyr. There are many more of them too, Hannah, and they're coming,” he replied.

“Who are you?” she said.

“Me?” His laugh was every bit as bitter as her own had been. “I'm a man with a terrible secret. A truth about an enemy that would make the Bjornmen look like children. And now that it's finally come time to tell it, I doubt there is anyone outside this room who would believe it, or not laugh in my face.”

She sat back in her chair. “But who are you, though? What were you even doing near that tower?”

“I'm sure you've heard of the druids, Hannah,” he said, meeting her eyes with his own. “What was it Erinn called them? droos ?”

She was across the kitchen before she realised she'd left the chair, hands scrabbling for a knife from the rack. “You just stay back. Stay away from me!” she cried, pressing her back against the counter.

“Hannah,” he said, with a tired smile. “Look at me. Even if I wanted to do anything to harm you, I couldn't.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him. A tired looking old man hunched over the table in clothing cobbled together from what the village could spare. His eyes were sunken under his shaggy grey eyebrows and he was thin, painfully thin. He was no threat to her, or to anyone.

“Most of what you will have heard about the druids are tales they created themselves, anyway,” he explained as he watched her slowly uncoil.

“Why would anyone do that?” she asked, easing away from where she'd pressed herself into the corner, but the knife was still held firmly in one hand.

“To ensure they were left alone, Hannah. The druids had just barely survived the purges and so it was decided then to spread the stories you've heard.”

“So, it's all nonsense then?”

“I expect that most of what you will have heard of them is, yes. The tall tales of druids sacrificing virgins on stone altars and wielding terrible magics are tales they created themselves. Mostly they were simple men and women devoted to an impossible task. One they couldn't trust to anyone else.”

“So, the stories about the droos are all false?”

“Honestly, Hannah? I have no idea,” he admitted. “I haven't heard them all, or even half of them, I expect. I began my task as a young child. All I know is what my master told me and, in truth, that wasn't much.”

“But you are one of these, druids?” She tested the word, rolling it around with her tongue. Her eyes were still a little wide but beyond the shock was a curiosity.

“That's broadly true, I suppose, but I'm more of a caretaker than anything else.” She gave him a puzzled look and he returned a sad smile. “You need to understand, Hannah, that there is no secret store of knowledge. I'm not some all powerful wizard from a children's tale. My earliest memories are of working with my master…” He glanced at the doorway, as heavy footsteps crunched down the steps to the kitchen.

Khorin stepped in quickly, closing the door fast against the draft behind him, then looked at Obair with surprise.

“So you're up and about, then?” he said.

“Yes,” the old man replied. “I seem to be on the mend.”

“Just be careful of your ears, then,” Khorin said, with a perfectly straight face. “You'd not be the first to fall victim to her.”

“Stop it, you!” Hannah swatted at him but he danced out of her reach, laughing.

“And what are you two talking about, then? Look at the pair of you, thick as thieves.” Khorin chuckled as he walked to the stove.

“Nothing much,” Hannah said, in a panic, as she shot pleading looks at Obair.

“I was asking about your lad, Devin,” Obair said, not missing a beat.

“He's a good lad,” Khorin said, as he filled the kettle from the pump. “We couldn't love him more if he was our own.”

“He's not yours, then?”

Khorin turned at that and shot Hannah a puzzled look. “He's a foundling. I found him in the woods. Must be almost seven years ago now.”

“There's a tale worth telling in that,” Obair smiled.

“You don't know the half of it,” Khorin said. He waved a cup at the two of them and cocked an eyebrow.

“Please,” Obair said, as Hannah nodded.

“Found him all wrapped up in ivy at the base of a tree. It was like something out of a fairy tale.” Khorin poured hot water through the strainer and then added honey to all three cups.

“He was freezing to the touch too. I thought he was dead when I first saw him. Even when I got him back here, he took three days or so to wake up, didn't he?” he said, looking over at Hannah, as he carried the cups over.

“How did he wind up there all alone?” Obair asked, genuinely curious.

“That's the thing, I've no idea really. He had some tale about his mother getting sick and some fanciful stuff about a creature in the woods helping them for a time, but it sounded like a fever dream to me.”

“That's not all of what he said, Khorin,” Hannah said, sitting up straight. “Not even close. You've missed more than half of it.”

“You tell it then. You've always told a better tale, anyway.”

Obair turned in his seat and watched in silence, as she blew gently on her tea for a moment and collected her thoughts.

“What he said was that his mother was sick. They were lost in the woods and had been wandering for days with little food or water. His mother had been hurt and she was becoming feverish. He said she was hot, so I think that's what he meant.” She looked at Khorin for confirmation and he nodded.

“It's all so long ago, it's hard to remember, but I do remember this part clearly. He met a woman in the woods, someone strange who helped them both. There was some mention of a ring of stones in the woods, of finding his mother dancing around it in the night, caught in a fever dream or something. Then later the woman and his mother vanished into the stones. That's the last he remembered before Khorin found him.” She looked up from her tea and faltered as she saw Obair's ashen face.

“What's the matter?” she asked in concern, reaching out to touch his forehead. “Are you feeling ill again?”

“Did he mention the eyes?” Obair managed, in a strained voice.

The blood drained from Hannah's face as she made the connection. “He did. They were the colour of sunsets. The same as…”

“…as the satyr you had in here.” Obair finished for her.

“Hold on. What's this?” Khorin said, as he looked from one to the other. “You told him about all that?” He stood, his face like thunder as she nodded, and he leaned over the table, stabbing one thick finger down towards Obair as he spoke. “Listen, old man. I'm not one to throw someone who's sick out of my home, but I'll not have you upsetting my wife or filling her head with nonsense.”

“I understand, sir,” Obair said, flinching back from the finger. “You need to know, though, that what happened to Hannah was not a dream. There are things you need to hear. This woman that took Devin's mother was no fevered imagining, just as the creature that attacked your wife was no dream. They were both quite real and if the fae have a woman that danced around the stones...stars above, this explains everything!”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“Devin's mother would be a tool, Hannah. The fae who held her could use her as a gateway to this world. The Wyrde would be no more effective a barrier than a wet sheet of paper!”

Khorin's face creased in disgust and he stepped back from the table. “I'll not stay here and listen to another word of this.” He turned towards the door.

“Khorin, you've not even had any lunch!” Hannah called, but he waved her protest away and stamped out of the cottage.

“Give him time, Hannah,” Obair said, softly. “It's a lot to accept.”

“If he ever does,” she said, hearing the break in her own voice. She looked down at her hands and her hair fell forward over her face, veiling her misery.

“He won't have a choice, Hannah. The fae are coming. Pretending it isn't so won't help.”

“What do you mean?” She tucked her hair back behind her ear as she looked up.

He sighed. “I'm doing this all wrong,” he muttered to himself. He sipped at his tea and pulled a face. “Have you got anything stronger?” He tipped the mug meaningfully.

“That's a good idea.” She gave him a wan smile. “I think I could use one too.” She retrieved a dark brown bottle from the pantry and poured them both a generous measure of brandy in fresh mugs. He took a large mouthful at once and then coughed and sputtered as the fiery liquid burned his throat.

“Let me start at the beginning,” he said, twisting the mug on the table as he thought. “My earliest memories are of working in the glade with my master, as he taught me the ritual that kept the fae away from us. I don't even remember my family and I remember little of how I came to be with him.”

“There was a power that kept the fairies away?”

“Not fairies, Hannah, that's a word that leads to silly tales. They are the fae.” His voice was low and serious.

“Fae then.” She cleared her throat. “If you and these druids were keeping the fae away somehow, then what happened?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “The Wyrde was always a strange thing to me. Maintaining it was a bit like holding your breath, but with your mind. I had to keep a grip on it at all times, even whilst sleeping.”

“This Wyrde? This was the ritual you mentioned?”

“No. The Wyrde was a force, a barrier that served to keep the fae from entering our world. The ritual helped to maintain it, but it wasn't the whole of it. Think of the Wyrde as being a bit like a dam. The ritual was a few sections of wood bracing the dam but it wasn't the whole of it.”

“Then what's happened?”

“It's been slipping slowly out of my grasp for years.” He breathed in deeply and sighed. “It's never been perfect anyway. Things like the satyr that attacked you have been slipping through in ones and twos for centuries. It just needs to be the right phase of the moon and the right place.” He looked up at her, checking her expression. “The only things that could never pass through were the fae themselves. The Wyrde never let them through.”

“There should have been hundreds of people across the world performing the ritual, but in the end I think there was only me left. I could feel it slipping more and more. I felt, a pressure, something pushing at the fabric of it, tearing at it. It's gotten a lot worse over these past five years or so, though I have no idea why. Then, finally, they found me.”

“Who?”

“Satyrs, though now you've told me about Devin's mother, I wonder if there weren't fae as well, at times.” He drank again and swallowed without a blink. “The satyrs hounded me at night, killed my livestock and made it clear that the Wyrde was weaker than I'd ever imagined. I'd gone to look for help, to warn people, when that man attacked me. That's when I lost it.”

“Lost what?”

“When I lost my hold on the Wyrde. I felt it finally fail.”

“Can't you just begin it again?” she asked.

He laughed a sad little laugh. “I wouldn't know where to begin. I was like a boy trusted to put twigs on a campfire to keep it going. I have no idea what formed the sparks and I don't know how to fan the coals.” He sighed and looked her square in the eyes. “The Wyrde is gone, Hannah, and as soon as the fae realise this, they will come.”

“More of those fae things that attacked me?”

“Well, satyrs are more like foot soldiers than anything else. Fast and strong, but not terribly bright. The fae themselves are something quite different. They're supposed to look a lot like us. We'll find out soon enough, I suppose.”

“There you go again with that. You said they were coming. When?” she demanded. “How many? Isn't there anything we can do?”

“As to the first, that I can answer. The fae do not live in this realm. Their own home is another place, far removed from here. Even with the Wyrde gone, they can only cross over when our worlds touch, between the full moon and new moon. Even the fae using Devin's mother as a gate would have been bound by that.”

“But it should be full moon tomorrow!” Hannah said in alarm, as she stood. Obair nodded sadly as he looked up at her. “We've got to warn people! How many will there be? What do they want with us?”

“Hannah, nobody would believe us. Think! If we go darting around the village warning of an invasion of fairies, how are people going to react?”

“They'll either laugh, or think I've cracked,” she said quietly, sinking back into the chair.

“Exactly. As to your second question, I have no idea, that knowledge is lost. There could be a score, a thousand or an army. They may not even come here. They have the whole world to visit. The worst will not come on the first night, anyway.”

She noted the catch in his voice. “What do you mean by that?”

“On the first night, if anything, it will only be a scattering of curious satyrs or something similar. The worst will come on the third night. That's when the hunt will come.”

“The hunt?”

“The Wild Hunt.” He spoke in little more than a whisper. “This place, this village, it takes its name from something much older. The stones that I was tasked to watch, where I worked the Wyrde, were once known as the Withen Gate. My master told me it was there that the fae begin their Wild Hunt.”

“What do they hunt?” Hannah said, in a sick voice, her eyes already screaming the answer to her question.

“What do you think, Hannah?” he said, softly. “They hunt us.”

“Lords and Ladies,” she swore. “Is there nothing we can do? Surely the soldiers…” She left the rest unsaid.

“Steel will not harm them. It would be like fighting a raging bear with a twig.”

“What then? There has to be something. Damn it all, Obair, you must know something!” She slammed her hand onto the table hard enough to make the mugs clatter.

“It's all lost, Hannah, all the knowledge we had about them was destroyed centuries ago.” His face reddened behind his grey whiskers as his temper rose. “Damn it all to hell, don't you understand? They're coming and we know almost nothing about them. I told you, there is no secret store of knowledge. We'll be like children to them. Iron will hurt the satyrs, but for all I know, it has no effect on the fae at all!”

Both Hannah and Obair jumped as the door flew open and Devin all but fell down the steps. “Soldiers!” he gasped, between ragged breaths.

Hannah rose to her feet. “The Bjornmen?” she asked.

“No, not Bjornmen. They wear Duke Freyton's colours. I think it's an army!” Devin replied looking curiously at Obair and his reddened face. He shrugged and hurried them outside. The flood of troops marching along the road towards Widdengate dwarfed those who had worked to fortify the village and build the signal tower on its distant hill. The land immediately outside the walls was covered in men working to erect tents. More men moved amongst the refugees' tents, taking them down to make way for a more organised pitch. Still they came, hundreds of men followed by cavalry and endless wagons.

“Surely this must make a difference?” Hannah asked the old man in a soft voice.

“It might at that, Hannah, but not in the way you think.” He began to walk towards the village.

“Where are you going?” she asked, as she realised he wasn't simply trying to get a closer look.

“To try and talk to the man in command.” He stopped and turned. “If you are going to try and talk to people, then I would suggest you do it today.”

***

Rhenkin sat astride his horse and surveyed the village sourly, as he reached forward absently to pat the big animal's neck. The northern side of Widdengate nestled close to the woods, while its fields stretched off to the distant forest to the south. A small river cut its way out of the woods and through the long grasses, before passing close to the village and snaking off to the south.

He took in the village with its palisade in one long look, before glancing at the unprotected mill and scattered farms that lay outside the walls. He heard his second pull in slightly behind him and clear his throat.

“What is it, Larson?” He didn't take his eyes from the village.

“I've given the order to strike the refugee camp, sir, and informed the village council that you will be speaking to them shortly. They'll be sending a man to meet you,” the Lieutenant said.

“Very good. What do you make of it all?” Rhenkin waved an arm vaguely at the village and surrounds.

“It's certainly not ideal, sir.” Larson ventured.

“No, it's certainly not that. Don't walk on eggshells, Larson, I'm not going to send you off digging latrines if you miss something,” Rhenkin said. “I need a second pair of eyes. Tell me what you see.”

“Yes, sir,” Larson replied, sitting up higher in the saddle. He assessed the area for a moment before he spoke again. “The existing defences are inadequate. That palisade wouldn't hold for long. Any force that issued from it would be ground to pieces against their own wall. That's assuming the refugees weren't out there and in the way. I would suggest leaving it in place and then erecting a larger defensive perimeter farther out. We also need some proper watchtowers. This land is depressingly flat and the ones they have there are nowhere near tall enough.”

“I'd say you're right about the palisade. It looks like it was thrown up by children, anyway.” Rhenkin snorted. “Build me something larger. I want three rows of ditches leading up to it. Something for their cavalry too, assuming they have any.” He looked sourly at the woods and scowled. “I hate building defences out of wood. What I wouldn't give for six months and a good supply of stone. Still, we work with what we're given and at least we have the wood right here. Talk to the section commanders and get the men to work. I want to see something big enough to give any invaders pause for thought by tomorrow morning.

“Find a scout and send him to me as well, would you? The Bjornmen's last known location was only about three days away if they travel in any kind of force. I don't want them catching us with our britches down.”

“Yes, sir.” Larson saluted in his saddle and set off towards the village.

Rhenkin nudged his horse into a slow walk, letting it more or less pick its own path, as he continued to scan the area.

The Bjornmen would have cut through here like a hot knife through butter. The wall wasn't worth a damn and he doubted he'd find anyone within the village that he could consider even half-trained. His mood grew blacker the closer he got to the walls.

The transformation was dramatic. The refugee camp was cleared away and incorporated into the growing military one. Within a few short hours, a large ditch had been dug, encircling the village and outlying farms and men were hard at work creating two more. The sounds of logging carried from the woods and the beginnings of the larger palisade were already visible.

Rhenkin had put off his meeting with the council longer than he really ought to have and it was beginning to get dark by the time he strode into the inn, but still he chafed at the necessity and lost time.

It was very clearly a family place. Well lit from both lamps on the walls and candles at the tables, it was clean and smelled more of freshly baked bread and roasting lamb than ale and wine. It made a welcome change from some of the low dives he'd been forced to pass through on the journey here. A stout man he assumed must be the innkeeper looked up and met his eye as he walked in, and nodded politely as he finished filling a tankard for an old farmer leaning against the bar.

“Reckon you'd be the one in charge of this lot, then,” the farmer said, as he looked Rhenkin up and down. Some men were impressed with authority and impressive uniforms. Farmers, Rhenkin had noticed, tended to take the world as they found it. Overall, he found it refreshing.

“I am,” he replied, shortly. “I was told I could meet the village council here.”

“Council!” snorted the farmer as he took the tankard from the innkeeper. “Bunch of self-important fools, is all they are.”

“Samen, you don't want to be talking like that if you're going to keep drinking in my inn,” Owen muttered from behind the bar, just loud enough for the farmer to hear. He looked past the cantankerous old man at Rhenkin. “If you'll follow me, sir? We've a room in the back we use, so we can have some privacy.” He shot Samen a look as he said the last, which prompted another snort, and the old farmer raised his tankard in a mock salute.

The back room was filled with villagers, all looking at Rhenkin with nervous and expectant expressions. The innkeeper took a seat at the end of the long table that dominated the room and motioned for him to sit. Rhenkin ignored the offer. Sitting too often led to drinks and long discussions, and he hadn't the time for either.

“I'll keep this brief,” he began, before they could start with the introductions. “I have much left to do and am short on time. Duke Freyton has ordered that this village be properly fortified against the Bjornmen threat.”

“Are we in danger from them, then?” an older woman with fading blonde curls asked, in a tremulous voice.

“Of course we're in danger, Maryanne,” a fat man with sad eyes snapped. “Any fool can see that. My son's death should have taught you that!”

“Shall we let the man speak?” rumbled a man Rhenkin marked as the blacksmith. The size of him alone would have indicated it, even without the burn-scarred hands.

“I don't want to cause a panic,” he continued, “but I do want to be honest with you. I expect this village to be their next target if they continue to push as they have been doing. My men and I will be building a larger wall around it and other defences, as required, but anyone who wishes to leave needs to do so soon and understand that I cannot guarantee their safety.”

The meeting collapsed into a series of protests and repeated questions after that, as he'd known it would. Villagers were the same the world over. He finally extricated himself from it and fought his way out of the inn. He walked quickly to the corner of the building and ducked into the darker shadows, breathing in the cool night air.

“Captain?”

He whirled in place, his hands darting for both sword and dagger, until he picked out the old man in the darkness. “What do you want, old man?” he said, straightening from his fighting crouch and pulling his hands away from his weapons.

“You are Captain Rhenkin, then?”

“I am. I'm also in a hurry, so make it quick.”

“I understand you're to take charge of the defence of the village,” the old man went on, holding up a hand as Rhenkin made to interrupt. “There are some things you cannot defend against. Things you would scoff at, were I to go into detail, but which you cannot ignore.”

“Look, I really don't have time for this.” Rhenkin made to push past the old man, but stopped as he raised a finger.

“I ask nothing of you, Rhenkin. Just that you use your eyes and ears tomorrow night. I expect we will be speaking the following morning.” The old man stepped back into the shadows as he fell silent.

“What do you mean by that? Do you know something?” he demanded. The man simply shook his head and carried on walking into the night.

“Crazy old fool,” Rhenkin muttered. “As if I don't have enough to worry about.” He drew his cloak tighter about himself and headed back to the camp.

***

“Devin!” Erinn's voice cut through the noise of the village and he turned with a smile, as she weaved easily through the press of villagers, labourers and soldiers towards him. Overnight Widdengate had gone from a hamlet struggling to cope with an influx of refugees, to a military camp. The village itself was dwarfed by the camp and where once Devin had walk for ten to fifteen minutes to get into the village itself, now the ditch and beginnings of the wall were a mere five minutes away.

He moved to meet her, smiling. “Erinn,” he said. “It feels like ages since I've seen you.”

“It's only been a couple of days, you know,” she smiled back. “Besides, I've been busy in the hospital and you've been… What have you been doing?”

“Khorin has me nailed to a plough,” he said, with a grimace. “Well, he did have before Freyton's men arrived. There doesn't seem much point now.”

“Don't be so dramatic,” she laughed. “I doubt you were pulling it yourself. I seem to remember seeing two rather large horses in your barn. As for the other, you mustn't give up hope, you know. The Bjornmen might not even come here.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” he said, stepping aside as a labourer struggled past carrying a long length of wood. “It's just that with them digging ditches and building these spiked logs that they are dropping all over the place, there isn't much point in ploughing a field.”

Her face fell. “Oh! You're right, I suppose. Is the farm going to be alright? I hadn't thought about things like that what with...” She waved vaguely around. Then it dawned on him. With the influx of troops her father and his apprentices must have more work than they could handle at the moment.

“I expect we'll make it through. If the worst come to worst, I'll come and ask your father for work.” He laughed at the thought. Whilst Harlen was a nice enough man, he was known to be a harsh taskmaster and Devin could think of nothing worse than being cooped up in a hot forge all day long. It was bad enough that Hannah had made him promise not to hunt anymore for the time being.

“Listen, Devin, I need to talk to you about something,” she said. The serious expression seemed out of place on her sunny face, and he looked at her in concern.

“Um, okay.”

“Not here.” She grabbed his hand, leading him between two of the new cabins the soldiers had built that morning. “It's about your mother. She's been all over town talking to people.”

“She does do that on occasion, you know?” Devin said, with a crooked smile.

“I'm serious, Devin,” she scowled. “She told my father to make sure I was kept in tonight. That something was coming. She's scaring people and, to be honest, she's not sounding like herself.”

“What did she say was coming?” he asked. She'd seemed fine that morning, although a bit quiet. “I'm sure it's nothing,” he added, with a confidence he didn't feel.

“You'd better find her, Devin,” Erinn said, with a frown. “Some of the things she's saying...well, they aren't good.”

“Like what?”

“There's no time, Devin. Just find her.” She darted past him into the street, pausing long enough to give him a serious look and was swallowed up by the crowd.

He wandered out of the alleyway. Despite the addition of the extra cabins, Widdengate still wasn't large and there were only so many places Hannah could be. The mid-afternoon sun was slanting down, slicing through the haze of sawdust that seemed to have been floating over the village all day. For want of a better idea, he headed for the church.

His short trip took him past the smithy and he paused for a moment to enjoy the sight of the sparks flying. He might not want to work in there, but ever since he could remember he'd loved watching them.

“Devin!” a voice called from inside. “Hey Devin! Get in here!”

He took a hesitant step forwards into the shade of the building and saw Harlen staring out at him. “What are you up to, lad?”

“I was looking for Hannah,” he replied, feeling a bit foolish.

“I expect she'll turn up. Come and give me a hand here for a bit.”

There was no polite way to refuse, and Devin found himself being put to work on a bellows as Harlen pounded away at the forge. By the time he managed to extricate himself, the sun was close to setting. His ears were still ringing from Harlen's hammer strokes as he made his way to the inn.

***

The setting sun was warm on Trallen's shoulders as he walked along the well-trod path to the woods, fuming to himself. It was simply unacceptable. First Erinn and then Hannah. Running around filling people's heads full of stuff and nonsense. “Damned old fool.” he burst out. “He's got the whole town jumping at shadows.” He spat and kicked at a pebble on the track, sending it skittering across the packed dirt and into the grass.

They'd all been so helpful when he first arrived, Sarah and Hannah especially, settling him in and helping him to get to know the villagers. Sarah had even helped him to organise the choir, though she claimed she hadn't the voice for it herself. And now, since the old man had arrived, all his hard work was beginning to fall apart.

“Honestly, it's no wonder I need a break,” he muttered.

He passed into the woods, following the clear path made by woodcutters over the years, and hurried along to the little clearing where he knew Sarah would be waiting. As usual, he felt the combined twinge of guilt and excitement as he walked. He resisted the urge to glance back over his shoulder to check he wasn't being followed.

It was darker under the trees and cooler without the sun on his black robes. He found the birch easily, and turned to part the bushes and step into the clearing. The expectant smile fell from his face. It was empty. She must be delayed. He knew she'd come, though. She'd not been able to deny him once since that first forbidden encounter in his study. He shuddered slightly, with remembered passion, as he settled down against a broad horse chestnut tree.

Still, she was married. It was probably part of the attraction, the forbidden nature of it all. It definitely wasn't her mind that drew him to her. He laughed softly to himself at the thought. She was definitely not the sharpest woman in the village. Conniving, certainly, and with an eye to a man with some money, if her miller husband was anything to go by, but no, she didn't have a quick wit. That said, he wasn't meeting her for conversation. They talked, of course, but that was usually afterwards.

Unbidden, the memory of Hannah came back to him, and he stood without thinking and began to pace back and forth. “It simply makes no sense!” he told the uncaring trees. “Why suddenly become this superstitious fool? She's like a peasant farmer, all of a sudden.” He laughed at himself as he realised what he'd said and turned back towards the tree.

He stopped dead in his tracks as something fluttered down in front of him. It had the wings of a dragonfly and they shone brightly as they reflected the light of setting sun. He watched, his mouth agape. It was a tiny woman, flying slowly through the clearing, her black hair trailing out behind her.

She was barely bigger than his hand, but perfectly formed. She wore only the briefest of tunics, which exposed her long smooth legs and bare feet.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, without realising it was he who spoke.

Movement caught his eye and he spotted a second figure and then a third. Before he had time to draw three breaths, the clearing was filled with them, the sunlight making their pale purple skin glow as they darted here and there in an aerial dance.

He became aware of the sounds of their speech and laughter as they dashed past him, and he spun in place, arms outstretched, as they flitted past his fingertips, their gossamer thin wings brushing his skin. He laughed in delight but the sound died on his lips as a hundred tiny heads snapped round to face him, as if only just noticing his presence. They flocked to him, circling him slowly to form a wall of winged bodies.

He gasped again at the beauty of them, the simple existence of them, despite everything he had learned and preached from the Book of New Days. Then he jerked in pain. He looked down at his hand, wondering at the small trickle of blood oozing from the barely visible slash.

They circled faster, as he sucked the blood from the cut, and a rasping sound accompanied the glint of a hundred tiny knives. The whirring of their wings became a roar, as they whirled past him in a torrent of purple and flashing teeth.

The cut on his hand was forgotten as he felt tugs on his robes, first on one shoulder and then on the other. The creatures buffeted him, their bodies striking him with glancing blows that were not enough to make him fall but enough to knock him slightly off balance.

A long slash across his cheek made him cry out in pain and he blundered forward into the swarm seeking a way out as he held a hand to his cheek. Then the pain was everywhere, as the torrent became a hurricane. He twisted and jerked, as lines of fire appeared all over his body at once, and his robes were shredded to tatters in moments, the pieces falling from him like autumn leaves. He screamed then, high and terrible, as the cuts criss-crossed his body. He heard the winged women laughing and mocking him, as the blood coursed down.

“Help me, Lord!” he cried out, and then finally, he could take no more and sank to his knees.

The onslaught stopped. The last thing he saw, as his face met the soft earth, was a purple figure, licking the blood from her pale white knife, no larger than a thorn, and smiling at him coquettishly.

***

Devin pushed his way through the crowd. It seemed every refugee with money, or soldier who had managed to get away from the camp, had made their way to the inn, and it took him a good few minutes to make it to the bar. He had just waved an arm to try and attract Owen's attention, when the church bells began to ring.

The taproom fell silent in moments and people looked nervously at the windows. Someone in the corner hushed a couple of people still speaking loudly. “What's the matter,” one slurred. “Can't you hear the bells properly?”

“Bjornmen,” a voice carried from the crowd, and then Devin was moving with the press of the crowd as the inn emptied. Devin ran. Later he would not be able to explain it, but he ran towards the church as if his life depended upon it. The bells ceased before he was halfway there, but that just spurred him on.

As he drew close to the dark stone building, he heard raised voices.

“…had no right, Hannah. The agreement was only for signs of attack. Not for some feeling you have because of that old fool you have staying with you! I don't know what's come over you. Father Trallen will be furious. Honestly, how are you going to explain this to those that fled into the village? Don't you walk away from me! Hannah!”

Devin drew to a halt as he watched Hannah stride away from the irate miller's wife. Her head was bowed but, even at this distance, he could see the satisfied smirk on her face. She looked up, noticing him for the first time.

“Devin?” The single word was filled with concern. “Where's Khorin, I thought he was with you?”

“I haven't seen him since mid-afternoon.”

She looked up at the darkening sky and then at the first hints of the full moon rising over the trees. “Oh no!” she whispered. “That stupid, stupid man. I told him to leave them!”

“What?” He was at her side in two steps. “What is it?”

“Your fool father. I told him he needed to be inside the walls before sunset.”

“You know how he is, Hannah,” Devin smiled. “He'll not settle down until the animals are sorted.”

“You don't understand, Devin. He has to be inside. Something is coming. Something terrible.” She rounded on him and grasped his upper arms firmly. “You have to get him. Run. Steal a horse if need be, but get him!” Her eyes were wild and her hands gripped him hard enough to hurt as she shook him slightly. He felt a sense of dread wash over him and, without another word, he turned and sprinted for the inn.

The stables were untended at this time of night and Devin slowed his pace, so as not to spook the horses. He didn't bother with saddle or tack, but brought out Bessie, Kainen's serviceable mare that they'd both ridden for years. She wasn't the fastest horse, by any means, but she knew his scent and wouldn't object to carrying him bareback.

He grabbed a handful of her mane and threw himself upwards, trying not to pull too hard and pressing down on her neck for leverage. Scrambling onto her back, he urged her onwards and set off for the gates at a dead run.

The gates of the palisade had yet to swing closed, despite the rapid approach of nightfall, and troops and villagers were still passing between them. Devin pressed himself low over Bessie's back and urged her on, ignoring the indignant cries of those who threw themselves out of his way. Something in Hannah's voice had sparked a fear in him. It was a nameless, shapeless fear, but it burned hungrily within him as he charged out through the gates and into the darkness.

***

Khorin darted out of the cottage as he heard the goats cry out, and stopped as he turned the corner of the cottage and saw the figure near the barn.

“You there!” he shouted. “Hey! What are you doing?” The man was short, probably a boy from the village up to no good. He strode forward and then stumbled to a halt as the clouds parted, and the moonlight spilled across the barn and played over the thing's horns and goat-like hooves. Its eyes shone a deep orange in the reflected light and a grin split its face. “A manling, a manling!” it cried, and ran at him.

Khorin turned and fled. Like a young child running from a noise in the woods, he ran with no thought of falling, just with all the speed he could muster. And then there were three of them. Peeling out of the darkness, they ran in from both sides. He turned desperately but the closest crashed into him, and they tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms, legs and hooves.

It was faster to rise than he was and, as he pulled himself up to his knees, they crowded around him, laughing and mocking. One pulled a set of pipes from its belt and played a tune, as it began to dance.

“A manling, we have found tonight, as our Lady spills her light!” they sang, as they skipped around him.

Khorin made to stand, but a hoof caught him in the back, knocking him to his hands and knees, as the breath crashed out of him.

“A steed! A steed!” one of the things cried. “Shall we see if it's for riding?” Khorin felt a weight strike his back as the creature leapt astride him. It grasped his hair in one rough hand as it gripped him tight with its furred legs.

He bucked, desperately trying to force the thing from his back, but it just held on tighter.

“It needs to be broken!” cried one.

“You have a wild steed.” The other laughed, and ripped a stretch of bramble from the ground at its feet. It passed it up to the creature on his back and laughed again. “Ride him. Ride him. Break him for the hunt.” it urged.

“Bear me steed. Onwards to the hunt!” the creature sitting on him cried, as it whipped the brambles down at his rump and legs. The thorns tore at his trousers and ripped the skin from his bare back. He shot his hand forward to balance, lurching from the pain.

“That's it, little donkey,” it shouted, in glee. “On. Onwards!”

Khorin collapsed onto the grass and rolled to one side, throwing the hateful thing from his back. He scrambled to his feet and lurched towards the village, “Help me!” he yelled.

“Your steed has fled,” said one.

“Poorly trained,” noted another.

“Bad donkey, you come back here!”

They ran after him, catching up with him easily, but making no effort to stop him. Instead, they cavorted around him, shrieking “Run manling, run and hide!” and screeching with laughter. As he passed the cottage, they were on him again. He flew sprawling to the dirt as the hoof caught him high on the shoulder, driving his face into the ground and jarring his head so badly, he thought his teeth must break. Another kick followed, hard to the ribs, and he curled up reflexively, only to have another find the small of his back. A moan of agony broke from him that took the rest of his breath and he squeezed his eyes tight against the pain.

He forced them open again when he heard the thudding of hooves and, through his tears, saw a horse approaching. The creatures turned to watch it and he took his chance, forcing himself to his knees.

He was about to run, when he recognised the rider. “Devin!” he shouted, weakly. “Devin, run! Don't stop, just run!” He gasped out the last word, as a hand caught his hair and jerked his head back, the claw-like nails scraping at his scalp.

“This steed is no good. Too old to train.” Laughter rang out and then he felt the knife at his throat. “Run!” he roared, but his shout was cut off as the blade hissed through his skin. He fell to the ground, gurgling, his hands clutching at his throat as he fought to keep in the jet of blood that arced through his fingers. A distant, small part of him took comfort from the thud of the hoof beats growing distant, and then all was pain and darkness, and the wild laughter.

Devin wheeled the horse as fast as he dared in the dark, and pushed it into a gallop towards the village. His body shook and his mind reeled as he made it through the gates. He let the horse slow and then stop, sliding numb from her back. He could hear shouts and screams in the distance, but he stumbled, as if half-asleep or drunk, towards the inn. He blundered into the stable, vaguely aware that Bessie had followed him, and then it was all too much. He fell to his knees and then lay on the straw-covered ground, as shock and grief took him with huge wracking sobs. He stayed there, wrapped in shock and grief, as long-buried memories climbed to the surface and images of creatures with burning amber eyes filled his mind.

***

Rhenkin walked the walls, his eyes drifting back over the village and the camp the new wall had enclosed. The torches had been lit and the evening air was heavy with the smell of burning pitch. The palisade had been erected at a blistering rate, but even so, the defences looked a lot more robust from the outside than they did from within the village. Work on the walkway had only just started, and Rhenkin had only a few hundred feet of wall on which to pace. It was enough to be seen though, and that was what mattered. One of the first things he'd learned about being in command was that you needed to be visible.

He passed the sentry, who was leaning against the freshly cut wood with an air of utter boredom, as he stared into the darkness beyond the wall.

“Keep those eyes open, Son,” he said softly, fighting a smile as the young man pulled himself upright.

The night was still and everything was quiet, despite the earlier business with the church bells. For all the chaos it had caused, Rhenkin had been glad of it. It had proven to be a good practice run and everyone from the outlying farms seemed to have made it into the village.

He was five feet past the guardsman, when the figure threw itself out of the darkness and bounded up the vertical palisade. It traversed the wall in two easy bounds. He barely had time to catch a glimpse of golden eyes before it was gone, down into the camp and headed for the village. The sentry fell at his feet, blood gushing from his neck, his sword still sheathed.

Rhenkin threw himself at the ladder. The ground was clear between this stretch of the new wall and the village, and the figure was covering the distance in a shockingly fast time. He sprinted after it and charged into the streets themselves. They were largely deserted, so he had no problems picking his enemy out in the shadows. He ripped his weapons from their sheaths as he ran and screamed out, “Intruder in the camp!”

He barrelled around a corner and saw the man had crashed into a group of three soldiers. One lay on the ground already, with blood staining his chest black in the dim light. The others circled the man warily, their swords held low as they looked for an opening. As Rhenkin closed the gap, he saw the man dart between the soldiers, with a speed that defied belief. His eyes widened in shock as he drew closer and got his first real look at the attacker as it slashed once, twice, with its knives and was gone. The guardsmen grabbed at the vicious gashes as the blood ran. Giving them no more than a cursory glance, Rhenkin ran onwards after the nightmarish creature.

Troops began to form up into small squads on the streets, with sergeants and corporals yelling orders in the confusion. Curtains twitched and villagers poked their heads around their doors to see what was going on. Rhenkin charged past them all, the creature's laugh carrying back to him as he ran, his heart pounding. The figure was managing to stay ahead of him, seemingly without effort, spinning, and almost seemed to caper along with a mad, wild laughter, as if this were all a child's game.

A door opened ahead of them and a girl in her late teens leaned out, the lamplight catching her red hair. With a gleeful cry, the creature ran to her and grabbed her arm, dragging her into the street. It pulled her around in a spinning dance, whooping as she whimpered in terror and fought to get away. Rhenkin closed the distance and crashed into its back, knocking all three of them to the ground.

It was up as quickly as it fell, rolling with a smooth, easy motion as it turned to face him with its curious knives held ready as he found his own feet. It darted in, with slashes to his face and thigh almost before he was upright and Rhenkin was forced to stagger back awkwardly to avoid having his thigh laid open, as he parried the attack at his face with his knife. The thing, whatever it was, turned to grab at the girl, who was still pulling herself upright. Seizing the moment, Rhenkin swept his knife across its back, but the blade did not penetrate the skin. Instead, it bounced off, as if he'd hacked at a pell-post leaving a dark black line but causing no real damage. The thing hissed in pain and spun to face him, whipping the girl round in front of it as it brought its knife around in front of her. It fixed him with a grin, the human expression looking odd on its bearded face and those amber coloured eyes shining in the lamplight.

Rhenkin raised his sword to thrust as he realised the monster's intention. Even as he began the move, he knew there was no way to save the girl. He caught a flicker of movement behind the creature and then the night exploded in blue fire. Rhenkin threw his arm up across his face as the brilliant light threatened to sear his eyes, his sword flying from his grip, as he dropped to one knee. As the light died down, he pulled himself warily to his feet, holding his dagger loosely. He blinked, trying to clear away the blue-green after-images, and approached the charred wreckage of the creature. The big man Rhenkin remembered from the town council had pulled himself up from where he'd fallen back against the doorway, and was staring at the hammer in his hands in amazement.

“What did you do?” Rhenkin asked, in an awed voice.

The man met his eyes and shook his head dumbly. “I...I just struck it in the head. I...” He trailed off and stared at the large black hammer again, turning it in his hands as if looking for something.

“What is that thing?”

“This?” Harlen said, raising the weapon. “It's just a forge hammer.” He looked as though he was about to say more, but the girl at his feet moaned and tried to pull herself up. “Erinn!” Harlen dropped the hammer and knelt beside her. Rhenkin stepped towards them to help, but then whipped his head around as the sound of distant screaming carried through the village.

The satyr cut through the village like a scythe through a wheat-field, crashing into homes and dragging villagers from their beds even as others tore through the massed camp of troops and refugees. Chaos reigned, and the fact there were only a small number of the creatures worked in their favour as the village twisted and coiled like a confused serpent, trying to respond to the attack.

Finally, the creatures seemed to tire of the game themselves and fled into the night, their bodies covered in thick, black lines where sword blades had struck them.

***

Devin stormed through the village in a rage, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides and his cheeks streaked with tears. His hair and clothes were covered in straw, but he was oblivious to how he looked as he walked into the hospital. The main room was packed with wounded, spread out over the floor on blankets and sheets. He looked around blankly, as snippets of conversation carried to his ears.

“Apparently, she's in a right state. She found Trallen in the woods, all tore up to pieces!”

“Sarah? What was she doing in the middle of the woods at that time of night?”

“What do you think?”

He picked his way through the wounded on the floor, struggling to find places to put his feet in the press of people. They looked up at him as he passed, but their faces might as well have been the faces of strangers to him.

“...nearly had Erinn. Dragged her out of the door when she stuck her head out to see what all the noise was about. If Harlen hadn't been there, anything might've happened.”

“She's luckier than our Karren then. They found her half-naked and sobbing, her dress all torn to shreds. She's not spoken since.”

Finally, Devin spotted Hannah and Obair. They were crouched down by a wounded soldier in a far corner. Hannah’s face was haggard and tear-streaked, but she gave him a feeble smile as she looked up and rushed over to him, her arms outstretched. He clung to her like a lost child, for a moment, before pushing her back. “You knew.” It was not a question.

“I knew there was a chance of them coming,” she said in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “I didn't know what would happen to all these people or how bad it would be.”

“How could you know those things were coming? They were like something from a nightmare. How could you possibly know?”

“Obair knew. He told me nobody would believe us and it's true, Devin, nobody did.”

Devin turned and glared at the old man. Pushing his way past Hannah he grabbed the old man, pulling him up by his robe. He was still not a large man but work in the fields had given him strength in his arms, and the old man felt as light as straw as he swept him up and slammed him against the wall.

“You knew!” he shouted into the man's shocked face.

“Devin, please!” Hannah pulled gently at his arm and he slowly let the man slide down the wall to the floor.

“He couldn't have done any more. It's not his fault,” she said, a plea in her tired eyes.

“I can't believe you're taking this so calmly,” Devin said, accusingly.

“I had a couple of days to get used to the idea.” She smiled.

And then it all made sense to him. “You don't know, do you?”

Her face fell as he spoke. “Know what?”

“Khorin's dead, Hannah. Those things killed him.”

And then she crumbled. He sank to the ground beside her and wrapped his arms around her as they cried. Her in shock, him for the loss he'd known about already.

Chapter Fifteen

Obair stepped back from the boy and his mother. Their display of grief had turned heads, and now they held each other in a widening circle amid the bustle of the hospital, as refugees and patients looked on awkwardly. He turned away to find cold blue eyes appraising him from across the room. Rhenkin cocked his head towards the door and left.

The sun was warm on the steps and the sky clear as Obair stepped out through the double doors. It appeared to have all the makings of a beautiful day, almost making a mockery of the events of the night before. He caught the sweet smell of burning stourweed and turned to see Rhenkin sat to one side on the steps as he sucked his pipe into life.

“A young scout came to me a few weeks ago,” the soldier began as he held a glowing taper and puffed on the pipe until it was burning to his satisfaction. “Told me that the Bjornmen had brought some kind of beasts with them.” He met Obair's eyes, “He was terrified. You could see it on his face. It's funny really, if he hadn't been so scared, I don't think I'd have believed him.”

Obair nodded and waited for the man to go on.

Rhenkin drew deeply on the pipe and stared across the village in silence for a moment, watching the flow of the crowd. “For all that, I would never have believed what happened last night if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. I've been a soldier my whole life, old man. I've fought in border skirmishes that we all pretend didn't happen, and I've seen men piss themselves as the enemy charged. I've never, in my life, seen or heard of anything like those things last night.” He stood and turned to Obair. “Which raises the question of how you knew they were coming, and just what they were.”

Obair met the younger man's eyes. “What exactly did you see?”

“I chased one of those damned things across half the village and watched it cut through my men like they weren't there. I've never seen anything move that fast. And then, when we fought...” He looked down at his feet, shaking his head.

“When you fought?”

“When we fought, my blade just bounced off it. It barely left a mark.” His composure cracked for a moment, showing the briefest glimpse of the turmoil he was feeling, and then the mask was back in place, cold and immovable. “How did you know they were going to attack?”

“Let me ask just one more question first, if I may?”

Rhenkin grunted.

“Do you believe your scout? That the Bjornmen brought these things with them?”

Rhenkin pulled the pipe from his mouth and scratched at a day's growth of stubble before answering. “No, I don't. That thing I fought last night had weapons. It had intelligence. Whatever it was, it was too strong to be controlled by any man. It was no beast set loose by a handler.”

“You're right, of course, they are nothing to do with the Bjornmen at all.” Obair said. He glanced down at the wooden steps leading up into the hospital. “Do you mind if we sit? It's been a long night for me too.” He eased himself down onto a step and gave a contented sigh. “No, they are not the Bjornmen's pets. They are part of the fae.”

Rhenkin coughed, stifling a laugh and fixed his face into a glower. “The fae? I came looking for answers from you, not children's tales.”

“Perhaps you should look to the children's tales for the answers?” Obair said, with a humourless smile.

“What?”

“Think on it, Rhenkin. What have you witnessed? Creatures no man can say they have ever seen, that move through your troops like wind in the long grass. Eyes that glow in the dark and skin that your blades will not cut.” He glanced at the soldier's face and noted his troubled expression. “Did you happen to see the one that was killed?”

“See it? I watched it happen!”

“What did you see, then?”

“The smith. Harlen, I think his name is. He stove its skull in with a forge hammer.”

“And what do you suppose the hammer is made of?”

“I see where you're going with this, but I don't think I'm quite ready to accept the idea of faeries coming to get us in our beds.”

“Isn't that exactly what happened, Rhenkin?” The captain opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again slowly.

“There are more coming, Captain. These few were simply playing, toying with us because they could, like a cat with a mouse. Tomorrow night, the real force will come and we must be ready.”

“Who are you?” the captain breathed.

“That's one place to start,” Obair said with a small smile, ignoring the sound of the doors closing behind them. “My name is Obair, but there are far more important questions to ask right now, and we are short on time. Do you think you can just accept that I am someone who knows more of these creatures than you, for now?”

Rhenkin nodded. “For now, at least.”

“Good,” Obair replied. “Now, how many of them do you think there were?”

“If I were to base it on the number of wounded and the damage caused, I would have said upwards of fifty, maybe even a hundred,” Rhenkin said, as he stared into the distance and puffed on his pipe.

“But you know that isn't the case.”

Rhenkin grunted his agreement.

“Would you believe it was only five?” Obair pressed.

“Five? That few?” Rhenkin pulled his pipe from between his teeth.

“Just five,” Obair nodded. “Five satyrs alone did this much damage. Tomorrow night, we face the full host, a force that will hunt us down like a rabbit before a pack of dogs.”

“And just what would you have me do, old man?”

“We have one chance, Rhenkin. This is the first time in probably a hundred generations that we will face the Wild Hunt. We must meet them as they arrive and strike at them before they form up into any real force.”

Rhenkin snorted. “Even if I did as you ask Obair, we don't know where they will muster, and how do you propose to attack creatures who can face good steel without a scratch?”

“With iron, Rhenkin. You saw yourself what Harlen's hammer did to the satyr. As for the other, I know precisely where they will muster.”

Rhenkin sighed. “I can't do it, old man. The Bjornmen are on our doorstep. I have reports that their main strength is pulling back, consolidating, but they have a force moving on a village less than ten miles distant. Even if I could spare the men, which I can't, what would we use for weapons? My sword didn't even scratch that thing.”

“Have your field smiths make iron weapons,” Obair said softly.

“I told you, I don't have the men to spare.” Rhenkin said flatly. “Besides, iron is too brittle to make a good sword.”

“So make spears and arrowheads.” Devin interrupted from behind

Rhenkin turned in surprise. “You've quiet feet for a farm boy,” he said with raised eyebrows.

“I'm no farmer, I'm a hunter,” Devin said shortly. “Those things killed my father last night. I know I wouldn't be the only one willing to lend their arm.”

Obair looked at Rhenkin, one eyebrow raised.

“I'll not strip the walls for you, but I'll give you what I can,” the captain said, with a sigh.

***

Klöss stood on the hilltop overlooking the village, watching the line of carts and people as they fled from the rear gates.

“You should not be here, you know?” Tristan rumbled from beside him.

“So you've said,” Klöss replied without taking his eyes from the village.

“If something happens…”

“I know,” sighed Klöss, glancing at the big man. “If something happens then the plan is affected.” He grimaced. “I'm sick of hearing this Tristan, I'm no more important than anyone else at this point. The plan is finished, all we have to do now is hold what we've taken.”

“I was going to say if something happens, your uncle will have me flayed,” Tristan said, without expression.

Klöss laughed and punched him in the shoulder. “You'd better stick close to me then, hadn't you? I imagine a man as big as you looks a little odd without his skin.”

He waved vaguely at the village. “They've thrown these walls up quickly, haven't they? This place was only scouted three weeks ago.”

The village was surrounded by a wooden palisade, twenty feet high, with a deep ditch immediately before it. Armoured men could be seen standing on a walkway inside it, above the thick double gates.

“They work fast,” Tristan agreed. “They don't seem to learn, though,” he said, pointing to the two lines of catapults behind them, in front of their own massed troops.

“No,” Klöss said, with a grim smile. “Wooden walls are never a good idea.” He turned to an older man, who stood beside the rows of catapults. “Are your preparations complete, Weaponsmaster?”

“Just awaiting the permission for a ranging, Shipmaster,” the grey-haired man replied. “It's an easy shot with no boat shifting.”

Klöss grinned and drew his sword, pointing it towards the walls. “Then loose!”

At the Weaponmaster's echoing shout, a single catapult lurched forward as it lofted a barrage of rocks towards the walls. Klöss watched carefully as the stones fell and noted they fell short by just fifty feet. A jeering cry rose from the defenders as they watched the barrage miss but silence fell swiftly as older, more experienced men explained what was really going on. The gates closed at the far side of the village. Even from this distance, Klöss could make out the small crowd of villagers trapped inside, being forced back by armed men.

A small flight of arrows flew futilely from the walls towards the Islanders, but it was a vain hope. Klöss was well aware they were far out of range of anything that wasn't a siege engine.

He watched as the old weaponsmaster supervised the adjustments to the catapults, and turned to Tristan. “There is something that feels wrong here, though.”

“How so?”

“These people are not idiots. They must know the fate of the other villages.”

“You expected something more from them?”

“I don't know, Tristan. I expected something.” He turned and waved at the village vaguely. “They're doing the same as all the others. Trying to defend the village, trying to stop us from taking it. They ought to know by now, that's not what's going on.”

“Stupidity is not that uncommon, Klöss,” Tristan offered.

Klöss glanced at the preparations again and watched as the old man signalled to him from one of the farthest machines, holding a white baton aloft. Klöss gave an exaggerated nod and the baton cut down through the air. Half a hundred catapults lurched forwards, straining against the ropes staking them firmly to the ground, and rocks and stones rained down on the walls.

The barrage cracked timbers and smashed through sections of the palisade in some places. Men screamed as parts of the wooden walkway collapsed and others were flung off it like wet rags, as the fist-sized stones fell like rain. At the catapults, men rushed forward and emptied huge, smoking pails into the cradles. The weaponsmaster held a red baton aloft and looked at Klöss again for the nod, before giving the order to loose.

The lighter missiles flew farther than the rocks and soared over the walls into the village itself. From the hilltop, there seemed to be little effect other than the occasional scream when a glowing ember worked its way through armour and clothing to skin.

Klöss watched intently, whilst behind him he could hear the clatter of stones as the catapults were reloaded. As the weaponsmaster gave the order to fire again, Klöss heard the distant cries of dismay as tendrils of smoke rose from the village. The tiny glowing coals had lodged themselves in the thatch of half a dozen homes and, as the steady breeze fanned them, the fire kindled and began to feast eagerly on the tightly packed straw and wooden beams. In a matter of minutes, flames were soaring high and neighbouring roofs were beginning to smoke, as sparks and embers flew into the air.

A rumble of hooves heralded the attack before it began. From around the edges of the woods to the north, a company of mounted men approached at full gallop with weapons drawn.

“Well, bugger me, they can think!” Klöss muttered. “Weaponsmaster, maintain your barrage. Section leaders, prepare for horsemen!”

The men moved easily into their positions. Shifting in a manoeuvre which had been practised so many times as to be second nature, the spearmen formed a long line and knelt low, with their weapons braced against the earth. Two other men knelt on either side of each spearman, bearing bulky and awkward arbelests loaded with heavy, iron bolts.

The horsemen crested the last rise and charged, bending low over their horses as they swept down towards the waiting Islanders. As they got within fifty feet, their lances lowered like a breaking wave, and then the arbelests fired.

The bolts they were using were not the standard quarrels. There was no wood in the shaft and the fletching was more for the sake of convention than anything else, as the effective range of the weapon was little more than fifty feet. The arbelests had been brought along with only one purpose in mind, and it was for this reason that the bolts slammed, not into the riders, but into the horses.

The air was split with whinnying screams as the heavy bolts smashed legs and tore into the unprotected chests of the horses. Mounted men fell en masse and the charge dissolved into chaos, as the horses behind smashed into those falling or already rolling on the ground. The few that made it to the Islander's lines were met by the waiting spearmen, who stabbed savagely into the animals' necks and skipped aside as they crashed to the dirt. The stricken cavalry were ill-prepared as the Islanders charged and, within a few short minutes, they were slaughtered to a man.

Another barrage of rocks smashed into the walls and the hastily-built defences began to sag as the wooden posts that formed the palisade split under the onslaught. Finally, as a great section of the wall crashed down to the ground, the gate swung open and the defenders poured from the village.

The Islanders quickly reset their lines as the section leaders screamed orders, shifting to meet the defending force.

“Spare none?” Tristan asked, quickly.

“It's the standard order, Tristan,” Klöss replied, as he checked the straps on his shield and settled his helmet.

“Weaponsmaster! Cease the barrage,” Klöss shouted. “Arbelests, reload and prepare for horsemen!” He watched as the defenders formed ranks and began the march towards them. He'd chosen their position carefully. What began as a gentle slope became a serious incline after a few feet, and the villagers would be feeling the weight of their armour before they made it halfway to the top.

There were fewer than two hundred of them, but Klöss had learned never to underestimate people defending their own homes. Finally, as he decided that there would be no more of the horsemen he'd come to dread facing, he turned to Tristan with a tight grin. “Think you can still keep up?”

“You still need me to play nursemaid and keep close to you?” Tristan grinned back.

Klöss lifted his sword high and screamed “Charge!” and the massed Islanders sprinted down the hill.

He ran with the others, sword in hand and a grin plastered to his face, as they barrelled into the enemy ranks. A sword crashed off his shield and he turned to its owner, a boy of no more than twelve summers. The boy's expression was one of terror, as Klöss rammed his blade into his chest. He slipped off the end of Klöss's sword with a hurt and confused expression, and sank to the earth.

The fight was short and ugly. The Islanders swarmed over the enemy, overwhelming them in what felt like moments. Then it became a wanton slaughter, as they chased down those who sought to flee, cutting them down one by one. Sickened by it all, Klöss made his way up the hill and sat on an old stump as he watched the wreckage of the village burn. His men were moving through the remains, touching torches to any buildings left intact. The storehouses had long since been emptied.

He looked up as Tristan flopped down beside him. “Not a good fight,” the big man said. “These men in the village. They were not warriors. More like farmers taught how to hold a sword for a day or two.”

Klöss grunted in agreement and watched idly as his troops began work on constructing an encampment for the night. The sun was already close to setting and the smoke from the village painted a dark stain across the sky.

“This is the last one we have to do for a time, though,” Klöss said. “They've nothing left standing in the lands we've taken. No reason to return, other than revenge. We've done all we can.”

“You think it will work?” Tristan asked.

“Would it work on you?” Klöss said with a tired smile. “No, I doubt it will stop them trying to return. They'll send troops soon enough and probably more than just the handful of horsemen we saw here, but it might stop some of the peasants coming back. We didn't come to conquer the people, after all. We just want the land.” He rose slowly to his feet. “Let's go and see if this lot have remembered how to make a camp, shall we?”

***

The moonlight reflected from the stones, painting the trees in shades of grey and making the leaves dull and lifeless. The glade was silent. The stones clustered around the monolith like children begging for a story. Delighted laughter suddenly echoed off the trees and silence fled as bare feet stepped out of nothing and onto the grass.

Three sets of eyes that glowed faintly amber in the moonlight were filled with amazement and then delight, as the fae moved slowly around the clearing, reaching out with long, elegant fingers to touch the grass and the stones. Other figures passed through into the glade and the fae stepped aside as the satyrs passed through, first in twos and threes, and then by the score. Before long, the glade was filled with the sounds of music and wild laughter. A single harsh clap called for silence and the hush fell almost instantly.

She stood at the monolith, leaning against it in a graceful pose of idle relaxation. Her skin shone white in the moonlight but if a man were to look closer, he would have noticed the pale green swirls and sparks coming from her bare skin where the light touched her. She looked down at her simple clothing and a shimmer passed over her form, as if her image were a reflection in a pool of water disturbed by a fallen leaf. Her form twisted in the half-light and then she was clad in a gleaming breastplate, greaves, vambraces and a shining winged helm.

The assembled fae and satyrs laughed and hooted at the glamour and then stood and listened attentively as she spoke to them in a lyrical tongue. She spoke quickly, explaining her wishes in simple terms they could understand and then she fell silent and pointed into the trees with the unmistakable air of command. Moving fluidly, the host coursed out of the glade without a sound, moving with a grace that belied their blistering speed. The three fae followed close behind with long easy strides that matched pace with the charging satyrs.

In a few hours, they emerged from the woods and drew to a halt, gazing down upon the field of campfires that lay before them. Hundreds of tents stood pitched near the still smouldering village, and the light of the campfires cast a ruddy glow as smoke curled up into the moonlit sky.

Teeth bared in feral grins, the fae called out soft commands in their musical tongue and a hundred bone knives tasted the cool, night air for the first time in a hundred generations. The armour-clad fae, now shining in the moonlight, cried out a single word and the satyrs flowed out from the forest and fell upon the Islander's camp like a black wave crashing upon the shore.

The first who fell died silent, startled deaths as they stood on watch with bored eyes looking into the darkness. Then a terrible scream cut through the quiet and the camp came alive, as men scrambled from their blankets to grab weapons and roll to their feet. By the time the first horn sounded, the satyrs were well into the camp. The fae stood at the edge of the forest, cruel smiles on their lips as they watched and waited.

***

Verig kicked savagely at the sleeping men through the sides of the tent. “Get up, you motherless dogs! Enemy in the camp!” He put the horn to his lips again and sounded it high and clear. A dark figure hurtled towards him and he dropped the horn as he ripped his sword from its scabbard and sank into a low stance. The figure flew at him, wielding two long horn knives as it thrust in high at his throat. Rather than risk the second blade slashing downwards, Verig twisted away, allowing the knife to scrape along the face of his shield, as he stepped back and to the side of the line of attack.

He held his blade low and ready, the weapon steady in his palm, although his heart began to race as the firelight revealed the attacker for what it was. The satyr grinned as it moved towards him, its hooves moving on the grass lightly. The knives twisted and spun in their own dance as it approached, and the creature let out a small laugh as it neatly sidestepped the blade Verig flicked out.

The attack came with no warning. Verig had a lifetime of experience in the arts of war and had spent years training others to watch for the signs of attack. A slight crouching to brace for a lunge, a tightening of the grip, a dropping of one shoulder. This time however, there was no warning and his experience failed him utterly. The satyr was upon him before he could react. He staggered backwards in a desperate move to distance himself from the blades. The air hissed as the horn knife passed within a hair's breadth of his throat and then he fell, as his boot hit the tent's guy rope.

The breath blasted from his lungs as he landed heavily, and he twisted and rolled to the side as the knives followed his fall. His sword had fallen from his grasp as he hit the ground, and he lashed out savagely with his shield, feeling it slam into the creature's face with a satisfying crunch. Verig felt, more than saw, the thing stagger backwards and he flailed about desperately for his sword. His hand closed on a wooden handle and he hurled the object hard as he rose to his feet.

The heavy wooden mallet smashed into the satyr's forehead with a deep thunk and the creature dropped to the ground like a poleaxed cow. As he searched about for his sword and pulled it from the tangle of the collapsed tent, he saw dark forms moving through the camp like a deathly wind. Blades bounced off creatures' skin and although they screamed in pain, they barely slowed as they reached out with their bone knives, slashing at the Islanders' eyes and thrusting their blades into their throats.

Shining armour caught his eye even as he heard the calls from behind him, ordering men to form ranks. The woman was tall and beautiful, although her amber eyes were cold. She regarded him evenly from beneath her winged helm as she crouched to retrieve a sword from a fallen man. She lifted the weapon and turned it curiously so it caught the moonlight.

Though she never took her eyes from him, she seemed intrigued by the weapon, testing its balance and even sniffing the blade with a delicate motion. A slow smile spread across her face, revealing brilliant white teeth. She leapt towards him, covering ten feet in a single bound and landing lightly just beyond his weapon's reach. She waited calmly, as he sank into a fighting stance and then she struck.

He moved easily away from the line of the attack and thrust hard as she overextended beside him. The grin that had been forming on his lips faltered as he encountered only empty air and the fae moved lightly around the thrust with a speed no man could hope to match. He shifted backwards and moved smoothly to meet her next attack, steel striking steel and singing the song he'd loved his entire adult life.

She was fast, there was no denying that. She seemed unused to the weight of the weapon though and lacked any apparent training with a blade. Despite this, her natural grace and inhuman speed made her a deadly opponent, and he let all other thoughts fall away from him. Flowing easily from form to form, he matched her attacks with blocks or slid away from them on light feet.

Her armour seemed impossibly light as she moved, and it was only when he scored a light touch that he realised the truth. It wasn't steel at all, or any form of metal despite the way it shone. Instead, it was something soft and yielding. If it wasn't for the evidence of his own eyes, he would have said she was wearing nothing at all, save the thinnest cloth.

She sprung back from him easily escaping his reach, before speaking in perfect, though oddly-accented Islik. “It has been a long time, manling. I thank you for the bout.”

“Bout?” he roared back at her. “This is no game, you damned hell-witch!”

“What else is there?” She laughed then, a cold laugh filled with mocking as she eyed him with her contempt obvious in her amber eyes.

He moved forward on swift feet and thrust hard, his body uncoiling like a snake and his knee sinking low as his other leg extended out behind him for balance. His blade stretched out and caught her hard on her thigh, an inch above the knee. Again the armour seemed to afford no protection but the blade did not penetrate. He rolled to the side, rather than attempt to pull back from the thrust, and then rose smoothly to his feet as the smile slipped off her face like water from a leaf. “You dare?” she hissed and hurled herself back into the fight.

Verig danced through the forms with a speed he'd never matched before, shifting from stance to stance smoothly as he moved through strike, block, side-step and riposte. He blocked the fae's clumsy strikes with ease. Her rage was making her intentions as transparent to him as a student who'd never held a blade. Her speed was astonishing, however, and it took all of his concentration to keep her thrusts and slashes from him.

She grew more and more irate as they moved back and forth, crying out what were clearly curses, but in a language he did not recognise, but which were clear from the tone of her voice. Finally she cast the sword aside in disgust and pulled two long, oddly shaped knives, from her back before sinking into an alien stance and weaving them in an intricate pattern. She moved in, like silk over glass, thrusting at his face with one blade even as she other slashed down at his thigh with the other. He raised his shield to block the one blow and slashed his sword down to counter the other. Too late, he realised the move had been a feint and she spun to the left, her body arching around his sword and arms twisting high over her head with the knives in a graceful sweep, only to plunge down and bury them both in his side behind his sword arm.

Verig gasped as they tore through his boiled leather armour as if it were no more than sackcloth. He staggered and fell to one knee as she ripped the blades free and stepped back to watch him, a broad smile on her alien features under the helm as he sucked in a ragged breath. He fell into a fit of coughing as a bloody froth erupted from his lips. Gasping, he fell to the moonlit grass and, as the darkness grew at the edges of his vision, he saw her lean in close to watch the life leaving his eyes.

The fae tore through the Islanders like a bloody wind and men fell in droves before the satyrs as they spun and danced their deadly dance. Some of the creatures fell too, their bones broken by the efforts of a score of men, but it was clear the night would belong to the attacking force. The battle raged for hours, slowing as the Islanders formed ranks and began to respond in a coordinated fashion.

As the moon began to sink towards the horizon the fae turned, as if responding to some inaudible signal, and fled into the night. The Islanders reeled in their wake, as units staggered to a halt and confusion reigned in the darkness, until the cry to stand down was repeated through the force.

As dawn broke, Klöss picked his way through the carnage, his shield slung on his back and his face drawn as he stepped through the field of bodies. Entire units lay dead at his feet, still in formation. He shook his head at the slaughter, only half-hearing his name being called from behind him.

“Klöss, you are needed.” Tristan said, as he caught up with him. “The men need direction.”

“They all know what needs doing,” Klöss replied, as he scanned the field of corpses surrounding them both.

“This is not like you, Klöss, to leave the men like this.” The question was unspoken but clear enough and Klöss could see the worry in the oarsman's face as he glanced at him. He had just opened his mouth to reply, when he caught sight of the person he had been searching for. “Verig!” he shouted, as he darted past Tristan.

The man lay on his side, curled against the pain that still showed on his cold face. Klöss slowed as he approached and walked slowly towards his old teacher. The grass around him was soaked with his blood. He sensed Tristan moving up beside him.

“Should we take him back with us? Frostbeard would want to see him,” the man said, in a low voice.

“What?” Klöss frowned. “No. No, we'll build a pyre here. I'll not take him from his battle.”

Tristan waved a man over and gave the order to begin cutting wood. “What were those things, do you think?”

“Some form of elite unit, I imagine,” Klöss replied. “Though they were like nothing I've ever seen.”

“Why send them now? It makes no sense that they were not there to defend the village,” Tristan objected.

“Perhaps they arrived late, I don't know.” Klöss shook his head. “I'll tell you one thing, though. Uncle Aiden will be furious about our losses and even more livid about Verig. These people will pay a tithe in blood.”

***

Devin stood at the edge of the clearing looking at the remnants of Obair's life and tried to imagine what it must have been like to live here. The cottage was a tangled ruin and the barn and outbuildings were little better. He glanced over at Obair, who was watching the setting sun, and shook his head as he considered a life spent so utterly alone.

The clearing was filled with as many men as could be crammed into it. Iron spikes extended from the ground around the circle itself, angled towards whatever might charge out of it into them. The ground was liberally strewn with tiny chunks of iron, whatever scraps that Harlen had managed to throw together in the end.

Devin pulled an arrow from his quiver and fingered the rough iron arrowhead. “You're sure about these?” he called across to Obair. The old man was dressed in another set of rust-stained robes, which he had retrieved from the cottage, and held a new black iron staff, given to him by Harlen.

“I'm sure of nothing, Devin,” the old druid said with a small smile. “Except that the fae will arrive here this night and that they see us all as their prey under the Wild Hunt.”

Devin thought about all the times he'd been in the woods. The countless hours he'd spent stalking prey with bow in hand. The thought of suddenly being that deer, that prey was not an appealing one.

Obair nodded at him once, as if he knew what he was thinking, and then walked through the press of men towards Rhenkin.

“This is one hell of a gamble, old man,” the captain said, as he drew close. “If the Bjornmen attack while I'm here…”

“I imagine the Bjornmen have their own problems right now,” Obair replied. “The fae are everyone's problem and the sooner humanity realises that, the better.”

“So you don't think we'll stop them here?”

“No. This is merely to buy us time, although it may just teach the fae that we're not the frightened rabbits they think we are.” He leaned the staff in the crook of his arm and scratched his scraggly beard.

The village men and Rhenkin's small contingent moved uneasily around them, stretching their legs and fingering the unfamiliar weapons. Rhenkin had sent his field smiths to work with Harlen's forge and they'd worked the day through. Each man was armed with an iron-tipped spear and a short iron dagger. The weapons were crude and unwieldy, but at least they would be more effective than steel.

The conversations started to drop off as the sun sank behind the trees. The men huddled closer together and large fires were lit for both light and warmth. The light from the fires extended no further than the men, and the stones remained dark as the first glimpse of the moon peeked through the trees. Rhenkin glanced at Obair and called out to make ready, but nothing came of it.

A low mist began to form in the middle of the circle, lending an eldritch feel to an already otherworldly scene. The men began to mutter and look about nervously, as the moon crested the treetops and its pale light shone down onto the stones. Devin found himself holding his breath as the light moved slowly across the circle towards the monolith at its centre. He nocked an arrow but held the string loose, aware of others following his lead, despite the fact that they were soldiers and grown men, and he a boy not yet sixteen.

As the moonlight struck the monolith an audible hiss sounded throughout the circle and men shifted and swore. A burning smell filled the clearing and the moss on the outer stones began to curl and blacken, before falling away to the ground.

“Listen!” someone cried, and silence fell as everyone strained to hear.

“I don't…” someone began, but he was quickly hushed by those around him.

Devin strained to hear something, anything, but there was nothing more than the shifting of men, the crackle of the fire and the distant sound of birds. Then slowly he became aware of the music, a faint sound of flutes and bells coupled with a laughter that put him in mind of the Midwinter's dance. He stroked the fletching on his arrow, and watched the circle.

It was like watching something step out of a pond, if the pond were somehow on its side. The air seemed to ripple slightly and then a leg extended, followed by another. The creature was man-sized, and dressed in a simple tunic and leggings. Around the circle, men moaned as they caught sight of its amber eyes. Then more passed through, fae and satyrs arriving, two or three at a time to start with, and then in groups of ten or more. They were laughing and chattering in an unknown tongue that somehow spoke of music and dark red wine.

Devin drew back on his bowstring, sighting on a satyr dancing near the centre of the circle. He glanced at Rhenkin, wondering at the delay. The reason was clear on the captain's face. He stood entranced, his mouth agape and his eyes filled with wonder. Men around the circle were dropping their bows and smiling, as more and more of the fae stepped through.

Devin looked around in dismay at the enraptured men and gritted his teeth. He took aim and drew back on the bowstring, sighting a fae close to the monolith who stood with his eyes closed, drinking in the light. He drew in a breath and held it, and then a female fae stepped through the portal, dragging a black-shrouded figure behind it on a length of silvery chain.

His mind reeled as he took in the figure in black. Something about the way it moved called to him. The fae smiled a slow smile as she looked around at the men surrounding the circle and then her eyes met his. She hissed and a broad grin filled her face as she reached out to the hooded figure beside her. “Fie, fly, flee, little manling,” she whispered, yet the sound carried easily to his ears as she ripped away the shroud.

Age had ravaged her. Her eyes had sunk into her wizened face beneath a mass of wrinkles and her cheeks were hollow, but he could not fail to recognise her. Their eyes locked and she reached towards him with one hand. Hundreds of tattered memories coalesced in one blinding moment. “Mother,” he whispered with lips that barely moved, “Mother.”

A low moan swept through the men as a long, hoofed, foreleg stepped through into the clearing, but Devin barely heard it. His mind was on fire with pain and loss, and his eyes were filled with tears. He drew back on the bowstring. She would pay, this creature who had shaped his life in this most cruel of ways. He wiped his eyes on his bicep and took careful aim even as the massive creature stepped fully into the world.

The arrow flew straight and true. He didn't even realise he was screaming until it veered from its path and spun harmlessly into the ground. He stared, stunned, at the buds and leaves sprouting from the shaft of the arrow and then looked to the centre of the stones.

The creature had the body of a stag and the torso of a man. He stood in a stance of undeniable authority, holding one hand up as if he had halted the arrow by force of will alone. Moonlight washed across his bare shoulders and tiny sparks danced over his pale green skin, as he turned his antlered head to survey the crowd.

“It seems we have guests, my children.” His voice was low, melodic, and utterly, utterly alien.

As if his speaking had somehow lifted all restraint, Rhenkin screamed “Fire!” and arrows flew across the clearing into the centre of the circle and the massed fae. The antlered creature made a fist and his skin grew visibly darker as, with a splintering crack, every arrow shaft twisted, warped, and then snapped.

“Spears!” cried Rhenkin and hurled his iron-tipped weapon into the crowd of fae. Four score more followed in its wake. The weapons were hurriedly made and poorly balanced, but some flew true. Blue fire flared as fae and satyrs fell screaming to the dirt, but more were already passing through into the circle in a steady stream that was still increasing.

“Do you think to stop us with your toys of iron and wood?” the creature spat, his voice heavy with disdain. “To keep us from what is rightfully ours, with your little iron needles?” His eyes found Rhenkin's. “Watch closely, foolish manling.”

He threw his shoulders back and closed his eyes as he lifted his face to the skies. The light twisted in the air and the clearing grew dark as shafts of moonlight formed and flocked to him. His body glittered with dancing sparks and when he opened his eyes, they glowed bright with amber fire. He raised one hand, palm upwards, and a shimmering mist appeared at his feet. “Follow, my children! Follow to the hunt!” he cried in a mighty voice, and he stepped up into the insubstantial air, the mist dancing at his feet.

The creature cantered upwards in a spiral and the growing horde of satyrs followed, rising up above the crowd of awe-struck men on a path of shimmering mist. The fae sounded horns and waited. With a clatter of hoofs, pale white steeds charged into the circle to be held and swiftly mounted. Yet more fae, clad in silvery armour, rode into the circle, their white horses ascending, sparks flying from their hooves. Devin watched, helpless, as Miriam was dragged onto a horse and carried up into the night. He stood still, as silent tears ran down his face. Arrows shot into the sky but they had little effect. As the host rose into the skies, the horns began to sound anew, high and clear, calling the fae to hunt.

Acknowledgements

This book, and certainly this edition, would not have been possible without the patience, generosity and  understanding of some wonderful people. I need to thank Clare Davidson, Anya J Davis, Vin Hill, Iain Watson and Melanie Corona for all of their help. Finally I need to thank Gillian Austin-King for being a sounding board, editor, therapist, muse and wife.

Fae – The Realm of Twilight

by Graham Austin-King

Fae - The Realm of Twilight: Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Acknowledgements

For Tristan

Chapter One

Gavin stirred in the darkness of the cellar and opened his eyes to the gloom. It was still some time before dawn, he could tell that much by the inky blackness. The room never really became fully light, even in the day, but there were enough cracks and missing stones to let small shafts of light filter in. This, though, was the true dark of night. He shifted slightly on the straw-stuffed sacks under the blankets that served as his bed and listened to the susurration of the children in the room around him, breathing in their sleep.

He stared into the darkness as he wondered what had woken him up, and was just beginning to feel the edges of sleep reach for him again when he caught the noise - the faint sound of a bare foot and a metallic clank, followed by a whispered curse. He rolled out of his bed and picked his way to the corridor, moving more from memory than by sight. As he turned the corner to head towards the kitchen, the sight of flickering candlelight caused him to pause. Robbery among the Wretched of Hesk was rare, but not unheard of. There was little in the kitchen worth stealing - a small amount of food and perhaps some kitchen implements. The real value of the cellar lay in the shelter it offered.

Gavin shifted his weight and prepared to ease into the kitchen, but then the light went out. A patter of quick feet carried easily to him and he swore silently as he followed. Trading stealth for speed, and trusting that the intruder's own noise would mask the sound of his passage, he made his way along the corridor as quickly as he dared as he followed. He clambered out over the broken stones of the partially-collapsed building that stood above the cellar, and made his way out into the night.

The skies were clear and the half-moon lit the filthy alley enough for him to catch the shadow as it darted away. He swore again and raced after it. There was little point in stealth now.

Gavin had been raised on the streets and, though his diet hadn't always been the best, his body was well used to racing through Hesk's back alleys and spider-web lanes. He was more used to fleeing than to chasing after someone, but running was running. A life of picking pockets and stealing from market stalls had given him good reflexes and fast feet. He ran out of the alleyway, as the intruder sped away from the backstreet slums and towards the city centre.

A loose stone kicked away from his bare foot and clattered noisily across the cobblestones. He caught a flash of pale skin, as the person ahead of him glanced back and then sprinted through the night. “Shit!” Gavin lengthened his stride and strove to narrow the gap. His feet might not be as fast as the distant burglar's but his longer legs made up the difference and he began to close.

Forgotten lanterns hanging on the occasional building spilled light out onto the streets, though most were dark and cold, and Gavin could easily see the distant figure as he ran. He allowed himself to drop back slightly. Catching the intruder would only answer half of his questions, he told himself. It would be better to discover where they were going.

The streets were largely silent and, even at this distance, he could hear the slap of the thief's feet on the flagstones. They slowed and then stopped for a second before moving on. Whoever they were, they thought they had lost him. Gavin's grin was a flash of white in the dark as he ran on, silent feet carrying him after the distant footfall.

The alleys and narrow streets slowly gave way to broader avenues as they moved into the richer areas of the city. Finally, as they approached the centre of the city, the intruder slowed and then stopped to look up at the darkened stone building that was the massive cathedral of the Church of New Days. The church had moved on since its early days and the chapel in the back streets of Hesk had long since been abandoned when the grand cathedral had been constructed.

The Wretched had always been welcome in the church, and the priests had done their bit to keep them clothed and fed as best they could. A church orphanage had been open for a number of years now, but even those children that chose to remain on the streets could come there for aid. Street children from all over the city had learned to accept the place as a refuge, but there were rules. No theft would be accepted, even amongst each other, and fighting would result in a strict ban.

Gavin's smile was mirthless. The thief would find no refuge in the cathedral. Every Wretched in Hesk knew that once the small side door closed at dusk, it would not reopen until the morning's first light. He watched as the figure moved towards a small, cobbled side street leading to the rear of the building. Where was he going? That route went alongside the high-walled cathedral gardens, leading to the opposite end of the building from the side door. Gavin's curiosity was aroused now, and he followed at a distance and watched.

The figure reached into a sack, and withdrew a length of rope and a three-hooked grapnel. Gavin started as he realised that this was what had been taken from the cellar. Burglary was far too risky for most of the Wretched. It took a patience and skill that had taken him years to develop. He’d mostly given it up. It was too much of gamble, even for him, these days. Although he might be able to make more in one night than in two months of begging and picking pockets, the threat of having an eye put out - or worse - was enough to put him off. He wasn’t just looking out for himself anymore.

The thief kept to the shadows as he shook out the rope and made sure it was tied fast to the grapnel. As he swung it experimentally, a lock of blonde hair escaped from under his dark, hooded cloak. Gavin looked at the figure again, taking in the slight build and lack of height, and swore as realisation dawned on him. He ran towards the figure, all efforts at stealth forgotten, and closed swiftly as the grapnel swung round through the air, crashing into the figure before it was loosed. The pair of them tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, whilst the iron hooks clanged loudly against the stone wall.

“Tessa!” Gavin gasped, as he struggled to his feet. “What in the hells are you doing?”

“This doesn't concern you, Gavin,” the slight young woman said, as she dusted herself off and bent to retrieve the grapnel.

“Doesn't concern me?” he hissed. “The hell it doesn't! I haven't seen or heard a thing from you in almost a year. You vanish from the orphanage without a word. Now, months later, you sneak into my cellar in the dead of night to steal this thing.” He waved at the hook she was stuffing into the bag. “And this doesn't concern me?”

“No,” Tessa replied, in a cool tone. “You really ought to go home. We've made enough noise here already.”

Gavin sputtered at her as she coiled the rope neatly and threw the loop of the bag over her shoulder. He looked around quickly. Dawn was still hours away, judging by the light, but she was right. His attention was drawn by a sudden flash of lantern light reflecting on the damp cobbles. He grabbed at her arm and ran for the other end of the narrow street.

“You there, stop!” The cry came up from behind them and the sound of heavy boots pounding on the cobbles echoed along the street, followed by the piercing sound of a whistle as they fled into the night.

“Constables?” Tessa shot him a filthy look as they ran. “Really, Gavin, can't you at least try to be quiet?”

He ignored her, pulling her across a broad street and into another narrow alley, its corners piled high with broken crates and refuse. The constables of Hesk were no serious match for any true member of the Wretched, but they could be annoyingly dogged. They ran through the alleyway, leaping over the rubbish that seemed intent on tripping them. A darkened doorway caught Gavin's eye and he pulled Tessa to a halt. They pressed deep into the shadows, her breath hot on his neck as they huddled back against the half-rotted door. The place had probably been a tanner's at some point. It had long since been abandoned, but the stink of ammonia and sewage still clung to the place.

He pulled up the hood of Tessa's cloak with one hand and buried his face in the rough cloth as best he could, hiding his skin from the light of the approaching lantern.

The clump of the constable's boots heralded his arrival far more than the glimmer of lantern light that carried through the rough fabric of Tessa’s cloak. His steps slowed and then stopped as he turned, first this way then that. “Damned street-rat bastards,” the man muttered. He hawked and then spat.

The spittle struck the stones not three feet from Gavin's huddled form and he felt Tessa shaking in his arms. In truth, they had done nothing wrong but being found in this area of the city, at this time of night, and carrying a grapnel would raise questions that Gavin was not prepared to answer.

The Wretched and the constables of Hesk had an odd working arrangement. It was an accepted fact that the thieves of the city would never really be stopped. The constables tended to turn a blind eye, so long as the Wretched kept their activities within acceptable limits. Minor acts of theft from market stalls or the disappearance of the occasional purse were largely ignored. Burglary in one of the most affluent areas of the city would not be. A beating was more likely than arrest, but neither option especially appealed to Gavin.

He squeezed his arms slightly against Tessa, trying to reassure her with the pressure. A faint squeak was followed by a metallic scrape on stone and then the puffing sound of the constable lighting a pipe. “Too old for this nonsense, anyway,” the man muttered to himself in between puffs. Tessa's trembling became more pronounced. Gavin risked a peek as the light began to recede and, as he watched the constable make his way out of the alley, he realised with shock that Tessa wasn't trembling. She was laughing.

He stepped back from her and fixed her with a sour look, as she pulled her cloak straight and came out of the doorway. Her elfin face was twisted into an image of barely suppressed mirth.

“Don't you think you owe me some kind of explanation?” he said, with a scowl.

“Well, they are a bit funny,” she grinned. “I haven't had this much fun in months.”

“I meant an explanation for what the hell you are doing!” Gavin grated, his temper fraying.

She looked back in the direction of the cathedral. “They have Khiv,” she said and the humour drained from her face like wine from an upturned glass.

“Khiv? Your brother?” Gavin asked, unnecessarily. “I thought Ylsriss put him in the church orphanage? Surely he's supposed to be in the cathedral? Hell, I thought you were there too!”

“Oh Gavin, I'm too old for that sort of thing. But Khiv...” She looked down at her feet and cleared her throat, making a rough tearing sound. “There are stories, Gavin. Children disappear from there. There are empty safeholds all over Hesk where children of the Wretched were sleeping only two nights earlier. It's even worse in the orphanage, though.”

He looked around. “We shouldn't talk here. Come on.” He led her back through the twisting streets and alleyways to the cellar.

The cellar was still filled with the faint sounds of sleeping children as they made their way quietly through the corridors to the kitchen. Gavin waved her into the room and closed the door tight behind her. Waking the children was the last thing he wanted to do. He pointed to a chair at the makeshift table that had managed to last through the years, despite all the odds.

“Sit,” he said, and bent to get a fire going in the small wood stove. The stove was easily the most valuable item in the cellar. Small and compact, it was nonetheless made of thick cast iron and it would have taken three strong men to move it. He blew gently onto the wisp of old frayed rope he had been striking sparks onto until it started to smoke. Reaching into the stove, he blew again as he touched the faintly glowing rope against the dried leaves and slivers of wood. Within moments, he had a small fire going. Tessa watched with a faint smile as he fed first twigs, then sticks and then more substantial pieces of wood to the fire. “You were always better at that than anyone else, even Ylsriss,” she said.

Gavin grunted and shrugged as he filled the heavy iron kettle and then set it onto the stove to boil. “Why don't you start at the beginning, Tessa,” he said, as he sat down across from her at the table. “I thought Ylsriss had you settled in at the church orphanage before she left?”

“She settled you in there too, Gavin, as I recall.”

Gavin cleared his throat and clasped his hands together on the table to stop himself fidgeting. “It wasn't the right place for me. Too long on the streets.”

“Yes, well it wasn't the right place for me either,” Tessa replied, a little harsher than she had intended. She reached across the table for his hand, but then thought better of it and pulled hers back awkwardly into her lap. “You're right though, about being too long on the streets.” She shot him an apologetic smile. “It changes you. I don't think I could live a life like normal people do now.”

Gavin nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the kettle. “So you left? What about Khiv and all the other little ones?”

“They're why I left. I couldn't fit in, couldn't accept the things they were trying to teach us. Letters and all that stuff about their Lord.” She curled her lip in derision. “If their God is all powerful and loves us all so much, then why are people living in the streets? Why are there merchants getting rich from selling over-priced food to people who can barely scrape by?”

Gavin shrugged again. “I didn't make the world, Tessa. I just do what I can to get by in it.”

“Well, that's why I had to leave, Gavin. The little ones deserve better than what we have. If the orphanage can give them that with their letters and learning, then that's great. I could feel them watching me though, following my lead. They'd never have had a chance so long as I was still there.”

“But Khiv? You left your own brother?” Gavin's voice was hushed because of the children, but even so his tone did little to soften the accusation.

“He was better off without me, Gavin,” she replied, in a flat voice. “They could give him things that I couldn't. I would just have led him back to the streets in the end.”

“Which brings us to tonight,” Gavin said, as he stood and turned to lift the hissing kettle from the stove with a thick, fire-scarred cloth. He went to the corner and returned with two chipped cups and a small earthenware jar, stoppered tightly with cork. As he worked the top loose and carefully poured a small measure into the cups, her eyes widened. A strong, rich smell filled the kitchen as he added the steaming water. “Is that keft?” she asked, in hushed, almost reverent, tones. “Where in the Isles did you manage to get that?”

Gavin grinned as he handed her the cup filled with the steaming dark liquid. “A Dernish scow came to trade about three weeks ago. You know how lax they can be about guarding their ships. Honestly, they're so interested in the whores and taverns, it's a wonder they ever have anything left to sell!”

Tessa laughed as she sipped at the cup, sucking the liquid through her teeth to strain out the grounds. “It's been a long time since the Dernish tried a trade. We don't have much to offer them.”

Gavin sat across from her and fixed her with a serious look. “I think we've danced around this enough now, don't you?” She swallowed slowly and then gave a small nod.

“So explain.” He folded his arms and sat back, waiting.

She curled her hands around the chipped cup and looked across the room into the darkened corner as she began to speak. “I used to go and visit Khiv. Not as often as I should have, but every month or so, just to check in, you know? He was doing well. You remember how thin he used to be?” Her eyes flicked at him long enough to register the nod, then her gaze drifted away again as if seeking a corner in which to hide.

“He was filling out and he was doing well in their lessons. He'd learned things I could never get my head around. Figuring and letters, not just the God stuff. Anyway, I got busy with stuff. Life got in the way, you know?” Gavin didn't nod this time. He just looked on, as impassive as stone.

“I guess a couple of months slipped past, maybe three or four. Then Elsra came to find me.”

“Elsra?”

“Tiny little thing, like a waif. You must remember her, Gavin, surely?”

“It's not important. Go on.”

“She'd been out on the streets for three or four days before she found me. She was soaked through and she'd obviously been sleeping in doorways. It's a miracle she wasn't snatched up by one of the perfumed ladies and put in a brothel. She's pretty enough once she's cleaned up. Anyway, she’d made so much noise asking after me that I found her myself easily enough.” She looked at him, fear plain on her face. “She told me that children were disappearing from the orphanage, Gavin. They were there one day, and then gone the next.”

“I expect that they leave all the time, Tessa,” Gavin said, but his voice did not sound convincing, even to himself.

She gave him a frank look. “They do, but not like this.” She pinched at the bridge of her nose and sighed before going on. “Some children leave. They are not locked in, they are free to leave any time they like. This wasn't like that, though. Elsra and Khiv were close, I mean really close. He was never the strongest boy and places like that breed bullies. Those two clung together and tried to stay out of the way of the others. Then, one morning, he was just gone, without a goodbye, without a word.” She reached over the table and took hold of his forearm in her hand. “He wouldn't have done that, Gavin. Not without even saying goodbye.”

“No one ever really knows what someone else is capable of, Tessa.” He spoke the words softly, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh come on, Gavin,” she said in disgust. “Use your brains. Even if everything I’ve said is wrong, why is it the place never fills up? I've heard the thanecourts are even placing street kids in there now when they catch a pickpocket, instead of breaking their fingers. It should be crammed to the rafters, but somehow they always have room for more. That just doesn’t make sense.”

“Okay, I believe you.” He squeezed her hand where it gripped his arm, twisting his wrist slightly to encourage her to let go. She had dug her fingers in like claws and he rubbed his wrist gently while holding her gaze. “So why were you trying to sneak in there?”

“Because it's not just the children that are vanishing, there are babies that have gone too. There in the evening and then gone the next morning. Elsra told me that the priests say they have been adopted, but why at night? She told me she's seen priests waking children in the night and leading them out of the orphanage. They don't come back. Something very strange is going on there. She's not as hard as some of the Wretched, but she's still a brave girl. Gavin, she was terrified. She was shaking when she told me.”

“What have you done with her?”

“I've left her with a friend for now. She'll be fine for a few days.

He shook his head and then reached both arms up into a deep stretch. “So you thought you'd break in and then do... what?”

“To be honest, Gavin, I really hadn't thought that far through it. I was going to have a look around for starters.”

He snorted in disbelief. “Sure, you were just going to scale the walls and sneak into one of the most powerful organizations in Hesk. Where did you have next on your list? The reaving schools? The thane's palace?”

She glared at him silently, drawing her legs in under the chair and crossing her ankles as she grasped her cup, her knuckles turning white.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “Look, I know you're worried. Have you been to speak to the priests?”

“I'm not an idiot, Gavin, of course I have,” she snapped. “They told me that he'd left. I don't believe them.”

“Why haven't you been to Ylsriss with this?”

She looked at him with a mixture of pity and scorn. “With what? All I have is the word of a scared child and the feelings in my gut. That's why I was going in to look. Besides,” she said, with a toss of her head, “Ylsriss left over a year ago!”

“No, she's back. In a merchant's house, close to the new market square.”

She stopped at that, her eyes narrowing in thought. “I don't know what she could do...”

“More than we can. She's important now. People will listen to her.”

“I still need to go in and look around first,” she said, clenching one fist in expectation of the response. “I'd need something solid to go to her with.”

“We will go in and look. But tomorrow night now, and on my terms.”

“I hardly-” She cut off as he raised a finger warningly.

“We're not going to discuss it. Meet me outside the Pig and Whistle tomorrow night, three bells past midnight.”

“Gavin, you don't need to -”

“Yes, I do,” he interrupted. “I owe your brother, if not you. You should have come to me first, instead of just stealing the grapnel. Now, you're going to have to leave. The little ones will be up soon and I don't want questions being asked that I don’t want to answer.”

She gave him a strange look and then left without another word. Gavin sat at the rickety table slowly drinking his keft. He knew what the look had meant. Why was he helping her? In truth, he wondered about this himself. He didn't really owe her anything, no one on the streets ever really did. You lived in isolation. Sure, you might group together for protection; you might even work together on a job. The reality of it all, though, was that they would all abandon each other without hesitation if it needed to be done. The only one he'd ever known who was different was Ylsriss. That was what the look had meant. He’d picked up the pieces Ylsriss had let fall. Maybe one day he’d be able to let them go himself.

He moved mechanically, his mind far away in thought, as he filled a large pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. The keft had left grounds in his teeth and he worried at them with his tongue as he worked. The smallest of the children were soon up and eating the watery porridge he had produced. Before long, they were filing out of the cellar, some with arms wrapped in slings, some feigning missing legs by binding them up tight inside their clothes, as they went out to work the crowds with begging bowls.

The older children would be sent to pick pockets and steal what food they could from the market. Such was the life of the street children of Hesk. There was a reason they were called the Wretched. All too soon, the cellar was silent again and Gavin made his way up the stone steps, through the ruins of the building, into the sunlight and onto the streets.

Chapter Two

Gavin wandered through the city streets. He had no real destination in mind and he simply drifted, moving easily and allowing the press of the crowds to direct his travel.

Though the fleets of reavers had gone to the Farmed Lands, Hesk was still a busy place and the numbers pushing through the streets seemed undiminished by the war effort. The shops were still as busy and the market still as loud, with stall owners calling out their wares. Ahead, through the sea of bobbing heads, he caught sight of the tall helmet of a constable strolling with the crowd. Gavin smiled to himself. The constables were a blessing to any skilled lifter. Most people believed that no thief would dare to operate near a constable. They unconsciously relaxed, dropping their guard. They may as well have just handed their coin over to Gavin.

He sliced the purse of a fat merchant, his hands working almost without him thinking about it. His knife was sharp enough to cut through the strings without even the slightest tug. Only a rank amateur sliced the purse itself just to catch a coin or two. He walked casually into an alleyway and turned out of sight before breaking into a run. Three turns later and he dropped back into a walk, bouncing the purse in one hand with a grin. The sprint was just force of habit. He'd been too smooth of a lifter for years for anyone to have noticed, but it never hurt to be a few streets away by the time the mark discovered the theft. Luck was a fickle mistress and he knew better than to trust to her changing moods.

He would have loved to waste the day away, but there were things that he was going to need. A glance inside the purse revealed far more coins than he had expected, and he headed further into the maze of alleyways, deep into the slums.

A trip to a grimy back street and a knock on the right door earned him fresh greys, a shapeless mass of clothing in a strange mixture of colours, ranging from dark green to smoky grey. The outfit was loose-fitting and hung in an odd fashion, but it would serve to break up the shape of a man in the night. Gavin had never had to rely on greys himself, but he'd been told that wearing them when standing in shadows had saved the necks of more than one thief. Another two visits provided him with a newer, stronger rope than the frayed mess that Tessa had been about to use and a wickedly sharp knife, far longer than the finger-length razor he used for lifting.

The day passed too swiftly for his liking and he soon found himself back in the cellar, trying not to seem too distant as he gathered the children together for a late dinner. There were twenty children in all, ranging from fourteen, only few years younger than himself, to as young as six. As he watched them eat, he suddenly had second thoughts. What was he doing? He had a responsibility to these children. Only two of them had left the orphanage with him. Another eight or nine had found their way to him over the next few months. The remainder had never been inside the orphanage at all, but had found their way to him over the following months and years, drawn to him like stray dogs will form into a pack.

He looked around the cramped kitchen, letting the sounds of eating and conversation wash over him as he poked at his food, a heel of bread and something masquerading as a stew. He would be risking a lot to do this thing for Tessa. But then, he wondered, did they really need him? They had gone out onto the streets and come back with money and food. What did he provide for them that the cellar didn't provide itself? Tessa had been one of the ones he'd left behind. If he'd tried to talk her into leaving with him, then would Khiv have been sat at this table with them both now?

As the meal ended and the children began to drift away, he collared one of the older ones and explained he would be working that night. It was a while since he'd done it, but they all knew Gavin wasn't above a little burglary. Working the streets might net you a purse full of coppers, but then there were also days when it would get you nothing but a chase through the streets with an overly eager constable blowing his whistle. An occasional burglary had made the difference for them all more than once.

He sat at the table and stared at the flicker of the flames through the vents in the front of the woodstove as he sipped at another cup of keft. It wouldn’t keep for much longer anyway and the bitter drink would help to keep him awake.

As midnight came and went, a gentle rain began to hiss down onto the cobbled streets. He stood in the crumbling cellar entrance, tucked into the corner of the half-collapsed building, watching the sparkle of the raindrops as they were caught in the moonlight. Eventually, the second bell sounded, mournful and subdued in the distance. He checked over his pack one last time and stepped out into the drizzle.

The streets were silent. Even those who had staggered late out of taverns and into the wet had long since found their way home. Either that or they had passed out in a gutter that had conspired with alcohol to make itself seem appealing. The night was his alone. There were certain to be other thieves out at work and the constables would still be patrolling, albeit reluctantly in this weather. They were more likely to be holed up in accommodating doorways, smoking until either the rain stopped or they forced themselves out onto the streets. Despite this reality, Gavin had always thought of the night as his own.

He moved steadily, keeping to the shadows where possible and listening carefully for telltale footfall. The constables were more or less inept, but nobody could have mistaken his intent, dressed in greys. The constables were actually the least of his worries, though. He would have to pass through the territories of two of Hesk's more vicious street gangs on his route. If he was seen, it would result in somebody bleeding and he hadn’t the time. In spite of all this, his form would have seemed relaxed to any onlooker as he made his way towards the city's centre in his strange, grey clothes.

He spotted Tessa as he approached the Pig and Whistle. She was crouched on the rooftop of a building at the side of the alleyway that faced the inn, seemingly oblivious to the rain. She would have probably been overlooked by anyone else on the street. It was almost certain that she’d have been missed by anybody honest. Normal people didn't tend to look up at the rooftops, especially when it was raining. Gavin had only caught sight of her when she shifted slightly, probably to ease a cramp. He stepped out of the shadows and raised a hand in greeting, watching as she made her way to the edge of the roof and climbed down with a fluid grace.

She eyed his greys and the small pack he had slung over one shoulder, and nodded to herself as he approached. “Are you ready?” She didn't bother with a greeting.

“As I will ever be, I suppose.”

Tessa led him through the streets, casting sidelong smirks at him as he hunched down deeper into his greys against the wet. The wind was picking up and the drizzle drifted in under the hood of his cloak, clinging to his hair and forming larger drips which worked their way down his neck. He swore under his breath and swatted a drip away for the third time, ignoring Tessa's quiet chuckle as they rounded the corner and stood before the cathedral.

The building was enormous. Whilst impressive in the daylight, most of its majesty was lost at night. The towers were hidden by the gloom, and the building squatted in the square as if it hadn't the strength to stand erect, brooding and forbidding as it shrugged at the darkness.

Dark windows on the second and third floors added to the image, combining with the shadows to make it look as if it was glaring out at the city. Gavin had always been able to form faces out of images. Even as a small child, he'd been able to think himself into nightmares by forming faces in the grain of the wood of his bed. He glanced up at the cathedral and gave an involuntary shudder, turning it into a shrug to mask it from Tessa.

“How were you planning on getting in?”

“The gardens are just on the other side of the wall you found me at last night.” Her voice was just louder than a whisper. “From what I can remember, there are enough small trees and bushes on the other side to conceal us as we're coming over the wall. We should be under cover, even if someone is watching. From there, we'll play it by ear.”

“Glad to know you've thought this all through so well,” Gavin muttered, and walked into the alley. He kept to the shadows again almost without thinking about it and his soft boots made no noise as he passed over the cobbles. In the daytime, he didn't bother with boots, but tonight the pale skin of his feet would have drawn the eye. He ducked into the shelter of an overhanging roof and shook the worst of the water from his cloak as he waited for Tessa to catch up with him. She held out a hand and he pulled out the grapnel, passing it to her without comment. Noting the new rope, she nodded in approval, and then stepped away from the wall. He watched in silence as she swung the grapnel once, twice, and then flung it high over the wall. It make a gentle grating noise as she pulled the rope in slowly until the iron points dug in, then she was up and over the wall in moments.

Gavin fingered the rope for a moment and sighed. It was too late for second thoughts now. He muttered a curse under his breath and clambered up the rope and onto the top of the wall. He lay prone for a moment, the damp stone cold on his cheek as he looked down into the cathedral gardens.

The lawns were dark and silent, and the trees and bushes rustled gently in the slight breeze that drifted up and over the walls. He heard a muffled noise and glanced down to see Tessa looking up at him impatiently. He pulled the rope up and then slipped into the tree beside the wall and down into the brush.

Tessa led the way, moving out of the bushes and across the lawn on swift, silent feet, a passing shadow in the night. Gavin felt clumsy beside her, but only by virtue of his size. They went past the arched garden entrance that would have led them into the cathedral itself, and headed for the side door that would take them into the orphanage.

She stopped beside the heavy wooden door and tried the latch, then shook her head at him. He stepped around her and knelt to examine the lock with his fingertips. Dropping his pack to the floor, he rummaged around in it until he withdrew a cloth bundle, unrolling it and removing a simple metal probe. The darkness was almost absolute by the door, the high walls of the cathedral blocking what little light the moon shed in those brief moments when it peeked between the clouds. Gavin inserted the probe into the lock, using it as an extension of his own fingers, working by feel to determine its structure. Satisfied, he withdrew the probe and then selected two more thin tools. Within moments, the lock gave a quiet click and, with a nod to Tessa, he tucked the picks away in his pack. They stepped through the door, pulling it to but not fully closing it behind them.

The door led into a dimly lit corridor. A rich rug ran the length of the hallway, allowing them to move more swiftly without having to worry as much about making noise. Gavin wondered at the low-wicked oil lamps mounted on the walls. They were barely alight, but why burn them at all at this time of night? He considered the wealth of this new church as he took in the walnut wall panelling. Shaking his head, he forced himself to pay attention to what they were doing. Tessa led him through the richly appointed hallways, past heavy doors and a wide staircase, through to a more austere dining hall.

She pulled his head down and pressed her lips to his ear. “The children are all upstairs. I don't think we need to risk waking them.”

Gavin was about to respond when a faint shimmer of light reflected off the polished tabletop. A glance at the entrance to the hall and the bright glow of lamplight prompted him to scan the room quickly. There was no place to hide that was worth bothering with. He pressed close to the wall beside the doorway and reached under his cloak for the knife at his belt.

“Which ones?” a voice carried in from the hallway.

“The youngest. It's always the youngest.” He sounded terse compared to the questioner. He had sounded timid, nervous.

Gavin shot a look at Tessa and she nodded, pointing to her ear and then the hallway.

“I still don't understand...”

“Listen, acolyte,” the voice snapped, its owner's temper clearly fraying. “You do not need to understand. These orders came from the First himself. Ours is not to question, just to obey. We are to take two of the youngest to the stones in the park tonight and meet others of our order. That is all you need to understand.”

“Yes, Father.” The reply was apologetic and was soon followed by footsteps, as the pair climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Gavin followed the sound with his eyes, as if he could somehow still see them through the wall.

“What now?” Tessa hissed at him.

“We wait here,” he whispered. “It sounded like they were fetching them.”

They crouched in the darkness, pressed against the wall beside the door. A brief search had revealed no better hiding places in the time they had. Creaks from above heralded the priests' approach as they came down the stairs. Gavin clenched his fist tight around the hilt of his knife before forcing himself to relax. Tense muscles move more slowly, he told himself.

“Lord of the New Days, this one's heavier than she looks.” The creaking of the stairs made it hard for Gavin to tell which of the priests had spoken. The footsteps reached the base of the stairs and began to fade down the corridor.

Tessa pushed past him and into the corridor, stopping and looking back at him in confusion. “Come on!” She moved off without a backward glance. Gavin cursed under his breath and then followed.

He caught up with her at the doorway leading out to the gardens. She glanced back at him and nodded once, though he had no idea what that was supposed to have meant, and then eased the door open. She darted through, still crouched low, her dark cloak trailing along the ground. Gavin followed and immediately headed for the deeper shadows closer to the wall. The priests were visible in the distance, heading for the doors that went into the cathedral itself. Tessa made to follow, but Gavin reached for her and pulled her up short. “Where are you going?” he whispered.

“I'm following them, you idiot. Come on!”

“Into the cathedral? Why? We know where they're going.”

“Yes, inside. Let’s go.”

“They said they were going to the park. Weren't you listening?”

She lowered her head. Despite the darkness, Gavin could almost feel her blush. “Come on.” He led her back to the wall, secured the grapnel and clambered over. He glanced up at the sky as he waited for her. It was still dark, but dawn was fast approaching. “I don't think they're going to take their time,” he said, as he heard the distant clatter of carriage wheels on cobbles. “It will be starting to get light soon.”

She nodded. “Let's go.”

The two ran through the streets, hoods thrown back and not bothering to keep to the shadows as they ducked into the cobweb of alleys that covered Hesk. A maze to most of the city's inhabitants, the alleyways could get you where you wanted to be far faster than many of the main roads of the city. They could also get you robbed at knife-point and left for dead in them if you weren’t careful.

The park was shrouded in mist. It rose in tendrils from the river surrounding it and pushed into the park in a dense, undulating blanket. Gavin was thankful for the cover it provided them, but frustrated by the fact they couldn't see anything through the shifting grey mass. They moved quickly through the park in the direction of the stones, ears alert for any noise. This time, it was Tessa who pulled him up short, grabbing a shoulder and pointing into the murk. A yellow halo of lantern light surrounded the dark figures as they made their way through the mist. The priests wore dark robes, which would have made them almost as hard to see as if they’d been wearing greys, if it hadn’t been for their lantern. They must have left their carriage at the entrance to the park and were moving over the wet grass with purpose, walking roughly parallel to the two thieves.

Gavin and Tessa froze and let the two priests overtake them before they moved again. He waited for a safe distance to form and then set off, trusting Tessa to follow. A metallic clink from behind told him that she was readying her weapons as she ran and he patted his knife through his cloak, reassuring himself of its presence.

They cut across the grass at an angle that would bring them level with the priests on the approach to the stones, yet still keep them at a safe distance. The stones lay at a natural edge to the park, bordered by thick trees and bushes on one side, and large rocks that sloped down to the rushing river on the other. As such, it would be hard to approach unseen, even with the mist cloaking them. Gavin skirted the trees, moving more slowly now in order to match the priests' pace. They were walking slowly, one of them clearly struggling with the weight of the child he carried, as the stones loomed out of the mist.

“Brothers.” The soft voice cut through the mist and the silence. Not knowing quite why, Gavin stopped and dropped to the grass as he tried to see who had spoken.

“You have performed your task adequately. You may now depart.” Two black-robed figures strode forward from the stones, the mist eddying and swirling around their legs like water. Their hoods were low over their faces, obscuring anything Gavin might have seen despite the lamplight. He crawled forward through the wet grass, trying to get a better view as they held their hands out for the children. One child was probably aged four or five from what Gavin could see, but the other was a babe, still wrapped in swaddling.

“The girl should sleep for another three or four hours yet, but the baby could wake at any time,” the younger priest said suddenly, earning a sharp look from his companion. The taller of the two strange figures nodded in response and then repeated his earlier words. “You may depart.” His accent seemed odd. It was a little thing, but it niggled at Gavin for some reason. He glanced at Tessa, who was lying next to him in the grass, but she was watching the scene intently and did not meet his gaze.

He was silent as the priests from the cathedral approached and then passed them. Why would they bring children, and one a baby at that, here in the dead of night? He chewed savagely at a fingernail. None of this made sense. The priests handed over the children without speaking and then left quickly. The two other priests stood by the stones as they watched their counterparts vanish into the darkness. They did not speak and held the children in a strange fashion. It wasn't a normal way to hold a child, more like the way you might hold a package. A clasp devoid of nurturing or any sense of care or protection.

For the first time, Gavin realised that they held no lamp themselves but they seemed at ease in the darkness. As the distant glow of the lamp faded away behind them, a terrible feeling of wrongness rose in him. Moonlight broke through the clouds and the light served to make the scene even more otherworldly, if that was possible. The two figures looked up at the sky in unison, their faces lifted to the light, eyes closed and lips parted. One looked around and then burst into a delighted laugh. A shimmer seemed to pass over him and then the black robe vanished, revealing a man-like figure in simple tan clothing. Gavin held back a startled gasp and felt Tessa stiffen beside him. The figure seemed normal enough, although its face was pale in the moonlight and its hair hung down past its shoulders. It turned and Gavin bit hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out. The eyes of the creature shone in the darkness, a gentle amber glow, the colour of a candle's flame or of sunlight on water. Beside him, Tessa whimpered softly into the grass.

“This is forbidden, you fool,” hissed the black-robed figure in alarm.

“Forbidden,” laughed the amber-eyed creature. “Too long has it been since I felt our Lady's touch on my skin. I'll not diminish it with a glamour. Take the younglings through, if you are so eager to return.”

“Te eirla su trechendar, kalien su irla!” the figure in black spat, and the argument continued in words Gavin could neither make out or understand.

Finally, the figure threw the young boy over one shoulder and then took the baby, holding it in its other hand. Gavin watched with wide eyes as it walked towards the stones, the huge blocks that formed a gateway of sorts where generations of couples had come to kiss.

He was dimly aware of Tessa moving in the grass beside him, but couldn't tear his eyes from the scene before him. The robed figure reached a hand out to one of the stones, took another step forward and half-turned to the creature. Gavin was vaguely aware of the fact they were speaking but was staring, open-mouthed, at the way the figure's leg ended in mid-air. The portion of his body that had stepped through the space between stones had simply ceased to exist. Gavin heard a hiss beside him and then a sharp metallic twang. The robed figure looked up in surprise and hissed in pain as the bolt bounced off its thigh. Its robe fell away, running like water, revealing the creature beneath it. It wore the same tan clothing as its companion and had the same burning eyes. Both creatures turned to glare at Tessa.

“Kiel serh!” the first spat. It stepped through the stones with the children and vanished.

Tessa rose to her feet and fumbled with the tiny crossbow in her hands. A smile crept across the remaining creature's face. Holding its arms wide, as if inviting the crossbow bolt, it stepped slowly towards them.

“Tessa!” Gavin said in a low, urgent voice. “Tessa, run!”

Her hand was shaking as she held out the bow and pulled the trigger. Somehow, she managed to hit the creature, but again the bolt simply bounced off, leaving a small tear in the tan cloth over its stomach. The creature laughed again, a delighted but cruel sound, and pulled a long knife from a sheath strapped to one leg. “My turn,” it whispered, the sound somehow carrying clearly to them both. Gavin struggled to his feet and pulled his knife, as Tessa dropped the crossbow and drew her own blade. The thing stepped lightly through the mist towards them, and they spread apart in an attempt to force it to fight one of them or the other.

The leap was incredible. It jumped forward more than fifteen feet in a single bound. Tessa had no time to be amazed. It was on her in an instant. It landed and sank low in one fluid motion, then lashed out with one leg, pulling her off balance as it slashed at her with its knife.

It shifted backwards a step and then leapt away again, covering another ten feet. The maneuver placed it out of reach of both of them, but still close enough for it to be an immediate threat.

Tessa gasped and clamped a hand to her thigh as she fell sprawling to the grass. Her face was twisted with pain and shock. Gavin moved to help, just a simple shifting of his weight, but even as he started to move, he saw the thing tense to spring and he skittered backwards, falling onto the grass in his haste.

The creature laughed again, its pose casual as it watched Tessa pull herself to her feet. Blood was soaking through the cloth covering her leg, seeping past her hand, which she still pressed awkwardly over the slash.

“Run, Gavin,” she said, in a voice tight with pain and fear.

“I can't just leave you!” he protested, though he wanted nothing more than to run.

“Just go!” she screamed, as the creature moved in again, its feet gliding smoothly over the ground.

Gavin stared at her in indecision for a long moment, his eyes watching the dark stain as it spread on her leg. She was losing a massive amount of blood at a rate which could mean only one thing. Whispering silent thanks, he turned and fled. As he sprinted across the grass towards the bridge, the sound of metal on bone was soon followed by a long and terrible scream, and then a longer, more terrible silence.

***

Instinct told Gavin he was being chased. It spoke to him on a primal level and whispered jagged words of terror into his ear. He couldn't spare the time to look back over his shoulder. With the speed he was running, he needed to put all of his concentration into putting one leg in front of another. He ran in a way that he hadn't since he was a small child, giving no thought to the fear of falling or the need to retain control. He fairly flew over the low stone bridge, barreling into the streets and darting into the first alleyway he came to, then twisting through as many turns as possible in as short a space of time as he could.

Finally, he stopped beside a rain barrel in a back alley. He slumped against the wall, his breath ragged and his throat burning from the effort of breathing hard in the cold morning air. The rough stones of the building scratched at his back through the thin greys as he sank to the ground but he didn't even feel it. His head was spinning as wildly as any blow could have made it.

Tessa was gone, just like that, and the thing hadn't even really been trying. He glanced around the barrel warily but saw no sign of the creature that had chased him. Perhaps it had never even been following him.

He pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself off, sheathing the knife he hadn't even been aware he was holding in a hand that ached from gripping it so tightly. He looked around the alleyway quickly and glanced up at the sky. It was still dark, but he vaguely remembered hearing the fourth bell some time ago.

Dawn was fast approaching and he couldn't be seen on the streets in his greys. Gavin went to the end of the alleyway and tried to get his bearings. His flight had been so frantic, he had taken little note of where he was going. Twin ruts in the cobbles caught his eye and his heart sank. He was in the Barrowways.

Hesk was divided into sections that were unknown to most of the population. Six major gangs operated in the city, running everything from the brothels to the pickpockets on the streets. There were smaller gangs and thieving crews, of course, but the six were the main powers in Hesk's underworld. Each had its own territory, which it protected fiercely. The Barrowways were named after the barrow routes built to service the old market. They hadn't been used in decades and the market had long since relocated to the main square, closer to the centre of the city. The area was now the territory of the Barrows, one of the two oldest gangs in the city and possibly the most brutal.

He moved unconsciously into the shadows, glancing around furtively. To be caught in their territory would be bad enough, but to be caught wearing greys would probably get him killed. He needed to get out fast or, failing that, to get rid of these clothes as quickly as possible. He made his way through the winding streets, peering into back alleys criss-crossed with washing lines, but they were all bare. It was still too early and damp for anyone to have hung clothes out to dry and none had been left out from the night before.

He moved as fast as he could while staying quiet, clenching his teeth with the effort, as he made his way through Old Market Street and past Blind Sisters, all the way to Fisher’s Bells. Sweat soaked his clothes, both from the exertion of keeping watch and moving with the shadows, and also from honest fear. The night was quiet and the persistent mist still worked to dampen any noise. The silence allowed him to relax and he shifted from his low, creeping stance into a cautious walk. He had almost convinced himself he was going to make it out.

Gavin peered into another dark alley, then scurried past it and along the side of a dark inn. He stopped. The square before him was not particularly large, but there were few or no place where he could avoid being seen. He would be clearly visible as he made his way across it and skirting the edges would make little difference. He scratched at his hair under his hood as he considered his options.

A light scuff behind him told him he had waited too long and finally run out of luck. He turned, with an air of resignation, to see a small group of men, some little more than boys, emerging from the alleyway behind him. They were armed with clubs fashioned from the wood of discarded crates, and more than one of these weapons had rusty nails rammed through them. The leader carried a rust-splotched knife, and his improbably fat belly protruded from an ill-fitting shirt smeared with filth and the remnants of his meals. He thrust his stomach out even further as he eyed Gavin.

“These is Barra lands,” he said, in what was clearly supposed to be a menacing tone, but was made almost comical by his streets' accent.

Gavin edged away from the wall. “I'm not working here, just passing through. I don't want any trouble.”

“Passin' though?” the boy said with an incredulous leer on his pockmarked face. “On your way to the shops, are ya? Pickin' up some fish for the missus?” He looked back over his shoulder to encourage the chorus of grunts and snickers from the rest of his crew.

“Nah, I don't think so, mate.” The smirk was gone as he turned back. “Not in greys.”

Gavin knew they would attack soon. It might take them a few more minutes of posturing first to work themselves up to it, but it was almost a certainty. He was outnumbered. He'd have to take his advantages where he could. Without a word, he threw himself past the pot-bellied thug and into the middle of the group. He twisted and spun, lashing out with his knife, seeking not to kill but simply to injure and slow. The boys cried out in shock and pain, rearing back from his onslaught, and then the fight began in earnest.

Gavin whirled through the group, using their numbers against them. While they had to shift around him in the narrow street to try to land a blow on him, he always had a target in front of him and he slashed at anything that came within range. He dodged to the right to avoid a spiked plank and threw himself into a roll, kicking out savagely at the side of a knee as he rose to his feet. The clubs were everywhere, but he was catching only glancing blows. His knife sliced deeply into a shoulder before he shifted again. The moment he stayed in one place for more than a heartbeat was the moment they would have him. He spun tightly, a tight turn with his blade extended which somehow managed to catch a throat, and then the blood was everywhere.

He ducked and rolled again, always headed for where the gang was bunched most tightly together, slashing wildly for the inside of a thigh, but there were fewer opponents now. Three had already moved to the side of the street, clutching at wounds. The remaining gang members simply stepped backwards out of his reach when he attacked, hissing curses at him.

Gavin rose to his feet and backed away, holding his knife low and trying to ignore the throbbing aches born of half a dozen blows. Three of the thugs and the fat-bellied knife wielder still faced him. He knew they would come in a rush and running would not help him. He doubted he could outrun anything in this state anyway. He stayed low, in a fighting stance, and waited for them to move, to leave an opening, to do anything.

They came in a screaming mob of spiked clubs, sweat and murder. He shouldered his way past the first club, and the man fell screaming as he clutched at the wreckage of his eye. A club caught Gavin solidly in the side, smashing him into the alleyway and against the wall. He landed badly and then they were on him, clubs rising and falling, as they played a symphony of pain upon his muscles and bones. He felt something crack, followed by a new pressure as a rib pressed inwards, and he huddled into a ball. Then it stopped. He lay panting, fighting the urge to draw a deeper breath for fear of the pain his rib would cause him.

He felt the vibrations of the footsteps more than heard them, and forced himself to look up at the fat man as he drew closer. His face was a mask of rage and an angry wound, created by a slash that Gavin barely remembered dealing, painted a broad streak of blood across one side of his face. He grabbed Gavin, twisting and bunching the greys at his throat to provide purchase. A low moan of pain escaped Gavin's lips as Belly pulled him up, arching him over backwards and pressing the rusty blade to his lips.

“That was my brother you slashed open,” he hissed into Gavin's face, his breath fetid with the stench of old ale and the food that was trapped between his teeth. Gavin barely heard the words. His eyes were focused beyond the man, on the figure that dropped lightly from the rooftops and approached silently, its strange knife held ready as it viewed the scene through its amber eyes.

The first one died without having time to scream, as the knife snaked past almost casually and parted his throat. He dropped to the ground, clutching at his throat as the bright blood flew. Belly turned at the sound, and his eyes widened in shock as he dropped Gavin and turned to face the creature. Gavin watched the fight unfold for the length of a slow breath, then pulled himself up from his hands and knees. He staggered along the alleyway, the screams chasing after him. The blood would move more slowly.

He passed almost blindly through the streets, half-bent with one hand pressed to his side. He moved like a drunk, crashing from wall to wall, as his feet strained to find the ground fast enough to prevent him from falling. A fresh pain seared through his side with every breath and he forced himself into a shallow pant. He needed to keep going. The screaming would have attracted attention and he needed to be gone.

He was three streets away before he realised it had fallen silent behind him. Fighting the impulse to look back over his shoulder, he gritted his teeth and managed a staggering run. He didn't really need to look anyway. He could almost feel the presence of the thing as it stalked him through the streets.

Chapter Three

Ylsriss pulled the sleeping baby from her breast, clambered out of the bed and padded across the room. She moved slowly, stepping lightly to avoid any movement which might wake him. He'd been up four times this night already and she would have given much to get some real sleep. She lay him in the cradle and stepped back, watching as he rolled slightly and drifted deeper into sleep.

Dawn's first blush was threatening to edge over the horizon and she knew she should probably close the shutters. It would need to be dark if she was to have any chance of getting any more sleep. She also knew Rhaven would be up soon though, and she felt guilty at the prospect of lying in bed while he was struggling to get the cart ready for the shop.

Fatigue won the battle against guilt and she crawled back into the warm bed, weariness wrapping itself around her like another thick blanket. The bang came suddenly and jolted her from the edges of sleep. She sat up in the bed and looked across to the baby, but he was sleeping soundly. Another crash pulled her from the bed and down the stairs towards the door. It felt as if it was still too early for Rhaven to be up, but the noise would wake the baby at this rate. She reached for the door as the fist pounded on it again, and then wrenched it open. “Rhaven, what are you...?” She stopped herself as the man slumped down the length of the door frame and fell at her feet, his odd grey clothes dark with blood. She knelt quickly and eased him onto his back, and the deeply cowled hood fell back.

“Gavin!” she gasped, as he smiled weakly up at her.

“Thought I'd come for a visit, Ylsriss,” he breathed, through bruised lips.

“What are you...? No, never mind.” She helped him up into a seated position. “Let’s get you inside.”

It took her three attempts to get him back onto his feet, with his arm draped around her neck. She staggered with him as they lurched into the kitchen, and he all but fell into a chair. She ran back and looked out at the yard, searching the shadowy corners with her eyes, before closing the door. Nothing out there seemed amiss, but he clearly hadn't done this damage to himself.

She returned to find Gavin had pulled himself to his feet and was leaning awkwardly against the chair, one hand pressed to his side.

“Greys, Gavin?” she said, dismay mingling with the scorn in her voice. “Really?”

“It's not what it looks like, Ylsriss,” he managed. “I was helping Tessa.”

She held a hand up. “Don't worry about explaining anything for now. Let's get a look at you.” She stripped him to his waist with a brutal efficiency, ignoring his protests. He gasped with pain as she peeled the greys from his chest, and she glanced up at his eyes with concern. He was a battered mess of red welts, cuts and scratches. His side, however, was another matter. She probed gently, tracing the line of his ribs with her fingers, and watched his face carefully.

“Can you take a deep breath?” she asked.

“Not without it hurting, but there's no blood in my breath, if that's what you're asking.”

“You need to be thanking the Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky that there isn't, Gavin,” she replied, shaking her head. “I've not seen a beating like this in a long time.” She shot a look at the door again. “What happened to Tessa? Is she safe?”

He closed his eyes tightly before responding. “She's dead,” he managed. When his eyes opened again, she saw the anguish she felt at the news mirrored in his own.

“Tell me about it later,” she said, in a low voice. “We'll get you patched up and then you need to rest.”

She filled a bowl with water and set about cleaning his wounds. She pounded goose fat, garlic and sage leaves together with a pestle and mortar, then smeared the foul-smelling concoction over his ribs before binding his chest tightly with strips of material. He stood in silence through it all, staring at the door as if he was waiting for it to burst open. She settled him into a spare bedroom and went to check on the baby who woke crying, as if on cue. She scooped him up and walked through the doorway, bouncing him in her arms and “shushing” absent-mindedly. Rhaven was waiting for her in the hallway, questions clear on his face. “An old friend,” she said, in a weary voice, “from another life.”

“We'll talk about it later. You know I don’t want that life in my house, though.”

She nodded, eyes downcast, and his voice softened. “You ought to get yourself back into bed, girl, once you get your guest settled. You look all done in.” She smiled as she nodded again but could tell he wasn't done.

“I just don't want any trouble, Ylsriss”, he said, more quietly. “He can stay until he's on his feet but then I want him gone.”

“I understand,” she said. She thought briefly about her bed but knew that sleep wouldn't come, so she followed him down into the kitchen. She was still sitting at the long wooden table, sipping tea that had gone cold, long after he had left the house.

It was early evening by the time that Gavin emerged from the bedroom, but it was still far sooner than she would have thought. The state he'd been in, she'd expected him to sleep right through. She was sitting in a low rocking chair that was well-padded with cushions, cradling the baby in her arms. The shadow from the door caused her to look up and she frowned at him as he stood in the doorway, wrapped in the blanket from the bed. “You shouldn't be up and about yet.”

He nodded. “I know, but I can't afford to stay here. I need to get back.”

“Back to where?” she asked, her tone sharp but her voice low enough to avoid waking the baby.

“The cellar. The orphanage didn't work for me, Ylsriss. Some people just aren’t built that way. Over the years, I've kept the door open for any others in case they needed it.”

“So you've become me?”

The corner of his mouth curled into a smile. “I suppose I have in a way.”

“What happened to you, Gavin? I think you owe me an explanation, if nothing else. As for leaving, you’re in no condition to go anywhere for a day or two.”

He grabbed a chair and started to sink into it, before wincing and easing himself down slowly. “Yours?” He nodded at the baby.

“My son,” she affirmed with a smile. “Almost a month old now.”

“What did you call him?”

“He's not yet a month,” she reminded him.

“You hold to that? I wouldn't have thought it of you.”

“Why not?”

“You never seemed the type to be held by old traditions or superstitions.”

“Sometimes the old ways have more sense in them than you'd think.” She shushed the baby as he stirred slightly. “It's not just that, though. I don't want to name him before Klöss returns, unless I have to.”

She shook herself visibly, risking waking the child. “Don't change the subject, anyway. What happened?”

He grimaced and then sighed. “Tessa snuck into the cellar one night and stole my grapnel. She wasn’t quiet enough and I managed to catch up with her before she broke into the cathedral.”

“The cathedral! Is she mad?” Ylsriss gasped.

“She’s convinced there’s something strange going on and that the answers are inside. Apparently, her brother Khiv vanished from the orphanage without a word to anyone.”

Ylsriss fixed him with a look. “Kids do things like that, Gavin. He probably just left.”

He shrugged. “Maybe he did. She was going to go in anyway. I didn’t go for Khiv, I went for her.”

“And so you just went along with this?” She didn't shout. She didn't have to. Her eyes spoke more loudly than her voice.

“I didn't have much of a choice, Ylsriss.” He glanced at her once and then avoided her eyes. “I was the oldest of all of us in that place. They all looked to me...” He trailed off.

“I'm not seeing what that has to do with helping Tessa or doing something crazy like this.”

“Don't you see? I left them. I couldn't stand it and so I left. I’m responsible for anything that happens in there. If I'd stayed, I might have been able to do something.”

“You think you're responsible for whatever happened to Khiv?” Her voice was incredulous and he looked up at her sharply. “Gavin, life doesn't work like that,” she continued, in a softer tone. “You're not responsible for people forever. Life is too short and too hard for that.”

“Maybe, but he's still gone and I felt I owed her my help, at least.”

“So what happened?”

“The priests.” He paused, looking almost embarrassed for a moment. “The priests are doing something with those children, with the youngest ones.”

“That's disgusting!” Ylsriss snapped, her eyes flashing.

“What? No, not that!” he said, revulsion clear on his face. “No, they were taking two of them into the park.”

“What's wrong with that?” she asked.

“I need a drink,” he muttered, placing one hand on the tabletop and pushing himself to his feet.

“There's some fresh water in the kettle,” she said, nodding towards the stove.

“That's not what I meant.” Gavin laughed.

“Oh. Well, there's some ale in the pantry, over in the corner there.” She watched as he rummaged about and waved a cup at her, replacing it as she shook her head.

He poured himself a drink. “They were taking them to the park at third bell past midnight, Ylsriss. One of them was still a babe in swaddling.” He nodded at her confused expression. “It's not just that. We heard them talking in the orphanage. They were acting on orders from someone high up in the church.”

“What did they do with them?”

“This is where it gets weird. I don't know how much to tell you. You'll think I’ve gone mad.” He cleared his throat and then drank deeply, looking past her and at the window as he spoke. “We followed them into the park. It was misty enough for us to move quickly and not worry about them hearing us. They were taking the children to the kissing stones, you know the ones?” He waited for her nod and plunged on. “There were two more priests waiting for them there. At least, they looked like priests to start with. As soon as the ones we'd followed handed the children over and left, they changed.”

“What do you mean, they changed?”

“I don't know how to describe it. One minute they were just normal priests and then, the next, one of them was something different. Almost like the priest was just a mask he'd been wearing that he'd dropped. The other one, well, he seemed to walk through the stones. A bit like he was moving through a doorway. He was holding both the children and...Ylsriss, he...well, he just vanished.”

“Did you hit your head, Gavin?”

“I know what it sounds like, Ylsriss, but I swear that's what happened. Tessa shot at one of them with a hand-bow and then it was on us. You've never seen anything move the way it did, Ylsriss. Even fighting both of us at once, it was like it was toying with us. It cut her so easily, like it wasn't even trying.” He looked down and rubbed his eyes with his blanket, his breath shuddering into him.

Ylsriss looked on, her hard eyes softening as Gavin lowered his voice in confession.

“She made me leave her there.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “She knew she was already dead. The blood was pouring from her leg. I should have stayed and helped or something, but I didn't, I just ran. I didn't even look back.”

Ylsriss stood carefully. “Let me get this little beast into bed and I'll be back.” She paused at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder at the drink in his hand. “Get me one of those while I'm gone. I’ve a feeing I'm going to need it.”

The journey up the stairs was a slow and cautious one, practice allowing her to avoid those steps that creaked. He was a good baby, but he was a light sleeper and she'd soon learned to avoid making noises when trying to get him down.

She placed him in the cradle and pulled the light woolen blanket over him. The sun had almost set, just a sliver remaining above the silvery horizon as it sank into the sea. The faint glitter of stars was just visible as they peered through the veil of the wisps of cloud. Ylsriss moved to the window and stared out across the city towards the harbour. She glanced at the baby for a moment, her thoughts far across the ocean.

Faint sounds from the kitchen brought her back to herself and she turned to the doorway. She didn't look at the rooftop opposite Rhaven's house. It would have taken sharp eyes indeed to have picked out the figure crouched beside the chimney. As the last light of the sun faded, the green-tinged mist rising from the creature's shoulders was just visible below its burning amber eyes. Eyes that had watched so intently as she laid the baby down.

He'd suffered by coming here so early. The hated sun was leaching the Lady's gift from him as he crouched in shadows too small to take all of his form. He had risked much by allowing the manling to escape the night before. The time was not yet right for their actions to be known. His hands burned in remembered pain as he thought back to the night before, when cold iron on the window's frame had thrown him away from it and into the light of the rising sun. These people were so unpredictable as to when and where they used the hated metal now. Things were so different from the times he remembered.

The sun finally sank below the horizon and he stood, eyes eager, then leapt across to the sloped roof. He braced his knees, ready for the impact, and wrenched the window open. Blue fire flared as he pressed his hands tightly against the protruding heads of the iron nails and, with a gasp, he ripped the entire frame away, hurling the hateful thing behind him to crash into the street.

***

Gavin waved a cup of ale at Ylsriss as she came back into the kitchen. The colour was coming back into his cheeks, despite his injuries. The sleep had clearly done him good.

“Here, take these,” she said, handing him a pile of clothes. “They're Rhaven's and are probably too big for you, but you can't just wear that blanket all day.”

“Listen, Ylsriss, I need to tell you this. I need to get it out and I'm scared you won't believe me, but just let me get through it, alright?” He blurted the words out as if scared they would refuse to pass his lips if he spoke more slowly.

“Get dressed first. I have a feeling I won't want to be interrupted.”

He nodded as he slipped out with the clothes and she sipped at the dark ale while she waited.

“Okay, just let me tell you,” he said, as he came back in. “That thing that we fought. It wasn't human. I ran from that park like a frightened child. I wasn't even paying attention to where I was going. That's how I ended up in the Barrowways, getting beaten to a pulp.” He shook his head to stop her as she drew a breath and then he plunged on. “They would probably have killed me. I managed to take two or three of them down, but they had me on the ground in the end. If that thing hadn't waded in and attacked, I'd still be in that alley. It must have been following me, watching.”

She cut him off as her face paled. “So how do you know it didn't - ” She never finished the sentence and they both whipped their heads around at the crash from outside.

Ylsriss rushed to the door, ignoring Gavin as he cried out for her to wait. She slid open the peep, a wooden slat in the door behind a metal grate in the front. The yard was still visible in the twilight but there was no movement. The door fought with her as she struggled with the catches and locks, but eventually it opened smoothly. Night air reached in, caressing her as she peered out. Gavin pushed past her, bending down to study something on the ground. He crouched and lifted a piece of the mangled window frame, looking at her with confusion. A faint cry from above caused him to lift his head and Ylsriss screamed as a creature leapt from the roof, clear across the corner of the yard, to the building opposite. Her baby was clearly visible, wrapped tightly in the blanket in one of its arms, and a piece of the cloth fluttered down to them. The creature looked back at them, its burning amber eyes filled with contempt, and then it was gone.

She didn't pause but ran for the gate, tearing after the distant figure with a speed born of terror. Her son, it had stolen her son. The thought was almost too terrible to hold in her head, and she felt herself drifting into blind panic as she ran through the streets. One turn and then another led her to a square and she faltered, then stopped. There was no sign of the creature, no hint of which way it had gone. Tears flowed almost instantly and she bit her lip in grief and anger. She hadn't cried like this in almost fifteen years. Not since she'd fled her father. They came fast, hot and burning, filling her eyes as her cries tore from her throat.

She felt arms around her, lifting her from the ground that she hadn't even been aware she'd fallen to. “Effan,” she whispered through her tears. “I name you Effan.”

“Ylsriss!” Gavin shook her again. “Be smart. We don't need to follow it. We know it's going to the park.” He grabbed her hand and lurched towards the southern end of the square, limping horribly but somehow still managing to pull her along.

The cold stones of the city cut into her bare feet. It had been years since Ylsriss had been forced to run the streets unshod, but she ignored the pain as best she could. Before long, the rough cobbles and sharp-cornered flagstones gave way to grass, wet from the evening’s rains. She pulled ahead of Gavin, shaking her hand free of his grasp and ran, hearing nothing beyond her own frantic heartbeat as he fell behind.

The kissing stones emerged out of the growing murk and she could just make out the figure again. It pressed a hand to one of the supporting stones and looked upwards at the sky as if it was waiting. She threw herself at him, a whirling mass of fists and fingers curled into claws. “My baby!” she screamed, as she attacked. “Give me my baby, you bastard!”

The creature staggered back, seemingly shocked at the onslaught. Then, between one blow and the next, it reached out, casually grasped her by the throat and lifted her forwards. She choked and gagged against the pressure on her neck. The creature calmly looked her up and down with its strange burning eyes, seemingly unaware of the wailing from Effan, who lay in the crook of its other arm. The clouds parted, bathing them both in the pale glow of the newly risen moon, and the creature smiled in satisfaction as it raised its face to the light, ignoring her as she struggled in its fist.

“You too will serve then,” it said softly to her, the words clear despite the odd accent.

Ylsriss had time to hear Gavin scream her name as he staggered into view, and then the creature stepped towards the stones. She felt the rough texture, as if the stone itself was passing through her very flesh and bones, and then a blast of the most bitter cold before she passed into the darkness.

Chapter Four

Klöss leaned back against the heavy beams of the thick wooden gates and watched the mud spatter from under the boots of his men as they trudged through the gates. Others were still making their way along the winding path which led through the rows of trenches and sharpened stakes. He didn't see the men. He saw the gaps. There were far too many of them for him to have known all of their names, but he recognised several faces and, more importantly, the empty spaces next to them where a friend had once walked.

The air was too still. The men were quiet, but it was more than that. It ought to be full of Verig's curses and insults, as he urged the men onwards. Klöss caught sight of Tristan moving with the men. He met the big man's eyes for a moment but his gaze slipped away, as if failing to find purchase, and continued skimming over the returning force.

A splash in the mud behind him announced the man before he spoke. “Shipmaster?” he called, respectfully.

“Yes?” Klöss turned to face the man - although he was little more than a boy, really. “Seamaster Frostbeard asks you attend him as soon as your men are settled.”

Klöss grunted and gave the young man a knowing look. “That's not what he really said, is it?”

“No.” The boy looked down at his muddy boots as his face reddened.

Klöss laughed, a rough coarse sound. “It's okay, lad. I can imagine what he said.” He patted the boy's shoulder. “Where can I find him?”

“In his office. In the keep.” He nodded towards the distant structure.

Klöss sought out Tristan in the throng again. He caught the man's eye, jabbed his thumb at his chest and then pointed into the settlement. Tristan nodded in response and turned to the men nearest him, calling out instructions.

Klöss followed the boy through the streets. The tall stone wall surrounding the fledgling city cast a deep shadow over the buildings in the early afternoon. With the exception of the wall, however, there was little stone to be seen. The buildings were mostly wooden and had a temporary feel to them, something he'd grown accustomed to when living in the camps while the fleet was being built.

The keep was the only large stone building in Rimeheld. Construction had started as soon as the walls were complete and the simple wooden building that had originally stood there had long since been replaced.

The primary focus had been on immediate defence, so the construction of the walls and ditches had been more important than the building of homes and other buildings. He nodded at the men standing guard outside the large double doors and made his way inside.

Frostbeard's study was in a small corner of the top floor and, as he approached the sturdy wooden door, he was reminded of another door, another study. His life had changed immeasurably since that day, yet here he was, fighting down a sense of dread again as he forced himself to knock.

The study was utilitarian and spartan. A simple desk groaned under the weight of various papers, and charts and maps covered the walls. Aiden looked up as Klöss entered, his face breaking into a sympathetic smile, and he motioned wordlessly to one of the chairs that faced him across the desk.

“Even if I hadn't seen how few men you have brought back, your face would have told me,” he said softly. “What happened? The village wasn't that well defended.”

“No, it wasn't,” Klöss replied. “The village was taken easily. We were attacked later that night.”

“A night attack?” Aiden wondered. “Still, even then you shouldn't have lost that many.”

“They had some manner of beast with them. Tore through us like reavers in still seas. They caught us midway through the second watch. Our sentries gave no warning and they were in amongst us by the time the cry went up.”

The old man narrowed his eyes. “What aren't you telling me?”

“We lost Verig.”

“Men die,” Frostbeard muttered, but his gaze fell to the desk and Klöss noticed his shoulders drop slightly. He knew it was all the response the man would show.

“We never expected anything like this kind of force,” Klöss said. “The village had nothing like it. It was some form of elite unit.”

“So why not use them to help defend the village?” Aiden looked up from the desk.

“Perhaps they didn't arrive in time? There could be any number of reasons. The point is we didn't expect these lands to have anything like these troops. This changes a few things, you realise?”

Aiden stood, scraping the chair back with his legs, and walked to one of the maps on the wall. “Not necessarily. I didn't ever plan on conquering these people. From day one, the plan was always just to drive them from their lands, to push them back.” He examined the map as Klöss looked curiously over his shoulder. The map had grown in detail since the last time he had seen it, the Islander settlements now clearly marked on it along with what was known about the enemy villages. He caught himself. When had he stopped thinking of these people as soft farmer folk and begun to think of them as the enemy?

“Here.” Frostbeard tapped the map with one thick finger. “They have a sizeable force here. According to our scouts, they’ve pulled most of their forces back to this point. If we strike them hard and fast, we can neutralise them and take this whole area.”

“I thought the idea was to force them back and then hold, not to take more?” Klöss said in a low voice.

“Like you said, the situation has changed. We need to send a message. If we're lucky, we'll be able to eliminate those elite troops. Let's see how well they do when we're not caught with our britches down.” Frostbeard turned away from the map. “Speak to the scouting parties and get a better idea of the area. I want to hear your plans in two days, before the sealord arrives.”

“The sealord? He's coming here?”

“He wants a clearer picture than he's getting from our reports. This expedition puts his neck on the line too, you know?”

“I would have thought with the thane's backing...” Klöss trailed off.

“Don't be a fool, lad. The thane is out for what he can get. The council was shocked, certainly, but they won't let their power go so easily. There are those in the keepers and the merchants who are just waiting for this to fail.” He moved back to the desk and sank into the chair with a sigh. “Go on now, Klöss, I've some thinking to do about how to replace Verig.”

Klöss noted the tight lips and clenched hands, signs of the pain that Frostbeard was working so hard to conceal, and left without a word. He made his way through the busy streets to the high stone wall overlooking the harbour and climbed the rough wooden steps to the walkway. Like so much else, the stairs would be replaced with stone in time.

The remnants of the original watchtower could still be seen, if you knew where to look. The bay itself had changed considerably, with long wooden wharves now extending over the water and reavers at dock rocking gently. The natural curve of the land had been enhanced by a sea wall which formed the outer edge of the harbour, giving the appearance of stone arms cradling the fleet. Klöss could just make out the white sails of the fishing fleet beyond the harbour, hard at work with the great reavers as escorts, their blood-red sails clear against the pale seas.

He leaned against the battlements, the stone cold and rough under his hands, as he let his thoughts drift. Verig had been the first one to really believe in him. Though Frostbeard had sponsored him and allowed him to take the trials, Klöss knew he had mostly been humoring him. He'd never really expected him to succeed.

It was Verig who'd pushed him in training, Verig who had taken him aside after the first training raid, and schooled him in the advanced stances and sword forms. Thinking back, he could think of a dozen times when the sour-faced man had saved his life and another fifty when he'd fought beside Klöss, guarding his flank. In many ways, Verig had been the rock that he had relied on.

“Who do I lean on now, old man?” he muttered, shielding his face from the sudden gust of wind carrying spray from the waves that crashed against the harbour wall.

“I thought you would be here.” Tristan's smile didn't look right on his face. It was strained and forced. “There are words for men who talk to themselves.”

“You mean names.”

“Names. Words. There is little difference.” Tristan joined him at the wall and they watched the distant whitecaps as the wind continued to rise.

“How did he take the news?” Tristan asked finally, without taking his eyes from the water.

Klöss sighed. “It's hard to say. He's never really been one for displays of emotion.”

“I forget sometimes that he is your uncle. Was he always this way?”

“Like what? Cold? I don't know how much of that is real and how much of it is his 'Frostbeard' act. He will miss Verig though, they go back a long way.”

“All will. I never saw anyone fight like he could, except…”

“Except the one that killed him.” Klöss finished the sentence for him.

“I didn't actually see it,” Tristan admitted. “I was busy with those creatures.”

There was a tone to his voice that made Klöss glance at him questioningly.

“I have never seen the like, Klöss, but there is talk among the men. Tales are being spread.”

“Tales?”

“Old tales. My grandmother spoke of them to me when I was small. Of trells and keiju.”

Klöss looked him up and down with a wry smile. “I find it hard to believe you were ever small, Tristan.”

Tristan grunted. “You joke, Klöss, but perhaps the men are right. These things...I struck one in the face with my axe. It fell backwards but then it stood again. There was no wound. No blood.”

Klöss nodded. It wasn't the first report he'd had like that about the force they'd fought barely a week before. “There was something strange about them, I'll give you that. But trells? Keiju? I think we're all a bit too old for bedtime tales.”

Tristan's mouth closed with an audible click but Klöss paid it no mind. His thoughts were already on the push that Frostbeard had asked him to plan.

“This strange force aside,” he said, “what do you make of their troops?”

“I think we have not yet faced them in any strength,” Tristan replied, after a moment's thought. He caught Klöss's gesture and went on. “The men in the signal tower, they would have been basic guards. The villages we have attacked have been defended by poorly trained men, little more than guards themselves. If I had to wager, I would say that we have yet to face whatever true army this land has.”

Klöss chewed his lip. “I think you might be right. The soldiers we fought in our first training raid were far beyond anything we have encountered so far. I think they have pulled back. Maybe they are marshalling their strength.”

“A true confrontation will not be long in coming.” Tristan joined him at the wall and followed his gaze out to sea.

“You’re right,” Klöss replied, as he leaned over the edge of the wall and looked down towards the surf. “Uncle Aiden tells me the sealord himself is on the way. I have a feeling things are changing on us, my friend.” He met Tristan’s eyes. “We came searching for new lands. Frostbeard never intended for us to conquer these people, just to drive them back. Something tells me this is going to go a lot further than that.”

“We just go where they send us, Klöss. We always have.”

***

The dark ship carved through the waves, the heavy prow forcing them to part as the ranks of oars drove the vessel through the leaden swells. The sails were furled, the red dyed canvas tied tight against the spars.

Klöss stood at the wharf, watching it approach. No fewer than six great reavers followed close behind and a dark smudge on the horizon hinted at more. “A bit much for a simple escort, wouldn’t you say?” he muttered to his uncle.

Frostbeard favoured him with a quick grin. “The sealord needs to keep up appearances as much as anyone, lad. That’s all authority really ever is in the end, what other people think of you. Besides, there's probably a fleet of haulers behind those ships. I expect they’ll break off and head back out to sea as soon as they see him safely docked.”

“I don’t really think he’s in much danger at this point,” Klöss said dryly.

“Appearances, Klöss, appearances.”

They waited as the huge vessel drew closer and settled at the end of the long deep-water wharf, while lines were tossed to waiting docksmen and the hawsers were made fast.

Klöss shifted and fidgeted as they waited. The sea breeze tossed his hair, irritating him. His leathers felt too constrictive, choking him. The honour guard stood too close to him, crowding him. The man was taking too long to get off the damned ship.

At last, the ramp was lowered to the wharf and men thundered down in heavy boots. They wore jet black leathers covered in bright steel plate, a ridiculous form of armour to wear on a ship. The saltwater spray would ruin it in no time. Klöss knew these were ceremonial guards. They had probably never been on a reaving in their lives. That said, they had the look of men who knew their weapons. Men whose lives were devoted to constant training, who perfected their knowledge of the sword as they guarded the sealord. These were not men he would want as his enemies.

He watched as they flanked the ramp, swords bared and held high in salute. The sealord stood at the top, gold inlaid steel plates adorning his leathers and a bearskin cloak hanging from his shoulders. He looked up at the growing city, clearly in no hurry as he surveyed the walls and harbour before joining them on the wharf.

“Aiden,” he said warmly, a broad smile on his bearded face as he reached for Frostbeard’s hand.

“Sealord,” he said with a nod, as they shook hands firmly.

“It’s quite a place you've thrown up here.” The sealord waved expansively at the walls. “It’s hardly a fort anymore. What are you calling it?”

Aiden winced and Klöss fought down a grin as his uncle spoke. “Rimeheld,” he admitted. “It wasn’t my idea,” he added quickly. “Just something that came from the men.”

The man’s features twisted as he puzzled his way through it. “Ah, Rime, not rhyme.” He laughed suddenly. “And they call me vain!”

“As I said, it wasn’t my idea. It just sort of happened. You can’t call a place this size ‘The Fort’ forever.” Aiden’s voice was gruff, as he tried and failed not to sound defensive.

“Of course not.” The sealord’s voice was steady but his lips quivered. “Shipmaster Klöss.” He nodded a greeting and then looked up at the high stone walls again. “Shall we? I must admit, I’m curious to see what you’ve accomplished.”

Aiden waved them on and the sealord’s honour guard closed ranks around them as they left the wharf and began the climb up into the city.

Their walk through the streets was brief, punctuated with stops at the market and barracks. The city was an odd amalgam of the military and the cosmopolitan. Large portions were purely designed for use by the army, with barracks and training grounds, offices and stables. At the same time, businesses had sprung up, seemingly overnight, selling everything from foodstuffs to clothing and jewellery. It was a place in flux.

The ships had been flowing in from the Barren Isles almost constantly and lately they had contained more settlers than anything else. Rimeheld was bulging at the seams and growing in an odd, haphazard manner. The city seemed to strain against the rigid military order, like a horse that had yet to be broken. The original walls had long since failed to contain it and buildings had sprung up outside their protection, with new streets and neighbourhoods huddled up against the walls until a new outer defence could be constructed.

At the same time as the city was expanding, buildings were constantly being replaced as the temporary wooden structures were torn down to make way for their stone replacements. This gave the city the look and feel of a pot on the boil. The contents were roiling and ever-changing.

Aiden led the way, as proud as any new parent as he pointed out defence points and markets with equal enthusiasm. The tour ended in his office. The sealord raised an eyebrow as he looked around the spartan room, whilst Klöss and Aiden cleared piles of reports and plans from the chairs.

Frostbeard waved the others into seats and sank down behind the desk with a sigh. “Can I offer you any refreshments?”

“Keft, if you have it,” the sealord said, with a glance out of the window. “It’s a bit early for ale or wine for me.”

Aiden waved vaguely at Klöss, who moved to the door to speak with the attendants outside.

“Your last report was a few weeks ago. Why don’t you bring me up to speed? You mentioned you were facing some light resistance?”

“That’s the problem with this level of distance, I suppose,” Aiden grunted. “You’re always catching up on last month’s news.” He stared up at the ceiling as he thought and scratched at his close-cropped beard. “The situation has changed a bit. We’re holding all of the lands we’ve taken and there have been no real attempts to reclaim them. There was a strange, night-time counter-attack on some of our forces though, after the last village razing. Klöss here can give you more details.”

Klöss swallowed and tried to force his thoughts into some semblance of order, as the sealord looked at him expectantly. “We were attacked by some form of elite unit after we’d set up camp for the night,” he began. The sealord’s intense stare unsettled him and he suddenly felt like a boy before his masters again. “They must have slipped past the outer sentries. They were upon us before half of us even knew they were there. They were highly trained, my lord. I’m afraid our losses were heavy.”

“How heavy?” The man’s voice was curt.

“Roughly a third of our force, my lord,” Klöss replied. His throat felt like it was trying to close, and he fought the urge to swallow and show his nerves.

“That many?”

Klöss nodded. “They weren't routed or even driven back, my lord. They broke off the attack and quit the field by choice. It hurts me to admit it but if they hadn’t, they’d probably have slaughtered us to a man.”

The older man nodded and looked at the door at the knock. An attendant stepped in at Aiden’s call and set down a tray filled with cups and a steaming jug. The rich smell filled the room and Klöss inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma.

“It takes a lot to admit defeat or failure, Shipmaster. A man more vain than you might have tried to dress it differently. I appreciate that you didn't.” He looked back across the desk, watching as Aiden poured the dark drink into the cups. “What are your plans then?”

“In response, my lord?” Aiden asked.

“Well, I think there needs to be something, don’t you? Of course, that’s just my suggestion. The theatre is still yours to command.”

Klöss raised his eyebrows at that. The sentence sounded unfinished and the implied threat hung heavy at the end of it.

Aiden sipped his keft and studied the sealord’s expression. Klöss found himself looking back and forth between the two of them. Frostbeard was a hard man to read, he always had been, and Klöss was finding the sealord to be cut from the same cloth.

“In one sense, the attack is irrelevant. It came after we had already razed the village.” Frostbeard stood and moved to a chart on one wall, carrying his cup. “They have no towns or villages for several miles beyond this point. Any troop movements would be spotted by scouts and patrols easily before they came close to any of our territories.”

“A rather passive approach, don’t you think?”

Klöss watched the exchange in silence, admiring Frostbeard’s self-control as the sealord jabbed at him.

“That rather depends on whether the objective is kept in sight or not, my lord.” He sipped at his keft again. “The intention was to seize lands, not to enter into an outright war. I have no interest in seeking revenge for attacks. That would simply lead to an escalation of the conflict and, to be frank, we do not have a clear understanding of how large this nation might be.”

The sealord absorbed this in silence, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “And what of these other attacks? This isn't the first attack you've suffered, is it?”

“How did you know about that?” Aiden burst out.

“Really, Aiden, you don't think you're my sole source of information, do you?” the sealord chided.

Frostbeard grunted, though his eyes showed his anger even if his lips kept it contained. “They were nothing. Attacks on some of the outlying villages. They didn't even bother to attack the structures. All we suffered was the loss of a few farmers.”

“A touch more than 'a few', I believe.” The sealord stopped him before he could go on. “We will talk more on this later, Seamaster Kurikson,” he said, setting his cup of keft back on the table. “For now, I think I’d like you to have someone show me to my rooms. I have never found the journey through the Vorstelv to be a relaxing one.”

Frostbeard waited as the man rose to his feet. “Of course, Sealord.” He ushered him out of the study. Steam still rose from the cup on the table, the expensive keft cooling as it sat untouched.

Klöss rose and bowed, working hard to control his expression as the sealord made his exit. Frostbeard had mentioned nothing of any attacks. What else was he concealing?

***

Rimeheld never really grew quiet. Despite the fact that it was smaller than Hesk, it was a dense, compact city and, as the day ended, it underwent a transformation. The shops closed, the markets grew still, and the inns and taverns became busier.

The keep bustled as the servants prepared a welcoming banquet with everyone from cooks to stewards rushing to make things ready. The guards stood on the walls, slaves to convention and ritual, ever watchful in the darkness.

The moon rose, full and heavy, as it climbed out of the seas. The silvery light played down upon the still waters, dancing on the gentle swells.

Klöss stared down at the ocean as he leaned against the wall. The faint sound of the water lapping at the closest wharf carried to his ears in the breeze. They would be looking for him. The sealord’s banquet would probably be a thing of pomp and ceremony. Men who hadn’t held a sword in decades would be grasping wine cups and raising them high, as if it somehow mattered.

The thought was enough to make him shudder and he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The night was still enough for him to hear the footsteps and he glanced back over his shoulder at the sound before looking pointedly back out to sea.

“They will find you here, you know?” Tristan said, his face carefully blank.

“Probably, but I can’t force myself to go in just yet.” Klöss picked at the merlon in front of him and worried at a tiny ridge in the stone.

“There are those that would kill for a seat at the sealord’s table.”

“I know one they could have,” Klöss muttered.

Tristan laughed and joined him at the wall. “Is it really that bad?”

“I suppose not,” Klöss said, with a sigh. “It’s more the fact that I don’t feel I should be there. I’ve done nothing special. I’m there purely because I’m Frostbeard’s nephew.”

“I don’t think many would see it that way,” Tristan said, his smile gone. “You produced the fleet. You’ve been involved in every level of planning.”

Klöss waved a hand, brushing away the words. “Those are things anyone could have done. I don’t put myself as any more important than the next shipmaster.”

Tristan gritted his teeth and grasped him by the shoulders. “You’re being a child, Klöss. The sealord is here to inspect our progress. He is going to want first-hand reports. You owe your men more than this. You owe your fallen more than this.”

Klöss flushed, growing first pale and then red as the import of the words sank in. “It’s a foolish dance of flattery and pandering. I won’t reduce myself to that level.”

“So don’t,” Tristan grated, his own temper rising. “But, by the Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, you owe Verig better than this.” He bulled on, ignoring the stricken look on Klöss’s face. “Get in there and get the sealord’s ear. Give him a full report of that attack and make sure we get the support we need.”

Klöss stared at him open-mouthed, grasping for words that slipped away like minnows in the shallows. Tristan was usually so placid. It was a shock to hear him being so blunt.

“Don’t waste time talking, Klöss.” Tristan steered him towards the doorway by the shoulders. “Go!”

The corridors grew steadily busier as Klöss drew close to the banquet hall. He stopped for a moment, his hand pressed to the door frame, as the rumble of conversation leaked under the door and into the hallway. The guards were exchanging odd looks at his delay and Tristan’s words smarted again. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the door open and marched in.

The press of people was enough to cover his entrance and he weaved through the crowd and outer tables, going almost unnoticed until he reached the high table. Frostbeard’s expression was unreadable as he looked in his direction. His face was blank and his eyes a mystery, until a broad smile spread across his face and he waved Klöss into a chair beside him.

“I was afraid you’d got lost,” Frostbeard said, as he waved a serving girl over.

“I tried to,” Klöss admitted. “Tristan found me and educated me a bit.” There was little point in trying to hide things from the man. A hint of steel was showing behind the grin. Insulting him with lies would only make it worse.

Aiden's face relaxed, highlighting just how false his first smile had been. “He’s a good man. Remind me to thank him later.” He waved a hand vaguely at the hall. “Like it or not, Klöss, you’re a part of this, I'm afraid. And, as ridiculous as this is, it's every bit as important as the patrols and battles.”

Klöss took the offered goblet of wine and sipped at it as he nodded. He looked curiously at the chair on the other side of Aiden, noting it was empty.

“Larren will be back in a few minutes, I expect,” Frostbeard explained, catching his look. “He’s under serious pressure from the keepers and the merchants to get some goods flowing. Apparently, even the First of Merchants is involved.”

“The First? That seems a bit blatant.”

“We have a lot tied up in this, Klöss, but if we fail we just end up dead. For them, it's their influence that's at stake. They have far more at risk.” He didn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice.

“But surely…” Klöss began, but the man waved him to silence as the sealord emerged from the throng in the hall and sank back into the chair.

“You decided to join us, then?” he threw at Klöss, as he reached for his own cup.

“I apologise, Sealord. I was delayed,” Klöss replied, as politely as he could manage.

The man snorted into his cup and eyed him over the rim. “Call me Larren. The title grates after a time.”

“Larren, it is,” Klöss nodded, leaning forward on one arm to see past his uncle.

“I take it Aiden here has let you in on the story about the keepers?” He glanced at Aiden, who was starting to protest. “He never could keep his mouth shut about things like that.”

Klöss laughed and drank deeply, beginning to relax.

“So tell me then, Klöss, in your opinion, how safe are our new villages and farms going to be?”

Klöss thought for a second. “Truthfully? It’s hard to say, Sealo… Larren. I don’t think we’ve really faced any of their regular armies yet. The men they’ve had defending their own villages have been militia at best.”

“What about the force that attacked your troops in the night raid you mentioned?”

Klöss thought quickly. “They were definitely not militia, but then I don’t think they were regular troops either. If they hadn’t struck us, I’d have thought they didn’t have much of a standing army to speak of at all. We’ve certainly not faced any serious attempts to regain land that I know of. They’ve sent a couple of tentative sorties, but largely they seem to be falling back and consolidating.”

The sealord sat back and digested that as he looked about the hall. Musicians had set up in a far corner and the faint sounds of them fine-tuning their instruments added to the growing noise. He leaned back in his chair as servers began setting platters in front of them. “We’ll talk more about this later, Klöss. I must admit, not knowing the strength of their forces is grating at me. I’ve allowed you free reign so far, Aiden,” he said, looking at Frostbeard, “but very soon, I’m going to need some hard results I can show the keepers and the damned bean counters.”

“The agreement is holding then?”

“For now, Aiden, for now. I need some goods flowing though, if we’re going to keep the merchants and the keepers playing nicely with us,” Larren murmured, as he cut into the venison before him.

“Crops only grow so quickly, Larren,” Frostbeard said.

The sealord nodded. “The chamber is a fickle beast, Aiden. The thane may have given his orders, but the chamber will twist and turn as it will.”

“Surely they wouldn’t go against the thane?” Klöss asked, shocked.

Larren laughed. “You’re a young man, Klöss. You’ve had quite the career so far, but the chamber is something you clearly know nothing about.” He smiled at Klöss’s glower and continued. “No, the chamber won’t openly defy the thane. He retains that much power, at least. It can still work around him in a thousand little ways, however. The success of this venture depends on the goodwill of the chamber and every faction there has its own agenda.”

“I don’t understand,” Klöss confessed.

“The chamber might be bound to publicly support the thane, Klöss,” Frostbeard cut in, “but if they decided to, they could end us in a matter of weeks. Slow supply of weapons, a delay in the shipments of supplies. These things could kill us just as effectively as battles and raids.

Klöss drank his wine. It gave him an excuse to keep his mouth shut for a second. “What can we do then?”

“Act quickly and decisively,” Larren replied. “Find their forces and either eliminate them or drive them back. Get goods flowing and get the settlers into the new farms and villages.”

“As simple as that, huh?” Aiden muttered.

Larren’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, he did ask.”

***

Sket took a nip from the flask as he slid the peep-hatch on the gate shut. He hunched his shoulders, huddling further down into his cloak. It was starting to get colder at night already. The seasons in this place seemed skewed. It was too hot in the summer and the autumn seemed to have come too soon.

“And the rain!” he grumbled to himself, as the first drops fell. “All it does is bloody rain.”

He hurried back into the guard shack beside the gate and the questionable warmth of the little wood stove. The stove wasn't much more than a small iron box, with a pipe leading through the wall to let the smoke out, but it did manage to produce at least some heat.

Rubbing his hands together over the ash-covered stove, he picked up the kettle and sloshed it experimentally before setting it on to boil. Sket squinted out through the gap in the tarpaulin that served as a door, and gazed at the stars shining brightly through the soft rain.

“Same stars, same moon.” He watched as a cloud scudded across its silvery surface. “What in the hells am I doing here?”

The kettle was making a rumbling, hissing noise behind him as the bubbles rattled the misshapen container. He’d had to beg for it in the first place and he wasn’t about to complain, but the thing shook worse than an oarsman’s knees on his first reaving when it boiled.

He pulled it off the heat. It wasn’t fully boiling yet, but the sound irritated him and he’d rather have a drink that wasn’t quite hot enough than deal with the noise. He dumped a pinch or two of the ground leaves into his cup before pouring the water on. It wasn’t as good as keft, but who could afford that stuff here?

“Tea,” he snorted. “Stupid name for a drink anyway.” It was hot though and that’s all that really mattered. A distant wail caught his attention and he turned an eye to the tarpaulin as he blew on the tea. It had sounded a bit like a horn or perhaps even a flute. He stepped out into the road and looked towards the keep, rising up above the rooftops.

“They get their banquet and fine wines while Sket gets the bloody wet and this poxy, boiled leaf water. Still, it’s better than soggy sheep.” He’d been among the first of the keepers to respond when the call went out. They hadn’t promised a glamorous life or even riches and glory. The promise of a new land and the chance to make something different of himself had been enough at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure.

A flash of green caught his eye and he looked up, tracking the odd light as it swooped down towards the gate. It was hard to make out at first - just a blur of sparks and shining metal. His eyes first squinted against the raindrops, then grew wide as the spectacle became clear and the first of the horses touched down on the road leading to the gates.

The ground immediately outside the city was a maze of trenches, liberally seasoned with sharpened stakes, but the horses passed over them as if they weren’t there. Their hooves touched the dirt and even threw up sods, but the trenches had no impact on their passage. It was as if gravity was a rule that could be ignored as easily as the drifting rain. They ran over the trenches without bothering to leap, the air supporting them as easily as the muddy ground had.

Sket dropped the tea as he backed away from the peep-hatch, his jaw slack as he saw the figures charging at the gate. At the last moment, he thought to check the massive crossbar was in place and snatched up the horn.

The horn blast died on his lips as the gates flew inwards. The blow didn’t simply split the crossbar, it shattered it. Splinters and jagged chunks of wood shot into the city as the wooden beam, as thick as a large man's thigh, disintegrated before the blow. Sket cried out as the flying wreckage tore at his flesh and threw him backwards. He fell back to the ground, splashing in the mud as he fought to find his feet.

The creature entered the city slowly, ignoring the horns that called out from the sentries on the walls. Its hoofed feet moved slowly and proudly, claiming the ground they moved to rest upon. Sket felt the rush of warmth spread from his crotch and down his legs as the glowing eyes came to regard him. It bowed its horned head slightly, paying homage to its prey, and then waved its great hand forwards and unleashed hell.

The fae charged past the antlered being in a rush, silver swords held high as the moonlight shone on their winged helms. Sket stood awestruck, his face carrying the same expression of delighted wonder even after the blade had removed his head. As the fae tied it to its saddle by the hair, Sket smiled on, his dead eyes shining as he waited for company.

The host charged through the streets, a carnival of beauty, blood and terror as they hunted down those in their path. The alarm was raised swiftly but the Bjornmen were no more effective than a child pushing back at the waves. Twice, the fae rose back into the air, laughing amidst the screams of the fallen and the unceasing song of the flutes, only to turn in an elegant arc and swoop down upon the men running into the shadows and spaces between the buildings.

Klöss followed as the guards surged up the stairs and out onto the roof of the keep. Archers were already in position between the merlons, firing a steady stream of arrows into the attackers as they flowed through the streets.

“This is what you call secure?” he dimly heard the sealord demand.

He followed the voice to find its owner waving down at the streets. Frostbeard had no response as he stared, aghast, down into the chaos. His eyes found Klöss and he growled a single word that carried all of the frustration he felt as his dreams fell apart around him. “Go.”

Chapter Five

Devin spooned the carrots out onto the plate and poured a small puddle of thin gravy next to the chicken. The meal was a far cry from Hannah’s standards of cooking, but it was the best he could manage by himself. He carried the plate over to the table and set it in front of her, before fetching his own and taking his place opposite.

He had been up since first light and it felt like he hadn’t stopped moving since his feet hit the cold floorboards beside his bed. It was nice to be able to just sit for a few minutes. He ate quickly, hunger adding a flavour to the roast chicken that he had somehow managed to leave out when he was cooking it.

It was always the same when he cooked. He could follow Hannah’s recipes to the letter, but his food was never as good as hers. Perhaps the missing ingredient was the way she actually enjoyed cooking. She took a simple pleasure in the act of preparing food in a way he never had. To him, it was simply a means to an end. Meat went into the oven, a meal came out.

He speared a chunk of carrot and brought it to his lips before glancing across the table. It was a mistake and his mood sank as he saw her.

Hannah's food lay untouched on the plate before her, as she stared into space with a vacant expression. She held a fork above her plate as if she was unsure how to use it. Her hair hung loosely beside her face and draped down almost to the surface of the table.

Devin put his fork down. “You’ve got to eat something, Ma.”

If she heard the words, she showed no sign of it. He sighed, more inwardly than out, and moved to her side, taking the fork from her unresisting fingers.

“How about a nice bit of chicken, eh?” He forced brightness into his voice and lifted the meat to her lips, taking the fork away again as she took the mouthful and chewed slowly. Her lips were slack and her mouth open as she ate. A small rivulet of the too-thin gravy ran down her chin and spotted onto the white tablecloth he’d laid out earlier. He dabbed at it quickly with a folded napkin and swallowed hard.

“Now, let’s try some potatoes, shall we?” He fed her the rest of the food as if she were a small child. The meal passed in silence. He could manage to feed her but to keep his voice bright, or even level, at the same time would be one step too far. The occasional drip of gravy spattered down onto the once pristine tablecloth, mixing with the tears that fell unnoticed from his face.

The knock that came at the door sounded improbably loud in the stillness of the kitchen and he lurched backwards in shock. He stood at the door and rubbed at his face with his sleeve before lifting the latch.

“Hello, stranger!” Erinn said brightly, her face filled with a happy smile. “You’ve locked yourself away here for days now. No one has seen hide nor hair of you, so I thought I’d come and check…” She stopped herself mid-sentence as she took in his drawn face, the stained and dirty clothing, and the bags under his eyes. Her gaze moved beyond him into the kitchen, and flickered from Hannah at the table to the pots and pans littering the counters. “Oh, Devin,” she sighed. “Why didn’t you ask anyone for help?”

She pushed past him into the kitchen without waiting for an answer and set down the wicker basket she was carrying on one end of the table.

“How long has she been like this?” she asked.

“Since we got back, really,” he said, in a dead voice. “She has times when she seems almost okay, but most of the time she acts like this. Like she’s numb to everything around her.” It felt good to say it out loud. The thoughts had been inside his head for days now, whispering to each other and feeding his worry.

“What about you? When was the last time you slept properly?” Erinn’s voice had a maternal tone to it, not soft and caring, but more that of a mother scolding a child.

His silence was answer enough and she pointed a finger towards the stairs. “Go. I’ll look after Hannah for a while. I don’t want to see you until you’ve had a good eight hours.”

“But what if she needs…” He cut off as her face darkened and she stabbed one finger towards the stairs again.

“Go!”

Devin fled.

***

It was the sunlight that woke him. A gap in the curtains let the light shine through and a narrow band burned across one eye. He groaned and rolled over, and it took long minutes before the facts managed to fully register. Sunlight meant daytime. He’d slept through the whole evening and into the next day. He lurched out of bed and reached for the clothes he’d dropped onto the chair in the corner, only to find they were gone.

Five minutes later and dressed in clean clothes for the first time in a week, he made his way down into the kitchen. The room was empty and silent, but the counters were clear and the pots that hung from their hooks in ceiling gleamed. The distant murmur of conversation drew him back through the house and out of the seldom-used front door.

A covered deck ran the length of the front of the cottage. It had been covered in leaves when he’d been ordered to his bed yesterday, but now it was freshly swept. Erinn sat in the well-worn rocker, chatting with Obair. They turned at his approach.

“I thought you were going to sleep all day,” Erinn said with a smile.

“I think I could have,” Devin admitted. “The sun woke me.” He grimaced at the light and pinched at the flesh between his eyes.

“Headache?” Obair asked.

Devin grunted.

“You’re probably just dried out. Get some water into yourself. That always works for me.”

“Sit down,” Erinn said, as she rose to her feet. “I’ll fix you some food. Hannah’s still sleeping and I know how much noise you’d make.”

“You know, she seems to have turned into my mother very quickly,” Devin muttered, as he sank down into the rocker.

Obair chuckled and puffed on his pipe, looking out over the fields towards the distant trees. Devin followed his gaze and then glanced at the sun for confirmation.

“Funny how fast life can change, isn’t it?” Obair said, past the stem of the pipe. “You look to the sun to see how long you have until they come now.”

Devin felt his eyes upon him and nodded silently, his gaze moving to the wooden walls of the cottage and the scores of iron nails now protruding from the wood.

“That wouldn’t stop them if they really wanted in,” Obair said. “It’s more of a deterrent than anything else, making you less attractive than an alternative.”

“I know, Obair. You told us all of this, remember? What do we do long-term, though?As a people, I mean? Are we just supposed to accept that this is the way the world is now?”

Erinn emerged from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of porridge and a mug of hot tea. She handed them both to Devin and met Obair’s sad eyes, defiance flashing in her own as she spoke. “We fight back.”

“But how?” he asked, sucking on his pipe.

“That’s the problem,” muttered Devin. “We know nothing about them. We saw how effective iron was at the glade. It works, sure, but we need more than that. Most of the men were next to useless.”

“How do you mean?” Erinn asked. No one had said much about the terrible confrontation at the glade and, in the three days that had passed since, the focus had been upon making individual homes safe from the hunt in case it descended upon Widdengate.

“It was like the soldiers with us were half-asleep. They just stood there and smiled at the fae as they arrived. If we’d all struck at once, we might have been able to do more. As it was, only a handful of us actually fought. But that’s not all of it either. We need to know what the fae actually want.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Devin,” Obair said, with a sigh. “All of the druids' records and chronicles died with them. I know little more than you do, at this point.”

Devin pinched his forehead again. “Damn this headache. I can’t think right with these waves of pain in my head. We need to know more about the fae, find out what they want. We need a way to talk to them.”

“Talk to them!” Obair scoffed. “I can’t see them coming in for a nice chat, my lad.”

“That’s it!” Erinn cried, as both of them turned to look at her.

“What is?” Devin asked.

She looked off into the distance as she thought. “I need to talk to Captain Rhenkin. My father too. I have an idea.”

***

Lieutenant Larson peered into the pit as Harlen tested the bars lining the trap. “What do you think?” he called down.

“They’re as strong as I can make them. The sides of the pit itself will provide some more strength but…” The smith frowned up at the lieutenant and shrugged.

“I know,” Larson sighed. “There’s no way to test this thing, really.”

The ladder shook as Harlen pulled himself out. He dusted himself down and took the mug of ale from Owen gratefully.

“Hot and heavy work,” the portly innkeeper noted. “I never envied you your trade, Harlen.”

The smith snorted. “Did you come up with a way to get the top on?” he asked Larson.

“Not as fast as I’d like. The only thing I can think is to just drop it on or pull it across. The captain expects a report on this shortly and I still have no real solution,” Larson admitted, with a sour expression.

“That’s going to be too slow, Sir. You know how quick they are,” a private muttered, brushing mud from his uniform. “If we can get this right, we’ll have one of the bastards like a bear in a…” He flushed as he realised who he was talking to and trailed off into silence as his sergeant gave him a furious look.

“In a trap. A bear trap!” Larson whirled around, snapping his fingers. “Why didn’t you suggest that, Sergeant?” he demanded of the flustered soldier who was glowering at the private.

“My experience of bear traps is limited, Sir,” he said, weakly.

“Bah!” Larson waved a dismissive hand at him. “Do you know anything about that sort of thing?” he asked Harlen, who tugged on his beard as he thought.

“It’d need to be a mightily powerful spring,” he said slowly, his mind moving faster than his mouth. “Let me think on it.”

“Good enough. We have a couple of days left until the full moon anyway,” Larson said, looking down at the pit again. “Damned clever idea, though. You’ve got a bright one there in that girl.”

“Don’t I know it!” Harlen muttered. “She’s been running rings around me for years.”

Larson laughed. “One of the reasons I never had children. Daughters are the punishment for men being men. When I think back to what I was like at her age...” He stopped, glancing at the smith’s rapidly darkening face “Yes, well, never mind about that. I’d best go and report on our progress.”

“You do that,” Harlen muttered into the tankard of ale.

Larson chuckled to himself as he walked across what had once been the village green towards the command post. The village had almost ceased to exist. The military machine that was the army encampment had absorbed it utterly.

He ran up the wooden steps into the captain’s office, noting the empty chair behind the desk that groaned with papers and reports. The office was empty. Sometimes he didn’t know why he bothered looking in there.

Finally, he located Rhenkin. He was walking the palisade, his uniform immaculate but his face was lined and drawn. Larson believed his primary duty was to support his commanding officer, something too many in the service neglected, in his opinion. He’d served under some piss-poor officers, men more interested in preening themselves in the mirror than doing their job, and children of nobles who’d had their commissions arranged with a handshake or a full purse.

“You’ve not been sleeping again, Sir,” Larson noted, as the captain turned at his approach.

“Don’t mother me, Larson.” Rhenkin scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “Do you have the scout reports? I’d have expected them to push forward by now.”

“The Bjornmen, Sir?”

“Of course the Bjornmen!” Rhenkin barked.

“Sorry, Sir, I’ve been working on the pit trap the blacksmith’s girl thought up,” Larson explained. “The scouts report they found a battle site. It seems the Bjornmen suffered massive losses, by the looks of things.”

“From who?” Rhenkin wondered.

“Not us, clearly, and the king has yet to send a single man,” Larson said, without thinking.

Rhenkin’s eyes turned cold. “You forget yourself, soldier.”

“My apologies, Sir. I spoke out of turn and thoughtlessly.”

Rhenkin grunted, acknowledging the apology. “How recent is this report?”

“Two days, Sir. The next one is late but could be in any time now.” Larson glanced over the wall, as if expecting to see the scouts approaching.

“Two days is too long, Larson.” Rhenkin frowned at him. “They could be on our doorstep by now. Send them more often. I want a report twice daily, even if it’s just to tell me nothing is happening.”

Larson nodded.

“How long do we have until full moon?”

“Three days, Captain.”

“If they’ve just suffered a defeat, now would be the perfect time to strike,” Rhenkin muttered, half to himself. “Damn it, these fae are just too unpredictable. We can’t risk the men in open country overnight, not until we find a way to counter these damned fiends.”

“Perhaps you’d like to inspect the pit, Sir?”

“What?” Rhenkin looked up at the man, as if suddenly remembering he was still there.

“The pit, Sir. The one you ordered us to construct?”

“Oh yes, the pit. I’ll take a look at it when I get a chance.” Rhenkin looked down behind him towards the barracks. Off-duty soldiers lounged on the steps and lay in the grass.

“The men are looking a little shabby, Larson,” he said, with a frown. “Why don’t you go and sweat them for a bit? I need some space to think.”

“Very good, Sir.” Larson saluted and turned smartly on his heel.

Rhenkin watched him go. Larson was a good man, an excellent soldier and a damned fine officer. It seemed sometimes that the more a man rose through the ranks, the less competent he became. There was too much back-biting and jockeying for position these days.

“Listen to me,” he muttered to himself. “I sound like an old man.” He let out a snort at himself, “I know I feel like one!”

He stared out over the wall towards the distant trees. The land had been ravaged, raped by the needs of war. What had once been fields covered with flourishing crops was now barren earth, scarred by rows of deep trenches filled with sharpened stakes.

Hedgehogs - whole tree trunks bristling with stakes and razor-sharp blades set into the wood - lay strewn in the spaces between the trenches. Their purpose was not so much to cause injury, but to break up formations, to slow and to impede the enemy's progress. The two hundred yards immediately before the walls of the fortress that Widdengate had become were a killing field. The wooden palisade was spiked with shards of iron - nails, splinters, whatever could be driven into the wood. And yet the entire system of defences was next to useless against these fae. Rhenkin slammed his hands against the walls in frustration.

Widdengate had been spared the Wild Hunt. Where the fae had gone after they left the druid’s glade was anybody's guess, but they hadn’t gone near the village. That hadn’t stopped satyrs and fae from attacking almost nightly since, however. The new moon had come as a blessed respite.

He turned and glanced towards the west. It was a futile motion and he knew what he would see. More trees and unspoilt fields. There was no relief column, no flag flying the king’s standard. For whatever reason, Widdengate and all of his duchess’s lands stood defended by his forces alone.

The sun was just reaching its highest point. He made his way down the steps and hurried through the remains of the village. The pit had been positioned close to the smithy. The idea was that the iron from the forge would cover the scent of the iron from the trap, or something like that.

A shout went up from the walls and the gates creaked open behind him. He stopped in his tracks and turned as the scout stumbled through. Even from this distance, he could see the blood staining the man's clothes. His horse was nowhere to be seen. Rhenkin set off for the gates at a run.

The man had sunk to the ground and been surrounded by a cluster of men by the time he reached him.

“Bastards shot my horse out from under me,” the scout gasped, taking a skin from one of the soldiers. He drank desperate gulps between heaving breaths.

“They’re on the move. Can’t be more than a day and a half behind me.”

Rhenkin closed his eyes against a wave of anger. It wouldn't do any good to scream at the scout.

“How many? Is it a probe?”

The man looked at him and realised who he was speaking to. He made an attempt to stand, but Rhenkin stopped him, placing a hand on his chest. “Never mind that, man, just tell me.”

“No, Sir, it’s got to be a full attack. I couldn’t even guess at the numbers. They stretched as far as I could see.”

Rhenkin swore and waved a corporal over. “Sound the bells, I want this place locked down. Bring all the patrols back in as soon as possible. And someone get me Larson!” The list ended in a shout.

The village was transformed over the next few hours. They threw the rear gates wide open to let out those villagers that chose to flee. Ballistae were wheeled into position in front of the walls next to the catapults. There hadn’t been time to build sufficient platforms against the palisade to mount many of them, so the evil-looking contraptions crouched on the ground, waiting only for their prey. Teams of men scurried around the fields, covering stake-lined pits and moving more of the massive hedgehogs into position.

Rhenkin stood high in one of the watchtowers and watched the line of refugees fleeing through the gates. He’d had the civilians warned as soon as he’d heard the news.

“How many do you think?” he asked Larson.

“Sir?”

“How many have left?”

“Hard to say, Sir. We didn’t have a count of them to begin with. Too many arriving and moving on.”

Rhenkin nodded. “They’ll have a hard time of it on the road.”

“I expect we’ll have a hard enough time of it here, Sir” Larson snorted. “Still, fewer mouths.”

Rhenkin grunted his agreement. Fewer people meant more supplies to go round and the villagers would just have been underfoot anyway. It was ironic that he’d been sent to defend these lands and people, and the best way for him to do it was to send them off on their own.

“Harrying force, Sir?”

“Hmm?” He looked round to see Larson with a map spread out over the floor. “They’ll be passing into some heavy woods before they get close. It’s a good place to bleed them.”

Rhenkin knelt down to get a closer look. “Send skirmishers. Three full companies on horseback if we can spare the mounts. Have them harry only, Larson.”

“I’ll see to it, Sir.” Larson headed for the steps.

“I mean it, Larson. I don’t want them to close at all. Bows only and pull back after each engagement. We can’t afford to lose good men just because some idiot sergeant thinks he can fight his way to a field commission.”

“Yes, Sir.” Larson met his eyes and nodded again.

“Oh, and Larson?”

“Sir?”

“See if you can convince that Devin lad to go with them. He might know some likely spots for ambush closer to the village.”

“Really, Sir? I don’t mean to question you but…”

Rhenkin waved away the almost apology. “He accounted well for himself at that stone circle when most of the men didn’t. I have a feeling he could make a good scout some day. Try him. Make sure he knows he’s being asked to go, not ordered to, though. It's his choice.”

“Understood, Sir.”

***

Devin avoided the patch of dried leaves, moving to the side and setting his feet down on the bare earth and the fallen tree branch instead. The mottled green scout’s cloak felt heavy, and he had to work hard to keep it from snagging and making noise. The scout ahead of him looked back, nodded in approval and then waved him forward until they all came together by a large tree.

“Alright, we’re close enough now that we could see them any minute,” the leader said. His voice was low, not far above a whisper, and Devin had to lean in towards him to hear properly.

“I want a skirmish line with a ten foot spacing. Do you know what that is, boy?” Jameson looked at him at the last and Devin nodded. He'd had it explained to him three times already.

“How’s the lad holding up?” Jameson asked the scout next to Devin.

“Good, Sir. He's quick and quiet. Better than a lot of others I’ve trained.” Devin’s pleasure at the compliment was dampened by the way they spoke as if he wasn’t there. He’d been “boy” and “lad” all day.

“You stick between Riddal and me,” Jameson said, his eyes hard and serious. “If you see or hear anything, you point it out to one of us first.”

Devin nodded. The man clearly thought of him as a child and he wasn’t about to prove him right.

“I mean it, boy. You fire before we’re ready and the Bjornmen will be the last thing you need to worry about.”

“I understand, Sir,” Devin hoped his irritation wasn’t obvious in his voice.

“Slow and quiet now.” Jameson’s eyes swept the group. “I want to hear them before I see them. Don’t fuck it up.” His gaze landed on Devin as he swore, and then he turned without another word and was gone, into the trees.

The men spread out in a long line, keeping abreast of one another but with room between them so they could pass trees and bushes. They’d been moving since before dawn, keeping to the road for the sake of speed for the first few hours, and then heading deep into the forest. They were further from Widdengate than Devin had ever been when hunting. The woods were new to him but still had a familiar feel about them.

The line froze as a bird exploded out of the trees ahead of them, and Devin snatched an arrow from his quiver, setting it to the string but not yet pulling it back. He relaxed as he realised it was just a spooked wood pigeon and glanced to one side, catching Riddal’s nod.

They moved slowly, taking the time to ensure they were silent rather than keeping to a faster pace. The skies were overcast which served to make the forest darker than usual, the thick canopy blocking out much of the light.

The woods were alive with distant birdsong and so Devin almost missed the faint crack of a twig from up ahead of them. He froze and waved at Riddal to attract his attention, gesturing to his ear and then pointing in front of them.

Riddal froze in place as he listened. He raised an eyebrow at Devin, but the woods were silent aside from the birds. His gaze passed beyond Devin for a moment. Devin looked behind him in time to see Jameson motioning them onwards with an impatient scowl.

The voices carried clearly through the trees, despite the hushed tones of those speaking. Devin crouched behind a bush and nocked an arrow. He shot a look at Riddal and received a smile in return. He’d been right about hearing something after all and the scout knew it.

He sighted along the arrow through a small gap in the leaves of the bush. The voices grew steadily louder and were accompanied by the rustle of leaves and crack of twigs. Whoever it was making all the noise knew nothing of woodscraft.

Jameson waved at him and held his hand out as if halting them, before nocking his own arrow. The voices became even louder. Their words were still indistinct, but they were clearly speaking a different language. Devin relaxed the string of his bow and waited. There was a blur of movement in the trees and then Jameson let fly. A crash of bushes and a groan of pain showed his aim had been good.

There was a shout and then men boiled out of the trees. Devin picked one at random, his arrow flying wild as his hands shook. They were coming so quickly. He snatched up another shaft and released smoothly, catching the man in the throat and dropping him cleanly. He could do this, he told himself. It wasn’t that different to hunting. His trembling hands told another story, though. He quickly drew another arrow and released. His arrow joined Riddal’s and they both hit the man in the chest.

The woods fell silent and Devin crouched low behind the bush, his breathing ragged and his heart pounding. He forced himself to get up and follow the others out of the bushes to reclaim the arrows. The man he'd shot lay on the ground, arms and legs straight and relaxed, almost as if he were sleeping. He looked very young, little older than Devin himself. His boyish face had blonde wispy fluff growing on his cheeks. Devin stared at him, unable to move for the moment.

“Stay there, lad,” Riddal said softly. He knelt and worked the arrow out of the ruin of the man’s throat. “Your other one snapped. Unlucky.”

“Alright, men,” Jameson called. “Let’s move back and see if we can find a good place. These scouts will be missed before too long.”

They had backtracked for no more than ten minutes when a shout went up. Distant screams of pain carried through the forest and Devin knew the other skirmish teams were hard at work. The fight had begun in earnest.

The day began to blur, becoming an endless succession of small ambushes. They’d shoot no more than two arrows apiece, reclaim them where they could and then run back towards Widdengate as they looked for the next ambush point.

Devin waited at the top of a steep bank. A small stream burbled as it ran through the woods below. The trees were thinner here and the ground was carpeted in ferns. They’d travelled farther away this time, giving themselves extra distance so they would have some time to rest.

Riddal flopped down next to him and handed over a small piece of dried pork. Devin nodded his thanks and began to chew.

“How are you holding up, lad?”

“I’m fine,” Devin replied, lying through his teeth.

“No, you’re not, but that’s alright. I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t scared,” Riddal told him.

Devin chewed the pork and thought about that. The man reminded him of Garrit, the caravan guard. A man from a different life. Since they’d faced the fae and he’d caught a glimpse of his mother, memories had been coming back to him. They weren’t all pleasant. Some were awful, like a rotten fish buoyed up by its own putrescence. Garrit was one of the more pleasant ones.

“You know, it’s funny,” Devin said quietly, looking over at Riddal. “I spent years playing in these woods as a child, hunting monsters and Bjornmen.”

Riddal snorted. “Let’s just stick with the Bjornmen, eh? They’re enough trouble as it is.”

Something was wrong. Devin was no strategist but even he could tell the response was not what they’d been expecting. They’d warned him that the Bjornmen would probably be confused at first, but their next likely response would be to rush at them.

“The whole point of skirmishers,” Riddal had told him, “is to break up units. Armies are used to fighting in units. The men get too used to this and then they can’t think on their own. You do something to force them out of their units and they just fall to pieces.”

Eventually, those in command would order a rush, he’d explained. They’d charge forward to overwhelm the skirmish line, to force them either to stand and fight or to flee. The rush hadn’t come though. Instead, the Bjornmen were moving much as they were, in small groups or individually.

Devin looked over at Jameson, who was crouched behind a tree, gnawing at his knuckle as he thought. “Time we were moving,” the leader muttered to the rest of them. He stood, peered around the tree and then his head simply wasn’t there. It exploded into pieces as the heavy crossbow bolt blasted through flesh and bone. Devin dropped to the ground in terror and looked at Riddal in a panic. Another member of their team fell to the dirt, screaming as a crossbow bolt tore through his shoulder. Trees shook as more bolts smashed into branches and trunks.

“What do we do?” Devin cried out, his voice shrill with fear.

“We get the hell out of here!” Riddal growled, and crawled on his belly down the other side of the bank, away from the incoming bolts. Devin followed close behind and sensed Tench, the last team member, crawling behind him.

They ran through the woods for what felt like hours, though Devin knew it could only have been five or ten minutes. Eventually, they slowed and then stopped.

Devin bent double, gasping as his chest heaved. Riddal pulled him down out of sight behind a stout chestnut tree and the other scout collapsed beside them.

“Alright,” Riddal said between breaths. “They are a lot closer and a lot quieter than we thought. Take two lessons from that, lad. Don't ever underestimate your enemy and never ever truly relax.”

“Jameson?” Devin gasped.

“Jameson’s gone. Stick close to me and you’ll be fine.” Riddal looked through his quiver, counting quickly. He twisted Devin’s, so he could see the arrows and then looked past him. “How are you for arrows, Tench?”

“Seven,” the blonde man replied. “Think I might have lost some on the run.”

“No, that sounds about right. We’re on eight apiece.” He scratched a stubbled cheek for a minute, as he looked up at the sky through the trees.

“We’re not going to accomplish much more like this. I say we head back.”

Tench nodded. “I’ll take the rear for a while.”

“Right.” Riddal looked back and forth between them. “We’ll try and stick together, but we’re not going to be stupid here. If it comes to it, just get yourselves back to the village, together or alone.”

Devin nodded. There wasn’t much he could say to that.

They travelled in silence, running for as long as they could, then dropping back into a walk just long enough to catch their breath before running again. The trees and bushes became a blur, and Devin no longer had any real idea of where they were. He slowed to a walk again, his throat burning from gasping in the ragged breaths. Riddal and Tench were in similar states, both taking gulps from their waterskins.

Devin fumbled with the thing and dropped it to the dirt, where it lay amongst the footprints. For a long moment, he wasn’t aware of what he was looking at. Finally, a series of disparate shapes came together to form a clear image.

“Shit.”

Tench gave him a look.

“There are prints here.” Devin pointed.

“Of course there are, boy. We’ve half a thousand men in these woods.” The scout waved him off.

“No scout would leave this much of a trail. Not unless he was running.” He dropped to the ground and moved forwards on his hands and knees, studying the footprints. “No, look here. These are too close together. They were made by men walking.”

Riddal came over and stood behind him, looking to where Devin pointed. His eyes tracked from the deep heel impressions to the broken fern stems and through to the fresh leaves knocked free from a the bush. “The lad’s right,” he told Tench. “Somehow they’ve got ahead of us. We’re behind their lines.”

“How?” Tench demanded. “We’ve been running for the best part of an hour.”

“Does it matter? Maybe it’s a different group. Maybe they came in from the north of us rather than the east. Who cares? The fact is we’re behind them.”

“Shit.” Tench sighed. “So now what?”

“Skirt around them, I suppose.” Riddal shrugged.

“That won’t work.” Devin stood and looked back and forth between them. “What if they surround the village? We’ll be cut off before the battle even starts. We need to follow them, find a weak point and get through.”

“Are you mad, boy?” Tench spat into the dirt. “You might as well lie down and die here. Save them the trouble.”

“Listen,” Devin explained, “from what we’ve seen, their woodscraft is nothing special. They might have some trackers among them, but the ones who left these prints might as well be wearing bells round their necks.”

Riddal gave Tench an enquiring look.

“Oh, fine!” The man dropped his shoulders. “We’ll try it your way, lad, but if you get us killed…”

“You’ll never speak to him again,” Riddal finished for him. “It wasn’t funny the first time, Tench.”

Tench shrugged and shot Devin a lopsided smile.

“Come on then, let’s get this started,” Riddal said and led them off into the pines.

Chapter Six

The Bjornman army worked its way through the forest and out into the fields. Any attempt at concealment would have been futile, it was simply too big a force to try and hide it. The skirmishers bled them slowly, but it was a small wound on a beast almost too large to notice it. The Bjornmen's response had been swift and brutal, lacking the confusion from the breaks in formation that the skirmishers had depended upon.

The skirmishers themselves had been beaten back by pure brute force, though the toll they’d inflicted had been considerable. The Bjornmen had pushed through to the edges of the forest that stood before the fields of Widdengate and there they had stopped.

Rhenkin watched the distant shadow slowly darken the wheat field as the enemy emerged from the trees. After three days of no movement, it was almost a relief to see them push forward.

He and his men had taken up position some distance in front of the village itself. He’d decided there was little point in trying to conduct a defence by limiting himself to the walls alone.

“Larson!” he shouted.

“I’m next to you, Sir.”

Rhenkin looked at him without a trace of embarrassment. “Order the distance markers to be lit. Tell Whitelock to prepare his cavalry for an attack. I want him to bleed the enemy, but not to take any undue risks. We’re going to need those horses.”

Larson nodded. “Yes, Sir. When shall I say he is to attack, Sir?”

“I don’t see much point in letting them get settled in, do you?” Rhenkin said, his gaze shifting back to the Bjornmen.

“No, Sir. We might as well do some good whilst they’re still milling about.”

“Get to it, then. Tell him to go as soon as he’s ready.”

Rhenkin waited calmly, as the men around him fidgeted. It was something that took years to move past. He’d only managed it once he had received his first command. Soldiers watched their commanders. As an officer, you didn’t have the luxury of letting your nerves show.

Plumes of smoke rose in the distance, indicating the position of the newly lit signal fires. Fully fifteen foot high and packed with slow-burning wood, the bonfires would last far longer than they were needed.

The sound of hooves drew his attention to the east, where the cavalry pounded towards the still-emerging Bjornmen. He’d listened carefully to the reports from those who had survived clashes with the invaders. The enemy seemed to have no horses of their own, but their methods of defending against them were very effective.

The cavalry was lightly armoured, wearing leather and carrying only swords along with their odd-looking horse bows. The bows were similar to a standard longbow but they extended down past the horse archers' feet, with the arrow being set closer to the top of the bow rather than in the central position that was usually used. The tightly-packed horses ran towards the Bjornmen, but pulled up short two hundred yards or more from the enemy ranks.

In one motion, they launched a volley into the massed raiders. The response was instant, as the invaders dropped to one knee and raised large wooden shields. Rhenkin was impressed, despite himself. It was hard to tell from this distance what casualties they might have suffered, but the discipline of the Bjornmen was notable.

A unit emerged from the Bjornmen ranks, shields interlocked both in front and above them, as they shuffled towards the horsemen. Rhenkin watched on, bemused. The horse archers were still firing volleys into the Bjornmen. The distant thunks of arrows into the wooden shields were interspersed with occasional faint screams.

“What are they thinking?” Larson said. “Those horsemen will be long gone before they even get close.”

Rhenkin shot him a sideways look. The man was right. The tortoiseshell formation was an impressive display, but it would be useless against an enemy as mobile as the horse archers.

“Unless they don’t need to be that close,” Rhenkin gasped, speaking slowly as the thought occurred to him. “Sound the withdrawal!” he snapped, but it was too late.

The archers had already begun to fire at the approaching Bjornmen, their arrows as ineffectual at close range as they were in volleys.

The tortoise was less than fifty yards away from them now and, as the horses wheeled, ready to withdraw, the Bjornmen struck, parting their heavy shields and revealing the crossbows they carried. The heavy bolts tore through the cavalry, ripping into riders and horses alike. As the chaos unfolded, the raiders dropped their bows and charged, crashing into the archers with swords and axes. Rhenkin swore loudly as he watched his men overwhelmed in moments, and the Bjornmen began to move forward.

“Tell Capston to prepare the archers, Larson.” He didn’t bother checking to make sure the man had heard him. Using the horse archers had been a costly gamble and one he couldn’t afford to repeat.

He glanced back at the village. The wooden palisade had been improved upon and was heavily braced, but it was still just wood. It wouldn’t hold against the invaders for long.

He would have given much to have some stone in the region, but the area was almost all farmland and forest. What little stone there was had been taken from the fieldstone walls, but it wouldn't be close to enough. On the plus side, he had more timber than he could ever need.

He watched as the archers moved into position. Almost everyone in the village who could draw a bow had been pressed into service. The first volley was sporadic, arrows flying wild or falling short. After five or six volleys, the flights were more uniform and most reached the enemy force.

The archers worked in three ranks, each firing and then moving back to the next position while the next loosed their volley, creating an almost constant rain of arrows falling onto the enemy. It also kept the villagers busy and under control. If Rhenkin was lucky, they might even kill some of the raiders.

He knew it wouldn’t be enough, though. The Bjornmen had slowed to a crawl, shields held high. They were moving slowly but they were still moving forward. He looked to the trees at the rear of their lines. More Bjornmen troops were still emerging from the woods. Their numbers seemed without end.

“Tough bastards,” Larson muttered.

“Let’s see how they fair when they reach the first range marker,” Rhenkin said, looking through the hail of arrows to the farthest bonfire.

The archers reached the fire and ran back towards the village, stopping and moving back into formation only when they reached their next marker.

“Signal the catapults,” Rhenkin said, his voice calm despite the stress building inside him. The Bjornmen were surging forward, taking advantage of the archers' retreat.

The horn sounded again and, in response, the rows of catapults lurched, lofting their deadly missiles into the sky. Rhenkin watched Larson's expression as the logs struck the Bjornmen. The absence of rock and stones had almost been enough to make Rhenkin give up on the idea of catapults. That was until Larson suggested using logs. A foot-long chunk of wood might not do the same amount of damage as a head-sized rock, but it would definitely hurt. More importantly, it would not be thwarted by something as simple as a raised shield.

He watched as the Bjornmen broke into a run, large ragged holes appearing in their numbers as the logs took their toll.

“Looks like it worked,” Rhenkin admitted. Larson didn’t respond, his eyes still on the distant force. Forced on by the press of men behind them trying to escape the barrage, the first rows of Bjornmen had no chance to stop as the ground ahead of them suddenly fell away, revealing great pits lined with sharpened stakes. Hundreds died in an instant and the rush slowed as the Bjornmen worked their way past the traps.

The sea of Bjornmen flowed onwards, washing over the rows of trenches, splitting around the hedgehogs and passing through the endless hail of arrows. Ballistae entered the fray, as the enemy came within range, hurling bolts as long as spears into the Bjornmen ranks, but still they came on.

The archers continued to send volley after volley into the Bjornmen. The catapults were lofting huge cradles of logs into their ranks, but all too soon they had to be abandoned as the archers pulled back towards the village. The catapults, too heavy to be moved with any speed, were doused in oil and set alight in order to prevent the Bjornmen capturing and making use of them.

It was over so soon, it hardly seemed real. For all Rhenkin’s efforts and planning, the first stage of defences had fallen quickly. At the same time, it felt like the day had lasted for a week or more. The blood and screaming, and the sounds of men clawing at the dirt, their last moments filled with pain and hate, seemed to go on for an eternity.

As the retreating forces approached the last of the field defences, Rhenkin began the withdrawal into the fort. The archers went first, the conscripted villagers sprinting for what Rhenkin knew was the illusion of the safety of the walls. The slow retreat across the killing field had cost the Bjornmen dearly but now, as they advanced, they were able to bring their own weapons to bear. Denied further retreat, Rhenkin’s forces came within range, and the Bjornmen crossbows sang their murderous song, hurling the heavy bolts across the field.

“Send the heavy cavalry,” Rhenkin ordered.

“Sir, it’s time we moved the command to within the walls,” Larson said, hesitantly.

“Yes, yes. I realise that, Larson. Now send the damned cavalry!”

A horn sounded, and the ranks of pikemen and swordsmen opened to allow the cavalry through. There were only five hundred of them - five hundred about to charge into an army numbering in the tens of thousands - but they were a force unmatched in Rhenkin’s arsenal. In all of Anlan, there was nothing that could compete with the military might of the heavy cavalry.

“Begin a full retreat as soon as they charge,” Rhenkin added.

Larson glanced at him quickly, meeting Rhenkin’s eyes and wishing his own hadn’t made the journey. There was nothing of humanity in them. They held only ice and duty. Cold and inexorable.

“They’re almost certain to be surrounded, Sir.” His words weren’t quite a question.

“I’m aware of that, Larson.” Rhenkin looked away, his eyes passing over the field.

The cavalry thundered across the field in three tight wedge formations. Chargers carried men in heavy plate armour and Rhenkin could feel the sound of their passage in his chest, the sound vibrating his very flesh, even from this distance.

He looked on as they lowered their lances and punched through the enemy line, carving a channel deep into the army. The lances devastated the front ranks but soon became useless. Then the true butchery began. The cavalry hacked savagely at the men they charged past, forming a wake of the dead and dying behind them. They seemed unstoppable at first, a force of nature unleashed upon the invader, but then the channels closed behind them and they were surrounded.

Arrows began to fly from the walls, the elevation of their new position providing the archers with greater range. Catapults and ballistae hurled their payloads into the fray, away from the cavalry but close enough to add to the shock and fear. It was almost visible, a ripple that spread throughout those closest to the combat, slowing their reactions, their training falling away as the fear took hold.

Rhenkin hurried through the gates and rushed up onto the walls. The cavalry had wheeled and were fighting their way back towards the village. Their number seemed undiminished and they left a swathe of destruction behind them. He glanced down at the gates to see the last of his own units sprinting inside the walls. The ballistae launched their last spears and then their operators took axes to the twisted skeins of rope, rendering the weapons useless before fleeing into the village.

He watched as the cavalry charge faltered and slowed. So much of their power was built on speed and momentum. They were torn from their saddles and, once on the ground, they were as helpless as baby birds fallen from the nest.

He watched, unable to turn his face away, or perhaps he forced himself to bear witness as their numbers fell. Two hundred. Fifty. When only twenty remained, he turned to Larson. The man’s face was as impassive as his own, but his eyes spoke loudly of things he would never put into words.

“Shut the gates,” Rhenkin said softly. Larson walked away, leaving him to his doubts. The gates slammed shut, the heavy crossbar dropping into place in what seemed to be a final accusation of failure.

There were no further attacks that day. The raiders pulled back beyond bowshot almost as soon as the gates had been closed. Rhenkin stood on the walls as the sun sank slowly, the colours of the sunset mirroring the blood on the fields below him. He could pick out the Bjornmen pulling siege engines into position at the rear of their lines. Trebuchets, by the looks of things. He wondered idly what ammunition they were planning to use. Smoke rose through the trees. Despite the large number of Bjornmen on the field, still more remained in the woods.

***

Devin moved with as much stealth as he could manage in the fading light. The sun was just above the horizon and the light would soon be gone. The woods were quiet, except for the occasional burst of birdsong, and the distant sounds of the battle carried easily to them. It was little more than the faint clash of metal, but even at this distance he fancied he could hear the screams.

He paused beside a stand of beech and rubbed at his calves. The cramp had been coming and going for the last few hours. It was a pain he could have done without, but it was nothing to the throbbing ache in his head.

He looked along the trail and waved the others forward. They were spaced out into two groups, with Devin scouting ahead, and Tench and Riddal following. Though they’d not wanted to admit it initially, Devin knew the woods better than either of them and, with the light going, it made more sense for him to lead.

It was dark enough under the trees at the best of times. The canopy was dense and, when the sun had gone down, they would have an hour at most before they were blundering along in the pitch-black.

“There’s a couple of them about two or three minutes further on,” Devin whispered to the others, as they drew close.

“Just two?” Riddal raised his eyebrows. The smallest group they’d encountered so far had been fifteen, but that had been hours ago.

“I saw three,” Devin admitted. “One keeps going and coming back. I think he might be on watch on the other side of their camp. The other two are lying near a firepit. They’ve not lit it yet, though.”

“Deserters?” Tench wondered.

“They could be, I suppose. Or they could be just avoiding the fight,” Riddal whispered back. “Though you’d think they’d run further away than this.” He shrugged, looking back to Devin. “It doesn’t matter what they are really. Can we get round them?”

“Not without losing another half an hour. The woods are pretty open around here. We'd have to really put some space between us and them or risk being seen.”

“It’s going to be getting dark soon.” Riddal glanced at the sky and scratched at his cheek. “How far do you think we are from the village?”

“Not far at all. If we could get out of the trees and just walk, we’d be able to see it in half an hour.” Devin spread his hands helplessly.

“I don’t want to be out here if the village is that close,” Tench whispered. “If we can’t go past them without wasting light, let’s do it the other way.”

“Fine,” Riddal gave in. “We do it together and silent. I take one and you take the other.” He gave Devin a look as he started to protest. “I want you to have an arrow ready. If either doesn't fall straight away, you take him. I don’t want any screams. If the third man is there, you take him instead. Questions?” They shook their heads.

“How’s the head?” he asked Devin, as the young man rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“The same. It's throbbing like mad.”

“Tried willow bark?”

Devin shook his head. “I think I just need water. Eating willow would just make me thirstier.”

Riddal winced in sympathy. They'd run out of water hours ago and hadn't had the opportunity to refill their skins. “We’ll take it slow and easy. Lead us in.”

Devin nodded and set off. The three of them spread out, moving in a loose wedge with Devin at the point. The Bjornmen had made a rough camp at the base of a broad oak tree, the thick leaves offering shelter from any rain that might fall in the night. Devin led the others close to a collection of dense bushes which spread out from a stand of holly, directing them with silent gestures.

The two Bjornmen were chatting quietly in their harsh tongue. The language sounded alien to Devin, full of guttural sounds that made it sound like they were arguing, although the tone of their voices made it clear they were not. They lay at ease on the ground, heads resting on their packs. The third man was nowhere to be seen.

Devin drew an arrow and set it to the string, looking over at Riddal and Tench as they picked their targets. It wouldn’t be a difficult shot. The Bjornmen were only fifty feet away, at most.

Riddal let fly and the arrow buried itself neatly in his target’s throat. The man clutched at the shaft as he rolled sideways, gurgled and was still. Tench’s shot, however, went wide, his arrow heading off into the trees at the other side of the clearing. The Bjornman sprang to his feet, clearly about to sprint into the trees. Devin pulled back and released in one motion, his actions automatic. His arrow slammed into the base of the man's skull and dropped him like a stone.

“Good shot,” Riddal muttered, as he pushed his way through the bush to collect his arrow. “What happened to you?” he called over to Tench, as he worked his arrow free of the Bjornman.

“Bloody bird flew out of the bush as I shot,” the man explained. “The arrow must have tapped a twig as it went.”

Devin knelt and grasped hold of the arrow shaft where it protruded from the man’s neck. It seemed like this should bother him, but he was past that. Perhaps it was fatigue. Maybe he’d just turned hard in the past few weeks. He worked the arrow back and forth, but the head seemed stuck tight.

Later, he would never be able to say what it was that had made him look up. He couldn't remember hearing anything. The Bjornman stood at the other side of the camp, shock plain on his face as he caught sight of the trio.

Faster than he would have thought it possible, Devin dropped the arrow and his fingers flew to his quiver. The arrow barely seemed to touch the string, as he drew and released quicker than he could take a breath. The shaft flew true and took the Bjornman in the eye, dropping him without a whisper.

He turned to see Riddal and Tench staring at him, awestruck. “How the hell did you do that?” Tench gasped. “I’ve never seen anyone move so fast!”

“In the eye too,” Riddal said and whistled. “That’s a shot I’d be lucky to make even if I stood still and aimed it.”

“Just a lucky shot,” Devin said, embarrassed. His hands were shaking. The first shot hadn’t bothered him, but to kill a man without even thinking? To just act on instinct and to kill as easily as breathing? That was different, and he was both amazed and horrified by it. He waved Riddal into the lead and followed him, his mind full of thoughts he didn’t have time to process.

The woods grew steadily darker until the moon began to rise. Their progress slowed to a crawl and Devin took the lead again. They would need to rely on his knowledge of the woods. The sounds of the battle had been filtering through the trees for the last few hours, but they had faded with the light. He wished they were closer, so he could see what was going on.

The forest was still except for the occasional rustle of leaves as small animals hunted in the night. They moved as fast as they dared. None of them had mentioned the fae, but they all cast frequent glances up at the full moon.

Finally, they seemed to be on familiar ground and Devin began to move more swiftly. Being so close to home made the danger seem less real. Tench and Riddal hurried to keep up with him, as he passed along the game trail and through the woods, to the edge of the clearing where he'd heard Erinn scream all those months ago, when Artor had pressed his luck with her. He pushed back a branch and froze.

The massive creature he had seen in Obair’s glade stood in silence, close to where Erinn had once sat, its bearded face raised to the moon. Tiny green sparks were just visible, dancing on the skin of its shoulders and chest, as it drank the light in.

Devin waved at the others to stop as he fought the wave of terror that threatened to overwhelm him. Should he attack the creature? No, that was ridiculous. He had no iron on him and he’d seen what the thing could do when threatened with arrows.

“There is no need to hide low in your bush, manling,” the thing said, in an amused tone. “I could end you in an instant, should I so choose.”

Devin stepped out of the trees. “What are you doing?” hissed Riddal, grabbing for his arm.

“He already knows we’re here, Riddal,” Devin replied calmly.

It turned its antlered head to regard him, amber eyes shining bright in the moonlight. “I have no interest in three of your kind this night, manling. Know, however, that my children are already out at play. I expect they would think differently.” He closed his eyes and raised his face to the skies again, absorbing the silvery light.

Devin was struck by the beauty of the creature. Majestic was simply too coarse a word to describe it. He felt inferior just being near it, as if even by breathing the same air as it, he was somehow an affront to its perfection.

A smile spread across the thing’s face and its bright white teeth shone against the dark green of its beard. Devin wondered if it somehow knew what he was thinking.

He took a step and then another around the edge of the clearing, watching the creature all the while to see if it would react. His eyes sought out and met Riddal’s, who seemed frozen to the spot. Devin waved him on and they worked their way around the creature and into the trees. It was only once the leaves of the trees had obscured the scene that they broke into a run.

Devin sprinted, fear lending a strength to his legs that he would have denied was there before the encounter. They ran wildly, the kind of running that can only be born of terror, with no thought given to stealth or of tripping over roots or fallen branches. They thought only of the need to put space between themselves and the thing that stood in the clearing, drinking in the moonlight as if it were summer's mead.

He became aware of Tench calling his name in a weak gasp and he forced himself to stop until the others had caught up with him. There were no words. Nothing could be said about it that would make it any less insane, less surreal. Instead, they met each others' eyes briefly, each seeming to recoil from the horror that shone there.

They walked on. What else was there to do?

***

Devin crouched low in the long grass beside the trees. It was fully dark now, but the field was illuminated by the bright moonlight and the fires that burned on the fields before Widdengate. The smoke hung low, hugging the ground, heavy with the stench of burning pitch.

He felt a moment’s pang of loss. Widdengate was gone, at least the Widdengate that he had known was. Even if they managed to drive the Bjornmen back, the village would never be the same. The fields had been ruined by the long lines of trenches and littered with stakes. Grief fuelled the growing anger he felt towards these men from across the seas.

The village still stood, however. The Bjornmen seemed to have pulled back to stay out of range of anything that might be launched from the walls. Their army seemed to stretch forever in the darkness, a thousand campfires belching smoke out into the tainted night.

Devin was glad they hadn’t surrounded the village. There was probably a strategic reason as to why they hadn't, but he was content just to know that there was a clear route to the walls.

“Ready?” Riddal called over to them both, in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes,” he managed, hearing Tench’s voice from the other side of Riddal.

“Go!” Riddal sprinted for the walls. There might have been no need to run, but even though an hour had past since their encounter with the creature in the woods, they were still jumpy. The fae were loose somewhere, the creature had made that clear. As they drew close to the limits of a bow’s range from the walls, Riddal pulled out a horn and gave three long blasts. Movement on the walls showed they’d been spotted and a bell rang out loud.

“Scouts returning!” Tench bellowed, as they ran. The horn ought to have been enough, but it never hurt to be careful.

Torches bobbed as men ran along the walls and let down ropes over the side. Devin hauled himself up the rope as best he could, though in truth he did little more than cling to it as the soldiers pulled him to the top.

He collapsed on the walkway on the other side of the spiked parapet. He was home. Maybe not safe, but to be home was enough for now. Strong arms pulled him to his feet and helped him down the steps to the ground.

Everyone seemed to be speaking to him at once, asking questions and patting him on the back. The fatigue he’d been fighting seemed to have hit him all at once and his head swam.

A blur of red streaked through the growing crowd and Erinn hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. She held him close and buried her head in his chest.

“Devin! I thought you were…” She pushed him away and sniffed. “You… You!” She wiped her tears away with a sleeve and slapped hard at his chest. “You scared me half to death!”

“Erinn, I…”

“You nothing, Devin. You had me scared witless when you didn’t come back with the others! Don’t you ever do anything so stupid again!” She flung her arms around him again as the soldiers chuckled at his helpless expression.

“Alright, that’s enough, girl. Let him up to breathe,” Harlen said, peeling his daughter off Devin gently.

Devin was dimly aware of a man speaking to Riddal. “Are you injured? Do you feel able to report?” Riddal nodded and the weary-looking man turned to Devin. “If you are able, son, Captain Rhenkin would like to speak to you as well.” Devin nodded dumbly.

“Good lad. I’m Lieutenant Larson. I’ll walk you over.” He led them towards the command centre, one of the new buildings close to the barracks. One glance at the darkened windows was enough to show Larson that Rhenkin was not inside, however. He muttered something under his breath that Devin was reasonably sure was impolite at best, and led them back towards the walls.

Rhenkin stood in the watchtower staring out at the Bjornmen's fires. He nodded at Larson as they filed in and turned back to the view.

“You’re late.” He glanced back at Riddal with a wry smile.

“We were cut off,” Riddal said. “Sir,” he added, as Larson raised an eyebrow at him.

“Were you now? Go ahead and report then.”

Devin was only half listening as Riddal recounted the story of their mission. He looked past Rhenkin’s shoulder at the army camped out on the fields. He could see little except their fires but, despite the distance, he heard the scream clearly.

He stepped past Rhenkin, ignoring the startled look on Larson’s face, to the edge of the watchtower and leant on the railing as he stared out. Shadows passed in front of the fires and the faint clash of steel carried to him.

“What’s happening?” Rhenkin asked, joining him at the rail.

Devin flushed, suddenly realising what he was doing. “I’m sorry, Captain, I…”

“Never mind that, lad. You’ve seen something. What is it?”

“There’s something going on in the Bjornman camp. I thought I heard fighting.”

“What?” Rhenkin stared out into the moonlit fields.

“The fae!” Devin cried, as it hit him.

“What?”

Devin ignored him and spun round to look at Riddal. “He said his children were at play. Do you remember?”

“What’s this?” Rhenkin’s tone lowered as he fixed Riddal with a glare.

“I'm sorry I didn’t mention it, Sir. I didn’t think anyone would believe us.”

“I will decide what to believe and not to believe! From now on, you will report everything.” Rhenkin’s voice was low and angry.

“Yes, Sir,” Riddal managed, but Rhenkin had already turned away.

“Larson, give the order to clear the streets. I want everyone on the walls or in their homes unless they are in one of the street squads. Pass the word to ready iron as well.”

Larson was down the steps in a moment and, minutes later, a bell began to ring.

“You’d best get yourself home, my lad,” Rhenkin told Devin. “You look all done in.”

“I’d rather stay on the walls if that’s okay, Sir,” Devin replied. Somehow the fatigue had fallen away from him.

Rhenkin considered him for a moment. He nodded. “Get yourself some iron then, lad.”

***

Erinn sat up in her bed as the bells began to ring out across the village. She shook her head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep and swung her feet out onto the floor. If nothing else worked, stepping barefoot onto the stone floor was always guaranteed to wake her up.

Bells, not the attack horn. It was bells and that meant the fae. She felt the excitement rise in her. She’d long since stopped being scared of the creatures. Her small home adjoined the forge anyway, and there was no building in Widdengate more steeped in iron.

She made her way out into the hallway and padded along to the kitchen. Her ears easily picked out the snores of her father and she smiled to herself. The barrel-chested man had always slept the sleep of the dead. She was unlikely to wake him, no matter what she did. She went to the stove, and bent to stir up the coals and coax some fire out of them before lighting the lamp. A cup of tea would be just the thing while she waited.

The pump creaked as she filled the kettle with just enough water for a cup and set it on to boil. She moved across to the window seat and settled down to watch. The pit was invisible in the darkness. It was almost invisible in the day too. The sheet covering the iron doors had been covered in a thin layer of dirt and fallen leaves.

They said that the fae could see as well in the night as people could in broad daylight. Even if that were the case, though, they’d be unlikely to spot the trap unless they could smell the iron, and that was why she’d insisted they put it so close to the forge.

The kettle bubbled and hissed, and she pulled herself away from the window to make her drink. The village had fallen silent after the bells and she sat at the window, sipping tea that was so hot it almost scalded her, as she fought to stay alert.

Devin would have understood. He wouldn’t have agreed with her, but he would have understood. You can’t set a trap and just expect the prey to walk into it. It has to have a reason. There has to be bait.

She set the cup down and grabbed up the flute as she heard the distant sounds of shouting and running. Throwing the blanket from the window seat around her shoulders, she hurried outside, trying to be quiet for now and keeping close to the wall. The gap between it and the edge of the pit measured less than two feet, but she felt confident she had enough room. It would just take a little jump to get past the corner. As long as she didn’t jump too far and hit the wall on the other side, she’d be fine. Erinn didn’t stop to think. If she thought about it, she’d never do it. With three quick steps, she hopped over the edge of the concealed pit and into the wall.

Her arms flew wide as she tried to hold onto the vertical surface and she forced herself up on her tiptoes to try and push her weight forward. There was a moment of pure terror as she felt herself tipping backwards and then she was set. She worked her way around the pit until she was facing the street and set herself.

The nightgown was scandalous. Her father would have thrown a merry fit if he’d seen how she’d altered it. A slit ran almost to her hip on one side and she’d adjusted the bodice to make the most of her small breasts. She looked like a common harlot. On the whole, she was rather proud of it.

It was less an item of clothing than it was decoration at this point. The night was cool and, despite the warmth of the blanket, she soon found herself shivering. Her teeth chattered, almost blocking out the sound of the hooves as they clattered around the corner.

It didn’t see her at first and she froze, abruptly struck by the insanity of what she was trying to do. This was the only chance she’d get though, so she dropped the blanket and pushed her leg out through the slit in the nightgown, adopting a pose she hoped might be seductive as she lifted the flute to her lips.

The satyr’s head shot round as the first note sounded. Its eyes flared bright as it walked slowly towards her. For a moment, her breath faltered and she nearly dropped the flute. She smiled at the satyr, a wicked smile as flirtatious as she could manage, and put the flute back to her lips.

It was suspicious, that much was obvious, but for all its alien nature it had the same instincts as any boy she’d ever met. The right smile and a wink, and they were all flustered and tripping over themselves trying to impress.

Erinn watched as the satyr sniffed at the air, wrinkling its nose, probably at the smell of iron. It looked around, glared at the entrance to the forge and flicked its tongue out, almost seeming to taste the air itself. A lick of its lips and then it took another step towards her, its eyes eager. Erinn lowered the flute and waited, hoping her terror didn’t show. She could feel the edges of something. It was almost as if the shape of the satyr didn’t fit. It was nebulous at best, but she got the impression of a strong physique and dark eyes.

She barely had the time to wonder at the odd sensation before the satyr took its final step towards her. The ground beneath it gave way and it fell into the thin section of wood holding the doors open, crashing through it and tumbling down into the pit, the sheet tangled around it.

Pulled down by the strong springs, the iron grates slammed shut behind the creature as it hit the bottom of the pit and landed on the base of the cage. Blue fire flared and it screamed, a wild and terrible sound. Erinn felt a surge of triumph but it was short-lived, as the satyr threw itself upwards, crashing into the doors to the cage.

She stood, shocked, as it smashed into the grates again and again, each impact resulting in another flare of blue fire as it leapt upwards or landed again. The fire was growing dimmer, she noticed, but the grates were also shaking violently.

The bolts! With a panic, she realised that the heavy locking bolts on top of the grates weren't yet in place. Without them, the only things holding the doors shut were their own weight and the strength of the springs.

The satyr threw itself upwards again and the left-hand grate actually lifted an inch or two before slamming closed again. She looked on in horror as the creature leapt again and grabbed hold of the right-hand grate, close to the join in the middle. Heedless of the fire that spurted around its fingers, it reached out with its other hand and began to force the left side of the cage doors upwards. Without even stopping to think how dangerous or stupid it might be, Erinn jumped down into the pit.

She landed badly. The metal squares were too small for her feet to pass through easily, but she stumbled and fell hard. Her head slammed against the iron and her vision blurred for a moment. The satyr fell as she landed, jarred off the grate by the impact. It hit the base of the cage, spitting and hissing words she couldn’t understand, although venom and fury were clear in its tone. It threw itself upwards again and, this time, there was no flare of blue fire. It didn't fall either. Instead, it hung from the grate with one hand, reaching the other through one of the squares and grabbing for her.

Erinn screamed and rolled away from its flailing hand. She scrambled onto her hands and knees. Where were the bolts? It was so hard to see in the darkness. Looking down at the grate, all she could really make out were the furious eyes of the monster she’d caged.

She clambered over the grate, searching for the bolts, and shrieked as the satyr smashed into the iron doors again. They didn’t move nearly as much as they had before, as if the strength had been drained out of the creature. The whole grate still shook, however, and she fell onto her chest, her hand slipping into the cage through the gaps between the metal bars.

The creature fell on her in a rage, pouncing like a terrier on a rat as it grasped her hand. Its claw-like nails scratched at her wrist and she screamed, long and hard.

The satyr pulled down on her arm, dragging her down hard against the grate, then reached for the knife it had dropped as it fell into the pit. It was the realisation of what it could do if it reached the knife that spurred her on. She forced her free hand under her for leverage and wrenched herself upwards, gasping against the pain as she dragged her knee across the bars of the cage and drew it into her chest.

Erinn forced herself up and yanked the satyr’s arm through the grate, before leaning to the left and bending the limb the wrong way. It howled in rage and then finally fell, clawing at her chest and thighs as it went.

She didn't have much time to find the bolts. She’d come up with the idea for the trap, but hadn’t had anything to do with the design or construction. Harlen had handled that, with the help of his apprentices. Eventually she located them, but her joy quickly turned to dismay as she crouched to examine them. They were long solid bars, clearly designed to be driven home with a hammer. There was no way she would be able to move them with her hands alone.

The cage rocked again and pain lanced through her leg, as the satyr reached through with its knife and sliced deep into her calf. She didn’t scream. The pain stole her breath and the faint sound that came from her lips was the gasped whimper of a wounded animal. Erinn pulled herself to her feet and managed to limp to the corner of the pit, watching as the cage doors slammed upwards again and again, as the satyr fought against the strength of the springs.

The blood ran freely down her leg, but she ignored it and huddled against the wooden braces that held back the earth surrounding the pit. How long she stood there watching the creature slam into the doors, she couldn’t say. Her plan had seemed so simple, almost foolproof. She'd thought that the hardest part would be getting the thing into the pit in the first place. A tear escaped her and, as if the first one had cut a path, the others followed.

The satyr hung from the bars by one gnarled hand, trying to force the cage doors open with the other. The door was giving slowly, only by an inch, but enough to fill her with dread. The creature stared at her with murder in its eyes and forced the door a little further.

“Erinn?” Her father’s voice cut through the darkness. “Are you out there, girl?”

“I’m here.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, too small to reach the top of the pit. She tried again. “Father!”

The satyr hissed, shielding its eyes from the sudden glare of a lantern at the edge of the pit, and dropped to the bottom of the cage.

“Lord of Midnight, Erinn, what are you doing down there?” His voice, so calm and kindly, broke what little of the dam remained and the river of tears became a flood.

Chapter Seven

Obair stood close to the edge of the pit and watched as the soldiers secured ropes to the top of the cage.

“You’re sure the bolts will hold?” one of them asked Harlen, for what seemed like the fifth time. “I don’t want that thing getting loose.”

Harlen gave the man a flat, unfriendly look that told him just what he thought of that question. The soldier wilted, turned away and barked orders at his men. A team of four horses moved forwards and the ground around the pit began to crumble as the cage was torn free.

Obair examined the satyr with interest as the cage rose. It was sprawled in a corner of the trap, one leg thrust out before it, looking more like a tired old man than the tormentor from legend and fable. Its eyes passed over the crowd with disinterest, ignoring them as they gawked at it.

Some of the soldiers reached to steady the cage as it was lowered down on its hoist and the satyr struck in a blur of movement, lashing out with its knife. A man fell back with a cry of pain, clutching at his hand.

“Back away, lads,” a sergeant called. “It might be in a cage but it’s still a vicious little bastard.” He turned to the injured man. “Get that seen to. Then you can come back and guard this thing.”

Obair moved as close as he dared, studying the thing. It glanced up at him and its eyes seemed to widen in recognition before it looked away.

The crowd parted to let Larson through and he sucked a breath in through his teeth as he got a look at the prisoner.

“Nasty looking thing, isn’t it?” Harlen called as he came to meet him.

Larson nodded, his eyes still locked on the beast. “And you say your daughter trapped this thing alone?”

“She did,” Harlen’s voice was filled with a fierce pride.

“I heard she was injured?”

“A cut to the leg. Nasty, but nothing that won’t heal in time.”

“Well, now that we have this thing, where do we put it? I don’t think we can just leave it,” Larson said.

Obair shook his head and strode over to them. “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant.”

“Lieutenant,” Larson corrected him.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry,” Obair said. “Is there much of a difference?”

Larson waved it off, sharing a look with Harlen. “What did you want?”

“Yes, yes, sorry. I don’t think moving it is such a good idea. Certainly not inside, anyway,” Obair explained.

“Oh?”

Obair nodded. “I’ll admit that this is just a suspicion, but I would keep it out of the moonlight as much as possible and make sure the sunlight hits it.”

“I suppose we can do that,” Larson said, confused. “I need to prepare a report for the captain. I would welcome your input when the time comes.”

“Hmm?” Obair tore his gaze away from the satyr. “Oh, yes. Just come and get me when you’re ready.”

He moved around the cage slowly, ignoring the sounds of the soldiers clearing the streets. Despite all the years he’d spent as guardian of the stones, he’d never had as good a look at one of the creatures as he was getting now.

“What do you want with me, Wyrde weaver,” the creature said. Its voice was little more than a whisper, low and filled with malevolence.

He started at that, jumping back slightly, and glancing around at the almost empty street and the guard standing at post.

“What did you call me?” He pitched his voice low.

“Wyrde weaver? Do you think I can’t smell the stench of it on you? The reek of corruption and abuse?”

“Corruption?” Obair rolled the word around in his mouth, not liking the taste.

The satyr pulled itself to its feet, its hooves making a dull clang against the bars that pressed into the dirt. “You know nothing of it, do you? You wove it and held it in place, but you don’t even know what it was or what you did.”

“What do you mean?” Obair asked. He was losing control of the conversation but, at this moment, he didn’t care. “The Wyrde? It was a barrier keeping your kind out of our world.”

“Your world?” The satyr laughed, the sound dry and scathing. “Even if we let that pass for the moment, the abomination you call the Wyrde was far more than just a barrier, you stupid little manling. Were all the weavers so ignorant?”

Obair shook his head in silence, confusion and doubt battling with the desire to know the truth the creature hinted at.

“You think of the Wyrde as a wall, blocking the entryway into your world.” It curled its lip as Obair gave a barely perceptible nod. “It did more than just block entry. It closed the passage!”

“I don’t understand,” Obair admitted.

“Bah! This language. How do you cope with it?” the satyr spat. “It’s like a song without music. These dead words are like stones in my mouth!” It met his eyes again. “Try to understand, if your feeble mind can. This world and mine, they are joined.” It clenched its fists, clashing them together and then holding them apart. “Anyone with enough of Our Lady's grace and the required knowledge may pass between, from one to the other.”

“Yes, yes, this I understand, but…”

“Cease your jabbering, defiler!” The satyr's tone was as harsh as its words, as it slammed against the sides of the cage.

“The way is not a single step, as if through a gateway. It is along a passage. Your sick Wyrde closed it.” The hate burned in its eyes, hot and accusing.

“I still don’t…”

“It closed both sides, meddler, locking us in the passage. In the Outside.” The satyr turned away, curling into a ball on the far side of the cage.

“You mean you were locked in the middle? Trapped in the space between your world and ours?” Obair's voice trailed into a whisper, his horror at the notion robbing the strength from his speech.

“For three ages, we were locked in the cold. In the Outside,” the satyr said. It carried on speaking, but its words were drowned out by the blast of horns sounding through the village, as soldiers heard the signal and passed it on, sounding their own horns. The Bjornmen were attacking.

***

Obair rushed to the walls, more because everyone else was doing it than for any other reason. The sun was just a fiery sliver, edging its way above the horizon, and fires still burned in the Bjornman camp. The invaders were moving forward, though not in the orderly ranks he would have expected. Instead, most of their men stood watching as wooden structures were wheeled into place. He looked down over the palisade and noted Rhenkin had similar devices stationed on the ground before the walls. As he watched, one of the devices hurled a loosely wrapped bundle of arrows into the sky. The cloth fell from around the bundle as it flew towards the Bjornmen and the arrows rained down on them.

He grimaced at the distant screams while men shouted orders and the devices all began firing. The Bjornmen split into two groups, either hanging back out of range or clustering around their devices in a tight formation with their shields raised. Obair looked around and, spotted Rhenkin further along the platform and began to work his way past the men lining the walls.

The man seemed to be surrounded by chaos as he barked orders left and right, the ever-present Larson at his side. Obair glanced out at the distant Bjornmen and froze as he caught sight of the flames licking up from the large bonfires that had been lit beside each of the wooden contraptions.

“What are they doing?”

“Loading their catapults with flaming pitch, if I’m any judge,” Rhenkin’s voice came from behind him.

Obair spun to face him. “But that could burn the whole village down!”

Rhenkin gave a bitter laugh. “I think that’s the general idea, yes.” He continued along the walkway, heading for the watchtower built into the corner of the wall as Obair followed him.

“They’d actually burn the village down with us inside? That’s barbaric!” Obair gasped, looking out over the walls again.

“That’s war, Druid. I think that you’ve led a very sheltered life locked away in your woods. Mankind can be every bit as vicious and brutal as your fae.”

Obair stared at the fires in horror, stepping to the side as men laden with buckets rushed up the steps. Water splashed down the sides of the palisade, pooling in the mud at the bottom, and still the men rushed back to the wells and pumps to fetch more.

The distant catapults lurched and Obair saw at once that Rhenkin had been wrong. There were no burning pots arcing through the skies. Instead, he could see nothing more than clouds of smoke and dust around the catapults. Then the glowing coals and embers began to fall. They passed overhead, far above the palisade, and flew into the village.

Rhenkin swore and waved at Larson, who ran for the steps, shouting at the men to form bucket chains.

“I’m busy here, Druid. What do you want?” Rhenkin demanded.

“The satyr. It's contained but there is much we can learn from it.”

“When we start the withdrawal, we’ll take it with us. I think it’s time you met my duchess.”

“When we withdraw?” Obair said, shocked.

“We're not going to be able to hold here, Druid. We simply don't have the men. This village was doomed the moment the Bjornmen advanced. We’ve been sending small groups out since yesterday.”

“But the village...?” Obair protested, looking down at the houses and streets.

“Will burn,” Rhenkin finished for him. “The only thing that would stop their advance would be if the king finally committed his armies. Until he does, then North-eastern Anlan will belong to the Bjornmen.”

Obair stared at him, but Rhenkin had already turned away and was giving out a steady stream of orders to the runners passing in and out of the watchtower. Obair stepped back onto the walls and looked out over the fields, drawn by a morbid curiosity.

Rhenkin’s catapults, positioned at the base of the walls, fired briefly but the operators soon abandoned their efforts. The Bjornmen had pulled back out of range during the night and had not yet advanced far enough again. As he watched, the gates opened, and archers and infantry poured out, forming into mixed ranks before they slowly advanced towards the Bjornmen.

The trebuchets fired again, this time lofting flaming pots. The burning pitch Rhenkin had predicted had arrived. The pots arced across the sky, trailing lines of black smoke as they flew. One fell short, the fragile clay shattering as it crashed into the mud in front of the walls and creating a lake of fire around it.

The other two flew true. One smashed into the wall itself, while its brother flew into the village, turning one of the recently constructed buildings into a pillar of flame. Obair turned away from the sight, gagging as men were transformed into torches and fell screaming from the walls to writhe on the ground, while others frantically emptied buckets of water over them.

Through it all, the Bjornmen stood still, watching.

“Why don’t they advance?” Obair demanded of the man stood next to him. The farmer shrugged and fiddled with the bow he held inexpertly in his hands.

“Because they don’t want the village,” a sergeant said quietly from the other side of him. “They’re not looking to take this place. They just want it gone. They can get most of that just by burning it down. Why risk their own men before they need to?”

Obair opened his mouth to respond but then turned his head at a shout from behind him. “Obair!” Larson waved him down from the walls.

The old man pushed his way through the press of men and clambered down the steps.

“I want you in the next group,” the lieutenant explained, as Obair drew close.

“Next group?”

“The next group to leave, man! Wake up!” Larson snapped. “The captain wants you to take the cart with that beast and take it to Duchess Freyton.”

“He wants what? Why me?”

“We need more support, old man,” Larson said. “Look around you. We can’t hold against these Bjornmen and, so far, we’re the only ones that know anything about the fae. You wanted to warn mankind, Obair. Well, now you have your chance.”

Obair nodded. He couldn’t really object to that.

The line of carts stood before the rear gates, packed tight with villagers clinging to those few possessions they could carry. They were surrounded by a circle of soldiers looking anxiously at the crowd of villagers pressing in at them. As he walked closer, he heard a commotion surrounding the rear cart. A soldier was bundling a large man he dimly recognised as the miller away from the cart.

“Why can’t I just leave now?” the man demanded. “I don’t see why that hell-beast gets pride of place while we have to wait.”

The response was lost in the noise of the crowd as they surged against the line of soldiers.

“So that thing gets to go while we stay here and burn?” the miller roared, shouting more towards the throng of people behind him than to the soldiers in front. “Who are you protecting here?”

Obair elbowed his way through the crowd until he reached the nervous soldiers, and was quickly grabbed and bundled aboard a cart. The men wasted no time in opening the gates and sending the caravan through. There was an air of panic about the crowd and the guards seemed little better as they resorted to driving the villagers back with clubs.

The gates were shut hurriedly as the caravan went on its way. Their closing creak was muffled by a crash, as a hail of stones smashed against the palisade at the far side of the village.

As the wagon clattered over the sun-baked road, the distant sound of steel on steel carried from the far side of the village. Obair looked back at the smoke, tinged red with sparks and floating embers, that belched up from the palisade where the firepot had struck. He looked at the flames, shaking his head in wonder and disgust. He'd come to try and warn mankind about the fae but, as he watched the Bjornmen surge forward, he wondered who would warn mankind about itself.

***

Rhenkin looked on as the Bjornmen drove the line back again. Mixing the archers in with the regular infantry had worked well for a time, but the enemy adapted quickly, rushing his units before they could fire more than once or twice. As he watched, the Bjornman advance forced his line to retreat again or else be overwhelmed, and the sky turned dark with flights of arrows as the infantry units ran back behind the range marker and headed for the gates.

Another hail of rocks struck the palisade and men fell screaming to the ground. He turned to look for Larson before remembering the man was overseeing the evacuation.

“Where did they find the stone?” he grumbled to himself, as he waited.

He didn't have to wait long before the dark-haired man ran up the steps, ducking involuntarily as the wall shook from the impact of more stones.

“Report,” Rhenkin said, as soon as the man was close enough to hear.

“The satyr and six carts are away. The villagers are close to panic though, Sir. We’ll need to allow a general withdrawal soon or we’ll have a riot on our hands.”

Rhenkin nodded. “Open the gates and let them go. I didn’t really want to do that until those bastards started to advance, but I don’t think they’re going to until they've breached the walls.”

Larson looked out to the battlefield. The Bjornmen hadn’t really moved since they’d driven the defenders back, preferring to use their siege engines, but now they were drawing close. “I don't imagine they can have much left in the way of stone, Sir,” he shrugged.

As if in response, the trebuchets leapt forward, lofting a barrage of firepots towards the village. Rhenkin threw himself flat on the platform, barely aware that he'd screamed out the order to get down. The pots struck and then a wave of heat passed over him, scorching his skin despite his prone position. The flames soared high as the stench of burning pitch filled the air.

He pulled himself to his feet and staggered back from the heat, one arm flung over his face to ward off the flames. The entire section of palisade was engulfed by fire. Had he been just ten feet farther along the wall, he would have joined the men that had fallen screaming to the earth.

He heard Larson call for water and bucket chains, but he knew it was futile. The logs closest to him were already steaming in the heat. An entire day’s work soaking the palisade had been undone in moments. Another section of the wall exploded into flames. The Bjornmen had found the range now.

“Larson, get those back gates open and pass the word for the villagers to go,” he ordered, as he staggered towards the steps. “I want all the men off these walls. Squads of archers to form a retreating firing line back towards the inner palisade.” One last glance over the walls showed a massive ram being wheeled through the enemy lines.

He grabbed a corporal as he reached the bottom of the steps. “Get some men and dump the earth out of those carts against the front gates. I’ll be damned if we’re going to make this easy for them. Be sure to get them braced with beams first though.”

As Rhenkin made his way back to the heavy gates that would soon seal the inner palisade, he saw his men moving smoothly into position. Almost a third of the front wall was burning now. It wouldn’t be long.

The Bjornmen were already surging forwards by the time he’d made it onto the walls of the inner palisade. His men had abandoned the outer wall and moved into their new positions. A glance behind him revealed that the rear gates to the village had been thrown wide open, and a stream of carts and villagers was fleeing along the road.

The soldiers had braced the outermost gates with thick timber beams and then dumped earth from the carts onto the ground in front of them, piling it high and shovelling it against them. Rows of archers standing immediately behind the gates launched volley after volley over the walls. The need for any kind of accuracy was gone as the Bjornmen charged. The archers couldn’t help but hit something.

From where Rhenkin was standing, he could see the arrows were having little effect. The Bjornmen were in a tight formation with shields interlocked. Men were falling, but not nearly enough to make a difference.

The gates shook as the ram was brought into play and the impact resounded through the village. Smaller catapults were wheeled into position near the ranks of archers and logs began to fly over the walls. Rhenkin couldn’t see the results, but the screams of pain seemed testament enough to the fact that they were hitting their targets.

As he watched, a figure appeared on the outer wall, close to the gates. He was some distance away, but Rhenkin could see that he wasn’t in uniform and was too fat to be one of his men. He was running low, trying to make himself as small a target as possible for the crossbow bolts that flew past. He sped through the clouds of smoke carrying something under one arm. As the ram crashed into the gates again, he stumbled, dropping to one knee before throwing the object down over the wall. He tossed something down after it and then the ram was engulfed in bright blue and crimson flames.

Rhenkin grabbed a nervous soldier. “Find out who that is,” he ordered, pointing at the wall.

A hail of heavy crossbow bolts rained down inside the gate, dropping the closely packed archers like flies. While the Bjornmen all had shields, Rhenkin’s archers were unarmoured and the heavy bolts caught them completely by surprise. He muttered bitter curses as they fell and the survivors scattered.

The catapults lurched forward again, hurling small wooden casks out over the walls. Rhenkin shaded his eyes as he watched the missiles fly, and fresh crimson and blue flames shoot up from the Bjornman lines.

He turned his head at the sound of footsteps to see the soldier he’d dispatched returning with the innkeeper in tow.

“That was you on the wall?” Rhenkin asked, in surprise.

Owen nodded, his face pale and his hands shaking visibly. “My best brandy,” he explained. “The bastards might be burning my village down, but I’ll be damned if they're going to drink my stock.”

Rhenkin grinned and slapped the man on the back. “I thought I caught a whiff of something.” He glanced at the rear gates. “You’d better get your family out of here, Owen. It’s going to get ugly soon and you want to get a lead on these bastards.”

Owen nodded and looked past Rhenkin towards the dark stain of the Bjornman army that extended out to the trees on the horizon. “We’ll be gone in half an hour. I’ve a brother in Kavtrin that I think it might be time to visit.”

“Not a bad idea. We’ll be pulling back ourselves once we’ve bled them as much as we can here. The meeting point was supposed to be Carik’s Fort, but I won’t blame you for going your own way.” He held a gloved hand out. “Good luck.”

“Luck to you, Captain,” Owen said, grasping his hand. “You’ve done everything that could be done here. Some will blame you anyway, but I want to thank you for it.”

Rhenkin nodded once and turned back to the battle.

The gates shook again as a hail of rocks crashed into them, then they slammed inwards against the mound of earth piled behind them as the heavy crossbar tore apart. With a tortured creak, a section of palisade to the right of the gates, weakened by fire and the barrage of rocks, first sagged and then fell away, crashing down into the compound. There was a moment of shocked silence and then cheers rose from beyond the walls, as the Bjornmen began to pour through the breach.

Rhenkin watched in silence. There was no need to bark orders now. For the moment, they were already given. It was time to let his men do their jobs. The archers fired in ranks, loosing arrows and then sprinting through the rows of men behind them to their next position. The constant hail of arrows took its toll and the Bjornman charge faltered as bodies littered the earth until an effective shield wall could be formed.

The outer village beyond the inner palisade had become a killing field. The extra buildings required due to the influx of refugees and the demands of the Rhenkin's own forces, had almost filled the area which had once contained cottages and small fields. The defenders launched furious counter-attacks from the new streets and squares as the Bjornmen pushed their way forward, striking from ambushes when they could but then melting away before the Bjornmen could truly engage.

Rhenkin watched the line of carts as the villagers fled through the rear gates. The village had been neatly bisected by a line of collapsed houses and buildings, with the inner palisade at the centre. Though it might have been possible to clear the debris, it would have taken time and the Bjornmen were pushing directly towards the inner gates. It was obvious they were seeking to neutralise Rhenkin's forces as quickly as possible.

The assault on the inner gates, when it came, was overwhelming. As Rhenkin's troops retreated behind the walls, the Bjornmen pulled back, holding their positions at the outer wall, as the trebuchets were slowly wheeled forward. He could do little more than watch. The range of the siege engines was such that they could fire from way outside of the breached outer walls. First firepots, then rocks and then massive sections of tree trunk were hurled at the inner palisade and the gates.

“Sergeant!” he shouted at a man further along the walkway.

“Sir.” The man snapped off a salute. Rhenkin fought back a burst of irrational laughter. A parade ground salute in the middle of a hail of rocks and burning pitch. It all seemed so ridiculous, somehow.

“Find me a corporal, man,” Rhenkin barked.

The man rushed down the steps into the village as Rhenkin glowered out over the walls.

“Orders, Sir?” The officer was a fresh-faced man with an immaculate uniform.

“Bloody droos, man, what are you? Twelve?” Rhenkin swore. “Never mind that.” He raised a hand as the man sputtered and started to protest. “We’re going to lose this wall soon. I want archers on every roof that will hold them, with ropes in position to let them down.”

The man nodded smartly and began to turn away.

“I’m not finished yet!” Rhenkin snapped. “No heroics. I want every archer off the roofs and back behind our lines before they are truly threatened.”

Another section of tree trunk sailed over village and crashed into the gates. The impact threw them inwards and, already weakened by fire, they gave a tortured groan as they twisted and then fell.

“Don't just stand their gawping, man,” Rhenkin shouted. “Move!”

The lieutenant snapped another salute off and hurried to the steps.

“And tell Larson to get back over here!” Rhenkin called after him.

The interior of the village had been almost completely transformed. Piles of logs and debris from collapsed buildings had turned the once open and airy place into a maze of twisting corridors and tiny lanes.

The Bjornmen surged through the streets, meeting no resistance for the first five or ten seconds. A horn sounded and each of the men on the rooftops of the buildings closest to the breach rose to one knee and drew back on his bowstring. The arrows flew at the Bjornmen from all sides and hundreds died in a moment, falling to the ground, their screams mixing with the battle cries in a bizarre chorus.

The mass of raiders recoiled like a burnt snake and they crouched low, reforming their formation of interlocked shields. The advance halted altogether for a moment, while arrows slammed into shields as the archers searched for a weakness.

A unit of pikemen charged around the corner. They threw themselves into the fray, easily finding the cracks in the shield wall with their long weapons and thrusting them deep, decimating the stricken Bjornmen. They withdrew quickly, before the Bjornmen could gather themselves, and more arrows lanced down from the rooftops.

A raider tossed a flaming torch up onto a thatched roof and, as if this was the signal, more followed. Within moments, half a dozen buildings were suddenly alight.

Rhenkin swore as his plans dissolved into chaos. The Bjornmen locked shields and advanced slowly through the streets, touching flame to thatch as they went. The archers did their best but, in one stroke, their time had been cut in half. Barely had they loosed an arrow, when they were forced to flee to the next roof or down into the streets.

“Catapults,” called Rhenkin, and a barrage of logs was hurled into the enemy to cover the archers' withdrawal. His plan descended into a bloody brawl as the Bjornmen pushed forward to meet his troops. The narrow streets provided them with no room to manoeuvre and, for the best part of an hour, it was a ugly song of blood and pain, as feet slipped in the mess and swords stabbed down savagely.

The catapults continued to hurl logs at the Bjornmen and, at Rhenkin’s order, into the flames as well. Within the space of twenty minutes, the fire had turned into an inferno.

“Larson, it’s time. Sound the withdrawal. We’ve done all we can here. I’ll not waste lives needlessly.”

The retreat was a hair's breadth from a rout as Rhenkin’s force streamed through the village. Rhenkin ran at the rear with hand-picked men carrying heavy mallets. They slammed the mallets into the pinned beams braced against half-collapsed houses as they ran, the dust from the tumbling buildings eclipsing the cloud of smoke behind them as they fled.

The dust rose into the skies, mingling with the darker smoke as the village burned. The palisade and barracks, both constructed of wood, were merely more fuel for the fire and the flames soared high into the skies.

Chapter Eight

She wasn’t like the others. It had taken a long time for her to notice it but, once she had, she wondered how it could have taken her so long. They came and went, these brief moments of lucidity, but they were increasing. She now noticed the passage of time, the days that passed. None of the others seemed to. They were lost in the same fog that ebbed and flowed in her mind. The fog that seemed to have flooded theirs.

They rose before the darkness had started to fade, moving by the light of the glowing orbs that hung outside of their huts. It was a pale, watery light, an imitation of moonlight with all the joy and romance sucked from it.

The women were almost sluggish as they moved

walking as if still asleep, though none of them ever truly woke from it. They worked to put food together, toasting oatcakes or making porridge by boiling water on the stone plates with strange glowing symbols that each had in their huts.

There was no fire anywhere. She knew she ought to be more curious about this and the fact she wasn't nagged at her like a stone in her shoe.

A cry broke her train of thought. The babies were squalling again. It only took one to wake and they were all at it, joining together in a little choir of hunger and need. She rose with the others to fetch them. They’d all want feeding. They were always hungry.

As she cradled the baby to her breast, his eyes glowed a soft blue in the gloom. She stroked his hair and crooned a tune that seemed to begin at her lips without ever being formed by any thought.

She was one of the few that weren’t trying to get pregnant. Those that did were soon moved to a different area, away from the pens. She and two others were there simply to help with feeding the babies. No single woman could hope to keep up with their demand for milk. They simply grew too fast.

There were only women in this pen. The men were kept somewhere else. Their compound consisted of five simple huts arranged in a circle with a well at the centre. These were surrounded by a low wooden fence which marked the boundary. Beyond that was the unknown. The women were not permitted to go further than the fence and she’d never been curious enough to risk taking a look. Her curiosity came and went with the fog in her mind.

A tear ran down her face as she fed the baby. She always cried and the tears were another odd constant. What was she so sad about? She had no complaints, did she? The other women were in bliss. Bliss. The word tumbled around in her mind. It sounded like something. Reminded her of something.

The thought fell away as the baby stirred, protesting as her milk gave out. She frowned. This wasn’t right. It was much too soon. He fussed and grumbled, as she turned him and tried the other side, but there was little there either and, before long, he was crying again.

She was dimly aware of the woman beside her speaking. “Give him to me.”

The woman reached out her arms and, defeated, she passed the child to over her and fixed her clothing.

The baby settled down to feed, nursing hungrily. She watched for a moment, the sight stirring odd emotions in her. Envy and fear. She puzzled at the feelings, they were unsettling and she frowned again as she rose to her feet and left.

None of the others even looked up as she stepped out of the hut into the half-light. The glowing orbs were kept under the edge of the roof, far away from the rays of the sun. Their weak light didn’t extend far into the compound and she moved more from memory than anything else as she made her way to the well.

Her eyes soon adjusted to the darkness and her movements were mechanical, as she hauled the water up and poured it from the bucket into the jugs sat beside the well.

Bliss. The word still echoed in her mind. She found herself whispering it.

“Bliss.” The sound wasn’t quite right. This wasn’t the word she wanted at all. She dropped the empty bucket back down into the water then hoisted it up on the rope again.

“Liss.” Her blonde hair tossed as she shook her head, rejecting the noise.

“Riss.” She paused, resting the full bucket on the rim of the well as her lips moved. “Riss… Sriss…”

“Essriss.” No, not that. “Ylsriss.” As she whispered the word, her eyes grew wide and the lethargy fell from her as she shed it like an old skin. She looked about her and truly saw her surroundings – the huts, the well - for the first time in months. She caught sight of the satyrs, their lantern-light eyes gleaming as they stared through the fence, and then she screamed.

She was still screaming as the women came out of the huts, carrying the oversized babies with them. Babies that had grown to the size of toddlers in little more than a month. The women looked at her with confusion while the babies turned their heads towards her, their glowing blue eyes filled with a curiosity and an awareness that no baby that age should have, and then she screamed all the harder.

They came for her soon after that, man-shaped creatures with eyes of flame. They spoke to each other in a language that seemed closer to music than words, their hands reaching for her, grasping her. Ylsriss kicked and flailed in panic, as they held her down and studied her intently. Then a hand was laid on her head and everything was still.

She was being moved. Though her mind was filled with a fog, Ylsriss could tell that much. They took her to another place, where gentle hands and human voices cared for her. She lay under thick blankets as they spoon-fed her a thin broth, tending to her body while her mind retreated into a corner to curl up around its wounds.

It was a week before she spoke again. Two before she left the hut and entered a new world. Her mind was still waking, unfolding from the fog of the pens, but a fresh horror was growing within her as memories unfolded. Where was Effan? Where was her baby?

***

Her hands ached. Of all the things that might bother her it was the way her hands cramped as she was scrubbing the clothes in the cold water. The wellpumps might produce hot water but it cooled all too soon.

Ylsriss knelt on the rough wooden deck and thrust her hands into the water again. She grabbed the clothes and brought them to the scrubbing board. The water was almost cold now. Tepid would have been too generous a description. The sodden cloth slipped under her hand and she scraped her knuckles against the ridged board.

“Shit!” she swore loudly.

She brought her hand to her lips and sucked at the soapy knuckle as she hurled the rags down. The water sloshed to one side of the tub, causing it to tip, and the remaining clothes and soapy water spilled out over the deck, pouring over the edge onto the soft forest floor.

Her cheeks coloured in embarrassment as she felt the others' eyes settle on her, and she rushed along the deck and down the steps to retrieve the clothes. The eyes drifted away as if she wasn’t quite interesting enough to hold their attention. They were passive and docile, and this just served to fuel her anger.

Another pair of hands joined her as she squatted in the soft earth and helped her to gather up the clothes. “I know what it’s like,” Joran said, as she looked up at his young face in thanks. “It can be hard to adjust to life here. You will get used to it in time, though. Just give yourself a chance.”

Ylsriss glared at him, his warm smile a flash of white against a face made dark by the almost endless twilight. “Give up, you mean?” she snapped.

His smile faded as his expression became sympathetic, but this just stoked the fire inside her. She bit hard on the inside of her lip, tasting blood as she fought to contain more harsh words, and felt the guilt rising within her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” she muttered.

“Yes, you did,” Joran disagreed, in a kindly tone. “It’s the truth, after all. But you need to understand that it will get better. You don’t have to live in anger. You can find a joy in serving.”

She looked at him for a moment, wondering what he might have been like if he’d grown to manhood in her world, without feeling the touch of the fae on his mind.

A bitter sigh escaped her lips and she looked around the clearing. The huts were rude at best, cobbled together as well as they could be from fallen branches. The fae refused to let them fell trees, only permitting them to use limbs that had fallen in the wind or by some other natural means. They’d provided them with a handful of shaped boards, fashioned with their magic, but the majority of the huts had been made with what the slaves could scavenge.

She’d been shocked when she first arrived. The slaves were kept in conditions worse than any she’d known. They were treated little better than animals but they seemed to accept it stoically and without complaint.

She forced herself to smile as she stood by the tub. “You’re right, Joran. I just find it hard sometimes.”

He reached out hesitantly and squeezed her shoulder with genuine affection. “You need to give yourself time, Ylsriss. It’s only been...what...six months since you came to this camp?”

She didn’t answer. A group of children ran around the hut, laughing and squealing. She’d expected the pain to fade, although part of her had hoped it wouldn’t, but the sight of them brought the pain of Effan’s theft back to her, as fresh and sharp as she had felt it on the day it happened.

How long had she been here? Even after all this time, she found it almost impossible to keep track of the days. Six months sounded possible, but it could have been as much as nine or as little as three.

The sun didn’t rise and fall here like it did in her world. That was the reason they called it the Realm of Twilight. The sun and moon were only in the sky for roughly an hour each day. During the rest of the time, the sky was in a perpetual state of twilight or predawn.

“I think so,” she shrugged. Thinking of the time that had passed just reminded her of the time she’d lost with Effan. The fae would have taken him to a different camp, apparently. They hadn’t even given her the chance to say goodbye to him. She clenched her teeth and fought back the tears. Emotions like that just got you strange looks here.

With Joran’s help, she managed to gather up the now filthy clothing and pull the tub back up onto the deck. Ylsriss dumped the clothes out into a pile and turned to take the tub back to the wellpumps. She froze and noticed Joran stiffen too, as a stir passed through the camp. It was not as if any noise had been made, but the atmosphere changed instantly and her eyes were drawn to the far end of the small clearing, to the trail that led into the dense woods.

A fae stood there, its burning eyes slowly sweeping the camp until they settled on her. With an imperious gesture, he beckoned her closer and she obeyed quickly. Despite her anger, the creatures terrified her. It had not yet been her time to be chosen but she knew the day was coming. It had been coming since her milk ran out. Running would be futile. There was nowhere to run to.

As she drew closer, she saw two more figures behind him - a large human man and a young woman. The man held the girl by the wrist and it was clear he had been dragging her along for at least part of their journey. She was short, even shorter than Ylsriss herself, and her long dark hair covered much of her face as she stood, defeated, her head bent towards the ground.

Ylsriss looked questioningly at the fae. It was only when it glowered at her that she remembered herself. “How may I serve you, Blessed One?”

The glower transformed into a self-satisfied smirk. “You will care for this one. Show her the way of things.” The large man stepped forwards and Ylsriss realised her first impression was wrong. He had ice blue eyes that shone faintly in the twilight. This was no human. He was one of the fae-born.

She recovered herself quickly and bowed to the fae. “As you wish, Master.”

He grunted and turned to leave. The fae-born dropped the woman’s wrist and followed. She watched them walk lightly through the forest for a moment before the foliage swallowed them. The woman rubbed her wrist where the fae-born had gripped it. The red finger marks were visible even in the dim light. Ylsriss ducked down slightly to meet her eyes and gently touched her shoulders. “Let’s get you inside, shall we?”

The woman nodded mutely. Her eyes were like the rest of her. Shocked. Numb.

Ylsriss took the young woman’s hand, half-expecting her to jerk away or flinch, but she seemed unresponsive. She shared a look with Joran over the top of the girl’s head. His face mirrored her concern as he shrugged and they led the newcomer into the hut that Ylsriss shared with five others.

The young woman sat on the edge of one of the two bunks that stood against one wall, the extra sleeping pallets tucked underneath. Ylsriss poured water from a wooden bucket into a copper kettle and set it onto the runeplate to boil.

“There's going to be a lot for you to get used to,” she said, as she traced a fingertip over the first sequence of glyphs to release some of the stored heat.

She gave the girl what she hoped was a comforting smile and then turned to Joran, who stood watching them from the doorway, nodding to let him know it was okay for him to leave.

“Why don’t we start with your name? My name is Ylsriss.” The curtain that hung in place of a door fell back as Joran left, leaving them alone.

“Tia,” the woman breathed, her voice almost inaudible.

“Tia,” Ylsriss repeated. “ That’s a nice name. Now, how about a cup of tea? It’s not real tea, of course, but it’s as close as we can get.” She waited for the nod and then reached for two of the wooden cups on the small shelf above the window.

“When were you taken?”she asked, with her back still turned.

“Three days ago, I think. The sun isn’t right here,” Tia replied, her voice climbing above a whisper.

“I know. It's something they say you get used to, but I haven’t yet.”

“How long…?”

“Have I been here?” Ylsriss finished for her. “I would think about six months in this camp, but it’s hard to say for sure. Where were you from?” she asked, as she spooned out the dried leaves.

“Tigrit on Bresda. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

Ylsriss shook her head.

“It’s a little place on the northern coast. More a fishing wharf with a few huts to keep it company than a village.”

“I didn’t really see anywhere outside of Hesk until we started making preparations for the war,” Ylsriss shrugged.

“How were you taken?”the girl asked.

“I followed my baby. They took him.” Ylsriss said it quickly, hoping it wouldn’t hurt. It didn’t work.

Tia looked at her in shock. “They took him? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. He’s in another camp somewhere. I know he’s being cared for, but that’s all I know.” She cleared her throat. “What happened to you?”

“They came from the sky,” Tia said. Her eyes were glazed as she remembered.

Ylsriss blinked at that. Every time she thought there was nothing else she could hear about the fae that could shock her, she heard something new. “From the sky?”

“On white horses,” Tia said, softly.

“What happened?” Ylsriss asked, lifting the bubbling kettle from the runeplate and pouring the water into the cups. She deactivated the glyphs quickly. The stored heat was too precious to waste.

“It was late. Later than I should probably have been out and I knew I would get a tongue-lashing when I got in, but you know how it is when you’re with a boy.” Tia shrugged, her lips curling into a faint smile.

“I remember,” Ylsriss said, with a wry smile herself.

“Harn had taken me for a walk along the clifftop and we’d talked until past sundown.”

Ylsriss chuckled at the blush spreading on Tia’s pale cheeks. “You did more than just talking too, judging by that face.”

The colour faded quickly as Tia continued. “It started like a sound of thunder in the distance. We both looked around because it was a clear night. Then there were pipes and horses, and something was laughing. They tore down out of the sky on white horses, the moonlight shining on their hair. Their eyes…” She glanced up at Ylsriss, her face telling the story of her fear as she relived it.

“We ran. In my life, I don't think I’ve ever run so hard or so fast. We ran until my breath burned in my throat, but they were just toying with us, charging in from the sky and then veering off. Harn tripped and then grabbed a branch to use as a club but then they took him. There was so much blood, Ylsriss, and it was so fast. One moment he was telling me to get behind him and the next he was on the ground.”

Ylsriss realised she was still holding both cups and handed one to Tia, who took it slowly, her mind somewhere else as she continued to speak.

“They took his head. One of them actually took his head and held it high, like it was some kind of trophy, and they all laughed. Even the goat-men laughed. What kind of monsters are they, that they could do something like that?”

Ylsriss sipped at her tea, wondering where to begin.

“That’s a good thing to remember, Tia. They are monsters. They’ll tell you that you can have a good life here if you give in to it, accept that you’re a slave. There are wonders here like you’ve never imagined. Magic, true magic. It’s easy to let the past go and just accept your place here. You have to remember that they are monsters, though. They don’t feel things like we do. They don’t even look at us as people. We’re playthings, toys at best.”

Tia blanched and swallowed her tea down, barely noticing that it was too hot and burning her tongue. “Magic?” she asked, trying to take it in.

“Things like this.” Ylsriss waved to the runeplate. The glyphs glowed, the gentle orange light showing it was still warm.

Tia gave it a curious look, but then her eyes dropped and her face fell. “What will happen to me?”

“I won’t lie to you, Tia. You won’t be harmed so long as you work hard but, as a young woman, you must know what’s coming?”

Tia looked at her blankly.

“We’re breeding stock, Tia,” she said flatly. The girl's vacant expression slowly turned to one of horror.

“They don’t...?” she gasped, moving one hand to the thong around her neck and grasping at something beneath her simple dress.

“They do,” Ylsriss said. The truth was hard and brutal, but she would be better off knowing it from the outset rather than fostering false hopes. “They’ll probably give you some time to adjust but, yes, you will be taken and given to one of them. Over and over, until you are pregnant. They normally put women like you straight in the breeding pens. They stay there until they’ve given birth and their milk gives out. I don’t know why you’ve been put here. This is more of a holding area for women until they’re fertile again.”

“And you’ve been here…”

“Six months,” Ylsriss whispered. Then the tears came and, this time, there was no stopping them.

Tia looked on helplessly and then tried a tentative hug. Ylsriss hugged her back and gave a bitter laugh. “I’m supposed to be helping you,” she protested weakly. “A fine job I’m doing!”

“We must trust in the Lord,” Tia said, her soft voice full of calm conviction. “He will bring us through this.”

“The Lord?” Ylsriss wiped her eyes with one sleeve. “The Lord of New Days, you mean?”

Tia nodded.

“I wish I had your faith, Tia. It's not something I share. I hope this place doesn’t take it from you.”

Tia smiled and toyed with the necklace inside her dress. “I’m sure it won’t.”

“Let’s get out of here. I’ll walk you around the camp and show you how things work,” Ylsriss suggested.

Tia nodded and followed the older woman towards the door. One glance out of the window at the light was enough to prompt Ylsriss to turn back and test the temperature of the runeplate with a licked fingertip.

“Give me a hand with this?” She lifted it from its mounting with a grunt and staggered out of the doorway onto the porch. Once she was through the door, Tia grabbed an end and together they carried the chunk of stone down the three steps to the ground.

“What are we doing?” Tia asked, as they set the stone down.

“It stores heat. We can't use fire here,” Ylsriss explained. She dug into the soft earth with her hands and dumped soil over the glyphs, covering them and hiding them from the light.

“The glyphs will absorb the heat that the sun brings to the stone and then we can release it when we want to cook.”

“Why did you cover that bit in dirt?” Tia asked, pointing.

“The sunlight stops it working for some reason,” Ylsriss explained. “I’m not sure why or how, but we were told to make sure the glyphs never get exposed to it. You could cover them with anything, I suppose. I just find this easiest.”

Ylsriss watched the horizon as it grew steadily lighter. At last, the sun crested the trees and she gave a quiet sigh of pleasure, as she felt its warmth fall upon her. As if in response to the light, a flock of birds burst from the forest canopy, their red and green feathers bright against the blue sky.

The camp became a flurry of activity as the others rushed out to leave their runeplates in the sunlight. Tia's gaze fell on the moonorbs that were being swiftly deactivated. She turned to Ylsriss. “What about those? Why aren’t they being put out to capture the light?”

“You’re a quick one, aren’t you?” Ylsriss said, impressed despite herself. “I didn’t think to ask that for at least six weeks. We put those out at night to capture the moonlight.”

“Moonlight?” Tia asked, her face creasing in a frown. “Wouldn’t the sunlight be brighter?”

“It might be but remember what I said? It has to do with the way the magic works. We covered the glyphs in dirt to stop the sunlight from touching them. If we captured sunlight in the orbs and then released it...well...I don’t know what would happen. The orbs would probably just wink out straight away. Even if they didn’t, the light would affect everything else around them. The runeplates...the wellpumps...everything.”

Tia nodded, taking in the scene. “It looks so different here in the sunlight,” she marvelled.

“It really does,” Ylsriss smiled. “It’s my favourite time of day and it always passes too soon.”

They wandered around the camp and Ylsriss pointed things out as they passed them: the wellpumps that drew water into the buckets that were lined up and waiting beside the odd-looking contraption; the small but well-tended vegetable plot that extended from behind the small ring of huts; and, in the distance, the barely visible fence line.

“The fae hate most of the things that we take for granted. They allow us to farm these vegetables out of necessity, but they won’t touch them themselves. I suspect they also know what we keep in this pen but choose to ignore it.”

Tia followed her through the long wild grass. She caught flashes of russet through the trees and peered over the fence, trying to get a proper look.

“What are they? Some kind of cow?” she asked.

“Deer, actually,” Ylsriss replied, with a shrug. “As far as I know, there are no cows here and the only pigs I’ve heard of are wild boar. The fae keep us as their servants...well, slaves, if I am honest about it. They make use of the people that aren’t breeding for them in other ways. The men hunt for them. The fae will only eat meat taken on the hunt.”

“If they have to be taken on the hunt, why do you keep these?” Tia asked.

“Let’s just say it’s not a good thing to come back from a hunt empty-handed,” Ylsriss said.

“So you lie?” Tia gasped. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It’s not something we do all the time. We hunt the deer for them. We just keep these as backups, just in case. Joran thought this up a couple of years ago, apparently. It’s never been questioned.”

Tia leaned on the fence and looked out at the deer flitting through the trees. “Joran. He’s the boy you were with earlier?”

“He’s one of the ones who’s been here the longest. I expect they’ll come for him soon.”

Tia gave Ylsriss a sideways look at that. “Come for him?”

“For the same reason they come for us, Tia. Men are used just the same as women. We’re slaves...or servants, if that sits better with you...but primarily we're breeding stock.”

“But why?” Tia brushed the hair out of her face. “I mean, if they’re taking men then there must be female fae?”

“Oh, there are,” Ylsriss explained. She leaned on the fence and looked at the young woman. “This is guesswork, you understand? None of us know very much for certain, but I think that maybe the fae don’t reproduce very quickly. The man who brought you in. You remember him?”

“I’m not likely to forget,” Tia muttered, rubbing at one wrist.

“No, well, he’s what they call a fae-born. Half-human, half-fae.”

“He seemed a little...well...simple,” Tia said. “Why would they want to breed a new race of half-breed idiots?”

“I don’t know,” Ylsriss admitted, “but you saw how strong he was. Maybe they want them for soldiers. Maybe they have something else planned. It’s not really important.” She reached out and took hold of Tia’s hands. “What’s important is that you understand what's going to happen. Everyone copes differently. Some, like Joran, have just accepted that this is what their lives are going to be like. He and some of the others almost seem happy. Me, well, I keep a little place locked away inside myself. A place where I can keep the hope burning, no matter how futile it may be. I know I’m lying to myself. It's not like I could escape and run away. This is a whole other world. But I have to do something to stay sane. Does that make any sense?”

Tia nodded. “Yes, I think it does.” She looked back towards the camp, an odd expression on her face, and then turned in a slow circle.

“What is it?” Ylsriss asked.

“There are no guards or anything,” Tia said, in surprise.

“No,” Ylsriss agreed. “I’m surprised you noticed. Most are too affected to.”

“Affected? What do you mean?”

“Have a good look at the people in the camp, Tia. They wouldn’t think of escaping, even if it were an option,” Ylsriss said.

Tia looked at her in shock. “Why?”

“I’m not sure how it works. I’ve taken to calling it the Touch. I haven’t spoken about this to anyone else. Most of the others are too far gone to even notice. I'm sure some of it comes from being a prisoner. The rest of it is something else, though. It’s to do with what the fae are. It seems to come on quite quickly with some people. They become pliant, docile. They're almost like cattle. Whenever a fae comes near them, they get this look.”

“They are pretty terrifying, Ylsriss. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared of anything,” Tia confided.

“No, that’s not it. It’s not fear, it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“It’s closer to adoration.” She sighed and stepped away from the fence.“You can’t predict it. Some just become content with their lots here. Others... well, it barely affects them at all. Then there are those who practically worship the fae. They dream of being chosen to breed with them.” She spoke with venom. “I despise them. I know it’s not their fault, that they can’t help it, but I do. It’s disgusting.”

She moved towards the path, “Come on. The sun will be gone soon and I still have a lot to show you. We ought to be getting back.”

***

Ylsriss was woken by the smell of tea and toasting nutcakes. She sat slowly, rolling her shoulders and neck to work out the kinks, then turned to see Tia stood by the runeplate in the soft glow of a moonorb.

“You’ve picked that up quickly,” she said quietly, so as not to wake the others.

Tia smiled. “It’s amazing.”

Ylsriss looked at her closely for a second, then clambered out of the tangle of blankets on the thin sleeping pallet. She arched her back and grimaced at the knotted muscles.

“Are you sore? I should have taken the floor. I’m sorry.” Tia's dark eyes were filled with concern.

“Don’t be silly. Besides, we all take turns. There aren’t enough beds for all of us. You can sleep on the floor tonight.” Ylsriss stepped in behind her, looking over her shoulder at the glyphs.

“Ease it back a touch,” she instructed. “You’ll burn through the heat too fast like that.”

“Sorry. Maybe you should show me again?” Tia moved to the side to let Ylsriss at the glyphs.

“The stone itself will hold a lot of the heat you need once you’ve got it warm.” Ylsriss traced one of the inscriptions, bringing down the intensity of the glow with deft fingers.

“If you weren’t careful, you could use an entire day’s heat in one moment. It’d probably burn right through the floor.” She stepped back, letting Tia get back to the food. “That ought to do it.”

Tia nodded and turned the nutcakes over again. She touched the glyphs as Ylsriss had taught her, deactivating the hot stone of the runeplate.

“Here.” She handed Ylsriss some nutcakes on a wooden board with a cup of hot tea.

Ylsriss thanked her and sat on the edge of the girl's bunk. Chewing on a nutcake, she reached out her foot and nudged the others gently with it to wake them. The five women ate in silence, as was their morning ritual, each with a distant look in her eyes and her thoughts in another place, another time. They were changing though. Ylsriss looked from face to face as casually as she could. With some of them, it was more pronounced than others, but the signs were there in all of them. Soon they would be just like Joran. Some would be worse.

She felt stifled all of a sudden. The cramped conditions were too much when they were awake. Standing abruptly, she brushed the crumbs from her legs and reached for the pale clothing they all wore. She nodded towards a chest in the corner. “You should find something in there that will be roughly your size, Tia. You’ll be forbidden from wearing anything else from now on. Get changed quickly and then meet me at the wellpumps. We have a busy day today.”

Ylsriss didn’t have to wait long. The girl already seemed to have changed since yesterday. She was eager to fit in, to learn how things worked. She’d seen this happen before. Two of the girls who'd been brought in just after her had both accepted their new lives readily. Despite the time they'd spent in the pens and the babies that had been taken from them, they were happy. Tia seemed set on the same path. The thought depressed her and she had to force a smile as Tia came to meet her.

“Here.” She handed the girl a roughly woven wicker basket and a bulging waterskin. “You’ll need this today. Stick with me and try to keep up.”

Tia took the basket and studied the straps. The basket was well-made, but worn and heavily stained with dark red, almost purplish, smears.

“Berries for their wine,” Ylsriss explained, as she hoisted her own basket onto her back. “We juice them in the shed over there and then set them to ferment.” She led Tia out of the camp, following the other women and children who were making their way along the well-worn path through the forest.

Ylsriss looked back now and then to make sure Tia was keeping up, but the girl was right behind her. Her eyes were wide with wonder, as she took in the sights and sounds of the world around her. She gasped in delight as a flight of carrow moths fluttered out of the bushes, their black and white wings flashing in the dim light as they flew up above the trees.

“Come on, Tia!” she growled. The girl’s joy was irritating her. This was not a holiday. It was not a pleasant stroll through the woods. It was slavery.

The trail led up into the hills and Ylsriss was soon sweating from the heat and exertion. It was never truly cold in this place. There seemed to be no seasons to speak of, but the weather was muggy. The undergrowth grew thicker the further they travelled and it seemed to generate a humidity all of its own.

Finally, they broke free of the trees and emerged on a hillside that was densely carpeted with low bushes, which the women made their way into without hesitation. Tia watched them, her forehead creasing into a frown.

“The fae are a bit inconsistent, really,” said Ylsriss. “We pick these terel berries so we can make wine from them. They insist that their meat must be taken in the hunt, but they have no problems with us planting more of these bushes.” She motioned to Tia to follow her as she worked her way into the fields.

“Watch closely. There’s a knack to it, but it’s not all that hard to pick up.” Ylsriss lifted a leafy stem carefully. “Watch out for the thorns,” she muttered, twisting it to show Tia the vicious-looking spikes concealed beneath each leaf. “The berries come away with a twist.” She plucked one from the stem and reached over her shoulder to drop it into her basket. “Now you try.”

Tia reached for another low-hanging stem and lifted it, trying to match Ylsriss’s smooth motion. She jumped and uttered a small cry of pain as she dropped it. Several children looked at her and giggled, as she sucked her finger.

“I told you to watch out for the thorns,” Ylsriss said, irritation creeping into her voice. “They are poisonous. Not enough to kill you,” she added quickly, as Tia’s eyes grew wide and she pulled her finger from her lips. “It’ll just give you a mild fever if you get stuck enough times and then you’re no good to us.” She gestured towards the bush. “Try again.”

This time, Tia managed to pull the berry off without incident and pop it into her own basket.

“Good,” Ylsriss grunted. “Now, stay close to me and try to do it a bit faster. You’ll speed up in time, but we’re supposed to fill these baskets at least twice today.” Tia nodded and smiled again. Ylsriss pressed her lips together, trying to hide her frustration, and turned to the closest bush.

There was a rhythm to the work. Grab the vine with one hand, stroke back the leaves with the other, twist off the berry and then drop it over one shoulder into the basket. Grab, stroke, twist, drop. Ylsriss settled into a pattern, and her hands were soon flickering here and there over the bush as her basket grew heavier.

“Be sure to drink,” she called back over her shoulder to Tia, as she stopped to pull the waterskin up to her lips. “You won’t notice yourself getting dry until it’s already too late.”

Tia nodded gratefully and drank deeply from her own skin. Her fingers were already stained a deep purple from the juice of the berries and covered in small cuts from the thorns.

“It’ll come,” Ylsriss said. “Just try to keep at a steady pace. We don’t expect you to meet quota today.”

“Quota?” Tia began but the sound of a horn in the distance cut her off . She glanced at Ylsriss, who looked up in alarm as it sounded again and then again.

The other women and children on the hill stood and set their baskets carefully down on the ground. “Leave your basket here, Tia,” Ylsriss said. “We have to go.”

“What’s going on?” the dark-haired woman replied, catching Ylsriss’s worried tone and eyes.

“I’ll explain as we go.” She motioned to Tia’s basket impatiently and then led her swiftly back to the trail.

“We have a quota. An amount of berries we have to provide each week. Sometimes they want us to collect other fruits for them. Once, it was a particular kind of leaf. If a camp hasn't met the quota, they summon us like this.”

“Wait a minute! You mean there are other camps?”

“You didn’t think we were the only humans the fae have taken, did you?” Ylsriss spoke more harshly than she’d intended to and the girl flinched back from her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Yes, there are at least eight or nine, judging by the numbers at these gatherings. Remember I told you my son is in another camp?”

“So what happens if we don’t produce enough?” Tia asked. The women were moving along at much faster pace now and she was struggling to keep up.

“One of us is given to the fae. If it’s a woman, she is given to a satyr. If it’s a man, he is given to a female fae and then, when she’s done with him, to the satyrs for the chase,” Ylsriss said, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Satyrs?”

“You called them goat-men, I think.”

“What would they want with a woman?”

“What do you think, Tia?” Her look was direct, and Tia’s face reddened and then paled, as she moved from embarrassment to horror.

“The chase?” she asked, in a soft voice.

Ylsriss ducked under a broken branch that hung from a tree. “I don’t know all the details, but they are given a full day to run and then the satyrs hunt them. They never survive it. Few women survive their time with the satyrs either.”

The trail split and they passed further down the hill, away from the camp. The trees became less wild as they travelled. They didn't look as if they had been planted deliberately or pruned, but almost seemed like they had been sculpted, as if the entire forest were a part of some gigantic artwork. The sweeping arch of a bough here seemed to complement, and even mirror, the twisting line of a trunk there. It was a subtle change and one that was easily overlooked at first, but Ylsriss couldn’t fail to notice it now. It marked the shift from the wild woods into the home of the fae.

The trees seemed to be spread further apart, although there was no evidence of them having been cultivated or tended. The canopy altered too. Instead of the branches growing where they could, fighting for the light, they worked in harmony, the broader limbs of some trees supporting the lighter, weaker branches of others.

The soft voices of the women, and the chattering and giggles of the children ceased as the lights became visible. They were far paler than the light shed by the moonorbs of the camp and, as they crested the small hill and looked down into the fae city, their glow added a ghostly feel to it.

Ylsriss heard Tia gasp as the scope of the city became visible and remembered her own reaction at first seeing it.

“Is that it? Their home?” she asked in a whisper.

“That’s it,” Ylsriss replied, her voice filled with dread. “Tir Rhu’thin, the home of the fae.”

The city filled a massive area of the forest. It was unlike any other place Ylsriss had ever seen. Whilst many of the buildings were constructed of stone, some had been fashioned from living trees. They rested in the embrace of the branches, raised high above the earth.

There was no uniformity in the construction. Some trees cradled fully constructed stone and wooden buildings, while others held simple platforms strewn with pillows and billowing silk curtains. Other buildings seemed to be formed within groups of four or five trees. Somehow, the trees intertwined to create enclosed spaces.

Ylsriss glanced over at Tia and reached out gently to take her arm. The woman was reacting just as she once had, her feet barely moving as she looked about her in wonder.

The group huddled together as they approached the yellow-stone wall and passed through the ivy-covered archway that led into the city. Not for the first time, Ylsriss noted the crumbling stones. Despite the newly-built appearance of some of the tree homes, the place had the feel of a ruin that had been brought back to life.

The city was riddled with small winding paths paved with the yellow-stone slabs, which stretched out through the trees. Ylsriss and the others followed a wide central route that led into the centre of the city.

Suddenly, the fae were everywhere as if someone had sounded a bell. They perched on tree limbs, stood in doorways and waited by the side of the winding path, watching in silence as the women and children passed.

Ylsriss no longer needed to hush Tia or hurry her along. The young woman pressed close to her for protection. The fae did not move but their faces were filled with animosity and derision.

The group followed the broken paving stones into a central square. At its centre was a garden of sorts, although it was little more than a wide circle of grass with a huge willow tree in the middle. Fae clustered around the tree, their musical voices falling silent as the women approached. The crowd parted and the creature at its centre strode forth.

Tia gave a barely audible mewl of terror as the figure walked slowly towards them. A man’s head and torso extended out of the lower body of a massive stag. The creature had a thick beard and hair that hung down to its shoulders, and a pair of huge antlers sprouted from its head.

It extended one arm and invited them closer with a sweeping gesture. Tia moved in with the crowd and then sank to her knees in the grass, following the lead of the others. They waited in silence. She noticed that the children were silent and still. They didn't need to be hushed. She edged closed to Ylsriss and whispered,“What is that thing?”

“That’s Aelthen. Their leader or king, or something. Be still!” Ylsriss hissed.

Others began to file in, first groups of women and children, and then smaller groups of men, until the garden could hardly contain them and the square groaned with the numbers.

“You, who have been summoned, will bear witness.” The creature’s voice was deep and powerful, reaching the furthest edges of the crowd with ease.

“You all know your tasks and the consequences of not performing them well.” He turned and beckoned into the crowd of fae. A tall female emerged from it and dragged a man out towards the creature. He looked spent. Not just tired, but drained, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, although he showed no signs of gauntness or weight loss. It was as if the very essence of him had been leached away, leaving little more than the husk.

Aelthen’s burning amber eyes swept across the crowd as if searching. Finally, they settled on Joran and a faint smile touched the creature’s lips. “You will take him. Prepare him. Tomorrow, he will be quarry for the chase.”

Joran stood and nodded respectfully, before stepping forward to the female, who dropped the man at his feet. A sneer of contempt tainted her beautiful but alien face.

With that, Aelthen turned away. Ylsriss pulled Tia to her feet and herded her back with the others. They filed through the streets, passing through the ivy gates and heading back into the forest in silence.

Chapter Nine

Ylsriss walked on in silence. Tia had already tried to speak to her several times but she’d ignored her. Her attention was on the man who staggered along beside Joran, leaning heavily on his arm. Despite Joran's smaller stature, he managed to support him easily. It took some time for it to sink in, but Ylsriss was slowly becoming aware of a resemblance. The man was older, certainly, but he had the same facial structure as Joran, the same set to his eyes and cheeks. She thought of the way Aelthen had smiled at him and she wondered. By the time they had made their way back into the camp, she was certain they were related.

She sent Tia off with some of the other women to retrieve the berries they’d harvested that morning and then hurried to Joran’s small hut. She tapped on the door frame and waited until the thin curtain was pulled back. Joran looked calm as he peered out at her.

“Ylsriss,” he said, “I’m a little busy right now.”

“You know him, don’t you?” Her question was deliberately blunt.

“Know him? I don’t think so. How could I?”

She ignored his protest and pushed past him into the hut. It was smaller than her own and designed to house only two or three people. The man lay on the bunk closest to the window, his eyes closed and his face pointed towards the dim light filtering through the white cloth that Joran had hung where glass panes would be in another life.

She studied his face and turned to Joran, who looked at her with an expression of mild confusion. She knew his emotions were probably dulled. On the face of someone so affected by the fae it was equivalent to looking at her as if she'd gone mad.

“How can you not see it, Joran? This man looks just like you!”

“You’re being ridiculous, Ylsriss. Besides, what does it matter?”

“Where were you taken?” she asked, as a thought occurred to her. Just how far did the Touch go? What if it were challenged, pushed?

“It was a long time ago,” he replied, looking slightly uncomfortable. Ylsriss felt a surge of triumph. Any display of emotion was a mark of success.

“How can you not remember? It was your home.” Her tone was blunt, as she deliberately goaded him.

“I was young. You don’t think about things like that when you’re young.”

“Like what? Where you live? Of course you do,” she scoffed. “How old were you when you were taken?”

“I must have been about eight or nine, I suppose,” Joran muttered, his face creased in concentration.

“Are you sure? Tell me your mother’s name,” she demanded.

“My mother’s name? What?”

“It’s simple enough, Joran. Tell me her name.”

“What are you doing, Ylsriss? What’s all this about?”

“This shouldn’t be this hard, Joran. This isn’t normal. Tell me her name.” Her voice was harsh, ordering him.

His usual pliant look fell away, as his confusion slowly gave way to frustration and then panic. “I… I can’t.”

He trembled as the emotions came flooding back into him, and his face was etched with pain and fear. She took him into her arms then, as his tears began to fall and he uttered a cry of anguish. “How can I not remember her name? I can’t even picture her.”

“It’s this place, Joran. It’s them. They’re doing something to you. To all of us,” she said, brushing his hair from his face as he clung to her.

He cried for a time and then pushed her away gently. He coughed and rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Do you still think it’s strange you can’t picture her?”

“What? Of course I do. She’s my mother, for crying out loud!”

“Good!” Ylsriss snapped. “Now, look at him!” She stabbed a finger towards the man on the bunk, who was snoring softly.

“Lord of the New Days, Malik!” Joran gasped. “How could you know?”

“It’s like looking at a man next to a mirror, Joran. It’s as plain as day.”

“So why didn’t I know? How could I forget my own brother?”

Ylsriss sat him down on the edge of the other bunk. “I meant what I said, Joran. They're doing something to us.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it’s subtle, but people just don’t behave as they should,” Ylsriss explained, trying to put something she had only really made guesses at into words. “Like Tia. She was only taken about a week ago, I’d guess. Look at her though, she’s happy and smiling, and taking joy from the magic and sights here.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Life here is hard enough,” Joran said, with a frown.

“Yes, but it’s not how she should be acting. She should be screaming, terrified, looking to see if there is a way to escape.” Ylsriss paced as she spoke. “We’re all so passive. Why is that?”

“It’s not like we have anywhere to go, Ylsriss. We don’t have any way we could resist them or fight back. We’re slaves!”

“You’re right, we are,” she agreed, “but I think we’re almost slaves of our own making. Do you know it took Tia more than an hour to notice that there aren’t any guards here?” She caught the shocked look on his face. “You hadn’t even realised, had you?”

He shook his head. “It’s not that I didn’t know. It just… this sounds ridiculous, but it just didn’t seem important, for some reason.”

“It’s the Touch,” insisted Ylsriss. “It’s more than just something that makes us compliant. It’s slow, subtle, but in the end we almost worship them.”

Joran nodded, his face thoughtful. “The Touch?”

“It’s as good a name as any for it.” Her speech became faster, excitement building in her. “You fought this thing off . Perhaps the others could too.”

“And then what?”

She stopped at that. “I have no idea. Something. Anything!”

“We’d need to find out what causes it first,” Joran mused, his face more animated than she could ever remember. “Is it the food? No, we grow most of it ourselves. The water, maybe? Like a medicine a hedge woman gives you to make you sleep?”

“It’s not the water,” a soft voice came from the corner. Malik sounded exhausted but his eyes were wide open and his words were clear.

“You’re awake!” Joran knelt at his side.

“Obviously,” Malik replied, dryly. “It’s not the water though. Speaking of which, I’m as dry as bone here.”

Ylsriss filled a cup from the bucket by the runeplate. “Here,” she said.

He sipped the lukewarm water slowly at first, then drained the cup in three large gulps before handing it back for more. The water seemed to help and, after another cupful, he was able to push himself upright.

“It’s not the water. It's not the food. It's something about the fae themselves,” he explained, taking a nutcake from Ylsriss and picking at it.

“How though?” Ylsriss asked, intrigued.

“I don’t know. It gets worse the closer you are to them, the more time you spend with them. I could feel myself becoming lost, losing all sense of who I was.” His face clouded and he shook his head in disgust.

“I can see it all now, as if I'm looking at myself from the outside, seeing how I acted, what I became.” He looked up at them, anger in his eyes. “They make us into something no better than dogs. No, worse than that, we’re like toys to them, something to entertain them in their idle moments. I was filled with adoration for Byrlian, the female I was given to. I worshipped her.”

“You loved her?” Joran asked.

“No...yes…” Malik shook his head. “It’s more than that. I literally worshipped her, like she was some kind of goddess. I would have cut off my own arm for her if she'd asked, or even if it would have made her favour me with a smile. The things she made me do, though. You can’t know how cruel they can be. The games she played with me...”

“So it was deliberate, then,” Ylsriss mused.

Joran looked at her, “What was?”

“It’s not a coincidence that you were picked to prepare him, Joran. Aelthen knew exactly who you both were. They’re still playing their game with you now.”

Malik nodded with a sigh. “You’re probably right. Joran would never have noticed if you hadn’t brought him out of it, whatever it is, but I would have known. They delight in this type of thing.”

“I still don’t remember it all,” Joran muttered. “It’s like half of my memories have gone. I know you’re my brother, but I can’t remember our family or where we’re from. I don’t even know when we were taken or how.”

“You’d soon forget it all again, anyway,” Malik said, quietly.

Joran paced the three steps to the doorway and back. “We can’t just let them do this, though. We have to do something. You could run early. You could go now!”

Malik's lips twisted into a small, tired smile. “I can’t, Joran. They'd just come for you.”

“I don’t care about me. It’s not about me,” Joran cried, waving his arms.

“And what about Ylsriss or the others in this camp? What about the children here? Do you think they’d stop with just you? No. If I am not there as expected, they will come for all of you. I won’t let that happen.”

“You can’t go early,” Ylsriss said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be unprepared.”

“What do you mean?” Malik propped himself against the wall, his eyes now bright and interested.

“Well, they'll expect you to be tired, with no food or water. Easy prey.” A nasty smile crept across Ylsriss's face. “What if you were none of those things?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Well, you have to be at the Whitestone. They're expecting you.” She spoke slowly, still forming the plan in her mind as she was explaining it. “We don’t though. We could meet you with provisions. We could all run!”

“No.” Malik was adamant. “They’d find us and kill us all.”

“What do you think is going to happen to us all in the end, anyway?” Joran demanded. “What do you think is going to happen to Ylsriss?”

“You don’t know that. Life is hard here, but at least it’s life,” Malik protested. “What you’re suggesting is a life of running. It would probably end with Joran and I just being killed, but you, Ylsriss, you must know how it would end for you. Alone in the woods, chased down by a horde of satyrs. You’d be passed around among them until it killed you.”

They fell silent at that. Ylsriss sought Joran’s eyes. They were bright and clear, filled with determination. It was more than that, though. They were filled with life, with a fire that hadn’t been there before.

A thought came to her. “Fine. If you won’t let us run with you, at least let us help you when you do run,” she said.

“How are you going to do that?” Malik asked, with a scowl.

“They expect you to arrive rested, but with no supplies. That’s how you’re supposed to run, isn’t it?”

Malik nodded and motioned for her to continue.

“What if we left early and put some supplies out for you? Nothing too heavy. Just some water and food. It could make all the difference.”

“She’s right!” Joran said, grabbing Malik’s arm. “They'll think that by the time the satyrs start to run, you’ll already be tired. They'll expect you to be thirsty and weak.”

“It’s a big risk. What if they catch you with the supplies?” Malik hedged.

“We’re doing it, Malik. You can stop me from running with you, but you can’t stop me from doing this.” Joran jabbed his finger at the air in front of Malik’s face as he spoke. “Get some rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“You’re going now?” Malik gaped.

“Soon. The sun will be up in an hour or so. It makes sense to go then, when the fae are all inside.”

“Joran, I…” He reached for the younger man.

“Save it for when I get back.”

***

Ylsriss rose as silently as she could and made her way out of the hut onto the deck. The others were still asleep and Tia’s snores were loud enough to mask her passage. The sky was shifting from the true black of night to the silvery twilight that would last all morning until the sun rose for its hour near noon. They would be coming for Malik before too much longer.

She passed through the camp and tapped lightly on the wall of Joran’s hut. The deep, steady breathing coming from within it carried on rhythmically. Ylsriss shook her head and smiled. Were all men this hard to wake? Klöss had been just the same.

“Klöss.” She whispered his name. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of him or their baby in so long. She clenched her fist and dug her nails into her palm in an effort to stem the rising tears. She would find a way to get Effan back, to get back to her own world. It was a hope she’d hidden from herself, one too distant to indulge in, but now...now that Joran had changed...perhaps it was possible. She stopped herself. “One thing at a time, Ylsriss,” she whispered.

She knocked again, louder, and the splutter from inside told her she’d been successful. Joran pulled the curtain aside and peered out . His relief at seeing Ylsriss spoke volumes about his fear that it would be someone else waiting. “Ylsriss, it’s still early. What do you want?”

“It’s not that early. They'll come for him soon.” She looked back over her shoulder, half expecting to see movement in the trees. “We should make sure he is well fed before they do.”

“He probably needs sleep to more,” Joran said, stepping out onto the deck.

“No, Joran. She’s right.” Malik’s voice carried from inside the hut.

Joran shot her a black look and then held the curtain aside for her to enter.

She cooked quickly and they ate mostly in silence as the sounds of the camp waking drifted in through the door and window. Conversations started and ended almost before they began, stifled by the situation. The sound of distant voices prompted Ylsriss to pull the curtain aside and she turned back to the pair with a grim expression that said all that was needed.

“You remember the directions?” Joran whispered, with a sudden urgency.

“I remember.” Malik rose and stepped through the curtain with a quiet dignity. Two fae faced the hut while a small group of satyrs stood behind them, laughing and speaking in their musical tongue.

“Come,” the fae said simply, while reaching a hand out to Malik.

Curtains twitched in the other huts as the men and women watched, their eyes filled with nothing more than a dull curiosity.

Malik turned once as he was being led away. The expression on his face was calm but he managed a smile. Ylsriss knew, as they followed at a distance, that it was the only goodbye they would get.

The Whitestone was close to Tir Rhu’thin on a hill at the end of a well-trodden forest path. The stone itself was a massive grey boulder, shot through with veins of white. Ylsriss was reminded of the cheeses she used to steal from the market in Hesk, and had to fight down a wave of nervous laughter as they stopped at the very end of the path.

The forest seemed to have shied back from the hill that held the stone at its summit. The image stuck with Ylsriss and she found herself looking down at the trees and trying to decide if they actually were growing at an angle leaning away from the stone. It was an odd thought but it helped to distract her from the horror of the moment.

The hilltop was packed with satyrs, their eyes filled with anticipation. Aelthen waited at the stone, surrounded by a small ring of fae. The growing crowd parted as Malik was escorted through and presented to Aelthen. They were too far away for Ylsriss to hear any of the words but, even at this distance, the massive creature's voice carried.

“What happens now?” Tia’s voice was low.

Ylsriss glanced at her. She hadn’t realised she was so close. “We wait,” she replied.

“Wait for what?”

“The sun.” Ylsriss spoke without looking at her, her eyes searching the crowd for Joran. They’d become separated on the walk to the hill. “When the sun rises, Malik will start to run. He has the whole day. When the moon rises, he’ll loose the satyrs on him.” She nodded to the antlered figure next to the stone.

“Aelthen?” Tia guessed. “He’s magnificent, isn’t he?”

Ylsriss gave her a sharp look. It was there, in her expression. The admiration in the girl's eyes was plain for anyone to see. It wasn’t quite adoration yet, but she knew it soon would be. She bit back a retort that would have been wasted anyway and sighed.

The fae and satyrs waited in silence. Slaves filed in to join the crowd. Ylsriss guessed that almost every human in the camps was in attendance. Was Effan somewhere in the crowd? Or was he still in his camp with whoever cared for him? Any murmur of conversation was stilled by cold looks from the fae and even Tia’s whispered questions eventually stopped. The sky grew lighter by degree as they waited and, finally, the first rays of sunlight fell upon the hilltop.

The satyrs hissed and flinched as the sunlight hit them, and a faint green mist began to rise from their bodies. The fae were more stoic, Ylsriss noted. They initially grimaced but then ignored the deeper green vapour trailing from them. Aelthen stood as before, silent and impassive, simply waiting.

Only when the sun had crested the trees and the whole of it could be seen in the sky did he move. A cheer rose from the massed satyrs as he turned his head to speak to Malik. The crowd parted to allow the condemned man to walk through, and he made his way to the edge and then began to run down the hill and into the forest.

They watched for a time, long after he had passed into the trees and out of sight. The humans began to drift away soon after he faded from view. Despite their summons to bear witness, there was still work to be done.

Ylsriss spotted Joran and walked over to him, reaching for his hand. Eventually, they were the only two humans left. The satyrs stood, as if frozen, the mist boiling from them in a great green cloud. They would remain there until the moon rose. “Come on, Joran,” Ylsriss said. “We should go.”

The walk back to the camp seemed very quiet and very long.

***

The day passed slowly. The mindless drudgery of the work was bad enough, but Ylsriss itched to be able to speak to Joran. Her basket was filling slowly with berries, but she wasn't really putting any effort into picking them. The longest anyone had lasted on the chase was until the moon had begun to set the same night. At least, that was what they had told her.

The satyrs were fast and they wouldn’t tire in the same way that a man would. Usually, they would find their quarry quickly. The dehydrated and terrified slaves must be easy to chase down. She wondered whether the supplies that Joran had hidden for Malik would make any difference.

When it was time to head back, she set her own pace and passed the others with ease. It was impossible to run whilst wearing the basket without spilling the precious berries, but she moved as quickly as she could. Tia was silent for once, walking with the group, wearing the same vacant look as the worst of them. Ylsriss was driven on as much by the desire to get away from the sight of her as she was to speak with Joran.

When she arrived in the camp, she immediately saw that she needn’t have bothered rushing. It was silent. The men must still be out on the hunt. She dumped her berries into the vat in the storehouse and made her way back to her hut. The runeplate lay on the ground outside where she’d left it to absorb the sunlight, but she ignored it, stormed into the hut and threw herself onto the hard bunk. Sleep was an escape, the only place she had left she could run to.

Morning marked the surreal return of the camp's daily routine. Tia had retrieved the runeplate and breakfast was the usual silent ritual. Ylsriss ate as quickly as she could, then gathered up the soiled clothing and the washbasin, taking them out to the deck.

Washing the clothes was a chore she privately despised, but it would give her some time to herself and, hopefully, the opportunity to see Joran.

She ferried the bucket to and from the wellpumps, filling it with steaming water which she then transferred into the tub. The glyphs on the pipe running out of the well-mouth shone brightly in the twilight as she slid back the sleeve to activate them. They must have recently been renewed, although she hadn’t seen a fae enter the camp.

Ylsriss kept an eye on Joran’s hut as she scrubbed the clothes against the ridged board. She was up earlier than most of the other slaves, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before they started work. As if on cue, the first of the men emerged from their huts, their eyes downcast and their voices subdued when they spoke at all.

Joran came out of his hut and she gave up all pretence of working, watching him openly. He moved just as the others had, slowly and without meeting anyone’s eyes. Her heart sank. Surely he hadn't drifted back under the influence of the fae already? The thought of being truly alone here, the only person not smothered by the Touch, was too dreadful to bear. He glanced over at her. It was little more than a flicker of the eyes, but it was enough to give her hope.

She groaned inwardly as Tia approached and handed her a basket. “Come on. You're really slow today.”

There was no avoiding it. She drained the water away and quickly hung the washing on the lines behind the huts before following the women and children out to the trails.

It was the last hours of twilight before true dark when they finally heard it. Ylsriss had returned to the camp and was working the press in the fruiting shed, crushing the berries down and setting the juice to ferment. The horn cut through the stillness, its haunting note made all the more poignant by what she knew it signified. Malik was dead. They had found him after all.

***

Ylsriss looked around the dark hut in confusion. She listened to the soft sounds of the others sleeping for a moment, trying to understand what had woken her. A soft tapping came from the wall next to the door opening, barely loud enough to hear.

She picked her way through the tangle of the two women sleeping on the pallets on the floor and stepped out into the darkness. A dark figure loomed next to the door. She jumped back in shock, before a soft green glow illuminated Joran’s face.

“You scared me!” she whispered.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of a way to wake you and not the others.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“You’re the shortest one in there.” His smile was an eldritch green in the glow of whatever it was he held in his hand.

Ylsriss grunted her acknowledgement. “It’s not polite to point it out, though.”

“I’ve been thinking about Malik. I think we need to talk.”

She glanced back into the hut, then nodded. “Not here, though. Let’s not run the risk of waking anyone else up.”

He reached for her hand. The darkness was absolute. No moonorbs still glowed and the clouds blocked any starlight that there might have been. They moved carefully, by the tiny bit of light Joran was shedding. He led her through the camp and behind the juicing shed.

“Behind the sheds, Joran? If we were home, people would talk,” Ylsriss said, with an impish grin, before realising he couldn’t see it. “What is it you’ve got there, anyway?”

He ran a finger over the glyphs and the moonorb began to glow more brightly, giving off enough light to illuminate them but not enough to extend beyond the shed.

“The glyphs themselves gave off enough light for me to see my way through the camp,” he shrugged.

“Clever,” she said. “I tried to talk to you earlier. I’ve been trying to find a way to talk ever since we got back from Tir Rhu’thin.”

“I know.” The darkness hid his features but it couldn’t cover the misery in his voice. “It’s stupid, but I feel like everyone is watching me now. That they’ll notice I’m different.”

“You’re right. It is stupid.” Ylsriss was only half-joking. “Most of them wouldn’t notice if you burst into flames.”

Joran grunted at that. “You heard the horn?” It was a foolish question. Everyone had heard it.

“Yes.” There wasn’t much else she could say.

“It was a good three hours after sunset. He lasted more than a full day.” There was a note of fierce pride in his voice.

“It was the only revenge he could have against them,” Ylsriss said, in a hoarse whisper. “He spoiled their game.”

Joran cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’m not sure he did. They might have just seen it as a greater challenge. That’s not my point, anyway. My point is he lasted three hours past sunset. Longer than anyone else ever has. He achieved that even though he had no real supplies, and when they knew where his trail began and how fresh it was.”

“What are you saying, Joran?” Ylsriss already knew the answer.

“We could run.” His eyes were bright in the night. “Think about it. I mean, it’s only really the Touch that keeps us here. There are no guards. They might not even notice we've gone for days. Not until the quota was missed.”

“Run?” She kept her voice neutral. “Where would we go? What would we survive on?”

“I don’t know where we’d go. Maybe in search of a way out of here. A way home.” He shrugged. “Just away from here. That would be enough to start with. I can’t go back to being the way the others are. I know I won't notice once it starts, but I can’t bear the idea. I know if we stay here, eventually I will, though. As for what we’d survive on, what do we survive on now? I could take a bow. We could hunt and forage.”

“And what about Effan? What about my son?”

“We don’t even know where he is, Ylsriss. But maybe, in time, we could go in search of him too,” Joran said.

Ylsriss tried to ignore the excitement rising in her. He probably didn’t mean it about Effan. He was just humouring her. He was young though and, much as she didn’t like to admit it to herself, she was not above using him if she had to. Not if it meant getting Effan back.

“When would you want to go?”

“You’ll do it then?” He practically squeaked with excitement.

“I didn’t say that, Joran. I just asked when.”

He paused for a moment. “I think if we’re going to do it, it should be as soon as possible. I know it would make sense to wait until the Wild Hunt when more of them are in our world, but I don’t dare.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don't think you ever fell under the Touch, Ylsriss, not really. You don’t know what it feels like.” His voice was harsh, raw. “It’s like being numb inside your own mind. Nothing matters except for the fae. You live only to serve them, to please them. I can’t let it fall on me again. It’s not just that, though. We have no idea how this works. I mean, what if they can tell somehow?”

“Tell what? About you, you mean?” The thought hadn't even occurred to her.

“It’s no more outlandish than stoves powered by glyphs and sunlight, is it?” He laughed suddenly. The sound was too loud in the night and his teeth clacked together as he clamped his mouth shut.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she admitted, softly. “You’re wrong though. I felt the Touch as strongly as anyone when I was in the pens.” She fell silent, studying his eyes in the dim glow of the moonorb. “Tomorrow?” she whispered.

“That soon?”

“Why not?”

He couldn’t think of a reason.

“We’ll need to gather some things,” he said.

***

Ylsriss stabbed herself on a thorn again and swore under her breath as she sucked at her finger. She sucked and spat, then sucked again. The poison was very minor but it would be enough to make her clumsy and more likely to scratch herself again. She'd heard tales of women dying in the berry fields, scratching themselves over and over until they finally collapsed. It wasn’t something they spoke of any more. The Touch seemed to have affected the rest of the women more powerfully recently. Maybe it was just the events of the last day or so that made it seem worse to her, but they seemed even quieter, even more docile. “Like stupid sheep”, she muttered, spitefully.

She spat again and began picking once more, moving slowly, deliberately. Why hadn’t she volunteered to work the vegetable patch instead?

Tia stood to her left, humming contentedly as her fingers flickered over the bushes. Ylsriss shot her a sour look. The young woman disgusted her now, although she knew that it was irrational. It didn’t seem likely anyone could resist the Touch once it was upon them, but some were just more susceptible than others.

Tia was different though. She seemed to have opened herself to it, to have welcomed it to her. She’d been entranced almost from day one. From the moment she first saw the runeplate and the other magical items around the camp, she’d given up any thoughts of home or the fact that she’d been taken by force. It wasn’t just the Touch, although that had very clearly taken hold. She actually wanted to be here.

There were women in the camp who’d actually looked forward to being taken by the fae, who had welcomed the chance to try and carry a child for them. Tia would be one of these women, Ylsriss knew it. She would go to the fae with open arms and be willing, possibly even eager, to be bedded.

She glanced up at the sky. The day was dragging. Sunset had been hours ago, but the afternoon twilight seemed to be lasting forever. Her basket was less than half-full, but that wouldn’t matter, not if she and Joran were to escape that night. The thought brought both excitement and fear in equal parts and she forced herself to take a deep breath and calm down as she looked around nervously, before picking another berry.

Joran was right. Despite knowing that no one was watching her, that the weight of the Touch stifled any real curiosity in those affected by it, it was hard to quell the paranoia. She glanced at Tia again and then turned back to the berries in front of her.

It was the silence that first alerted her to the fact that something was wrong. The Realm of Twilight was usually alive with the sounds of birdsong. Ylsriss straightened and looked about her, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease.

The terel berry field was really just a collection of small clearings that were connected by gaps in the trees. She caught a sudden blur of movement and then a woman screamed. It wasn't a scream of fright or surprise. It was a scream of pure terror and indescribable pain.

Ylsriss could see something thrashing around in the bushes. The screams ended almost as quickly as they began, but they were followed by a visceral growling, and the terrible sounds of cracking bones and ripping flesh, as whatever it was devoured the remains of the woman it had killed.

The other women ran through the berry patch, screaming, heedless of the scratches they were receiving from the thorns. The Touch might make them pliable, but it didn’t override something as primal as the survival instinct. Ylsriss didn’t move. Her eyes were still fixed on the thrashing bushes.

The creature emerged from them and then pounced, reaching out almost lazily to hook one of the fleeing women with its claws. It seemed to be a thing of purest darkness. Even the claws that extended from its paws were ebon. Its eyes burned a flaming green, but what caught Ylsriss’s attention the most was the dark streak that extended out behind it as it leapt. It was as if the beast left a trail of mist behind it as it moved. A mist which seemed to be slowly catching up with it again and coalescing with its form.

The thing emerged from the bushes again, blood dripping from its powerful jaws. It was some kind of cat-like creature, although its head had a definite canine quality to it. Ylsriss didn’t stop to study it. This time, she fled. It wasn’t really hunting them, she realised. It didn’t stop for long enough to eat its prey. It was just killing. She sped along the rows of bushes rather than through them, as the other women had. They were low, little more than waist-high, but they offered some chance of concealment.

The bushes ahead of her shook wildly as the cat-thing landed, crashing into the leaves and branches. It moved casually, almost slowly, its eyes burning with a cruel intelligence as it turned to regard its new prey. The long streak of darkness extended from its pelt, back over the bushes.

This time Ylsriss screamed. She couldn’t help it. The thing sat back on its haunches, flinching away at the noise, then almost seemed to smile at her terror. It tensed, ready to spring. Even as she turned to run, she knew it would catch her. She threw herself forward through the bush in front of her, falling to her knees as she tumbled through the stubby branches. She tried to clamber to her feet, but then felt the wind of the beast's passage as it leapt completely over the top of her. There was a wet thud as it landed. She closed her eyes tightly and waited for the end.

It didn't arrive. After a moment, she opened her eyes again. The cat lay on its side, a long arrow shaft protruding from the top of its foreleg, just behind the shoulder joint.

Ylsriss stood and looked around. It had to have been Joran. None of the other men could have hoped to make that shot. She searched the bushes looking for him, but then her gaze fell upon the fae as he strode towards her.

He was one of the tallest of the fae she had ever seen, over a head and a half taller than her. A bow that was even taller than he himself was slung over his shoulder. He knelt down beside the cat, ignoring her completely. His hand stroked the beast gently and, as he did, she realised it was still breathing, painful and laboured breaths. With one swift motion, he grabbed the arrow and forced it deeper. The cat jerked once and then was still. The fae closed his eyes tightly for a moment and his lips moved silently.

“Take this.”

Ylsriss blinked. “What?”

“The bow. Take the bow.” He thrust it at her, then hauled the cat up onto his shoulders and stood with a grunt. Now that it was dead, the creature looked even bigger than it had before and it hung down to his knees. “Take me to your camp,” he ordered, looking at her expectantly.

“Yes, Blessed One.” Ylsriss suddenly remembered herself and dropped her eyes, adopting the subservient manner of the other women in the camp.

They did not speak on the trek. It would have been out of character for a slave to speak to a fae and he was clearly not interested in talking to her. She watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye and he looked at her curiously on more than one occasion.

They passed the first of the huts and went to the centre of the clearing, near the wellpumps. He dropped the cat to the ground, where it landed with a loud thump, and then held his hand out for the bow.

He waited in silence as the women of the camp assembled. They flocked to him like moths to a flame.

“A magnificent beast, Blessed One,” breathed Tia, admiration clear in her tone.

He glanced at her and smiled. “A shade-cat. One of the largest I’ve seen. Certainly the largest I’ve seen since the ret…” He cut off, stopping abruptly and frowned at Tia as the women on either side of her whispered for her to be silent.

“You will skin this creature for me,” he said to the group. “I will return in three days for the pelt. Be extremely careful with it. I do not want any of it to be wasted.”

He glanced around the village. “Are your glyphs all renewed?”

The women looked at each other, whispering quietly. “There is a single moonorb, Blessed One,” said one.

“Bring it to me.”

He fingered his bow as he waited. The weapon was fashioned from some form of horn, leather and a white wood. His eyes fell on Ylsriss, as if he had felt her watching him and she dropped her eyes to the ground, bowing her head and fighting to hide the sudden panic.

The woman returned with the moonorb and he took it in one hand as he traced his other over the glyphs. He closed his eyes and a look of concentration came over his face as a thin green mist, barely visible in the dim light, trailed from his fingers and sank into the glyphs, which began to glow brightly in response. It only took a moment and he handed the device back to the slave woman.

“Three days,” he said, with a nod down at the cat’s body, and then he left without another word.

Ylsriss let her breath out explosively. The creature had been curious about her. Could he sense something? Did he know something?

“Did you see the way he looked at me?” Tia gushed, taking her upper arm.

“What?”

“He smiled at me, Ylsriss. Didn’t you see him?”

Ylsriss forced herself to smile. “I didn’t, Tia. You think he’s taken a liking to you?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, do you think he might have? Oh Lord, please say he did.” She clasped her necklace through her tunic.

Ylsriss turned away then, barely able to disguise her disgust. She made her way to the hut. The others could go and collect the baskets. In a few hours, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

***

She looked at the runeplate carefully. It was formed from a single slab of black stone with the glyphs etched into a section close to one end. “Do you think it will work?” She looked up at Joran who was keeping watch at the door.

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. We’d be much better off if we didn’t need to try and make a fire. Hurry up, though. The sun’s almost up.”

Ylsriss examined the plate again. It wasn’t very thick, only a thumb’s width, so it ought to work. She lifted it out of the setting and lowered it to the floor, placing it on top of the rock she’d set there. She put one foot on the end with the glyphs and then stamped down hard on the opposite end with the other. The runeplate shook under her, but refused to crack. She looked over at Joran, helplessly.

“Let me try it. Come and watch the doorway.” He switched places with her and stamped down hard. There was a loud crack as the thin basalt sheet snapped.

She jumped and whipped her head round to look at him for a moment, before peering through the gap in the curtain.

The jagged diagonal fracture in the runeplate was perilously close to the glyphs. Joran stepped back carefully and crouched to examine the runeplate.

“Does it…?” She trailed off.

“I don’t know yet. Hold on.” He moved his fingers over the weakest of the glyphs. The light bloomed for a second then sputtered, wavering and flickering before it went dark again.

“Try again. Try a stronger glyph.”

He scowled at her and touched a different series of inscriptions. This time, the light bloomed strongly and stayed on, and Ylsriss could feel the heat as it radiated through the small section of the plate.

He smiled at her in triumph and quickly deactivated the plate. She grinned back at him. “Stick it into the pack. The sun is almost up anyway. We should go.”

“Last chance to back out,” he said, his tone serious.

“I think we just passed that point when we broke the plate.” She took the pack from him, then watched as he took up the other one and his bow. A small quiver filled with horn-tipped arrows hung at his hip.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They stepped out of the hut and moved along the side of it at a steady pace, although they didn't break into a run. It was unlikely that anyone would pay them any real attention, but a man and a woman going off together when they should both be working was peculiar enough. They didn’t need to make it worse by running.

Ylsriss fought against the temptation to either look around or start to sprint. The short walk into the forest seemed to take an age and she breathed a loud sigh of relief when they eventually passed into the shade of the trees. She met Joran’s eyes and they shared a tense smile. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and sped off without waiting for him to answer.

They ran hard for ten minutes. Neither of them was in especially poor condition, but life at the slave camp didn’t lend itself to fitness and they were soon forced to fall back into a walk, their chests heaving.

The fae would be inside, away from the magic-draining touch of the sun while it was in the sky. This gave them an hour, at least, when there was almost no chance of them being caught.

They walked as fast as their breathing would allow, then settled back into a jog, a pace they could both maintain for hours. As the sun began to sink and the sky returned to twilight, they slowed and she looked back over one shoulder. She could see nothing of the camp, just trees and ferns. For now, at least, they were free.

***

She moved into the bedchamber hesitantly, his insistent hand on the small of her back, urging her along.

“This needn’t be unpleasant for you, Tia.” His voice altered. He sounded like Harn, all of a sudden.

She turned in shock. There he was. The sweet young man from her village.

“Harn!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

The vision flickered and vanished as the fae revealed his true form again, wearing an amused smile. “I can make this easier for you, should I choose to.”

The Touch lay thick upon her emotions, manipulating them, calming her fears and inflaming her lust. “You don’t need to do that, Blessed One,” she breathed in a husky voice.

He grabbed her roughly by the throat and kissed her, and she moaned into his mouth, a gasp of both pleasure and shock. The fae threw her backwards onto the bed, his hand ripping away the necklace from her throat as she flew.

He crouched and lifted the leather thong, turning the carved wooden figurine around in the light of the moonorbs. “What is this?”

“It’s nothing, Blessed One,” Tia said quickly, clutching the remnants of her dress to herself. His attention had been diverted and she felt less sure of herself all of a sudden. What had she been thinking? Offering herself up to this creature! He wasn’t even human.

His head snapped around as she spoke. “It’s clearly not nothing, Tia. What is this trinket?”

“It’s a keepsake, Master,” she explained. “A carving of Our Lord, that’s all.”

“Your Lord?” The expression on his perfect face twisted into one of cruel amusement. “The Lord of New Days?”

She nodded and then frowned as he burst into helpless laughter.

“Have you pathetic creatures not realised the truth of this yet?”

Tia shook her head in confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean, Blessed One.” She worked her way to the edge of the bed and perched there, holding her dress to her chest as a shield.

“This Lord of the New Days that you so revere, the one that will lead you to a better future. There is no such thing.”

“You’re wrong!” she snapped. The anger coursed through her, somehow slipping free from the pen it had been forced into along with the rest of her emotions, her true self.

“Wrong?” He laughed again. “Oh, you poor little rabbit. You don’t know easily we have manipulated you all. Did you really think some all-powerful god had come to save your race from itself? Didn’t you ever question just how fast this religion had spread?”

She shook her head, confused.

“Tell me, Tia, this 'Lord' of yours. Is he supposed to look something like this?” He flickered again and then he was a tall figure in black. Soft, velvet robes hung from his arm as he extended a hand to her, as if to lead her onto a path.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she began to understand what he meant.

He returned to his natural form again, a cruel smirk upon his face. “Do you know we managed to instil this ridiculous faith across most of the lands in your world? We wiped away your traditions, persuaded you to remove the horseshoes and iron from your portals and windows, the iron pennies from under the pillows of your children.”

She shook her head mutely. It was simply too much to bear.

“There is no Lord of the New Days, Tia. There never has been. There is only us. These gullible men that you call priests follow the thinnest of lies, learning the tenants of a faith we created with the briefest of whispers into the right ears. So desperate are your kind to believe in something that even now you send your children to us to be our slaves.”

“I don’t believe you,” she cried, rising to her feet and looking at him defiantly.

“Your belief is irrelevant. You are a tool. Your kind always has been. You don’t even know the best of it. It was one of your own kind that first let one of our number through the Wyrde. This religion was simply the next step. You let us free of our prison yourselves and then accepted the one we created for you with open arms.” He reached for her again but she skipped to the side, slipping past his outstretched hand.

His amber eyes grew cold and the smile slipped from his face. “I could have made this easier for you, Tia.” He was little more than a blur as he darted across the room to stand in front of her. “But, you know, now that we’re here, I don’t see why I should. You’re here to breed, human.” He spat the word at her.

She moved her arm without thinking, the slap aimed for the side of his face. He caught it easily, without even breaking eye contact.

“The livestock needs training, apparently,” he muttered. “Well then, if you won’t obey willingly, then I suppose I’ll just have to break you.” He threw her onto the bed again, and ripped her dress and his own clothing away in a moment, whilst he held her down with his other hand. As he moved between her thrashing thighs, she let out a whimper. He pulled her arms up above her head, somehow holding them in place with one hand. And then he was taking her, and the whimper became a scream.

Chapter Ten

Devin looked back at the line of wagons and the villagers walking alongside them, as they climbed the hill. Widdengate had long since faded from view, but the dark smoke that stained the sky told a tale he wasn’t sure he wanted to listen to. The satyr was silent in its cage on the third wagon behind theirs. Obair sat beside it, his eyes a mystery.

On a whim, Devin hopped off the edge of the wagon and headed back towards the old man. Hannah glanced at him without interest, then dropped her gaze to her lap. She hadn’t spoken in days and, as hard as it was for him to admit it to himself, he couldn’t bear to be around her. It was easier just to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Obair shook himself from his reverie, as Devin climbed up onto the cart and sat beside him. Unlike the others, this wagon was not crammed full of villagers. Few were willing to be near the satyr and those who had originally been on the cart with Obair had either opted to walk or managed to squeeze themselves onto one of other wagons.

Devin nodded in greeting and looked back at the satyr curiously. It sat on the floor of the cage, scratching idly at the bed of the wagon with one clawed finger. It met his eyes briefly before looking back at the floor.

He glared at it. This thing represented everything that had gone wrong in his life, from his mother being torn away from him, right the way through to Khorin being killed. One had been taken alive, the other with a blade, but both had been stolen from him. He stared at the creature, willing it to look at him, to do something. It ignored him, comfortable in its indifference.

Khorin. The thought stilled him, took his anger and replaced it with a guilt as sharp as his rage had been hot. He hadn’t even really had time to process what had happened. The man had been the only father he’d ever known, and the void he'd left behind was as cold and bitter as the harshest of winter frosts.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Devin jumped. “What?”

“You looked sad,” Obair replied, with a shrug. “No. Worse than that. You looked tormented. It might help to talk about it. I could use the practice anyway. I’ve not spent much time talking to anything that can talk back in recent years.”

Devin gave him a quizzical look and the old man chuckled. “I used to talk to my animals. The goat, in particular, for some reason. Anyway, it might help, you know?”

“I suppose,” Devin replied, in a non-committal way. “I’m not really sure how to start.”

“It’s Khorin?” Obair guessed, waiting for Devin’s nod. “Well, why don’t you start by telling me about him. I never really had the chance to speak to him properly. What was he like?”

Devin fiddled with the corner of his cloak, twisting it through his fingers as he thought. “He saw to the heart of things,” he said, finally. “There was no fooling him, not ever. If I was trying to shirk chores by blaming it on this tool or another, he’d always know without even looking at it. If I'd had an argument with Kainen or Erinn, or anyone else in the village, he could cut through it with two quick questions.”

“He sounds like he was a wise man.”

“Oh, he was. It could be bloody annoying at times,” Devin laughed. “He had a way of speaking that always let you know when you were being foolish or acting like a child. He never said anything, never rubbed your nose in it, but you just knew. For all that, I loved him. He’s my father. He was my father.” He fell silent, watching as the road slipped by them like a muddy river.

He enjoyed the silence for a time, wrapping it around him like a comforting blanket, as he thought. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to go home?” He glanced back at the distant smoke.

Obair followed his gaze. “I don’t know, Devin. I don’t think there would be much left to go back to.” Devin’s expression grew grim as Obair continued. “It’s an interesting concept for me, though, because I can’t say I ever had a place I could call a home. I lived in the glade, but it was never a home. Homes are safe and comforting, somewhere you want to return to.”

Devin mulled that over for a while as the wagon rattled over the dusty road. “You think I’m being selfish then? Childish?” he said, finally.

Obair chuckled. “No. That’s not how I meant it. I never had a home. Not that I can remember, anyway. My earliest memories are of working with my master at the stones, learning to feel the Wyrde.”

“What was he like?” Devin asked, curiosity getting the better of his manners.

“Severe,” Obair said, in a quiet voice. “He was a perfectionist. He used to drill me on the ritual for hours, until I had it absolutely perfect. I wouldn’t get to eat until I’d done it three times without a mistake.”

“It doesn’t sound like much of a childhood,” Devin said.

“No, I suppose it doesn't. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. But then I didn’t really get a choice.”

“Did you never leave then? You spent your entire life in that cottage?”

“Most of it,” Obair replied. “We travelled twice, as far as I can remember, although I was so young the first time that I don't really recall much of the journey.”

Devin shifted on the seat and tucked a leg under him. “You must remember something, surely?”

“Not really. I remember more of the second trip. We saw the sea, although I suppose it could have been a large lake. I remember being shocked at there being so much water in one place. My master was meeting with some others at a cabin in the woods. It was a bit like my own cottage, except for the lake. I was pushed outside so they could talk and even eavesdropping grows boring after a while, so I spent my time at the lake. I’d waste hours just looking at it, watching the sunlight play on the surface.”

“Eavesdropping?” Devin grinned.

Obair shrugged with a shamefaced smile and let out a chuckle.

“Do you suppose the others were droos too?”

“I wish you wouldn’t use that word, Devin. It brings a host of silly tales along with it wherever it goes.”

“Droos...druids? What does it matter? They're just words.”

Obair gave him an odd look and then sighed in defeat. “I suppose they must have been.”

“Then they might still be around somewhere? Maybe they could help us?”

“Devin, calm down,” the old druid began.“You need to understand this was all a very long time ago. I was barely half the age you are now. Those people will all be long gone by now.”

“But if they were anything like your master…?” Devin persisted.

Obair cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

“Well, wouldn’t they have had someone like you? An apprentice?”

“An apprentice?” Obair said, softly. “Do you know, I never thought of myself like that before? But you’re right. That's exactly what I was.”

“Well, wouldn’t they have?”

“I suppose they might have done. Oh, look, if I’m honest with you, Devin, I know they did. Well, one did, at least. I haven’t heard anything from her in many years though. For all I know, she’s dead and gone.”

“You can’t just leave it at that,” Devin burst out. “I mean, if there’s even a chance that we could discover something, we have a duty to, don’t we?”

Obair’s head shot round at that, his eyes dark and angry. “Don’t presume to lecture me. I know my duty, boy.”

Devin recoiled as he realised what he’d said. The old man, usually so passive, looked furious as he glared back at him. “I’m sorry, Sir,” Devin stuttered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Obair took a deep breath, then puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “It’s alright, Devin. I overreacted, is all. It's just something my master used to lecture me about for hours. I got very tired of hearing it over the years.”

“Tell me about her? The apprentice, I mean.” Devin asked, speaking quickly before the silence could fall and smother the conversation.

“There isn’t much to tell.” Obair smiled. “Her name was Lillith. After my master died, she was someone I used to ask advice from. That’s how it started, anyway. We were in touch a couple of times a year, sending messages back and forth by bird.”

“So what happened?”

“Advice turned into conversation. It was a lonely life, performing the ritual, and our messages soon became just chatter. It was frivolous, I suppose, and we both knew it. She drew a halt to it.”

“Why? I mean, this was the only contact either of you had with anyone, wasn’t it? Why would anyone choose to end that?”

“Because it was dangerous, Devin.” Obair sighed and stared blankly at the horse’s back. “The druids were hunted almost to extinction, our records and histories burned. Those of us that were left couldn’t risk being found. It’s more than just that, though. To perform the ritual, you need to be in a certain state of mind. One way of describing it is that you need to concentrate, but that still doesn't really explain it. It’s more a state of emptiness. Lillith decided that exchanging messages with me was making it too hard for her to focus and she was also terrified that someone would follow the birds.”

“What did you think?”

“It doesn’t really matter what I thought, does it? I didn’t have any choice at the time. Her messages grew further and further apart, and then eventually they just stopped. I wrote to her a couple of times, but the birds just came back with the message unopened. I haven’t heard from her in fifteen years now. She was a good bit older than me, so I expect she’s gone now too.”

Devin picked at his sleeve, avoiding the old man’s eyes. The pain came without warning and he gasped, as his hands flew to his head.

“Headache again?” Obair guessed, with a wince.

“Feels like somebody’s driving a spike through my eyes,” Devin managed through clenched teeth.

“Chew this,” Obair said, as he pressed something into Devin’s hand. “It’ll taste dreadful, but it will help after a bit.”

Devin chewed for a moment and spat at the bitter taste. “What is this? It feels like a piece of wood.”

“It is,” laughed Obair. “It’s a bit of willow bark. I used to get headaches too. The Wyrde takes it out of you.”

They fell silent as Devin nursed the pain away with equal parts willow bark and water. The first elements of Rhenkin’s forces had caught up with them by mid-afternoon, their horses barely slowing as they passed them. The wagon made slow progress, thanks to the weight of the cage and, by the first signs of evening, the infantry had caught up too.

Devin roused himself as another horse approached and Rhenkin drew level with their cart. The man’s uniform was covered in ash and a bloodstained bandage was bound tightly around his upper arm, mute testament to his own part in the fighting.

“Is this as far as you've got?” he said.

Obair waved vaguely at the horse and the cage. “We’re not exactly loaded for speed here, Rhenkin.”

He received a grunt in response that could have been a grudging acceptance but which probably wouldn’t admit it in public. “Well, they don’t seem to be pursuing us anyway. I half expected a harrying force, but the last word was they were making camp.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Obair said.

Rhenkin looked back over his shoulder at the distant plume of smoke. “They are the most damnable people. I half-think they’d have let us all leave without even drawing a sword if we’d just burnt the place down ourselves. Who conquers a nation like this?” He glanced at Obair, then shrugged as he realised what he’d said, but didn't have the energy left to care.

“The others are all headed to Carik’s Fort, but I’d like you two to accompany me to Duchess Freyton,” Rhenkin said, after a moment. “She’s going to want a full report on what’s going on.” He fixed his gaze on Obair. “I think it would be best if she hears about the fae from someone with more answers than I have.”

Obair nodded, though the expression on his face was far from happy.

“Why me?” Devin asked.

“It was your idea to fight back. Besides, from what I’ve heard, there’s a connection with you too.”

Devin slowly turned his head to fix Obair with a cold look. The old man had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I won’t go without my mother,” Devin said, looking back at the captain. “She can’t be on her own right now.”

“This is hardly a family outing, lad,” Rhenkin protested.

“She was the first one to see a satyr. The first to fight one too and, in truth, she was the first to think about fighting back, not me.” Devin’s voice was firm, leaving little room for argument.

“Fine,” Rhenkin gave in. “She won’t be far behind you, anyway. Stop and wait for a bit until she catches up.”

Darkness fell as they waited. Hannah seemed confused as Devin waved at the wagon driver to stop and then coaxed her out of the cart. He led her up onto the middle of the bench seat, so she sat between himself and Obair. They carried on through the night, stopping only to switch horses. The moon peered fitfully through the clouds, painting the road ahead of them in shades of grey, but most of the time they were driving only by the light of a single lantern.

“Why don’t you try and see if you can sleep for a bit?” Obair said, in the soft tones people seem to use in the darkness. Hannah had dozed off almost as soon as night fell and was slumped against Obair’s arm, wheezing a soft snore.

Devin nodded. “Wake me when you’ve had enough and I’ll take over.” He climbed into the back of the wagon and pressed himself into the corner, close to the seat. The satyr was silent, its eyes shining faintly as it lay, curled up, on the floor of the cage. Devin's mind churned as he thought of the events of the past week, but true exhaustion is a tenacious force and, despite it all, he slept.

He was woken by Obair shaking him gently. “I’m sorry, Devin, but I don’t think I can drive any longer. I’m likely to put us into the trees.”

Devin sat up and rubbed his eyes. His neck was stiff from the angle he’d slept at and it felt like several people had spent the last few hours walking across his back.

“It’s alright.” He yawned. “Get some rest. I’ll take over.” Obair had pulled the cart in at the side of the road and Devin noticed there were few, if any, people still walking in the glow of the lantern. A glance behind them showed a sparse trail of lanterns from other wagons still trundling along in the darkness.

“What time is it?” he asked, as Obair settled into the space he had left.

“A few hours past midnight, if I’m any judge,” Obair replied.

Devin was about to climb into the front of the cart, when the moon came out from behind the clouds and shone brightly onto the wagon. There was a flash of blue light and a faint clang from the cage, and he whipped his head around. The satyr crouched, bathed in the moonlight, with blue fire flaring from its hooves as it scrabbled around for something on the base of the cage. Tiny green sparks flickered under the surface of its skin on its shoulders and back where the light touched it.

“Obair!” he said, in alarm, as the satyr glanced up at him, its eyes glowing brightly.

Obair stood and pulled his cloak off his shoulders. In a smooth motion, he flipped it up over the top of cage, blocking the light. The creature hissed and screamed at him in its own language, its face a mask of fury. Through it all, Hannah slept on.

“Well, that seemed to work,” Devin muttered, recoiling from the creature’s rage.

“It was just a guess, really,” Obair replied, “but it does seem to have worked.”

“What has it got there?” Devin pointed at the satyr’s clenched fist, ignoring the stream of incomprehensible abuse flowing from its mouth. Blue sparks still flew from the creature’s hooves but also, now that they looked, from its fist, where it gripped something tightly.

“I don’t know. Something iron, if the sparks are anything to go by.” Obair shrugged. “Whatever it is, I can’t see it being much use to the beast. Let it have it. This cage doesn’t even have a lock now. I watched Harlen hammer the pins in. It’s not going to get out.”

Devin climbed over the seat into the front, keeping his eyes on what was visible of the creature under the cloak. One cloven hoof sparked faintly where the moonlight touched it. He glanced at Obair, who gave him a reassuring smile and settled down to sleep. Devin gathered up the reins and clucked the horses on.

Behind him, the satyr muttered softly as its fingertip traced the tiny design it had managed to scratch into the iron bar on the base of the cage. Its eyes dimmed slightly and it shuddered as a faint wisp of green light passed from its fingertips into the etched symbols. The row of markings began to glow gently in the darkness and the satyr's face broke into a grim smile of satisfaction, as it covered them with its hand and settled in to wait.

***

Selena stood on the small balcony that overlooked the grounds and watched them approach. Rhenkin was accompanied by a small number of troops and followed by what appeared to be a circus wagon.

“You never fail to surprise,” she murmured to herself, as she turned to the doors. Selena swept through the halls, excitement mounting at the thought of seeing him again. She noted, with satisfaction, that the garish wall hangings had been removed. It might take a while, but she was determined to inject some class into this stuffy mansion, even if it killed her.

She paused halfway down the staircase, taking a moment to compose herself. It wouldn’t do to appear overeager now, would it? She fought down a girlish smile and made her way sedately to the foot of the stairs as the voices carried through from the entrance hall.

“Rhenkin,” she said, with a warm smile, as Evans, the footman, escorted him in. “You’re back a lot sooner than I expected. Clearly I’m either not paying you enough or not giving you enough to do.”

“Your grace.” He gave a stiff bow. “The news I bring is not good, I’m afraid.”

Her smile wilted like a flower in a summer drought. She looked past him and his soldiers to the old man and young peasant standing at the door. The young man was supporting a frail woman and all three looked as if they might bolt at any moment.

“Go on,” she ordered.

“The Bjornmen have even greater numbers than we were led to expect. I would estimate they put an army of more than sixty thousand into the field. Despite our efforts, we were forced to abandon Widdengate and fall back to Carik’s Fort.”

She nodded silently and chewed her bottom lip in thought. “Losses?” she asked, finally.

“Moderate, your grace,” he replied. “We fought a retreating line from the outset. I would imagine somewhere in the region of two to three thousand, but I’ll have a better figure for you once I’ve been able to speak to my officers again.”

“And the peasants?” she prompted.

“Successfully withdrawn, your grace. Most of them have travelled to Carik’s Fort, although some have dispersed to other villages.”

“Very well, Major.” She nodded. “Now, why don’t you explain to me why you’ve brought me a circus wagon?”

“Captain, your grace,” he corrected with a cough.

“You held against a vastly superior force, managed to successfully evacuate the residents of half a dozen villages and lost only two thousand men in the process?” She shook her head. “No, these do not sound like the actions of a captain. Besides,” she added, with a wicked smile, “Major Rhenkin sounds so much more impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

Rhenkin coughed again. “I’m flattered, your grace.”

“Don’t be, Rhenkin.” Her voice had a hard edge to it. “You'll have earned it twice over by the time we’re through this.” She glanced past him at old man again. “Let’s move this into the parlour, shall we? I want a full report.” She looked at Evans, “Have Rhenkin’s guests settled into suitable rooms and then ask them to join Rhenkin and I in an hour.”

“Very good, your grace,” the silver-haired footman replied, as he bowed.

She led the way to the parlour and poured Rhenkin a brandy before motioning to him to sit down on the divan. He wore a perplexed expression at the treatment.

“I’m going to make this easy for you, Rhenkin,” she said softly, casting a glance at the door. “I’m with child.”

He froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his usually stern features made soft by shock.

“For various reasons, the child has to be Freyton’s. I thought twice about telling you at all, I’ll admit. No, don’t speak.” She pressed a finger to his lips as he drew in a sharp breath.

“This isn’t ideal, I know that. It is, however, very necessary and it is the way things will be done. You can be as involved as much you wish or not,. The child will need advisers, after all. For now, just let it slide and let us deal with the matters at hand.”

He downed the brandy in one quick swallow and stood to move to the windows, looking out in silence for a time. When he turned back, his face was coldly professional. She felt a sharp stab of loss and searched his eyes for something more, but he may as well have been wearing a mask for all that they revealed.

She sat opposite him on the settee. “Take me through it all then, Rhenkin, before your companions join us.”

The old man and the others were escorted in by Evans before Rhenkin had managed to get halfway through his report. Fewer than five minutes after he had delivered it, however, they were all standing in the stable yard, as Selena stared at the creature. The satyr met her gaze as it lounged on the floor of the cage, leaning on one hand.

“What did you call it?” she asked.

“A satyr, your grace,” Obair said.

“And you say they’re dangerous? Do you think there would be any way to reach an accommodation with them against the Bjornmen?”

The woman, Selena had never caught her name, drew in a surprised breath with a sharp hiss.

“They are extremely dangerous, your grace.” Obair didn’t hide the shock in his voice.

“And?”

“And I think that might be the single most horrifying suggestion I’ve ever heard, your grace.”

She raised an eyebrow at him but he plunged on. “The fae are the single most deadly threat mankind will ever face. War? Disease? Famine? These are nothing when compared to the fae. They would grind us to dust beneath one foot, merely to provide themselves with passing amusement.”

“So that’s a no, then?”

“No, your grace, I do not believe they would consider an accommodation.” Obair shuddered visibly.

“Oh relax, man, I wasn’t seriously considering it anyway.” She turned to Rhenkin. “So you ride off to deal with one enemy and come back bringing me two.”

“So it would seem, your grace.”

“How do we deal with them then, Druid?” she said to Obair. “What is your plan?”

“Plan, your grace?”

“Well, yes. Rhenkin tells me you came out of the woods with a warning about these things. What do we know about them? What do you suggest?”

Obair sputtered, looking for all the world like a landed fish, as his mouth first gaped and then closed again.

“If I may, your grace?” Rhenkin put in.

“Oh, Rhenkin, these titles are starting to give me a headache. You know my name. Use it.”

“I suspect Hanris might suffer some manner of fit, were I to do that, your grace.”

“Well, that sounds like it could be rather entertaining. Shall we send for him?”

“I was about to suggest that perhaps we might adopt a stronger position in seeking aid from the king,” Rhenkin said, ignoring her.

“I can’t see what stronger steps could be taken, Rhenkin,” she replied, all business once again. “I’ve had message after message dispatched. Short of actually going to petition him in person...” She stopped mid-sentence. “Surely you’re not suggesting that?”

“It would at least ensure a dialogue, your grace.”

“It would take weeks to get to Celstwin, Rhenkin! By the time I have travelled there and sought an audience with him, there will be nothing left to come back to.”

“Frankly, your grace, if you don’t go, there will be nothing left anyway.”

She glared at him but he held her gaze with cool assurance. “Damn it, Rhenkin, I can’t just up and go like that!”

He started to speak but she stopped him with a raised finger before looking back at Obair. “You’ve told me about the need for iron weapons, but what of their motivations? What do these creatures actually want?”

He studied the satyr for a moment. “I’m not sure it’s as simple as that, your grace,” he replied.

“I know what it wants,” Hannah said, in a soft voice that skulked low by her feet. “What they all want.”

They looked at her expectantly, but she ignored them and muttered to herself before abruptly walking back towards the palace as they stared after her.

“Oh, come now, everything wants something,” Selena said, looking back at Obair. “Even a dog has wants and needs. Can you communicate with it?”

“Easily, your grace,” Obair said. “It’s understood every word we’ve said.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed in thought as she looked the satyr over again. “I will be leaving for the capital in two days. You have until then to get me some answers from the creature. Find out what it wants. You can get anything you require from my staff.” She turned on her heel and motioned for Rhenkin to follow her back inside.

Obair watched her go. “Two days.” He turned to Devin and spread his hands helplessly. Devin shrugged and stepped towards the cage, crouching down so he was level with the satyr.

“Careful,” Obair warned, but the young man was easily outside of the reach of the creature, even through the bars.

“They say you can understand my language,” Devin began. “Is there anything you need?” The satyr glanced up at him curiously for a moment and then let its gaze drop.

“Different food? Do you have enough water?” He glanced at the metal bowl of dried meat, which the satyr had left untouched. He had yet to see the creature eat anything at all, but it didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects. He gave Obair a questioning look, but the old man motioned for him to continue, an odd expression on his face.

“Are we so very different?” Devin persisted, feeling more than a little foolish as the grooms and stable hands stopped their work to watch him.

“You will get nothing from me, human.” The voice was barely more than a whisper, but it held such venom and contempt that Devin took a step back from the cage.

“I just want to know what is it that you want,” he said.

“Ask the defiler,” it spat, glaring at Obair. “He can tell you of the vengeance that is owed to your kind.”

Devin cast a confused glance at Obair, but the old man simply shrugged. He looked down at the iron bars of the cage floor, remembering the blue sparks. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

The satyr followed his gaze. “Like a thousand tiny thorns twisting in my flesh,” it hissed, “but my pain is nothing to what will be done with you. Once I am free, my brothers and I will pen you as you would a pig and keep you for our pleasure. For every hurt you have visited upon me, I will grace you with a thousand torments. I will rend your flesh, manling, and starve you until you beg to eat the strips I slice from your body.”

“Come away, Devin,” Obair said, his voice steady as he pulled him away. “We’ll try again in the morning.” He grimaced in sympathy, as the young man's face contorted with pain and he pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Again?”

Devin nodded as Obair waved a stable hand over to them. Through the fog of pain, he heard the druid giving instructions about the satyr. “…not been eating or drinking anything anyway, so far as I can tell. Throw a tarpaulin over it and stake it tight. Don’t let it get into the moonlight. It’s supposed to be a full moo…” He trailed off and turned to Devin with his eyes full of wonder.

“Full moon,” he finished, in an awed voice. “Devin, when did your headaches start?”

“What?” Devin replied, as he walked away from the cage and massaged his temples.

“When did they start?”

“Does it matter? A few days before Erinn found you at the tower, I suppose.”

“That was a new moon,” Obair muttered. “But this doesn’t make any sense! It's not possible!”

“Fine,” Devin gasped, in a pained voice. “Then let it not be possible more quietly.”

“Sorry,” Obair said, reaching out to steady him. “Let’s get you back inside.”

The kitchens were a massive four-roomed affair, joined together by wide archways. Obair pushed him through the crowd of cooks and assistants, and guided him into an empty corner at the end of a long table. The old man clambered around the table and sat, before asking a brown-haired girl with huge eyes to bring tea and honey.

“How are you feeling now? Has it eased any?”

“Some,” Devin said, sitting up more and blinking at the light from the window.

The mugs of tea arrived and Obair pushed one across the table to him. “Drink this,” he said. “The sugar in the honey ought to help.” He looked at the boy appraisingly for a minute. “Are you up to listening to me talk at you for a while? There are some things I need to explain.”

Devin sipped cautiously at the tea and nodded.

“I don’t remember being chosen by my master. I told you my earliest memories are of learning the ritual with him. That was the way it was done. A master would seek out someone young enough to learn from him or her. We’re not anything special. We get sick, we grow old and we die. The Wyrde was too important for us to allow it to fail though, so each of us was supposed to find someone to carry on the work.”

“So why didn’t you ever take an apprentice?” Devin asked.

“Because there would be nobody left to perform the ritual while I was looking,” Obair replied. “Don’t interrupt.”

“Sorry,” Devin said quickly.

Obair flashed him a small smile. “Anyway, they would search out a child young and sensitive enough to learn to maintain the Wyrde. The first step was to learn how to feel the cycles of the moon.”

“Feel the moon?” Devin failed to keep the scathing tone from his voice.

“Feel the moon through the power of the Wyrde,” Obair repeated, with a serious look. “My point is that this took many years to perfect and the first signs of progress started with headaches.”

“Headaches?” Devin repeated, dumbly.

“Headaches, like yours, which came and went with the phases of the moon.”

Devin pushed himself back from the table, his pain forgotten as he looked at the old man. “So what? You’re saying I’m some kind of druid?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I don’t know what you are. It doesn’t make sense. I felt the Wyrde fail, felt it wither and die. There is nothing there for you to feel. That's why this doesn’t make sense. I can’t even feel it myself now.”

“Then how could I feel it?”

“I don’t know. It might be that you’re not feeling it at all. It’s too much of a coincidence to dismiss though. There are a few things I want you to try once your head is better. If you’re willing, that is.”

Devin nodded. His head was throbbing so badly, he’d try anything at this point.

***

“Focus on the moon, Devin,” Obair whispered, as the candle flickered. “Look at every shape and shadow. See how the light surrounds it as well as shining from it. Look at the moonlight, how it’s unchanging, constant, unwavering. Feel it, know the shape of it until you can see it without using your eyes.”

The two of them sat cross-legged in Obair’s room, beside the windowed doors that led out to his balcony. The candle between them was the only light source in the room, and it guttered and danced in the evening breeze.

“Use the pain in your head,” Obair instructed, “as it throbs in time with your heartbeat. Make it your own. Reach out with it.”

“I feel stupid, Obair,” Devin muttered.

“This is serious, Devin,” Obair growled.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling for.”

“Concentrate.” Obair reached over and brushed Devin's eyes closed. “Combine the pain you’re feeling with the image of the moon. Once you have that, you’re halfway there.”

Devin sighed. He could certainly focus on the pain, that was no problem. It throbbed, pounding in his temples and behind his eyes. As he ignored Obair, the man's endless droning fading into the background, he fancied he could hear it too, a faint, rushing screech, like tortured metal in the wind. He opened his eyes a crack and looked up at the moon again, embracing the pain, reaching out with it. There was something there, something indefinable, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He pushed the feelings towards it - the pain, the throbbing, the sound filling his ears and then…

He gasped and sat back, staring at Obair in shock.

“What?” the old man demanded, his face lighting up with excitement. “What did you feel?”

“I don’t know. Something cold. Lords and Ladies, I can’t explain it.” Devin felt a chill run through him. “I could feel it as though it were almost passing through me. A cold wind almost, bitterly cold, and all over me. At the same time though, it felt like I was just brushing the edges of it, as if I’d barely touched it.”

Obair wore a grim smile. “And the phase? The need for it to move on?”

“Yes, that too. It felt like the tide was about to turn. More than that, though. I felt it reaching out. It was like part of it was trailing off, stretching out. Does that make any sense?” Obair nodded but looked confused, rather than pleased.

Devin felt his face relax as he looked at the old man. “I thought you said this couldn’t happen? Didn’t you say you can’t do this without the Wyrde?”

“I did and you’re right. I don’t know how you are able to do this. You shouldn’t even have these headaches. It took me three months of focusing on the moon to get the headaches and another six before I could really feel it. I was always taught that it’s the Wyrde that lets us feel the moon. If that’s true, what you’re doing is impossible. I didn't ever feel anything like a wind, so maybe it's something else you're feeling. Maybe this is nothing more than a coincidence. We need answers.”

Devin was silent for a long time before he spoke again. “Maybe the satyr?”

“I’m not sure it would tell us or that it would even know. The satyrs are a race apart from the true fae and not terribly bright.”

Devin grunted, rising to his feet and flexing his stiff legs. “That leaves Lillith then, I suppose. If she's still alive.”

“I doubt it,” Obair murmured. “We were little more than children when we met. Seasons seem to last forever at that age. By the time you've noticed that they’re flying past like the autumn leaves, most of them have already gone.” He stared into space.

“Do you think you could find her?” Devin asked. “It was a long time ago.”

“I think so. I might need to look at some of the duchess’s maps, but I think I can work out where she was.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“A goodly while I expect and I really think you ought to come along. If, by some miracle, Lillith is still alive, she might be able to answer some questions. She will certainly want to speak to you.”

“I’ll talk to my mother,” Devin replied. “I don’t know where we were going to go from here. Carik’s Fort, I suppose. That's where everyone else went. To be honest, I haven’t really caught up with everything that’s happened.”

Obair pulled himself to his feet. “It can’t have been easy for you, these last few weeks. Try to get some sleep. We can talk to Hannah and the others in the morning.”

Chapter Eleven

The palace stilled, like a great machine with cogs whirring slowly and grinding to a halt. Horses were settled, fires banked in the kitchens and lamps snuffed. The servants eased out of the halls and slipped into their own realm below stairs. Two guards were all that remained on duty, standing post at the main gates with only the guttering torches for company.

The moon rose over the horizon, a silvery eye peering down at the world with few taking note of its gaze. The satyr sat alone in the stable yard. A large tarpaulin had been draped over the cage and staked tightly at each corner to prevent the creature from pulling it down.

The creature couldn’t see the moon, but the silvery light on the ground below the edge of the tarpaulin was sign enough. Its eyes glowed faintly in the darkness and a smile curved its lips. It had waited in silence for the last three hours, listening to the sounds from the mansion as the activity taking place within it slowed. As the moon rose higher and the palace grew quieter, it crouched to examine the gently glowing glyphs it had scratched into the bar at the base of the cage.

It traced the symbols with a gnarled fingertip, bringing them to life. It was a crude work and one which a fae would have sneered at, but satyrs were not known for being gifted at crafting. It touched the final sigil and moved back across the cage, pressing itself against the hated iron. The metal burned where it touched him but he had none of the Lady’s grace that might result in sparks and flames.

The satyr watched eagerly as the runes began to release the heat. The cage had been bathed in sunlight for days, both on the trip to this place and once they had arrived. The hated defiler had insisted that he should be exposed to the light as much as possible. The man had thought himself so clever, allowing the sunlight to rob him of any of the Lady’s gift he might have absorbed, but now his foolishness would be shown.

The cage had been absorbing heat for days, transferring it into the glyphs. The cage had grown so cold, it had frost on it. It was a wonder the manlings hadn't noticed it, but then they were merely prey.

The heat waited, lurking inside the glyphs, with only one command needed to release it. Runeplates were constructed and designed to release the heat under careful control. These glyphs had none of that and the heat poured out of them and into two vertical bars at the side of the cage. It came like a lightning strike, flooding into the iron and heating it almost instantly. A dull ruddy glow bloomed within the metal, growing brighter until the iron was almost white and began to sag under its own weight. With just two swift kicks from the satyr's hooves, the bars flew outwards and the creature managed to force itself through the gap, ignoring the pain of the metal, and the stench of seared flesh and fur. It was free.

It moved quickly, heading into the deeper shadows at the edge of the yard. The heat from the runes was dwindling already, the dull green glow fading to the black of iron as the grace was expended. The satyr licked its lips and sniffed, turning its head this way and that, as it sampled the night air. Snorts came from the stables as the horses caught its scent. It eased itself out into the moonlight in the corner of the yard, closing its eyes as the Lady graced him and the green sparks danced on its skin.

***

Hannah lay on her bed, sleepless. Her mind was like a wounded animal, curled up and licking at a hurt it couldn’t cope with. She’d grown numb since they fled the village, barely noticing the passage of the days. Her only thoughts were of Khorin’s death. The image of him and the sound of his voice thrashed around inside her head like an eel in a trap.

She lay in the bed and stared at the dark ceiling above her. Sleep would not come. Clearly, it had things to do elsewhere. Hannah pushed the blankets aside and padded to the window.

Her rooms were opulent, more luxurious than anything she’d ever seen, with deep rich carpets and paintings on the walls. She even had a separate room just for dressing in. She pulled the thick curtains aside and looked out at the moon.

“I’d never have thought you would be something to fear.” Her voice sounded strange to herself, taut and strained. She looked down at the grounds of the palace. The ponds gleamed with the reflected moonlight in the gardens. Her eyes drifted over towards the stables, and she frowned as a green light flared and shone through the tarpaulin on the satyr’s cage.

Her room was a fair way from the stables, but she still caught sight of the shadow as it darted out from under the tarpaulin. She blinked, shaking her head as if to clear away the cobwebs. Had she really seen that? Her feet seemed to move on their own, taking her to the door whilst her mind was still processing what she’d seen.

All but one of the lamps in each of the hallways had been snuffed and those that still burned had been turned down low. The thin nightgown she wore provided little protection against the cold. The stone walls beneath the tapestries and paintings seemed to have sucked all the heat from the air, and she found she was hugging herself as she scurried through the palace.

It was a blessing that her rooms were not far from the servant's staircase, or she’d probably have been lost in moments. The steps took her to the ground floor and she padded through the halls. A noise brought her up short and she pressed herself flat against a doorway, without really knowing why, as a pair of servants crossed at the end of the corridor. Shaking her head, she moved on. She found her way to one of the side doors quickly, more by luck than anything else, and stepped out into the night. The skies were clear and the moon lit the grounds almost as well as the sun might have done.

She ran, sticking to the grass where she could to avoid her feet slapping on the stones. The stable yard was still and the faint noise of horses shifting restlessly mingled with the distant sound of the leaves rustling in the light breeze. For some reason, the sounds made it seem quieter than if it had been truly silent.

The cage bars were broken, their ends bent and twisted, and the iron stretched thin as if it had been melted and then hammered out. The stupidity of having come to the cage alone struck her with an almost physical sensation. What was she doing? She hadn’t raised the alarm or anything. She'd just rushed from the palace to confront the satyr alone.

She backed away from the cage towards the edge of the yard. A door, the latch not fastened properly, caught in the breeze and slammed back against the wooden wall. She spun with a scream and pressed herself to the wall before edging around towards the open door as her eyes flew about the stable yard, darting in and out of the pools of shadow as she searched the darkness.

The door led into a farrier's, the walls thick with tongs and tools. The moonlight parted the gloom enough for her to make out the large anvil set near the forge and a smaller one on a stump close to the door. She reached for one of the hammers. Harlen had killed a satyr with a single blow from his hammer and, if ever she needed a weapon, it was now. She managed to lift the hammer with both hands, grunting at the weight before setting it back. She might be able to lift it, but she’d never be able to swing it. There had to be smaller tools in here, but the darkness made it impossible to find anything.

A faint sound drifted in from the yard. It was as soft as the crunch of dry leaves, but any noise sounds loud in the night. She whirled around and fixed her gaze on the entrance. A dull glint came from a stack of old horseshoes by the door and, in desperation, she grabbed one up, the cold metal comforting in her hand.

The wind caught at her hair as she crept back out into the yard, blowing it across her face, and she clawed it away with her free hand. The satyr saw her almost as soon as she noticed it. It was pressed into the corner of the yard, bathed in the moonlight. Its eyes, which had been dull and dark for days, now shone as bright as any lantern’s flame.

Hannah froze in the doorway as it took a single step away from the wall. It seemed unsure, hesitant. It was a good hundred feet from her, but then she’d seen how fast the creatures could move when they wanted to. The distance would be no protection from it. She glanced to either side of her. The presence of the doorway was no help to her either and the building would soon become a trap. Hannah stepped to her right, keeping her back against the wall, and sidled towards the way out of the yard.

It sprang towards her, somehow managing to shift from a standing position into a sprint without passing through anything in between. Hannah let out a breathless scream as she ran, although she knew it was useless. She felt the satyr closing on her and fancied she could feel its breath on her neck. A whimper, made more from fear than noise, passed from her lips and she sucked the breath in, ready to scream for help, as the hand buried itself in her trailing hair.

A sharp yank brought her up short and the satyr hauled her backwards, throwing her to the ground. She landed hard and the breath blasted out from her lungs, as the horseshoe in her hand was driven into her stomach.

Rough hands flipped her onto her back. Her arm was pinned awkwardly beneath her as she looked up into the hateful thing’s face. Its features were twisted in fury as recognition flickered across its face.

“You! The silent one,” it rasped. “You dare to trap me like some kind of prey?” It grabbed her throat, its movement fluid and as fast as drawing a breath. “Your snare has failed, foolish She, and now I claim you, as is my right.” Its meaning was clear as it leered at her looking her up and down in the thin nightgown.

It pulled her up, its hand still firmly around her throat, and her feet scrambled beneath her as she struggled to stand before it choked her. All at once, the fear that had filled her was replaced with a blind rage. This thing, or some other like it, had killed Khorin. One of these beasts had driven her half-mad with nightmares and grief, and now this one saw her as some prize for the taking. She clawed at the hand at her throat with her fingers, her eyes flashing as the satyr laughed at her efforts.

It sniffed at her, its laughter dying as its eyes widened in first surprise, and then in fear. In that instant, she knew the time had come. It was act now or lose any advantage she might have. She whipped her hand around from behind her, clenching it into a fist around the horseshoe and smashed it into the side of the satyr’s face. Blue fire flared, just as it had all those months ago in her kitchen, and the creature flew back from her, crashing to the ground with a visceral scream.

She was on it in a second, not wasting time on shock or fear. Those things were beyond her now. Hate had consumed her, reforging her into a creature of purest rage, and she flew at it, her knees slamming into its ribs as she drove the horseshoe down into it again and again.

Her screams filled the air as fire burned them both and the satyr raked at her with its thick nails.

It kicked out at her and she hurtled through the air, crashing to the ground fifteen feet from it. She pulled herself to her feet as the world span around her in crazy circles. She could just make out the blurry image of the satyr getting to its feet. Her vision cleared to reveal that its face was a bloody, charred ruin. It glared at her out of its one remaining eye, hatred reaching out from it and enveloping her. Her rage flared anew, running through her like a river of molten steel, as her mouth filled with the taste of her own blood.

She charged, screaming, at the satyr, as it stood in a twisted stance, hunched against its own pain. Her blows came fast, and she struck it with fist and horseshoe in equal measure. Fire flared anew and she followed its body down to the ground as it collapsed under the onslaught. The flesh gave way below her, as bones broke and then shattered. This beast would pay. They would all pay. With a final howl, she raised the bloody horseshoe high above her and drove it down into the remains of the satyr's head, hardly feeling the gore that hit her as it spattered upwards. Then there was silence. The blue flames guttered and died, and she pushed herself away from the body.

Her hands shook as she became aware of the blood, flesh and fragments of bone that covered her body. Her knees sagged and then buckled, unable to bear her own weight as she sank to the dirt. The horseshoe tumbled from her numb fingers and the wail that tore from her throat was far more primal than anything that the satyr had uttered. Darkness found her. A blackness that wrapped itself around her and bore her away to a safer place, a comforting embrace far away from the horrors of the light.

***

Devin followed the soldier that had been sent to fetch him. Curiosity had quickly driven away the gritty eyes he'd had when he was woken and rushed from his bed, but still he stumped through the corridors in a foul mood. The soldier had been less than forthcoming. Given that he seemed to be little older than Devin, he probably didn’t know the reason for the summons himself. It would be unfair to blame him, really. Devin did it anyway.

They passed through the corridors, following some convoluted route that seemed to have taken them both up and down stairs in equal measure, while Devin shot the man black looks and wondered if he’d managed to get them both lost. Finally, he was delivered to Rhenkin’s office.

The young soldier knocked and then entered. “The Widdengate boy, Sir,” he announced. Devin found himself strangely irritated by that. He was no more a boy than this private. He walked in to find Obair and Rhenkin sat back in their chairs in a way that showed they’d just been in deep conversation. Rhenkin was calm and impassive, as always, but Obair looked distinctly nervous.

“What is it?” Devin demanded, after a long moment of silence. There was a tension in the room that would have been hard to miss.

“The satyr escaped last night,” Rhenkin began. “How, we don’t know. It managed to break some of the bars in the cage by the looks of things.”

“It’s dead, Devin.” Obair interrupted, shooting the major a look that spoke of vast disapproval. “That’s not important, though,” he said quickly, holding up a hand to stop Devin before he could speak. “They found Hannah with it. She’s alive,” he added, as Devin sucked in a sharp breath. “Just in a bit of a state.”

“Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Rhenkin said. “The druid here thought it might be best to warn you first, that's all. She managed to kill the thing with a horseshoe. Stove its skull in. The most amazing thing, really.”

“The point is, lad,” Obair said, through clenched teeth, “that she’s not going to be in any condition to travel for some time.” He looked from Devin to Rhenkin, his eyes passing a message.

There was more to it. Devin was certain of that. Things that they weren’t saying, things they thought him too young to cope with, perhaps.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t? Don’t what?” Obair replied, his old face creased into a confusion of wrinkles.

“Don’t protect me. Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. Like I need the truth laying out for me, all nice and neat, with the sharp edges filed off.”

Obair opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words.

Rhenkin snorted at the old man and looked at Devin appraisingly. “You’re right. You're not a child, no matter what your age is. You deserve the truth, plain and simple.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

“Stable hands found her at first light and alerted the guards. She’s got some nasty cuts and, I suspect, one or two broken ribs. That’s not the worst of it, though. She’s not making sense. It's like her mind is as damaged as her ribs. Obair told me some of the things she’s been through. It sounds like she’s already been dragged through hell backwards. I’ve seen it happen a few times. Young men in battle, wondering when all the glory is supposed to start, up to their eyebrows in blood and filth, tripping over limbs in the mud and covered in their own piss. Sometimes they just snap.”

He looked up from his hands and their eyes met as he tapped his temple. “The thing is, son, it’s not like a wound you can patch up knowing it will heal with time. She might be fine in a week but she might not, and you need to realise that now, before you go in to see her.”

“Take me to her.” Devin's voice was firm and steady.

Rhenkin raised an eyebrow. “Now? You’re sure?”

Devin nodded. “I can’t put this off. It’ll only be worse if I have time to think about it first.”

Rhenkin looked at him for a long time before he spoke again. “You’re probably right.” He stood and held the door open, then glanced back at Obair. “Coming?”

Hannah was tucked into clean sheets in her bed. The curtains were closed against the morning’s light and a maid sat in a chair in the corner, reading a book as her charge slept. She stood as they entered and, at a word from Rhenkin, slipped out into the hallway.

Devin moved closer and look down at the battered figure in the bed, being careful not to wake her. Her eyes were closed and she lay so still that he worried for just a moment until he caught the faint rasp of her breath. One side of her face was already dark with bruises, and the flesh that wasn’t swathed in thick bandages was swollen and misshapen.

Looking down at her was a surreal experience. He felt dispassionate, wooden. The entire scene felt like it was happening to someone else, as if he were merely an observer, a member of the audience at a travelling mummers' play. He wondered at it, prodding at his feelings like a tongue worrying at a sore tooth. Why wasn’t he more upset? He wasn’t sad. If anything, the only feeling he could muster was a faint anger. It glowed dull and sullen like banked coals, needing only fresh air to flare back into life.

Her hand was limp and cold as he took it in his own. It lay in his hand like dead flesh. “Do you think she can hear me?” he asked.

“I don’t know, son,” Rhenkin said softly. “I expect she can, even if she doesn’t answer.”

Devin looked at her face. She looked so old all of a sudden. No. Not just old. Tired too. The bruises and scratches made it worse, but she seemed to have aged a decade since the fae had come. He glanced back at the others, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s me, Ma, Devin. I need you to know you’re going to be okay. I’m fine too, so don’t worry about me. You just concentrate on getting well.”

He broke off. It all felt too unnatural and forced. “What will happen to her?” he asked Rhenkin. “It’s not like we have a home to take her to.”

“Don’t worry about that, lad. You’re both here as my guests. She can stay until she’s on her feet. We'll work it out from there.”

Devin nodded at him gratefully.

“You realise that this changes a few things?” Rhenkin said to Obair.

“Well, I can hardly question the beast now, can I?” Obair replied, with a shrug. “I suppose we’d best talk to your duchess.”

“She’s your duchess too, old man.”

“I suppose she is, at that. I’d never thought of it that way.”

Devin gave Hannah one last look and patted her hand, before following the others out of the room and through the corridors. Obair was a strange man, he mused, so confident in his purpose on one level, but as ignorant as a child in other ways.

Rhenkin spoke quietly to a guardsman stationed outside a dark oak door before knocking. The duchess was sitting at a desk in the book-lined study talking to a short man in brass-rimmed spectacles when they entered.

“Rhenkin,” she purred. “So nice of you to seek me out.”

“Your grace,” the major said, with a stiff bow. He looked around curiously. “A new base of operations?”

“Base of operations. I like that,” she said. “You military types always have the best titles for things. Yes, I decided I needed to move out of the parlour. Absolutely everybody could find me there.”

Rhenkin favoured her with a wry smile and she waved them all into chairs. Devin jumped visibly when she addressed him.

“I am so terribly sorry to hear about your mother, Devin. I want you to know that you can both stay here in the palace until she is well enough to move on.”

“Thank you, My Grace...I mean...Your Lady…” She let out a warm, throaty laugh as he sputtered to a halt. Her eyes were warm and filled with compassion, and Devin felt a sense of relief. It was good to have had assurances from Rhenkin, but it wasn’t really his house.

“Now then,” she said, looking back to Obair and Rhenkin, “these recent events have obviously changed matters. Were you able to obtain any useful information from the creature?”

“None of any consequence, your grace,” Obair replied. He seemed perfectly at home speaking to the woman. Despite living in isolation for all those years, being in the presence of a member of the aristocracy didn’t seem to faze him at all.

“So we’re back to square one then, Rhenkin.” She picked up a letter opener and tapped it absently on the leather writing set on top of the desk. “The Bjornmen outnumber us and we still know next to nothing about these fae creatures.”

“Not entirely, your grace,” Obair said smoothly, before Rhenkin could speak. “There have been some developments with Devin here which were entirely unexpected.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow at him as she continued toying with the knife.

“It’s a bit complicated, but Devin appears to have some talent that requires investigating.”

“Don’t spoon-feed me, Obair.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m a big girl. I can take it all in one go.”

Devin’s mind wandered, as Obair explained about the Wyrde and the role he had played in maintaining it. It was amazing how quickly the fantastical could become mundane, how fast the dead could be forgotten. His head still throbbed. The pain had become a dull ache that he had almost learned to ignore. It made a counterpoint to the welter of emotions he felt about Hannah and Khorin.

With a guilty start, he realised that he’d not even thought about Kainen, Erinn and their families, or any his other friends in the village. He’d wrapped himself in a blanket of hurt and misery, and was shocked he hadn't been able to see through it.

“And you believe there might still be information there that we can use?” The duchess’s voice cut through his thoughts and he jerked his eyes back to her.

“There may be nothing, your grace,” Obair shrugged. “My hope is that either she, or her student, still lives and can help with this. The fact that Devin can feel the moon through the Wyrde is something that I cannot ignore.”

“And you, boy?” She turned her attention to him. “How do you feel about this? After all you’ve been through, are you willing to leave your mother and go in search of something which might not even exist?”

“She’s not my mother.” The words left his lips before he'd really thought about them. “Hannah has been a mother to me for longer than I can really remember, but she’s not my real mother. The fae took my mother from me. My mind has been broken and twisted for so long that I’d almost forgotten it all. Now they’ve killed Khorin, the only father I’ve ever had, and broken Hannah so her mind is as shattered as my own was. If I can find a way to hurt them, I will.”

She looked at him with sympathy but, rather than comfort him, her pity just fuelled his anger. He felt it rising in him and the look he returned pushed at the outer edges of politeness and bordered on belligerent. She raised an eyebrow at his expression before turning to address Obair.

“When do you leave?”

“As soon as possible really, your grace.” He glanced at Rhenkin. “I don’t suppose we would be able to impose upon you for some supplies?”

“You may have whatever you need,” Selena said, before Rhenkin could open his mouth. “Rhenkin, I will be travelling to Celstwin with Hanris to try to talk some sense into King Pieter. I want you to gather our forces and engage the Bjornmen. Bleed them slowly.” She ignored his intake of breath and carried on before he could speak. “I know we can’t match their numbers and I don’t expect you to hold lands. Fall back as they advance but, Major, I expect you to make them pay in blood for every mile they take.” Her voice was calm but her eyes were savage.

“As you wish, your grace.” Rhenkin rose and stood to attention.

Chapter Twelve

Ylsriss sipped the water from the skin and grimaced at the leathery taste. A bird, startled by something in the trees, burst from its cover and crashed up through the leaves into the purple twilight sky. She froze, the waterskin still pressed to her lips, as her eyes searched the bushes and leaves around her.

The woods had grown still and it was only as the quiet noises of the birds returned that she felt herself relax. Joran hissed out a sigh of relief behind her and she turned to see him lowering the bow. She hadn’t even heard him move to retrieve it from the packs.

“Do you still think we should be resting during the daylight hour?” she asked, for what she knew must be the hundredth time.

“It’s the only time we can be certain of being safe, Ylsriss. You know that.” He stepped closer and held her gently by the shoulders. “Look at me. I mean, really look. You look as bad as I must do. We can’t sleep properly at night, not when we have to take turns on watch and we jump at every sound.”

“But we could be so much further away…” She trailed off. They’d already been over this. There was little point in listing the pros and cons of the rest stops again.

She could tell he knew what she was thinking, as he hunkered down beside the remains of the runeplate to make sure the glyphs were covered. The sun was already shining through the trees, although it had yet to crest them.

“They’re fading,” he said.

“It will last a bit longer. I’m surprised it's lasted this long, really.” Ylsriss shrugged. “When it’s gone, it’s gone. We can make a fire easily enough.”

Joran lowered himself to the earth with a groan. “Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, I’m tired.”

Ylsriss dug through the pack to find their few remaining oatcakes. “We’re going to have to stop and hunt something soon, Joran. We’re running out of food.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I don’t want to stop here, though. It just doesn’t feel safe yet.”

She nodded, though he wasn’t looking. It didn’t feel safe yet. That much was as true for her as it was for him. They’d seen no sign of pursuit or any sign of a threat but the menace hung in the air. It had done for days, but it was nothing she could put her finger on. It felt similar to the sensation of being watched, but not quite the same.

“I’ve lost track of the days again,” she said softly, as she handed an oatcake over.

“It’s been three weeks now, by my reckoning.”

“Another week then?”

“Hmm?”

“If we go another week, then we ought to be safe, don’t you think?”

He paused, the oatcake held to his lips. “I suppose so. If they haven’t caught us by then, they either can’t find us or they don’t care.”

She swallowed down the last of the cake, forcing it down though she didn’t really want it. She knew she would need the strength it gave her. It was odd sleeping in the sunlight. There was so little of it in this strange land that it felt wrong to waste it. The pack was lumpy under her head as she lay back. No matter how much she shifted it, it didn’t seem to make a difference.

Glancing across at Joran, she saw his eyes were closed, and his chest was rising and falling rhythmically. The man was already asleep. Ylsriss muttered choice words under her breath and shifted again in an attempt to get comfortable.

It didn’t take long for her to give up. Patience had never been something she could lay claim to having. Climbing to her feet, she headed to the edge of the small clearing. As an afterthought, she went back and picked up the waterskin. Maybe she could find a stream or something.

She kept a careful note of where the clearing lay but, other than that, she wandered without any real purpose. The sun shone onto the trees, making the leaves radiant with bright reds and golds. Here and there, the silvery bark of a tree gleamed in the golden light.

The distant sound of water drew her around the side of the hill and she caught her first clear view in days, as the ground dropped steeply away in front of her. The canopy burned in the sunlight, the red and orange leaves forming a blanket of flames. A flash pulled at her from the corner of her eye but when she turned to look in that direction it was gone. She stared, eyes scanning the distant trees, but it did not come again.

The stream was clear and the water icy. She knelt awkwardly at the edge, as she held the skin under the surface and tried to fill it. The water was cold enough to burn her and her hand swiftly went numb in the flow. It was probably the only cold thing she’d come across since she had passed into the Realm of Twilight.

Her eyes caught the flash again as she stood and this time they locked onto it. The distant images blurred and shifted before slowly forming a clear picture. It was a small section of wall. The yellow stones were stained with moss and half-covered in vines, but it was a wall nonetheless. She had no idea what had been flashing, but she was so shocked by the sight of the structure that she didn’t care. The waterskin banged against her side, the water within it sloshing about, as she jogged back to the clearing and shook Joran roughly awake.

He jumped as he came to and his eyes were filled with panic as he stared up at her. She immediately felt guilty and hushed him with one finger, shaking her head and smiling gently. “No, it’s not that. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Why did you…what’s going on then?” he asked, through sleep-fuddled lips.

“I found water...” she began.

“That’s great, but did you need to wake me to tell me?”

“Shut up for a minute.” She laughed. “I found water and, as I was filling the skin, I saw buildings.”

“What do you mean, buildings?”

“You know...four walls... roofs?” She didn’t bother to temper the sarcasm.

“Funny,” he said, in a flat voice.

“Alright. I'm not sure it was buildings, actually. It was just a wall,” she admitted.

“But we have to be at least a hundred miles from Tir Rhu’thin,” he protested.

“Exactly!” Her excitement was contagious and his smile grew to match her own. Abruptly, however, her expression was one of panic. “Do you think it could be more fae?”

“I don’t think so.” Joran frowned. “They always made it clear that Tir Rhu’thin was their home. If they had other cities or towns, wouldn't they have mentioned them?”

“Who knows?” Ylsriss shrugged again. “I think it’s worth taking a look though. We might find something we can use or, at the very least, some shelter.”

“How far away would you say it was?”

“I don’t know, really. It’s hard to judge. Maybe two days?”

“Show me.” He clambered to his feet, and gathered up his pack and bow while she retrieved the chunk of runeplate, splashing water over the glyphs to make sure the dirt was stuck fast before she shoved it into her pack.

“What about resting?” she asked.

“This is more important. I just have a feeling about it.” He looked away, embarrassed.

“I know what you mean. I thought I was just being silly but…” She spread her hands helplessly.

They paused as they reached the stream and she pointed out the distant wall. He looked at it for a second, then strode through the icy water without so much as a flinch. Ylsriss shook her head and headed further downstream, where a fallen log had formed a natural bridge. Men were idiots. She'd always had to nag Klöss to bathe, but show him something that promised adventure and he’d wade through the surf without batting an eyelid. It seemed Joran was cut from the same cloth.

The wall vanished from view as they travelled, obscured by the trees. Joran increased his pace and she found herself struggling to keep up.

“Damn it, Joran,” she yelled, in frustration. “It’s not going to vanish on us. Slow down! Either that or take this damned skin, so I can walk properly.”

He looked back at her and she fought down the wave of guilt as she saw his crestfallen expression. He was like an overgrown child in so many ways, but she hadn’t the time to coddle him.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. Just take the skin. The strap is too long for me, anyway. I’ll take your pack until we’ve used some of the water up.”

The twilight was darkening by the time they stopped for the night and she lay in the dim light thinking about the distant wall. Joran’s deep, steady breaths were the soft accompaniment to her imagination’s travels as she wondered about the wall and what it might enclose. In her time in the world of the fae - at least, once she’d broken free of the Touch - she’d only ever heard any mention of Tir Rhu’thin. Now that she thought about it though, it did sound odd. An entire world with only one city? She gave a mental shrug. It was no wonder she’d accepted it; this was how the Touch worked. It was as if part of your mind went to sleep. Things like this just didn’t seem important, even when they should have been screaming out at you.

She shook her head in the half-light. How could they have been so stupid, so befuddled, that they didn't question it? She felt a moment’s fear at the prospect of another city of fae, but it was soon overridden by her desire to know the truth. If the wall surrounded a city of fae, surely they would have been discovered and captured by now?

Joran murmured and she glanced at him, jealous of his ability to sleep. She examined his features in the gloom. He looked like a grown man or very close to it. In many ways, he acted like one, and in some ways he seemed even older, but there were other parts of his personality that marked him as little more than a child. His ability to sleep whenever he needed was something that any oarsman from the Barren Isles would have envied. For him, though, it was just natural. She also knew that, at some level, he still thought of the fae as benevolent. Despite what he said, it hadn't yet occurred to him that they were in any real danger.

***

He knelt and examined the tracks; just a scuffed patch of moss and a broken twig, things most others would have missed. He was patient for his kind, but then he was far older than most of the Revel. More importantly, he didn’t fear the leaching rays of the sun as they did.

The leaves on the twig were just starting to wilt. It hadn’t been broken for long. The damage could have been done by any number of creatures, but the scuff in the moss was a clear sign. Humans really were the clumsiest of creatures.

He rose from his crouched position and looked about for Sabeth. The fae’reeth was almost unique amongst her kind, more focused than many of the tiny creatures were capable of being. He caught sight of her purple form as the setting sun reflected off her wings and waved her over.

“This way.” He pointed. “They are little more than a sunrise ahead of us.”

“They are an interesting quarry.” Her eyes gleamed as she stared off in the direction of the trail. “Do you imagine any of your brethren still continue the hunt?”

“I doubt it.” Thantos glanced back in the direction of Tir Rhu’thin. “Most are too careful hoarding the Lady’s gift.” His lip curled as he spoke, the derision thick on his black tongue.

“I confess, my brother, that I will never understand this obsession with the Lady.”

Thantos permitted a rare smile to twist his lips. “Your kind rarely does, Sabeth.”

She shrugged, the movement causing her to bob in the air as it interfered with the motion of her wings. “How far do we travel to then, Thantos? You realise we are close to the boundary? Aelthen will be incensed, should we be discovered.”

The old satyr tugged at his beard. The dark wiry hair was shot through with silver streaks. “We will go on. We can turn back easily enough if need be, but I’ll not let the quarry escape when we’re this close.”

“You’re as bad as those on the chase,” Sabeth chided.

“As are you, dear sister,” Thantos replied, with a dry chuckle. He waved a gnarled hand forward, inviting her to lead the way, and ran behind as the purple creature no larger than his hand flew through the trees.

He ran lightly, a gait that was little more than a trot but which allowed him to scan the ground ahead of him as they travelled. Sabeth would be looking for trail signs anyway, but only a fool left a task totally to the fae’reeth. More than any of the fae, they were a fickle people.

The sun dropped below the trees as they travelled and he felt their pace quicken in response as the drain of the sun fell away. It was subtle, but he’d been running in the daylight long enough to appreciate it. His chest felt lighter, his body relaxed as he ran and every muscle was that little bit more responsive. He might mock the others for their reliance upon it, but he would never argue the Lady’s Gift wasn't potent. The difference lay in appreciating the benefits of the Lady's Gift and reliance upon the Grace it imparted.

Sabeth flared her wings and spun in place ahead of him, pointing into the bushes to his left. Her warning came a fraction of a second before his own ears caught the rustle and his nose was filled with the feline scent of the cat. He threw himself to the side and ripped his curved knives free of their sheaths as the beast crashed into the earth where he’d just stood.

He rolled and came smoothly to his feet with his knives extended before him. The shade-cat was young and inexperienced, he could tell. It hadn’t long been free of its tree by the looks of things. He tried a feint to see what it would do and was surprised as it backed away, giving itself space to react, rather than falling for the motion.

The pounce was a thing of beauty. Its powerful muscles rippled as it launched itself into the air and flew at him. The thick trail of darkness extended out behind the cat and into the trees, a testament to its youth and lack of control.

Thantos rolled to the side again, lashing out with his knives and cutting deeply into the cat’s side. It let loose a yowl of pain and landed awkwardly, the trail of mist pouring in and encompassing it. The satyr could see two green eyes glowing malevolently amidst the darkness.

He didn’t pause. Waiting would just give the beast enough time to heal itself. He threw himself at the cat, his knives moving in a blur before him, as he slashed and thrust deep. A flash of purple heralded Sabeth’s entry into the fight as she plunged into the mist.

The mist faded almost at once as the cat twisted and recoiled from the tiny cuts Sabeth’s knife inflicted. It lashed out at the flitting fae’reeth with its black claws, but it might as well have been trying to catch the wind.

As Thantos shifted back a step and waited for an opening, the creature soon became covered in a web of tiny slashes that oozed blood. The wounds that the fae’reeth inflicted with their blades were seldom designed to be immediately fatal. Instead, they preferred to drain their victims slowly, as a source of amusement for the swarm.

Sabeth, however, was alone and the cuts she made were the actions of instinct let loose. Despite this, they proved a useful distraction. Thantos waited as the cat grew more and more frustrated, its large paws slashing futilely at the air behind Sabeth as she darted around it, under it and through its legs.

The cat reared up in a rage, batting at the fae’reeth with its forepaws, and then Thantos struck. He lunged in and rammed both of his knives into the base of the cat’s throat. Blood ran in torrents as the cat lurched backwards, forcing itself off the blades. The shadowy mist flew in again from where it had trailed out through the trees, surrounding the cat, but Thantos did not back away. Instead, he struck again, slashing and thrusting with the horn knives, as Sabeth thrust her thorn-sized blade into one of the creature’s glowing eyes.

Silence fell as the cat collapsed. Its body was a bloody ruin, a mass of cuts and hideous wounds. It was a gruesome sight, evidence of a fight of necessity become a slaughter, a killing devoid of grace or beauty.

Thantos wiped his knives on the thick moss and glanced at Sabeth. “My thanks, sister. Your warning was timely.”

“It seemed appropriate.” She shrugged, licking the blade of her small knife.

The satyr looked at the body of the shade-cat again. Their mother would have been delighted to receive the pelt, but it had been sliced to ribbons. He shrugged away the loss, met Sabeth’s eyes with a nod and moved away from the corpse as they continued to follow the trail.

As they left, the earth near the body of the shade-cat heaved, as the roots from the nearby trees began to burrow through the blood-soaked earth, drinking greedily and worming their way towards the corpse, until they could thrust themselves deep inside of it to reclaim the nutrients.

***

Ylsriss swatted away the branches that seemed determined to bury themselves in her hair, and tried to see through the undergrowth to where Joran was up ahead.

“Joran, damn it, wait for me!” she called out. He probably wouldn’t hear her and she doubted that he’d stop if he did. He had been like a man on a mission since they’d seen the wall.

She rushed on, stumbling over tree roots which had been half-buried by fallen leaves. What if she’d lost him? What if she was alone? The idea came to her unbidden, but she stopped dead for a moment as it struck her. A haste born of fear spurred her onwards and she cried out his name again, an edge of panic touching her voice.

The slope was fairly gentle, but she hadn’t been expecting it, so when the root caught her foot, she fairly flew before hitting the ground and starting to roll. The runeplate slammed into the base of her skull as her pack was thrown forward on her back, and she cursed as she came to a halt at the bottom of the small hill.

She pulled herself up onto her knees as she spat the leaves out from her mouth and probed gingerly at the back of her head, checking her fingertips for blood.

“Joran!” she yelled, anger in her voice this time. She spotted movement in the trees ahead of her and forced herself to her feet. The pain was a dull ache now, more remembered pain than anything else, but it was enough to maintain her sour mood and fuel her irritation.

He stood beside a towering pine. The tree had grown far taller and broader than it ever would have done in her own world. She called out again as she approached, but he ignored her until she reached for his arm.

“What is it?” she demanded, his silence telling her more than words might have done.

“Look.” He pointed down through the few remaining trees. The stones were cracked, and grass and ferns pushed their way through the gaps between them, but they had clearly been part of a road at some point.

“It’s just a road,” she said, with a frown. “I know we haven’t seen one here before, but …”

“Not the road. Look!” He pointed again and she followed the road with her eyes. She'd taken it as a break in the stones, but now she saw it clearly – it was a ravine. It slashed through the forest, extending out of view in both directions, and cutting directly across their path. She sucked in a breath and took his hand as they walked down towards it.

It took longer than she’d thought it would to reach the edge, though she stood a good way back from it. He held onto her as she looked down, as if fearing she’d fall. Ylsriss was grateful despite her amusement. If anyone was likely to not take a danger seriously, it was him. She was never likely to be at risk of falling. The sides fell away, revealing rocks and tree roots, before extending down into the darkness.

“How deep do you think it is?” he asked, in a hushed voice.

“Too deep for me,” she said, with a shudder. “It's too wide for us to cross too.” The far side was at least fifty feet away.

“So now what?”

She looked at him curiously. He’d taken the lead since they’d fled the camps, guiding her through the woods long after they’d left the lands he knew.

“Left or right, I suppose.” She waved her hands vaguely. “It has to end at some point, or at least get shallow or thin enough for us to cross it.”

He peered through the trees in both directions before looking back at her, his eyebrow cocked in a silent query.

“Left, then,” she decided. “I imagine either direction is as good as the other.”

He nodded and set off, heading slightly away from the edge of the cliff. She didn’t blame him. The sight of the empty air beside her was enough to make her skin crawl. She'd always hated heights.

“Can you still feel it?” she asked, raising her voice so he could hear her.

He glanced back. “Feel what?”

“The Touch.”

He waited for her to catch up. “Not really,” he replied, falling into step beside her. “I can remember the feeling of it, of almost worshipping them, but it’s almost as if it happened to someone else now.”

“At least we know it can be broken,” she said, ducking under a thorned branch. “Can you remember much from before?”

His confused look prompted her to continue. “You never really spoke about your life before you were taken. It was hard to get any kind of detail from you. I thought it might have been the Touch. I suppose I’m asking if you remember anything more now?”

“I do,” His words were slow as he tried to grasp the memories. “It’s very strange. Everything has a dreamlike quality to it.”

“How so?”

“Jumbled.” He laughed suddenly, the smile looking out of place on his face for some reason. “That’s not the best explanation, is it?”

She grinned and shook her head.

“The memories have no sense or order to them, like how a dream jumps about from place to place. I can remember being cold. I was on a fishing boat. I was wrapped in furs, but I was still cold. I remember the smell of the sea and the taste of salt on my lips. I can even remember the feel and the smell of the fish as we tipped them out of the nets. But I have no idea what fish tastes like. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Give it time,” she said, reaching for his hand. “You’ve been here a long time, most of it under the Touch. It will probably take a while for your mind to recover.”

“You make it sound like I’m crazy.” His voice was steady, but his eyes had grown hard, accusing.

“You’re not crazy, Joran. I think I’m going to lose it soon though, if we don’t get something to eat other than stale oatcakes!”

Their laughter was forced and false to begin with, but it felt good and genuine laughs followed from both of them. They fell silent for a while as they walked, looking through the trees from time to time to be sure they still followed the edge of the chasm.

“Joran?” she asked, quietly. “Do you remember your mother?”

He looked at her with sympathy. Her tone had been light but he’d clearly seen through it. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I don’t. Not really. I remember the idea of her and sometimes I think I remember the smell of her. Sort of a combination of baking bread and flowers.” He shrugged and looked over at her. “It’s been such a long time though. I’m sure it will be different for you and Effan.”

“Don’t,” she said, glaring at him.

“Don’t? Don’t what?”

“Don’t humour me, Joran. Don’t patronise me.” She spoke softly but the irritation was plain in her tone. An angry dog waiting to be set free.

“I wasn’t,” he protested, holding his hands up in front of him. “I…”

“You what?” she snapped. “You told me you’re sure it won’t be the same for me. How is that not patronising, when you can’t know anything of the sort.”

His voice stumbled into silence and he looked down at his feet as they walked, thinking carefully before he spoke again. “I’m not trying to humour you, Ylsriss. I suppose I’m just hiding from the truth. I’m lying to myself as much as I am to you. The chances of us getting home are tiny. You must know that as well as I do. The chances of finding Effan aren’t much better. And even if we did, would you even recognise him? It’s been...what...the best part of eight months or so since you saw him? It could be even longer.”

She drew her breath in sharply and opened her mouth to retort before forcing it closed again. He was right. After so long, Effan would bear little resemblance to the baby she’d had stolen from her. With a whole world to search, would she really be able to find him? “The lies we tell ourselves,” she whispered to herself.

“What?” Joran looked at her, catching the edges of the whisper.

“I was talking to myself.” She gave a humourless laugh. “I said these are the lies we tell ourselves. The things we need to believe to stay sane, to keep going.”

His smile was tinged with sadness. “So we’re both crazy then, in our own ways.”

“I suppose everyone is.” Her gaze slipped past his face, drawn by a flicker of light from the ravine.

“What?” She ignored him and pushed past him towards the clifftop. He followed in silence, confusion stilling his tongue.

Ylsriss clung to the tree. It was a good five feet or more from the edge of the cliff, but the drop was terrifying and she gripped the rough bark, digging her fingernails in.

The flash came again, yellow-white, and reflected up from the rocks on the far side of the ravine. She forced herself to let go of the tree and dropped to her hands and knees, crawling towards the edge.

“Ylsriss, what are you doing?” Joran asked, amusement in his voice. She ignored him and lay on her belly, squirming closer to the edge until she could peer over it. The ravine wasn’t really worthy of the name any longer. Ylsriss could see the bottom of it clearly, no more than a hundred feet or so below her. The sides that sloped down towards the centre were no longer the sheer face they had once been. It would be a tumbling fall that would probably kill any but the luckiest of men, but it was far better than the endless drop into darkness that she had seen earlier.

There was another flash and she looked to the left. A huge metal bar, pitted with rust, reached from one side of the ravine to the other, some fifty feet away from her. Far below it, a jumble of stone blocks and columns lay broken and collapsed against each other. Rusted rods of iron jutted out of them, as though they’d formed a net and the stone had been wrapped around them.

A small section of pipe protruded from the wall of the ravine amidst the tumbled blocks and, as she looked, sparks erupted from its mouth in a burst of yellow and white.

“What in the world...?” Joran's voice made her jump. She hadn’t heard him approach.

“What is that thing?” she asked.

“I have no idea. I know one thing, though,” he replied.

“What?” She already knew what he was going to say and the thought filled her with dread.

“It goes in the right direction. We can use it to get across.”

“You have got to be joking me!” She pulled herself away from the edge and up onto her knees as she stared at him in dismay. “It’s not nearly as deep as it was. It’s probably coming to an end. If we carry on, we could cross it much more easily.”

“We don’t know that, Ylsriss,” he replied. “It could just as easily drop down again. We could waste days walking in the wrong direction, looking for a way across that isn’t even there.”

“How would we even get down there?” she asked. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of crawling across the beam.

“It’s not that far down to it and the edge isn’t a sheer face, like it was. If we got some vines, we could probably just slide down to it.”

“Probably?” Her voice was shrill with fear and he gave her an amused look.

“There’s another very good reason for going down there, Ylsriss.”

“I haven’t heard the first good reason yet, but go on.” She folded her arms and hugged herself tightly, as if the air had suddenly become cold.

“That’s rust on that thing, and rust means iron or steel,” he explained.

“So?”

“The fae can’t abide the stuff. There was an old man in a camp I was in, years before you arrived here. He had found a sliver of iron in the woods. It looked like a bit of nail to me, but I never thought to question what it was doing there at the time. I remember he was acting so strangely. He was so excited about it. He kept wanting people to hold it at first, then he was talking about making a spear with it.”

“What happened?” Ylsriss asked.

“He’d only had it about an hour before they arrived. Three fae, they just appeared at the edge of the camp with horn bows. They didn’t speak, or warn him or anything. One minute he was rushing about, trying to get people to touch it, the next he had three arrows in his face.”

“What?”

“They killed him, Ylsriss, just for having a tiny scrap of the stuff. They made one of us scoop it into a little pouch for them and then they took it away without a word. They wouldn’t touch it or even go near it. They treated it like it was a live snake or something.”

“What do you think it was about it?”

“I have no idea. But if it can make them so scared that they need to hunt a man down just for having it, then I think we should get some if we can.”

She drew in a long breath, then looked helplessly at him before shaking her head. “I can’t do it, Joran. I can’t climb across that thing. Not for iron, not for anything. Not if there might be another way.” She stopped him as he was about to speak. “Just give me one more day, okay? One more day to see if we can find a different way across? We’ll carry on the way we’ve been going and, if we don’t find anything, then we’ll do it your way.”

He looked at her in silence. She was pale in the fading twilight. The sun couldn’t be more than half an hour away, but her skin looked bloodless as she bit at her lip and pleaded with her eyes.

“Fine.” He gave in. “We’ll give it a day. I want to go slowly though. I’ll use the time to try and hunt something.”

She gave him a wan smile of thanks and he led her off through the trees, keeping the ravine in sight as a point of reference. The woods came slowly alive as the sun rose. Despite the fact that it was only in the sky for an hour, birds became more vocal and the distant rustles made by animals in the undergrowth became more obvious.

Joran walked with his bow in hand, arrow nocked and held ready, though the string was relaxed. He'd instructed her to follow him, telling her it was so they didn’t disturb any game before he had a chance to shoot, but she was making so much noise she doubted it would make a difference.

He managed to move almost silently, keeping to moss or exposed tree roots. She’d listened attentively as he'd explained the best way to avoid making noise but it didn’t seem to work for her. She had an undiscovered talent apparently, or maybe she was just destined to be a city girl.

Joran froze ahead of her and sent an arrow flying into the trees. There was a muted crash, then he flashed a grin at her and ran ahead to collect whatever it was he’d shot. For a moment, she was shocked by just how boyish he seemed, worse than ever. By the time she caught up with him, he was holding a fat bird in one hand. He waved the body at her like a grisly trophy, before stuffing it into a sack he’d pulled from his pack.

They moved more swiftly after that. Joran had pulled the pack open slightly to allow the sunlight to hit the runeplate and warm it. It would be good to get some meat again. The oatcakes that they'd brought with them had long gone and the rest of their supplies were almost exhausted. Although they’d managed to forage some berries as they travelled, it was not enough.

The sun fell swiftly and they slowed as the light faded. It was always hard to adjust to the twilight again and she made more noise than she had before. She was concentrating on trying to keep quiet, looking down at the ground ahead of her, when she sensed Joran stop.

“What is it?” she asked finally, unable to bear it.

“Come and see this,” he called back, a frown of confusion on his face.

She hurried to his side and then stopped. The ground fell away ahead of them, dropping down in a steep cliff. Beyond the cliff was nothing but skies and wisps of cloud, as if the land simply ended there. She looked to the left and right of her, tracing the cliff with her eyes as it extended out of view in both directions.

“Shit.” She spat and sat on the thick grass that grew between the trees and the edge of the cliff. He stared off to the right, stepping closer to the edge, then his eyes bulged and his mouth fell open.

“What?” she asked, although part of her didn't really care.

He pointed wordlessly and waved a finger ahead of him at the cliff as he looked at her. “Seriously, Ylsriss, look at this.”

She sighed and pulled herself back to her feet. The cliff that sank away below them was a combination of white stone and small patches of exposed earth. For the most part, it extended down away from them in a steep slope before dropping off into darkness. Far to the right of them though, the bottom of the cliff was clearly visible. Where the ground should have been at the base of the cliff, there was nothing, a twilight expanse filled with wispy clouds. Another sky extending out from underneath the ground on which they stood.

As she tried to make sense of what she was seeing, a break in the clouds below her revealed the pinprick lights of stars. She rocked back and staggered away from the edge as her eyes grew as wide as Joran’s had been.

“Those are stars!” she gasped. “How can there be another sky underneath us?” Her only answer was the stunned face of her companion.

The trek back was silent. They’d talked about it until confusion drove the words from them and there was nothing left to say. A sky beneath them, visible underneath the bottom of the cliff they stood at the top of. The concept made her head hurt but set her vertigo screaming. She shuddered away from the notion of the land she stood upon resting on nothing but empty space far beneath her. Was this entire world just floating in the twilit sky?

Joran was equally silent, not even bothering to hunt. Despite all of the alien oddities of this world of the fae, nothing had prepared them for this. He led the way through the trees, retracing their steps until they returned to the ravine and the strange metal beam that would be their way across it.

Now that she was closer, she could see it was as straight as any fashioned stone. Odd nodules jutted from it in places like the heads of massive screws. She couldn’t say how long she stood examining it, but as Joran arrived back beside her with a tangle of thick vines, she realised it must have been some time.

He set about wrapping the ends of the vines around the thick trunk of a tree that stood close to the ravine edge, before letting a length of it down towards the rusted metal. The vines were not made from single strands, like ropes or lines. Instead, they were tangles of wide green and brown plants that lay as wide as her outstretched arms, extending down over the edge of the ravine like a poorly-fashioned rope ladder.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Me?” she demanded. “Why do I have to go first?”

“Alright, I’ll go first.”

“Well, I don’t want to be left here alone!”

He chuckled. “Fine. They should be strong enough to hold both of us. We can go together.”

“Should be?” she asked, a dangerous lilt in her voice.

He laughed again. “Look at the slope, Ylsriss. Most of your weight will be on the ground itself, not the vines. They’re only there so we can control how fast we go down and to help us to balance.”

“Right.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” she replied. “It’s the scraps of plant that you’ve pulled out of the woods that I don’t trust.”

He ignored her and sat on the edge of the ravine, his hands grasping the vines on either side of him. “I think it makes sense to go down like this, sort of sitting down. That way, you can use your feet to slow yourself too and you put less weight on the vines.”

“That would be the vines you’re sure will hold us?” Sarcasm dripped from her words as she looked at him.

“Those are the ones, yes.” He grinned at her and then pushed himself over the edge, kicking up dirt and small stones as he slid down on his rump.

“Joran!” she screamed. He slowed then stopped himself with his feet, grabbing onto the vines with his hands.

“It’s fine,” he called up. “Now you.”

“Oh yes, my turn now. Joy!” she muttered to herself as she swung her legs over the edge. He looked up at her expectantly and she took in a deep breath before she pushed herself over the edge. The breath was gone in a moment, used all at once in one long scream, as she slid down towards him.

Chapter Thirteen

Selena strolled through the rooms of the villa, ignoring the maids as they frantically darted about trying to make the place ready for human habitation. Although they’d sent word ahead, the house was far from ready for them.

She gave a snort of amusement as the distant barking of the mistress of the house sent the maids scurrying again. The woman had the soul of a rottweiler and was not anyone Selena would ever want to cross if she could help it.

A wave of nausea struck her, coming from nowhere, and she rested a hand on a cloth- covered piano to steady herself. She closed her eyes tight and bent to rest her head on her hand. Biting her lip seemed to help her, for some reason, although nothing else had. She winced at the remembered taste of the herbal teas and the ginger-laced foods she’d eaten in an effort to quell the urge to throw up.

Swallowing was helping today as well. Last week, it had been more likely to send her scrambling for a chamber pot. She took a deep breath as she fought it off and circled the room, lifting a cloth to examine a harp before stepping out into the hallway.

“Ah, your grace.” Hanris smiled with that facial grimace that all staff seem to use with their employers. “Do you find the villa to your liking?”

“I presume the villa is under a dust sheet then, Hanris? Everything else seems to be.”

“Yes, your grace, it does rather seem that the staff are somewhat behind schedule.”

“No, Hanris. Behind schedule implies that some work was due to have taken place. What we have here is a complete failure to even begin it before our arrival.” Two maids hurried past bearing mops and buckets. “Should we present ourselves at the palace? I don’t think there will be much opportunity to relax here for a while.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, your grace?” Hanris pursed his lips and looked at her midriff meaningfully. “In your condition, I mean?”

“My condition?” Selena laughed. “Hanris, women have been tilling fields in my condition for thousands of years, sometimes with another child strapped to their chests while they do it. I’m sure I can cope with a brief carriage ride and the poor hospitality of the palace.”

Hanris was unfazed. “I’ll have the carriage brought round for you, your grace.”

“Do.” Selena paused, tapping her lips with one finger. “I think some attendants and an escort would be a good idea, as well. We must send the right message, after all. See if you can round up some suitably strapping young men in uniform to trot along beside me, would you?”

“An honour guard. Yes, your grace.” He gave a tight bow and strode down the marble-tiled corridor. Selena watched him for a moment, before making her way to the central staircase and up to her suite. The villa was relatively new, in the sense that Freyton had acquired it along with the rest of the duchy. Each of the major political players retained a presence in the capital. She presumed that, at some point, the Browntree family had owned its own villa here too.

At least the staff had managed to bring in the trunks and get them unpacked, she noted, as she made her way into the suite. She glanced out the window at the sun shining above the marble-clad buildings, judging the time by the light.

Changing alone was a relief. For once there were no foolish women seeking to help her to do something she’d managed by herself since she was knee-high. She selected simple, yet elegant, clothing from the wardrobes and began to dress. The full-length mirror on its stand threw her reflection back at her. Older than she remembered. Stronger, certainly, but was she wiser? Time would soon tell, she supposed.

She placed a hand on her stomach, looking at the woman in the mirror. It was starting to show more obviously. She’d have to have a dressmaker brought in while they were here. For now, however, it would probably help her cause to exaggerate things a little.

The gown was just a touch too tight, a fact exacerbated by the bow that tied at the back and lay atop the bustle. She shook her head, laughing at the spectacle of herself in the mirror. Who had even come up with the idea of a bustle?

Her hair, at least, wouldn’t need much fussing with. She reached for the bell pull with one hand while she fumbled with the pins with the other.

“Is the coach ready?” she asked the servant as she entered the room.

“Yes, your grace.”

“Lead the way then.” Selena flashed the woman a bright smile. “I’m sure His Majesty is breathless with anticipation.”

“Does he know you’ve arrived, Ma’am? Were we supposed to have sent word?” The maid's expression was panic-stricken.

“Never mind,” Selena said, with a heartfelt sigh. Why was she doomed to be surrounded by people with no sense of humour?

Hanris awaited her beside the carriage, opening the door for her himself and shooing away the efforts of the footman. She graced him with a warm smile before climbing in and perching on the edge of the seat.

The carriage clattered through the city. It was not yet midday and the streets were still covered in a sheen from the rains of the night before. Selena forced the bustle into the backrest and managed to find an almost comfortable position as she leaned against the cushioned wall of the carriage.

“Is this your first time in Celstwin, Hanris?” she asked, more to break the silence than from any desire to speak with the man.

He jumped slightly, roused from a half-doze, and coughed before replying. “The first time in many years, your grace. I travelled here as a young lad. It is quite as fine, as I remember it.”

She glanced out at the pristine buildings. “You do know that’s by design, don’t you?”

“Your grace?”

“The city was designed and constructed so that the poor could be kept off the streets and out of sight,” she explained. “The broader avenues that carriages pass along are deliberately grand in order to drive up the prices of property. You won’t find any but the most successful tradesmen on the main streets of Celstwin.”

He stared at her. “Surely that’s the same in any city, your grace.”

“Not really, Hanris. Other cities have rich and poor areas that have sprung up over time. Celstwin was built with them already in place. In order to buy desirable property in Celstwin, you either need a title or a writ of patronage. The slums hold more than four-fifths of the city's population, but you’ll never see them unless you go into the poor quarters.”

He nodded in understanding. “And if you go into them looking like you don’t belong, you’ll be lucky to leave with your purse.”

Selena smiled grimly. “Or your life.”

“Surely it’s rather foolhardy to create social divisions like that, though? I mean, to intentionally put the citizens at odds with each other?”

“Oh, Hanris, you are so delightfully naive at times.” She reached over and patted his hand. “The people who live in the poor quarters have never been unified. You could fill a book with the names of the various guilds, thieving gangs and crime syndicates. That’s not the point, though. The poor generally leave the elite of Celstwin alone, because the king wishes it. In return, he ignores them.”

“And while he’s ignoring them, they are ruling themselves,” Hanris finished for her.

“Exactly!” She beamed like a proud parent, despite the fact he was easily twice her age. “And where there is division and conflict, there are pressure points. Kings have been manipulating the various factions in Celstwin for generations. Anlan is little different. A push here, a prod there. Turn a blind eye to one faction to balance out the other. Ruling is a balancing act, Hanris, one our present monarch does not seem to be adept at. Either that or he is far more adept at it than I imagined.”

She fell silent, looking out at the pampered people as they strolled idly through the well-manicured avenues, past decorative columns and topiaries. Their arrival at the palace came almost as a welcome relief. Celstwin was very much like a spoilt child and Selena found her hands itching to teach it a lesson.

Palace footmen rushed forward to open the door for her and set a small plush stool beside the carriage for her to step down onto. She waited whilst Hanris clambered out and stood beside the coach before she climbed out herself.

The grounds of the palace were grand. It would be odd if they weren’t, of course, but these were grand in a brash and ostentatious fashion. What one king had built, another had let fall into disrepair. As a result, the grounds and, indeed, the palace itself were a garish mishmash of half a dozen architectural styles.

She cast an appraising eye over the palace as she brushed down her gown. It had been many years since she’d seen it and she found herself reclaiming half-forgotten snatches of memory as they proceeded into the building itself.

Her own escort, she noticed, had been smoothly diverted. As she walked towards the palace entrance, with only Hanris to accompany her, she suddenly felt very small and alone.

As a duchess, she was required to present herself at the palace whenever she arrived in the capital. It was a convention that few followed, but today it suited her needs. Putting on an air of confidence and entitlement that she did not feel, she strode into the building, ignoring the guards that stood to attention with their long polearms.

A stuffy-looking steward in a spotless crimson livery intercepted them in the entrance hall.

“Can I help you?” he said, in a manner which indicated very clearly that not only did he not wish to help them, but also that he resented the implication that he ought to, or that they should even have dared to enter the grounds.

Selena gave the man a withering glance and nodded to Hanris.

“And you are?” Hanris replied, looking the man up and down.

The man bristled, smoothing his red moustache with one finger. He ignored Hanris and addressed Selena. “I am His Majesty’s house steward. Kindly ask your man to moderate his tone.”

“And I am Duchess Freyton of Druel, The Wash, and the Eastern Reaches. How dare you address me in that manner!” Her eyes were ice as she spoke in a dreadfully quiet voice.

The man held her gaze for a full second before he began to wilt. “I’m sorry, madam. I had no idea.”

“Your grace,” Hanris said, in a stage whisper.

“I’m sorry?”

“The correct form of address.” His words were drenched in condescension and pomposity. “Your mode of address ought to be ‘your grace’, not simply ‘madam’. This is not some simple washerwoman you are speaking to.”

A red flush appeared at the man’s collar and spread until it began an assault on his cheeks. “My apologies, your grace,” he began again. “Is there something I might assist you with?”

“I’m not sure,” Selena replied, as she fought to keep a smile from her face. It was hard not to enjoy the sight of the arrogant little man deflating. “Is there?”

He cleared his throat and clasped the thick black ledger to his side. “I am tasked with overseeing His Majesty’s appointments, your grace. As such, I am required to announce those that have arrived for scheduled meetings with the king.”

“Oh,” she said, drawing out the word as if suddenly understanding. “You’re the doorman!”

Hanris made a noise that could conceivably, in some other time and place, have been a cough and the steward's face became, if possible, redder, as he pulled open the ledger and rested it on one arm.

“You do not appear to have an appointment, your grace,” he said, biting off the words. “I’m afraid His Majesty’s calendar is simply too full for social visits.”

“I believe you will find that all members of the higher nobility are required to present themselves to the king upon arrival in the city, as is required by convention and privilege,” Hanris replied smoothly.

“Well, yes, but nobody follows those silly traditions in this day and age.” The man waved away the suggestion.

“Are you suggesting that Her Grace does not have the right to present herself?” Hanris asked, with no small measure of incredulity.

“I take it you’re going to insist upon this?” The steward sighed. “Very well. I’ll find you somewhere you can take refreshments. I’m afraid it might be a lengthy wait though.” He looked at Selena. “My apologies, your grace.”

Selena nodded, acknowledging the words, and then fell into line behind him as he led them deeper into the palace.

The parlour was comfortable but held the smell of a room that was rarely used. It was probably one of a hundred forgotten lounges and sitting rooms littered throughout the place. She made her way around the room, idly inspecting the paintings on the walls. The oil had grown so dark in some that it was hard to make out the images.

“I’m not entirely sure that was wise, your grace,” Hanris said. He perched on the edge of the divan. He may have conceded to her demand that he sit, but he clearly had no intention of relaxing.

“Hmm?” Selena turned away from the portrait. “Oh, the doorman? He doesn’t have any power to speak of, Hanris.”

“Be that as it may, your grace, he will not be inclined to assist us with obtaining an audience.”

Selena snorted. “I’ll not crawl and scrape to every petty-minded bureaucrat scurrying about the palace. We’ll have our audience one way or another and I’ll not beg to exercise my own rights.”

Hanris’s sigh was quiet but just loud enough to reach her ear.

After a few hours, a servant brought them refreshments but they were then studiously ignored. Selena grew bored and then irritated before falling prey to self-doubt. Had the silly little steward actually managed to block her? He wouldn’t dare, surely?

Finally, as she was about to give up hope, they were escorted to a marble bench outside the king’s audience chamber. Her initial excitement faded quickly, however, as it became clear that they had simply been moved to another place to wait. She glared at the door as the hours passed, attracting more than one curious look from the servants as they hurried past.

“Come, Hanris,” she said, standing abruptly. “We’ll not be party to this.”

“Your grace?”

“The king is clearly not going to see us this day, and I’ll not sit here whilst the servants peer around the corner and snigger at us.”

“As you say, your grace.”

The ride back to the villa was silent.

They were not seen the next day or the day after that, and Selena perfected the art of quietly seething. She exuded an aura of politely contained rage that sent the servants hopping when they came too close. Appointments for the king came and went, looking at her with barely concealed derision, as their attendants identified her as an ‘eastern noble’ in the same manner as one might classify a dog as a mongrel.

It was late in the afternoon on the third day when she heard someone call out to her.

“Selena? Is that you?”

She turned to see a refined-looking man peering at her from under his bushy white eyebrows. “Uncle Thomas!” she exclaimed, rushing to her feet.

“We’ve both been too old for you to call me uncle for years, my dear,” the old man said, with a laugh. “Besides, I was never really your uncle anyway.”

“Uncle sounds better than cousin,” Selena said, with a toss of the head.

“And both sound better than Earl Salisbourne,” he said, with a grimace. “What are you doing here? I heard you were married off to some eastern fellow. Slayton or something?”

“Freyton,” Selena corrected him, ignoring the way he’d curled his lip when he said 'eastern fellow'. “I was. He died recently, I’m afraid.”

His face fell and the twinkle in his eyes was replaced with guilt and sympathy. “Oh, my dear, I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replied. “It was not a happy marriage. We all know it was one of convenience and necessity, anyway. I’m only sorry his son won’t get to meet him.” She put a hand on her midriff, looking down so he couldn’t fail to catch her meaning.

“A child?” The smile flew back to his lips immediately. “Why, that’s wonderful news!” He pulled her into a hug and, just as quickly, pushed her back, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Look at us! A pair of gossips chatting away for the entertainment of the staff. What are you doing here?”

“I was rather hoping for an audience with the king,” Selena said, rolling her eyes.

“Few and far between, these days, I’m afraid,” he replied, with a sidelong look at the doors. “Would it be terribly rude of me to ask why?”

“The Bjornmen,” Selena grated. “They’re taking whole counties at a time and he doesn’t seem to be inclined to do anything about it. I’ve sent missive after missive and, frankly, my own forces are not up to the task. If we’re to have any chance of repelling them, I need the king’s armies.”

Thomas nodded soberly. “Listen, I’m having a little meal tomorrow evening with a few people you might like to meet. Rentrew is going to be there. I suspect you have a lot to talk about.”

“Baron Rentrew?” she said, in shock. “What on earth is he doing here?”

“Much the same as you, by the sound of things,” Thomas replied. “Must dash, my dear. I’ll send a coach for you tomorrow evening.” He gave her another twinkling smile as he left.

***

Pieter was a pale man with dark, lank hair that was no friend to a bath. They were only nodding acquaintances at best. It hung down past his cheekbones, framing his sallow face, as he looked down at her with bored indifference in his dark shadowed eyes.

His was not the face of a king. Not a king that would ever inspire his subjects, anyway. It was a cruel face, the face of a child grown to adulthood who had never quite stopped pulling the wings off flies. He lounged in the throne, his head propped up on one hand as he leaned his elbow on the armrest.

“Freyton,” the king said slowly, as if testing the word to see whether or not it was to his liking. “Freyton is one of my newer dukes. He holds my lands in the Eastern Reaches, I believe. I wasn’t aware he’d taken a wife.” He looked over to the large table set against one wall and received a nod from one of the red-robed men there. They were huddled together, speaking quietly as another man scribbled into a thick ledger.

The scribbler was wearing a black robe with red trim. He stood and moved to his usual place, beside and slightly behind the throne, as Selena spoke.

“Yes, My Liege.” She was not quite sure what to make of the man. It had been a shock to be admitted after all this time spent waiting. Hanris had been forced to wake her, as she'd dozed and she hadn’t quite found her feet yet.

“So why has this man sent his wife in his place? I have little respect for a man who hides behind his woman when making requests.”

“Nor should you, my lord,” the dark-robed man murmured, just loud enough for the words to carry.

“Requests, Your Majesty?” Selena found herself parroting the man and turning the words into a question. It was a habit she’d always found intensely annoying when used by her own staff and she inwardly chided herself for it.

“Nobody sits outside waiting for an audience for three days without wanting something, girl,” Pieter said. His voice was little warmer than his eyes, and they were as cold as winter’s kiss. “Where is he?”

“My husband died recently, Your Majesty,” Selena said simply.

He sat in silence for a moment, digesting the news. “And why was word not sent? One of my own dukes dies and you see no reason to inform me?”

“Word was sent, Your Majesty, both by bird and messenger.” She met his eyes. Not defiantly, that would be stupid against such a man, but yet refusing to be cowed.

He ignored her, changing tack as if she hadn’t spoken. “Why are you here? Not to tell me Freyton is dead. You Browntrees are all the same, money-grabbing schemers. What do you want now?”

Selena ground her teeth. She was being toyed with, baited. There could be no way the man was this ill-informed. “My duchy, your lands, have been invaded by a large force of Bjornmen, Your Majesty. Their numbers are such that we cannot repel them. They are taking lands. Driving off your subjects and settling the lands for themselves.”

“Your duchy?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her as the robed toady tutted beside him, shaking his head in disapproval. “What makes it your duchy? By your own admission, Freyton is dead.”

“He left the title to me, to act in his stead until his unborn child is ready to take the helm.” She swallowed, fighting to keep the act as unobtrusive as she could. A sign of weakness before the man would be tantamount to suicide.

“He left you the title?” Pieter's voice rose with his anger and he stood up in his seat. “Am I not king? I decide who my lords and dukes are, not some semi-literate scratchings.”

The grey-haired man bent to whisper into Pieter’s ear, his words too low and swift for Selena to hear, although she did catch the word 'regency'.

She drew breath to speak, but the king waved a hand at her in disgust as he retook his seat. “Enough, woman. I’m done with your prattlings. Go to your villa and remain there until I send for you. We will consider your request to allow your regency.”

“But, Your Majesty…” she began, in desperation.

“You’re dismissed.” He cut her off, his eyes narrow in thought, as he watched her make a hasty curtsy and step backwards before turning and making her way out.

She ignored the guards at the door as they turned their eyes away from her, embarrassed on her behalf. She clenched her fists at her sides to stop them from shaking and made her way out into the small antechamber.

Hanris stood as she entered, a question on his lips, but she stopped him with a curt shake of the head and marched out into the hallway.

“Your meeting was not a success then, your grace?” Hanris asked, once they were in the privacy of the carriage.

“You could say that,” she replied, in sick voice. “There is a game at play here, Hanris, we are late arrivals it would seem. Our task is to find what moves have already been played.”

“Indeed, your grace, and if I might interject, it would be beneficial to know who the other players are as well.”

She raised her eyebrows at that. “Indeed. Our esteemed monarch has commanded us to remain at the villa until summoned. It would seem he isn’t quite finished with us yet.”

“That’s something at least, your grace,” Hanris said.

“It’s his seeming lack of knowledge about the Bjornmen that concerns me most, Hanris,” she admitted, shaking her head. “I cannot truly believe that he has not received word. What motive could he possibly have for feigning ignorance?”

“What indeed?” Hanris muttered. “I take it the fae were not mentioned?”

“Hardly!” she scoffed. “The man seems not to believe the Bjornmen have invaded, I was not about to bring up monsters escaped from fable and legend.”

“A wise move, your grace,” Hanris replied but she didn’t hear. She was already staring out of the window, her mind churning.

***

“Are you certain this is appropriate, your grace?” Hanris asked, as the coach passed through the gates into the Salisbourne estate.

“Appropriate, Hanris?” she replied, with an amused smile.

“My accompanying you, your grace,” Hanris explained, as they approached the mansion.

“I’ve already explained, it will be fine.” She took a closer look at the man and realised he was genuinely worried. “It’s really quite common, Hanris. You’re a professional and, as such, it’s expected that you will attend and meet with your counterparts in Salisbourne’s household. If Freyton hadn’t been such a frightful bore, you’d have done this half a dozen times each year.” She paused and looked at him. “Surely you’ve done this before? Not in Freyton’s employ, obviously, but prior to working for him?”

Hanris cleared his throat and looked away. “Not as such, your grace. I’ve...well, I’ve never been what you might call a people person.”

Selena nodded. “Well, I think it’s time that changed. Can’t have you spending your whole life tallying figures now, can we?”

“Apparently not, your grace.” His response was almost lost in the crunching of gravel as the carriage slowed to a halt and Salisbourne’s men opened the door for them. Selena took the hand of a young footman and stepped out carefully, so as not to stand on the hem of her elegant evening gown.

The dressmaker’s fee had made Hanris blanch, but she had to admit it was worth it. The deep forest green colour set off her flaming red hair and the cut almost, but not quite, concealed the fact she was pregnant. It had taken her some time to explain what she wanted to achieve there. Designing a dress to look as if it had just failed to conceal a pregnant waistline, whilst still ensuring that she looked fabulous, was no easy task. It was also cut almost scandalously low, obviously so. This again, was by design. An overly blatant attempt to draw the eyes away from the waist.

Selena felt the blood rise in her cheeks as she stepped out of the carriage and felt the eyes of the footman upon her. She murmured her thanks, something Freyton would never have done. The man had possessed the social graces of a sewer rat, often present, but seldom welcome.

Salisbourne himself came out to greet them on the front steps, beaming as he took in her dress. “You look positively ravishing, my dear,” he said, as he bent to kiss her cheek.

“Why, thank you, Thomas,” she purred. “Impending motherhood allegedly gives a woman a certain glow. I’ve yet to notice it myself. It’s possibly because most mornings lately I spend more time clapping a hand over my mouth and searching for a chamber pot than looking into mirrors!”

The earl gave her a startled look and then burst into laughter. It was a deep, genuine laugh that came from the belly. “Selena, you always were the most fun to sit near at dinner. It doesn’t look like anything has changed.” He looked past her to Hanris. “And is this your man here?”

“My chamberlain,” she explained. “Hanris, this is my cousin, Thomas.”

“You honour me, my lord,” Hanris said, with a short bow.

The earl smiled a polite acknowledgement. “I believe my staff have their own modest dinner planned which, of course, you are welcome to attend. My man, Adams, is always looking for someone to sample the wine cellars with. Be careful though, I have it on good authority he can talk your ear off.”

He took Selena’s arm and escorted her through to the dining room. Salisbourne’s home was warm, both from the décor and from the large fireplace that almost filled one entire end of the dining hall.

The rich carpets and dark oak panelling provided a sense of homely comforts. Neither were especially in fashion these days, but they drew Selena's mind back to happier times, to a childhood she barely remembered, a time before things had gone so terribly awry for the Browntrees.

“It’s a quiet affair this time, my dear,” Thomas explained, as he waved her into the room. “Agnes is away at the country house and so I could dispense with half of the insipid toadies she seems to delight in surrounding herself with. I think you’ll probably recognise a few faces, though.”

The room was awash with conversation and at least forty people sat at the long table. He waved away the steward and pulled the chair out for her himself, before moving to his own place opposite her.

She smiled at the older lady on her left and glanced at the empty seat on her right, before beckoning the wine steward over. She gave him discreet instructions for her wine to be extremely well watered, then turned as a portly man in his middle years took the seat on her right.

“You must be little Selena, then,” he said, with a broad smile on his red face. “Tommy told us all about you last night.” The room was warm, but not so warm as to justify the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “Jantson,” he said, by way of introduction. “Earl of someplace you've most likely never heard of, but we don’t bother with those things at Tommy’s dos. Stuff and nonsense, anyway.” His laugh was infectious and was already relaxing her.

“Oh,” he said, peering past her at her other neighbour. “A word from the wise. Don’t bother trying to talk to her. She’s as deaf as a post. Isn’t that right, Agatha?” He raised his voice to almost a shout, leaning into the table and waving at the elderly lady.

“What’s that?” she replied, with a bemused look.

“Deaf!” Jantson yelled again, as Selena looked on with an uncomfortable smile.

“Me?” Agatha asked, loudly. “Oh, yes. Deaf as a post. I only come for the wine!” She burst into laughter and raised her glass again, motioning to the servant to refill it.

“She’ll be snoring into her plate before the third course,” Jantson snorted.

The first course was served at that moment, saving Selena from the effort of trying to respond to the odd man. A cold beetroot soup, exotically spiced.

“It’s cold!” protested Jantson, grabbing for a napkin.

“It’s supposed to be,” Selena laughed, unable to help herself. “It’s called ‘pasha’, I think. I believe it’s from Feldane.”

“I know it’s supposed to be warm down there, but surely they still need to cook?” Jantson muttered, pushing the bowl aside. “We’ll all be peeing pink in the morning, if we eat this.” He snorted at his own joke, missing Selena’s slightly repulsed expression.

“So tell me, Selena, what’s it actually like over in the Eastern Reaches. You hear such stories about endless winters and raiders coming from the sea all bundled up in bearskins.”

“I don’t know that it’s as barbaric as the tales say. It does take a little getting used to. Not quite the pinnacle of civilisation, you might say,” she replied, sipping at her wine. The servant had paid attention, she noticed. Though it was as dark a red as Jantson’s, she could barely taste the wine itself.

“That’s right, Tommy mentioned you’d spent some time here in your youth.”

“My youth?” A dangerous smile curved her lips.

“Not to say you aren’t young,” he sputtered, as his face turned red.

“Of course not,” she murmured. “That would be outrageously rude.” She glanced up at him and then burst into laughter at his stricken expression.

Dinner was pleasant, with Jantson proving to be an entertaining companion, and it was almost with regret that she pushed away the remains of the last course, a deliciously light lemon torte.

“Shall we adjourn, gentlemen?” Thomas called out across the table. Selena groaned to herself. She'd forgotten this ridiculous tradition. The men would now sequester themselves drinking brandy and smoking stourweed in their pipes. Meanwhile, she would be trapped with a collection of old dears and trophy wives with nothing to talk about save the latest fashions.

She rose with the others as Thomas left the table, and stepped backwards away from the crowd and into a corner as she pondered what to do. She lost sight of Jantson and sipped her wine as she tried to avoid being drawn into conversation. A few guests had remained at the table, nibbling on a selection of cheeses and nuts. She wondered if she should join them.

A tap on the shoulder and Thomas was there again. “I thought we’d get the gossips busy and then slope off for a private chat. There are a couple of people I want you to meet.”

Selena tried to conceal her relief, but his wry smile as he escorted her to the door told her plainly that she’d failed.

Jantson was in the hallway with two other men she didn’t recognise. One seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“You’ve met Jantson, of course,” Thomas said, as the fat man smiled. “This is Raysh and I expect you’ve probably heard of Rentrew?”

She smiled politely in greeting before it clicked. “Baron Rentrew?”

“So very nice to meet you, your grace,” Rentrew said, with a small bow.

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you, my lord,” she replied, with genuine pleasure.

“Oh, don’t start all that nonsense, Rentrew,” Salisbourne sighed. “We’re all titled here. If we start Gracing and Lording, we’ll never get to the end of a sentence.” He turned to Selena. “I’ve a nice private study where we can all have a proper conversation. I have a feeling we have a few mutual interests that should be discussed.”

Salisbourne’s private study was filled with the smell of old books, whiskey and stourweed smoke. He arranged some chairs around a small table and poured drinks for them. Selena shook her head behind her raised hand as she refused the offer.

“Selena here, as I’m sure you know, Rentrew, has been trying to get in to see our beloved king for the past three days.”

He looked at Selena, nodding towards Rentrew as he spoke. “Rentrew has been trying to get in for over a month now. He began by sending missives, then emissaries and finally upped sticks and came himself.” He looked back to both Rentrew and Raysh. “She managed to get in to see him this morning.”

“How could you possibly…?” Selena burst out, before managing to stop herself. Salisbourne gave a dry chuckle when he saw her expression. “Because it’s my business to know, my dear.”

“I’m going to be frank, Selena,” Rentrew said, leaning forward to set his glass back on the table. “I know all about the Bjornmen. I’ve had to deal with some attacks myself, though nothing on the scale you've been facing. I’ve lost five or six villages and more troops than I really care to put a number to. What concerns me far more, however, is the lack of any response from Pieter.”

Selena glanced around the table. Everyone's attention was fixed on her. What exactly had she wandered into here?

“The response has not been what I would have expected,” she replied. It never hurts to be cautious.

“What was his reaction today?” Salisbourne asked, resting his glass on his leg as he leaned forward.

“He dismissed it,” Selena replied. “As I recall, he branded it a Browntree scheme to grab crown funds.”

“Bloody fool,” Raysh snorted into his glass.

“That’s it? He just dismissed it entirely?” Rentrew said, his eyes betraying just how shocked he was. This was a man who should never play cards, Selena decided.

“As I've said, he implied it was a scheme. To be honest, he spent more time questioning my right to the regency.”

“Foolishness,” Raysh muttered. “Something must be done, Salisbourne. The man has spent months ignoring the business of the kingdom. If Feldane presses north now, who knows where it will end?”

“Calm down, Raysh.” Thomas held his hands out as if slowing a startled horse. “We’ve all been hearing rumours about the Bjornmen, Selena. We've been hearing other things too. Fantastical things that I can’t bring myself to believe.”

“What is this?” she asked, looking from face to face. “What have I been pulled into here?”

“Call us a small collection of concerned lords,” Salisbourne said, with a grim smile.

“You can’t have moved that far already,” she breathed, sensing the meaning behind the words.

“In thought, perhaps,” Raysh spoke up. “Not yet in deed. Tell us the truth, Selena. What is really going on in the Eastern Reaches?”

“Before I do, tell me who I’m speaking to here? Is it really just you three?”

Raysh and Salisbourne exchanged wry smiles. “I told you she was never one to tangle with,” Salisbourne chuckled.

“No, you’ve seen right through us all, Selena. We each represent certain interests. No, represent is too strong of a word. We have the ear of certain interest groups. Rentrew is in close contact with a group of eastern lords and landowners. Jantson has the ear of a group in the west. Raysh is part of a stronger, more influential consortium of merchants and lords reaching down into Feldane. As for me, well, I have my fingers in many pies, but my main interests have always been here in the capital.”

She took a breath and collected herself. A push here, a prod there, she told herself. “Fine, gentlemen. Let's see if I can’t bring you all up to speed with things. Before we begin though, I think perhaps we ought to discuss just what it is that you can offer in return. My duchy is, after all, on the front lines, as it were.” Their eyes widened. Apparently, none of them would be any good as a card partner. They were already invested in the potential knowledge though, she could see that. This was just another round of games and she had always excelled at games.

Chapter Fourteen

Ylsriss clung to Joran, her fingernails digging into his flesh like claws. The drop yawned beneath her. She could almost feel it calling to her, whispering to her to just let go and allow it to embrace her.

She forced herself to open her eyes and look down. The rational part of her mind tried to tell her that it wasn’t that far to the bottom. The impact would hurt, it might even kill her, but the ravine wasn’t the bottomless chasm her fear was trying to convince her it was.

“Ylsriss,” Joran rasped again. “You’ve got to let go of me. We’ll both fall.” He reached up, leaning awkwardly to the right to compensate for the loss of support, and began to prise her fingers away from his throat.

“Just hold on to the vines for a moment.” He pulled himself onto the huge metal beam and twisted to face her. “Just take deep breaths for a minute. We're in no hurry, okay?”

She did as he said. Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, she hated herself like this. The loss of control was enough to make her scream. She wasn’t this weak. She wouldn’t allow herself to be this weak, not again. Ylsriss drew a deep breath. She could use this, take the anger and let it consume the fear. She opened her eyes again and glared at the metal span, ignoring the way that Joran flinched away from her.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” she said, from between clenched teeth.

She examined the span, forcing herself to ignore the drop. It was ancient and pitted deeply with rust, but so large that it was unlikely it couldn’t support them. The beam was easily two feet wide and three feet thick. Another section extended below them at a right angle, dropping into the ravine before burying itself into the side of the chasm. The weight of the beam alone would have pulled it apart, had it been anything less than sound.

“This must have been here for centuries. Look at the rust!” She prodded at the metal, testing its resistance.

“It will be fine, Ylsriss,” he said, reaching for her.

“I can’t walk across that, Joran.” She snatched her hand back as he started to pull her onto the beam again.

“We’re not going to walk. Look, we can sit on it and pull ourselves forward.” He lowered himself down until he sat astride the metal, tilting slightly to the left to make up for the angle. She cursed and followed his lead.

It was slow-going, but they managed to move themselves across the beam reasonably well. The main problem, she noticed, was that the rust caught on the thin fabric of their leggings, scratching and rubbing at the flesh beneath.

“Talk to me, Joran,” she panted, as she shifted forwards again. “I need the distraction. What do you think this thing is?”

“I don’t know. It’s clearly been made by somebody, but I can’t imagine why. Or who. That’s the real question, isn’t it? Who?”

“How do you mean?” she grunted, as she shifted forward again. He didn’t answer, but turned slightly to look past her. She followed his gaze, but there was nothing to see except the trees at the top of the slope they’d come down.

“I thought I heard something,” he muttered, in response to her look. He shrugged and began shifting forward once more.

The feeling began as she started to move again. It was vague and nebulous at first, but soon coalesced into the knowledge that they were being watched. Before she’d moved another few feet forward, she was certain and she froze for a second before twisting around to look again.

It stood at the top of the slope, staring down at them with fascination in its black eyes. It was different to the others she’d seen. The horns were longer, about a foot in length, and extended out of its hair and curved towards the back of its head. Its short beard was shot through with grey and a slow smile spread across its face as it saw her looking.

“Joran!” she hissed, and pointed up at the satyr.

“Shit,” he gasped.

The creature seemed content to watch them for the moment and made no move towards them. As she looked, she realised it was not alone. A tiny purple figure was floating in the air next to it. It was only as the leaves of the trees shifted, sending down a shaft of sunlight, that she caught sight of its wings.

Realisation hit her. “Joran, it's daylight!”

He grunted in response and continued to move forward. “Let’s get off this thing. If they decide to come for us, I’d rather be on solid ground,” he said.

She saw the sense in this and shifted forwards again. They were more than halfway across the ravine now. The shock of seeing the satyr and whatever it was with it had eclipsed her fear of falling.

Joran had stopped ahead of her and she glanced over her shoulder at the creature before she spoke. “What are you doing?”

“Just give me a second,” he grunted, his shoulders straining as he worked at something in front of him.

“Joran, keep going!” she cried, as she saw the winged figure soar up into the air and then swoop towards them, ignoring the cry that came from the satyr.

Joran glanced over one shoulder, then jerked backwards as whatever he was pulling on gave way. He started to make his way along the beam again. Ylsriss hurried behind him, wobbling as she traded balance for speed. She swivelled slightly to take a fleeting look at the thing flying slowly through the air towards them. It had the form of a tiny woman, perfect in every detail, albeit winged and with skin tinted pale violet.

Suddenly, Joran turned and shoved her sideways off the beam. She just had time for a startled scream before she crashed into the jumble of tree roots and packed earth that made up the side of the gorge.

Ylsriss thrust her hands into the tangle of roots, grasping blindly as her feet scrambled and kicked, trying to find purchase. She caught hold of one and, as she came to a halt, she realised that the slope was far less steep on this side of the ravine. She would have stopped soon anyway.

She glared up at Joran but the angry words died on her lips. He stood on the beam, his knees bent for balance, using a long sliver of rusted metal as a makeshift dagger. Blood ran freely from half a dozen wounds on his face and body, as the purple creature darted around him, the snarl of hate seeming out of place on her beautiful face.

“Sabeth!” the satyr screamed, from the far side of the ravine. He seemed to be unwilling to cross it. Joran slashed at the tiny woman with his blade, missing again, before jerking backwards in pain. A line of blood appeared on his cheek, just a finger’s width from his eye.

It’s playing with him, Ylsriss realised, like a cat would toy with a mouse for hours before finally killing it. As Joran staggered back from another lightning quick slash, she looked frantically about for something she could use to help him. There was nothing. She could throw mud at it, or even a stone, but the thing was so fast that she could barely see it most of the time. The chances of hitting it would be tiny.

The satyr was still screaming out the single word over and over, a note of panic in its voice. It was the creature’s name, she realised. Wrapping one hand around a loose root, she grabbed up a clod of dried earth with the other. “Sabeth!” she screamed, as she hurled the mud in its direction. She missed. Not by a few inches, but by a foot or more. The creature slowed for just a second, as it glanced in her direction, and Joran swung hard with the rusted shard of metal. The blow tore the tiny figure out of the air, like a stone striking a butterfly, and she landed in front of Ylsriss in a broken heap. The creature lay still, twisted and ruined, but beautiful even in death.

The satyr screamed like a wounded animal and then fell silent. He looked left and right before fixing them with a venomous glare, then ran back into the trees.

They made their way up the bank and collapsed onto the soft grass. Ylsriss pulled herself up and looked at Joran. His wounds, whilst painful, looked superficial. They were shallow cuts and none were bleeding excessively.

“You pushed me!” she said, as she pulled a horn knife from the pack and used it to cut strips of material from a spare shirt to make bandages.

“I’m sorry, Ylsriss. I couldn’t think of any other way,” Joran managed.

“You could have warned me first!” He looked up at her, silent for a moment, and then began to laugh.

“I can’t see how this is funny, Joran,” she protested, but he just laughed all the more. Finally, she kicked at him.

“Damn it, Ylsriss,” he howled, as he jerked away from her. “That hurt!”

“Try being pushed off that thing!” She stabbed angrily with one finger in the direction of the beam.

“Alright, I’m sorry. I had to do something to get past you.”

“Hmmm.” She had nothing to say to that, but she'd be damned if she was going to let him know that.

“Come on, we should get going,” he said, wincing as he stood.

“Are you sure?” Ylsriss asked. “I mean, you’re in a bit of a state.”

“It’s not going to get any better here.” He shrugged.

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

“Like tiny ribbons of fire, but that's not going to stop just because we do.” He shouldered his pack and made his way into the trees. Ylsriss paused, shooting one last look at the forest that had swallowed the satyr, then followed.

She caught up with him easily. “Joran, do you realise that it was still daylight when they attacked?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but yes, I suppose it was,” he replied.

She ducked to avoid a branch. “Doesn’t that strike you as weird? I thought the fae avoided the sun? And the satyr...did you see its eyes?”

“I was a little busy at the time, Ylsriss.”

“Oh, sorry. Well, they were dark, almost black.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “Yes, it means that he doesn’t have any power. I’ve only seen it once before, in satyrs returning from the chase. They get so intent on the hunt that they ignore the fact the sun is leaching the power from them.”

“What about the other thing? It looked like a fairy from a children's tale.” She gave him a funny look as he snorted with laughter.

“Where do you think the tales came from, Ylsriss? It was one of the fae’reeth. They’re quite rare, I think. It’s only the second one I’ve ever seen.”

She nodded. “Every time I think I’ve started to come to terms with being here, I realise how little I know.” She said it as a joke, expecting a laugh in reply. It was only when the laugh didn’t come that she realised how true it was.

They passed through the woods at the fastest pace that Joran could manage. His wounds didn’t slow him much, but Ylsriss was reluctant to hurry him along. She spent as much time looking over her shoulder for the vanished satyr as she did watching where she was going.

The wall reappeared late in the afternoon as they rounded a low hill. They drew to a halt, peering out around the tree trunks like mice peeking into the grain store. Now that they were closer, Ylsriss realised that what she'd seen wasn’t a city wall at all. It was the wall of a building itself. A city, some of it in ruins, stretched out before them and the breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight. No wall surrounded the city, or ever had, from what she could see. It made sense though, she realised. What was there here for a wall to defend against?

The city extended further than they could see, with grand buildings and soaring towers in the distance. The peaked roofs of the strange, yellow-walled houses were covered with red tiles and sprouted stubby chimney pots. Trees appeared to be growing out of some of the dwellings and large sections of the city had tumbled down, the stones scattering on the ground.

“What do you think?” Ylsriss asked.

His sigh said it all. “I don’t know. It looks abandoned but can we really be sure of that from here? What if we’re just walking into another Tir Rhu’thin?”

“Surely we’d have seen some sign of life by now?” Ylsriss glanced at his face. He was chewing his lip, something he always seemed to do when he couldn’t make up his mind. “Look, if there was anyone living there, we’d see smoke from the chimneys.” She stopped, the last word falling dead from her mouth.

“Chimneys. Why are there chimneys?” she whispered to herself.

“What?” Joran asked, looking at her as if she’d gone mad. “Why does that matter?”

“Think about it, Joran,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “When have you ever seen the fae use fire. We don’t even use fire! Why would there be chimneys?”

“There wouldn’t be,” he said slowly, drawing out the words as he puzzled through to the end of it, “unless it wasn’t a fae city at all.”

“Exactly!” She beamed at him.

“It’s still a risk,” he insisted.

“Everything can be a risk, Joran. Sometimes even breathing can be a risk.” She held his shoulders and forced him to look at her. “Look, that satyr is still out there somewhere. If this place really was a human city, maybe we can find something to help us. If nothing else, we'll be able to rest up for a day or two.”

“Fine, have it your way.” He growled at her.

“I usually do.” She smiled into his scowl and led the way.

As they drew closer to the city, the sheer age of the place became more obvious. Ylsriss soon realised that it had not known ruin through war or anything similar, but had simply crumbled due to the passage of time. Plants, similar to ivy but with bright purple leaves and sapphire blue flowers, snaked over the walls, thrusting their tendrils into the gaping holes that had once held windows.

The forest seemed hard at work reclaiming the city. Trees now stood in the middle of roads, having shouldered the thick stones aside as they searched for the fleeting sun.

Ylsriss exchanged an awed look with Joran as they stepped onto a street which was half-covered in moss. Grass poked through the cracks between the stones. “Which way?” she asked, in a low voice, although she couldn't have explained why she felt the need to speak so softly.

“Let’s stick to the main roads for now,” Joran suggested. She nodded. That made sense. The city was far larger than it had looked from the trees and the last thing they needed was to get lost.

They wandered deeper into the heart of the place, gawking like children at the moss-covered fountains and leaf-strewn squares. She was still leading the way, despite having asked him which way they should go.

They both froze at the sound of hooves clattering on stone. She pulled him behind her as she slipped into a doorway, only to emerge laughing, as a herd of deer stared at them inquisitively with liquid eyes. Ylsriss gazed at them in wonder. They seemed utterly unafraid - they had never learned to be fearful of man.

The arrow flew past her ear and buried itself into the throat of the closest beast. She screamed as the creature fell to the cobbles. It bucked and writhed as the rest fled. Ylsriss gave Joran a shocked look, as he lowered the bow and rushed forward to retrieve the arrow. “What?” he asked, as he noticed her expression. “We need the meat, Ylsriss.”

He was right. She didn’t even know why she’d reacted like that. She might be a city girl, but she was under no illusions as to where the food from the markets came from.

“I’ll go and find us somewhere to camp,” she said. The grisly work of butchering a deer was not something she wanted to watch. He grunted in response, without looking up from the task.

She wandered along the streets. The doorways of the partially collapsed buildings hung open, the doors themselves having long since gone to rot. As she moved farther along, however, she could see the state of the buildings steadily improving, as if the outer edges of the city had born the brunt of the decline.

Popping her head through one of the closest doorways, she saw a home from another age. It had been empty for so long that any smell of decay had long since gone. All that remained was a faint mustiness. She made her way into the building, glancing nervously at the roof once or twice, although it seemed sturdy.

A kitchen and two small bedrooms complete with the crumbling remains of the furniture. Mounted high on one wall, a moonorb hung, dark and forgotten. Exploring the house was like being in a family’s grave. This had once been a home, not just a building. People had lived, loved and laughed here. She looked around, half expecting to see shadowy figures lurking in the doorway. Hugging herself against the sudden chill, she made her way back out onto the street.

They sheltered in the remains of a shop of some kind that night. The contents had mouldered away but the counter was still in place. Joran had raised an eyebrow and even argued a little when she had insisted on staying there rather than in one of the houses, but she was not about to spend the night surrounded by other people’s memories. Wood, at least, was plentiful as the shop still had more than one door in place. They roasted hunks of venison on sticks over the fire, and she felt warm and full for the first time in weeks.

Joran fell asleep almost before he had swallowed his last mouthful and Ylsriss stared into the fire, listening to the distant sounds of the crickets. How odd that, in this other world, there would be crickets. The sound took her to another place, another time. Memories of nights with Klöss, in their cabin above the shipyards, played through her head. She followed the thought onwards, though she knew where it would lead, to loss and to pain. Joran slept on, snoring a soft accompaniment to the sound of her tears, as she allowed the barriers to fall. She let herself think of Klöss and Effan. She could almost smell her baby and feel the softness of his cheek, the way his fingers would open and close over her skin as he fed from her. The pain was an ache inside her. Part of her soul was missing. It had been taken from her and that theft had left a wound that would never heal.

Morning brought fresh wonders. The city was a place of awe, a bizarre combination of the everyday and the exotic. Wells stood in squares, the remnants of decayed buckets still sat beside them under arches of giant moonorbs that hung from curved stone supports.

In one house, they found a large runeplate that covered a section of the kitchen counter. The glyphs were dead and unresponsive but, at first glance, they were identical to the ones on the segment they carried. Ylsriss compared them with interest, while Joran waited impatiently at the door.

“Look, Joran,” she called. “It’s not quite the same. This section here was never on our runeplates in the camp.” She pointed to where the glyphs extended over the edge of the plate, trailing down to create a sequence of sigils on the side of the device.

“I wonder why they are so rare here? It’s like these people relied more on wood for heat and cooking.”

“Yeah, interesting,” he said, his eyes still on the street. She sighed and followed him out.

On several occasions, they discovered charred stones at the end of a street. A blackened area extended out from a small crater, as if the ground had been scorched by some unimaginably hot fire that had burned down into the very stones.

Other times, they discovered large circular stone plates set flat against the stones of the streets. The plates were surrounded by glyphs as dead as those on the runeplate. They were obviously important and their placement close to a wall implied they had been used regularly, but Ylsriss couldn’t puzzle out what they were. Joran spent a full five minutes trying to make one of the stones move. He could see the direction that they were supposed to shift in from the scars in the stones but, try as he might, he couldn’t budge it. Ylsriss tried hard not to let her smile show when he gave up in disgust.

They moved each night, never sleeping in the same place twice. As they explored the city, Joran frequently checked behind them to make sure they weren’t leaving tracks. He needn’t have bothered, so far as she could tell. The cobbled streets carried no sign of their passage that wasn’t erased with the next gust of wind.

They’d split up on the third day. They could cover the ground faster and, if Ylsriss was honest with herself, Joran’s constant nagging to move on from the things that intrigued her was beginning to wear.

She’d found she enjoyed the solitude. It was hard to explain, but the silence of the city had a peaceful quality to it, as if the city itself was sleeping, waiting only for someone to wake it. Something else was niggling away at her though, and she stopped to look behind her on more than other occasion, certain she was being followed or watched.

It was towards the end of the first week that Joran came to find her. Ylsriss looked up from the runeplate she was studying in the kitchen of the large house as she heard her name echoing. She sighed in frustration and looked closely at the runes on the side of the plate and then at the block in her hand. It was made of a strange black stone, almost glass-like, and she’d never seen anything like it before. Glyphs were etched into three sides of it and she’d just discovered that the series on one side bore a striking similarity to the glyphs on the side of the runeplate.

“Ylsriss!” the call came again, closer this time. She muttered darkly and made her way out, taking the glass block with her. He turned into the street just as she stepped out of the house, a lucky coincidence that would stop him yelling any more, at least.

“Ylsriss,” he gasped, as he drew close. His face was flushed and he’d obviously been running. She felt fear touch her for a moment, as she wondered if the satyr had found its way around the ravine, but then she realised his eyes were glinting with excitement.

“What is it?” she asked. His enthusiasm was contagious and a smile lit her face.

“You have to come and see this!” He grabbed her hand and led her down the street at a run.

“What?” She laughed, tugging at his arm, but he wouldn’t let go.

“You’ll see soon enough. I wouldn’t do it justice if I tried to describe it, anyway.”

They raced through the silent streets, kicking up wind-tossed leaves as they made their way towards the centre of the city. The buildings grew steadily grander and more opulent, reaching up to three or four floors in height. He’d obviously explored far more of the place than she had, but then he didn’t stop to examine things. He looked at something once and then moved on.

The square was huge, easily the grandest she’d seen, and showed almost no signs of age. A few doors hung off their hinges and there were empty windows in some of the frames where glass should have been, but the area was in a far better state than the outskirts of the city. The buildings around the edge of the square looked as if they had been fine shops and she could pick out at least one inn. Joran ignored all of them and pulled her towards the largest building.

It was a massive edifice, fully five floors high, and constructed of brilliant white stone, set with columns and ornate carvings. One end of it appeared to have collapsed completely and rubble spilled out into the square.

He led her up the steps and in through a gaping hole which, from the look of the scraps of rotten wood that still remained, had once contained large double doors. The entrance hall was grand. Even with the leaves that had blown in littering the floor, and the centuries' worth of dust and grime clinging to the walls, Ylsriss could see how opulent this place had once been. Joran fell silent and walked backwards so he could see her expression.

The dim light of the twilight sky soon faded as they proceeded inside, and Joran shocked her by producing a moonorb, activating it by tracing the glyphs with a deft hand.

“Where did you get...” she began.

He stopped her. “In here. It’s the least of it, trust me.”

They made their way through a maze of passages and corridors, passing through rooms filled with semi-rotten furniture and rugs turned to a rotten ruin. Finally, he led her up a set of stairs and stopped in front of a thick wooden door. He gave her a broad smile and pushed it open.

The room was lit with burning moonorbs which had been hung up at regular intervals. What caught Ylsriss’s attention, however, were the books. The walls were lined with shelf upon shelf of books.

She rushed over and pulled out a heavy tome at random before Joran could stop her. The pages crumbled like ash between her fingers as she opened it, until she held little more than the binding.

“They almost always do that. Leave them. This is what I wanted to show you.” He ushered her over to a workbench in the middle of the room. A small block of stone, carved with intricate glyphs, lay in the centre of it. The work was clearly unfinished and chips from the stone were scattered on the bench. Next to it, there were racks containing high-quality chisels and other tools. Further to one side, there was a lectern with a huge book lying open upon it.

She moved closer as he held the moonorb over the pages. “It’s not paper,” he said, grinning. “It looks like it, but it’s something different. Look!” He reached out and turned the page. The material held together. It was as strong as if it had been made yesterday.

She lowered her eyes to the writing. The page was filled with huge sections of text, as well as diagrams. She looked up at him in awe and then back to the book. The pages were thick and had an almost metallic feel to them. A tiny series of glyphs was etched into the uppermost corner of each page.

“I can read this!” she gasped. “Not every word, but I can understand some of it. It’s like a really old kind of Islik, a bit like they speak on the Far Isles.”

He pointed behind her to a stone rack set against the wall. “There are more there too.”

His smile lit his face and his eyes were filled with a joy at having surprised her, but she barely noticed it. Her attention was already being drawn back to the archaic script.

From that moment on, she spent almost every waking hour in the library. The book was like a gateway to another world. It hinted at a power she was only just beginning to perceive and she devoured the information on the pages with a hunger that surprised her.

Joran lost interest in it quickly. He visited with tales of the things he’d discovered, and forced her to eat and drink. After a day or two, he nagged her into taking breaks to join him for walks around the city, but she barely registered the things he took her to see. A bridge over an empty riverbed. An ornate garden, the plants running wild around the circle of tall stones that stood at its centre. An entire section of the city with buildings that were fire-scarred and blackened with soot. All too soon, her eyes would drift back in the direction of the library, and his voice would trail off in mid-sentence before he took her back to the library and the books.

It was another three days before she left the library. She'd studied late into each night, reading by the fading light of a moonorb. She’d drained four already and there were only two more remaining. The text was maddening. Some sections were so close to Islik, it was like talking to Tristan. Others had barely a recognisable word, using odd letters she'd never seen before, or additional syllables added onto the beginnings or ends of the words.

“Where do you want to go?” Joran asked, a cautious smile on his face. He didn’t seem at all surprised by her desire to wander the city that early in the morning.

“There’s something I want to try,” she replied, as she picked up a small bag and headed towards the entrance.

He hurried to keep up with her as she marched through the square and into what had clearly once been a residential backstreet. She stopped at the end of a row of houses. The sky was still a pale twilight. Sunrise was still four hours or more away. She moved towards the wall, her steps small and slow. Joran frowned as he watched her. Then he saw it.

“You opened one?” he blurted, pointing at the circular stone that had somehow been shifted to one side. “How did you even move it? When did you do this?”

“Last night. It was a full moon and I didn’t want to miss it,” she said, her tone plain and matter-of-fact.

He gave her a hurt look and muttered something to himself, but she ignored it. She was already moving towards the shallow hole that had been revealed when she had moved the stone plate. It contained a silvery circle of metal which was completely covered in glyphs, most of which were a mystery to her. The glyphs that were etched into the stones surrounding the hole, however, these she understood.

She set down her bag and pulled the curious stone block that she’d found near the runeplate out of it. “Here goes,” she breathed, as she traced the series of glyphs.

Joran yelped and leapt back as they flared to life, the characters burning bright green or amber as she traced them. She looked back over her shoulder to make sure he was clear, before touching the final glyph. The circular cover stone slid back over the silvery capture plate, making a sullen grinding sound as it slipped back into position.

She grinned at Joran’s wide eyes. “Watch this but please keep quiet. There’s a lot for me to remember and plenty of things that could go wrong here.” A mute nod was the only response she got.

She examined the glyphs again before setting the glassy block down in the small depression at the edge of the series of characters. Her fingers moved slowly, carefully, and she became aware she was chanting under her breath as she worked, naming each sigil in turn as she activated the sequence.

Joran cried out again, as the channel that had been cut into the stone blazed with light for a moment before dulling as the conduit awoke for the first time in untold ages. The glassy block began to pulsate, as the glyphs on it drank the power in greedily. In a matter of moments, it was done and the illuminated symbols grew darker before finally fading completely.

Ylsriss picked up the block and turned it over in her hands, before looking at Joran in triumph. “Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?” He sounded frantic, like he might bolt at any moment.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me? It worked!”

“I don’t even know what you did. Except nearly blind me.”

“Don’t be such a big baby,” she snorted. “It wasn’t that bright. What I did was infuse this.” She waved the block at him.

“In-what?”

“Infuse,” she repeated, drawing out the unfamiliar word. “Look, come back to the library with me and I’ll show you.”

She led the way back, almost at a run, as the day grew brighter.

“Okay, how much do you know about the glyphs?”

“Not much,” he shrugged. “The same as anyone, really. The fae have a way to make them work. They take some of the power they get from the moonlight and somehow put it into the glyphs. It works for a while and then they have to put more power in.”

“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” She pointed up at a dark moonorb. “Fetch that one down for me, will you?” He took it off the wall without comment and passed it to her.

“The people who lived here knew an awful lot about glyphs. The things that I’ve read suggest that they knew far more than even the fae. Most importantly, they learned to power their glyphs directly.”

She knelt, setting both the moonorb and the glassy block down on the floor before her. With the fingers of one hand, she traced a series of glyphs cut into the block and a soft light flared from them. Lifting the moonorb and turning it over in her hands, she muttered to herself, searching for the right place. “Ah, here it is.”

She pressed a small section of the base of the moonorb onto the glowing block. Lights pulsed both within the block and on the base of the moonorb, as different glyphs lit up and, within a matter of moments, the orb was glowing brightly.

“Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, Ylsriss, that’s incredible!” he gasped.

“It’s more than that, Joran.” Her smile shone as she spoke. “Don’t you see? I could create a moonorb, if I had the time. The people who lived here powered their own glyphs. They didn’t need the fae at all!”

Chapter Fifteen

They stayed in one of the finer mansions close to the library again that night. Since Ylsriss had begun studying there, it had made sense to stay within easy reach of it. She suspected that the only reason they moved house every night was because Joran was bored.

“Do you ever wonder what happened to the people here?” he asked, looking up from his plate.

“How do you mean?” she said, when she'd finished her mouthful of venison.

“Well, think about it. The city is largely intact, isn’t it? Some things are broken or have fallen down, but others are fine. This house. That plate.” He pointed as he spoke.

She sat up at that, her jaw frozen mid-chew as he continued. “It’s not a city that looks like it was taken by force. I mean, I don’t really know what that would look like, but if there had been fighting, I’d expect more damage. Even the section that's all fire-scarred looks like it was burned more by accident than as the result of an attack. If there was no war, then where are all the people?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, swallowing hard and reaching for the water. “Maybe they left for some reason? For that matter, we don’t know for certain that we’re even alone here. We’ve not explored all of it.”

“I have,” he said, chuckling as her eyes widened. “Well, I have to do something while you’re wrapped up in those books all day long.” Another laugh, this one short and uncomfortable, escaped him. “As for being alone, I’m not entirely sure that we are.”

“What do you mean? The satyr?” She set her food down, no longer hungry.

“No,” he replied. “At least, I don’t think so. I’ve had an intense feeling of being watched a few times now.”

“Oh, we all get that from time to time.” Her laugh sounded as false to her as she was sure it did to him.

“Maybe you're right. I'll admit I had the same thought to start with. It happened too often for me to just brush it off though, so I started being careful. Setting traps. Nothing harmful,” he added quickly, seeing her expression. “I just wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t going mad. I wanted to know, one way or the other, if there was anything out there. So I scattered some leaves behind me in a few places, put down some dust. Things like that.”

“And?”

“And nothing. The wind usually fouled them anyway.” He held up a finger as she sniggered. “Until today.”

“What happened?”

“I’d scattered some bits of wood across the road behind me, but I was pretty sure that whoever was following me was avoiding those easily. So this time, I made it obvious. I spread leaves across the road, totally covered it, leaving just a narrow path through the middle. Then I left some really clumsy piles of dirt. Anyone would have seen it, hunter or not. It was obvious that it was put there as a trap of some kind. Anyway, they avoided that easily enough but what they didn’t see was that the dirt I’d covered in leaves was wet. I got a clear footprint.”

Ylsriss was silent for a moment, thinking. “A foot though, right? Not a hoof?”

“Yes, definitely a foot. A bare foot, though.”

“So, what do we do? Do you think it’s a human?” Ylsriss asked, drawing idly in the ring of liquid her earthenware cup had left on the wooden table.

“How would I tell?” Joran shrugged. “I think your first question is a better one, anyway. What do we do? I think it’s time we moved on from here, Ylsriss.”

Ylsriss sat back in her chair. The suggestion shocked her and, from the look on Joran’s face, the panic rising within her was visible on her own. “Not yet, Joran.” She spoke quietly, as if confessing something dreadful.

“Why not?” he asked. “There’s nothing here, Ylsriss. We were only supposed to be staying here a day or two to rest up. We’ve been here too long. We have meat now. We have food to take with us. What if that satyr comes back? What happened to finding Effan?”

“I haven’t given up,” she said, glaring at him. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m right on the edge of something. Of discovering something huge.” She shook her head, unable to find the words.

“Like what? I mean, it’s amazing that you found out how to power the runeplates and moonorbs, but is it really that important?” he asked.

“It’s not that. The book hints at it, at there being some purpose for this city.” She pushed her chair back and made her way over to the runeplate to make tea from the leaves he'd gathered. It wasn’t quite the same as nettle, but it was close enough.

“This city had a design. There are channels of power running under the streets. They ran all over the city, taking the energy from the capture plates to neighbourhoods. But then there are others. There are stronger power channels that make those first ones look tiny, and they all head in the same direction, to the same place.” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“Where do they lead?” he asked.

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested for my sake, Joran,” she said.

“I’m not,” he said, with a sigh. “I still think it’s a mistake to stay. I think we should move on. But if you’re set on this, then let’s find whatever it is as soon as we can and then we can go.”

He looked tired, older somehow, she noticed. “Are you sure?”

“No.” The years seemed to fall away from him as he laughed and he looked like the young man from the camps again. “No, I’m not sure at all, but if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll end up doing anyway. Why fight it?”

“Am I that bad?” She wasn't sure whether to be amused or upset.

“You’re... tenacious,” he said.

“You said that very carefully, Joran.” She folded her arms and fixed him with a look.

***

Joran wandered the streets in silence. The morning was bright, or as bright as the twilight ever got, with only the smallest clouds in the sky. Birds whistled to each other as he walked and he smiled at the faint noise.

He drifted without direction or purpose, letting his feet take him wherever they would. Ylsriss would have been into a dozen buildings by now, poking around and sticking her nose into things. He preferred to let the city offer its marvels up to him itself. It had become a game he played with himself, wandering aimlessly until the city provided him with a reason to follow a particular path.

His feet took him through now familiar streets, past some of his failed attempts to prove the existence of his watcher. He crossed a twig-covered patch of ground and stepped to the right to avoid the piles of leaves he’d left. He made it halfway down the path, then stopped.

He glanced at the leaves and then up at the roofline. The feeling of being watched had hit him like a wave in strong surf, breaking over him and threatening to drag him under. He could feel the eyes boring into him. It was more than that, though. The passage through the leaves had been on the left when he’d made it. He was being toyed with. He shrugged his bow off his shoulder and nocked a bone-tipped arrow, chiding himself under his breath for not fashioning some tipped with iron, as he’d intended to. Seconds stretched to minutes as he stood, eyes sweeping the street.

He sighed as he let the bowstring relax. His arm had begun to cramp and it was shaking from the tension. The feeling of being watched had eased, anyway. Three careful steps took him out of the leaves, searching the rooftops for any sign of movement, and then he ran. He fled without thought, sprinting through the streets like a panicked child or a small animal. He took corners at random, speeding through streets he’d never even stepped into before until, finally, he collapsed gasping against a doorway.

“Either it’s playing with me or I’m going mad,” he muttered to himself, as he drank deeply from the small waterskin he carried. He stood and forced himself onwards, eyes and ears alert for any noise or movement.

He crossed the bridge he’d come to with Ylsriss just the other week and stopped beside the gardens. Although they were overgrown, it was still just possible to make out their design. They must have been an impressive sight at one point. The flower beds were still visible, though most of the plants had either spilled out and grown into the pathways, or been smothered by weeds. He made his way down the short flight of stone steps and into the gardens, forcing himself to relax as he walked.

The pillars were massive. Made from roughly hewn stone set on end, they had been arranged in a rough circle. They were a grey stone, contrasting with the pale yellow rock from which the rest of the city was constructed. His fingers traced the surface of the first one as he circled it, wondering at the sheer size of it. It must have taken more than a hundred men to even move it. How they had been transported here was anybody’s guess.

There were nine stones in total, each angled slightly so that its broadest side faced the centre. Twelve steps took him into the middle of the circle. He didn’t see the stone until he was almost upon it. The grass had grown tall and obscured it. Joran stopped as his foot touched it and he knelt immediately. It was actually a stone plate, wider than his outstretched arms, and every inch of it was covered in tiny, precise glyphs carved deep into the surface. Four stone posts thrust down into the grass at points surrounding the plate, overlapping so they pinned it to the ground.

“The manling’s folly.” The voice carried a note of sadness, but Joran was so shocked to hear someone else speak, he didn’t notice. He spun towards its owner awkwardly from his crouched position and his leg slipped out from under him, tipping him onto his backside.

The fae regarded him evenly for a heartbeat and then began to laugh, a musical sound that held nothing of malice, but which was filled with simple amusement and delight.

Joran scrambled backwards and got to his feet, fumbling with his bow. The fae didn't move, but watched him with mischief dancing in her amber eyes. “Do you see a deer or some other game, little hunter?”

“What do you want with me? I won’t go back,” Joran managed. The words of the fae tongue felt awkward in his mouth and he spoke haltingly, conscious of how clumsy his phrasing was. The creature wasn’t acting as he’d known them. He felt panicked and off balance.

“With you?” the fae asked, mulling the question over, as she leaned against one of the tall stones. “Nothing. Unless you are suggesting something?” Her look was direct and she laughed again as the blush spread over his cheeks. “Put away your weapon, manling. I mean you no harm and your arrow offers me no real hurt anyway.” She smiled at him, radiating calm as she spoke.

“Stop it!” he grated, as he felt the edges of her influence working on him.

“I apologise. I had forgotten the tales of how sensitive your kind is. It’s been a very long time since any of you dwelt in our realm,” she said.

He felt her presence withdraw, the feather-light touch being pulled away. “What do you mean, since my kind dwelt here?”

“It was an age past, by your reckoning. Enough that even I would regard it as long ago.” Her voice held something he almost couldn’t identify. It sounded so odd coming from the voice of a fae that he couldn’t place it until she finished speaking. It was gentle regret.

He looked at her, expecting more, until she caught his expression and sighed. “Your kind seem much unchanged, manling. Still asking for every little thing to be explained when there is no need. You are the first manling I have encountered in our realm. I believed all your kind had fled.”

“I don’t understand,” Joran admitted.

“This is not unexpected.” She gave him a small smile.

Joran shook his head and fought down a laugh. She was nothing like any of the other fae he’d ever met. There was no condescension, no sense of his being worthless when compared to her. She was curious, he could tell that much, but it was only curiosity – just a desire to know. He found himself relaxing and knew there was no hint of the Touch about it.

“What’s your name?” he asked, without thinking about it.

“I am named Aervern. Do you yet have your name?” she replied, eyeing him up and down as if unsure of his age.

“My name is Joran,” he replied, defensive in spite of himself.

She sat on the grass and patted the ground beside her, motioning for him to join her. He looked around for a moment, although he had no idea what he was looking for, and then sat.

“Will you tell me how you came to be here, young Joran?” Aervern asked. She was cross-legged in the grass, and her tunic was pulled tight against her body. Joran swallowed hard and made a conscious effort to look at her face.

“I escaped the camps near Tir Rhu’thin with a friend, a woman. We’ve been on the run since then. We spotted this place a few weeks ago and we’ve been here ever since.” His speech slowed as he drew to the end of his sentence, and he became aware of what he was saying. His face went pale, and he gasped and he jerked back away from her, his eyes filled with horror.

“I am sorry, Joran.” She appeared as horrified as he did. “Please, you must know that it was not my intent. For us, this is just another part of speech. We use this the same way you would use a smile or raise your eyebrows. Or even touching another.” She reached out and stroked his arm as she spoke, and he moved away from her.

“I will work hard to restrain my instincts around you, sweet manling.” She shot him a devilish look, and eyed him up and down with an exaggerated leer.

She looked so ridiculous that he couldn’t help but laugh. She soon grew serious and his laughter died on his lips.

“I will speak truly to you, Joran. I know nothing of any camps at Tir Rhu’thin. The place is a ruin. It was abandoned more years ago than I can put a number to.” Aervern looked more human than fae at that moment and Joran sat in silence as he wondered what to ask first.

“Aervern, where do you come from?” he asked, finally.

“Tira Scyon,” she replied. “Far to the kielth.”

“The kielth? I don’t know that word, I’m sorry.”

“That way,” she waved vaguely.

“It’s a long way then?” he pushed gently.

“A very long way, yes.” She seemed distracted by something and kept looking over his body and his arms.

“Aervern?” He drew her attention back to his face.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing here? If it’s so far away, I mean?”

She looked affronted and drew away from him. “I travel. I sate my curiosity. I do not feel that I need to explain myself to you, manling.”

He felt his face redden. Though he didn’t understand what he’d done, he’d clearly caused great offence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“It is no matter, I will forgive you perhaps if…” she stopped, a speculative look on her face.

“If?”

“Are you yet full grown, Joran? You seem short to me. Though all manlings must seem short to us when compared with a fae man.”

Joran coughed. He was blundering through the conversation, as lost as a blind man in the woods. “I suppose I am.”

“Well then, I will begin to forgive you...” she paused, her lips curving into a wicked smile. “I will begin to forgive you in exchange for a kiss.”

“A kiss?” He felt the heat of the blush in his cheeks as it rose to the roots of his hair.

She laughed at his reaction, a delighted chuckle but one without mocking. “Is it really such a terrible thing to ask?” She looked down at herself. “Am I unpleasing to your eye? Or perhaps you are sworn to the She you travel with. I seem to remember your kind has strange ways like that.”

“Yes...I mean no...” he blurted, as she laughed again. “No, you’re not unpleasing. I mean...Oh, Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky!” He moaned before drawing a deep breath, “I think you’re very beautiful, Aervern.”

She grinned at that, her teeth shining white in the predawn light as she moved towards him on her hands and knees, her hips swaying dangerously. “I believe you owe me a kiss, manling.”

He froze as she approached, suddenly realising how a deer must feel as it spots the hunter. Her arms snaked around his neck and she pulled him close. Her lips were soft but insistent, and she tasted of grass, honey and something he couldn’t place. She leaned into the kiss and devoured it, hungry for the pleasure and sensation. When she pulled away, he found his heart pounding.

She smiled at him in satisfaction as she knelt back on her heels. “You show some slight promise there, manling.” She lifted her face up to the light as she squinted up at the sky, then stood in an easy motion, brushing the grass from her leggings.

“I would speak with you some more, Joran. Would you meet with me here again?”

He didn’t need to think about it. “I will, happily, Aervern.”

“Tomorrow then. I will wait for you. There are questions I would have answered. I think you may need to practice some more also.” She gave a wicked chuckle as his face coloured again, and then she disappeared between the stones.

He sat for a time, savouring the fading taste of her on his lips and the memory of her hot breath on his skin. The rising sun came swiftly and he roused himself, crouching to collect his bow from beside the tall stone. The glyphs were clear in the face of the stone and he wandered to the centre of the circle, looking down at the circular stone plate and the myriad of tiny carvings in its face. It was untouched by moss or lichen and showed no sign of weathering. Ylsriss would be fascinated by it.

“Shit!” he swore out loud, startling the birds into silence with his outburst. It was daylight; half the day was gone and he’d not done a thing. They would need water to be drawn from one of the three clean wells he’d found and they would need food. Hunting for meat was relatively easy but a man gets sick on a diet of just meat, he knew. He’d taken to foraging in the outer edges of the woods for what nuts and berries he could find. He gathered up his quiver and pack, and set off at a run.

***

She was waiting for him, just as she’d promised she would be. His breath caught as he saw her, leaning back against the tall stone. Her short tunic seemed even shorter than it had been yesterday and her long legs were bare. The wind tossed her pale golden hair as she raised her face to the sky, her lips parted slightly as if she yearned for a kiss.

Her head turned towards him and that same wicked smile curved her lips as she caught sight of him. It seemed as though her form shimmered and then she was reclining on a rich rug strewn with pillows. Her tunic had been replaced by a garment made from the thinnest gossamer that worked more to enhance her raw sexuality than to conceal anything.

Joran gasped and shook his head, refusing to accept what he was seeing. She pouted prettily and the image vanished, revealing her as she had been before, leaning against the stone.

“Didn’t you like it?” she asked, in a throaty voice.

“It’s not real.” Joran said, hoping the tremor in his voice didn’t carry to her.

“What does that matter? I made it for you.” She laughed at his expression and sat down, patting the ground as she had before. “Did you like what you saw, Joran?”

“I think any man would like it,” he replied, trying to sound casual.

The compliment was oblique, but she accepted it anyway, smiling at him as she stretched her legs out. “Do you know how many times I have kissed a manling?”

He blinked. Where had that come from? “No, how many?”

“Only once.” She put on a sad face. “I have mated with fae by the score, but it is a cold thing. A thing of purpose only. I have long ceased to find any pleasure in it.”

He nodded, not sure where this was going.

“But you, my Joran, with you there is a passion that has been lacking for long years.”

She let herself down to the grass and lay on her side. “Will you gift me with another kiss, sweet manling?” Her lids were low over her eyes and her voice almost purred. He could feel her using the Touch. It was subtle but it was there. There was a difference, though. This was simply enhancing her seduction, rather than compelling him and he found he didn’t care at all. He followed her down to the grass, her arms reaching for him as her lips sought his and then he was lost to the taste of her lips and the feel of her skin. She tore at his clothing, savage as the most rabid of wolves and as she pulled him to her, wrapping her legs around him. Her nails raked at his back and he was hers.

***

It was days later by the time he fought his way out of the fog of lust that clouded his mind. They had met each day, talking briefly before she pulled him down to her. Each day he had left her in a rush, to hunt and gather some food for Ylsriss and himself. He never thought of food with Aervern, not until afterwards.

She lay on the grass beside him in a half-doze and stroked his arm lightly. He looked up at the sky. Sunrise couldn’t be more than half an hour away. “Don’t you need to avoid the sun?” he asked.

“It is not that important,” she replied, with a shrug.

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

“No, there is no real pain to speak of,” she replied. She sat up and picked grass from his hair, an unreadable expression on her face. “In times past, it was not uncommon for a fae to do it intentionally. If you wish, I can show you.”

“Show me what?”

“It is easier to simply do than to explain. Be patient, manling, the wait will not be long.”

He nodded and began to pull his clothes back on. Despite having been naked for the last few hours, he now felt terribly exposed. She watched him, making no comment, but she made no attempt to reach for her own clothes.

“Come. Sit.” She knelt facing him.

The flirtatiousness had evaporated as easily as the glamour she’d worn the first time he’d come to meet her. He wondered briefly if he had ever seen the real person at all.

“Will you tell me of your time in Tir Rhu’thin, Joran?”

He frowned. It was a blunt way to start a conversation and it put him on guard, suspicious of her in a way he hadn't been in days. “What about it?”

“I will speak plainly with you, Joran. I wish to know about your time in these camps and about the fae you met there. We both have information we seek. I will trade with you fairly if you agree.”

His nod was slow to come. This all seemed too easy, for some reason.

“You do not trust me.” It was a statement of fact; her voice was neither accusing or offended.

“I have not had good dealings with your kind in the past, Aervern.” He worked to keep his voice level and meet her eyes, but their colour alone was enough to unnerve him, despite the time they’d spent together.

“That is honest and good.” She nodded her approval. “Know this then. If I but chose, I could take this knowledge from you and leave you a hollowed out husk, drifting with the wind. I choose instead to ask.”

Joran swallowed hard and briefly wondered if there was an easy way to get back to the kissing instead. “A question for a question, then?”

“This seems fair.” She nodded her acceptance.

“Where shall I begin?” he asked.

“The beginning seems a likely place.” She didn’t laugh but her smile was close enough.

“I don’t remember a lot of it clearly. I was under the Touch for a long time.”

Her head cocked to one side. “The Touch?”

He frowned and gave her an odd look. “It’s what we call it when we fall under the influence of the fae. I lost my own will, my own wants and desires. I even forgot my own brother. All that was important to me was pleasing the fae.”

She nodded in understanding. “I can see how that could be possible. I had just not heard the term before. An apt description, I suppose.”

“I was taken when I was about ten years old. I have scattered memories of being kept in the pens for a long time and then being moved to the camps at Tir Rhu’thin. They didn’t keep us in the same camp for long. We were moved every six months or so. The last camp, where I was with Ylsriss, was the one I’d been in for the longest stretch of time. I think I was there for about a year before she arrived.”

He paused for a second. “The fae didn’t talk to us much, not beyond explaining their expectations. Their satyrs set up the chase not long after I arrived, so that those that were disobedient could have the glory of being killed in a hunt.” His lip curled in derision as he spoke and he fell silent, waiting for the backlash.

“Taken?” She leaned forward, her eyes so intense that he barely noticed she was still naked.

“I think I was one of the first. I can barely remember it, it's just a hazy memory of being chased and scared...” He trailed off, looking out into the city and staring at nothing.

“It is my turn. Ask and I will do my best to answer,” she announced, shifting slightly to make herself comfortable.

“Where are you from?” he asked, after a moment’s thought. “You don’t seem to be like those fae at Tir Rhu’thin.”

“This is a good question. Like a flower’s petals closed tight against the night, it is one with many others enclosed within.” She smiled in approval.

“As I told you once before, I am from Tira Scyon, far from here. You are right, I have nothing to do with those at Tir Rhu’thin. The return of those at your camps has not gone unnoticed, although we have yet to have contact with them directly. The fall of the Wyrde is a wondrous thing, but one which we must approach with caution. Like young shade-cats, they test their strength, these others that have returned to the Realm of Twilight. It must be seen if they will take a suitable place in the court once they reach out to us, or if they will seek to dominate it. They have a value. There is much they might still know. Things that we have forgotten.”

Joran shook his head. “I don’t understand most of what you’ve just said,” he admitted.

She laughed. “As I said, questions within questions.” She stood and arched her back. Joran made no attempt to hide the fact he was admiring her body. He might be on another world but he was still a man.

The sun was rising, the smallest crescent just visible over the rooftops. “Here is an answer to an earlier question, one you might enjoy.” She reached for him and pulled him to her. “Stay close. It will not last for long.”

He let her press herself against him, wrapping her arms around him, and they waited as the sun rose. As the first touch of sunlight played over her skin, she hissed and tensed, but then seemed to relax. A thin green mist rose where the sun touched her, coiling and swirling like smoke. Joran watched in silence, fascinated.

“Try breathing it in,” she whispered.

He met her eyes, unsure as to whether or not she was serious until she nodded. He breathed in, slowly at first. The smoke tasted of her, of her lips and her skin. He breathed more deeply and then rocked as it hit him. His awareness grew until the city was uncomfortably bright, his hearing enhanced to the point that he heard the ruffle of feathers on the birds that flew overhead. More than this though, his sense of smell magnified, revealing nuances of scent that he had never known existed. He looked at the slight fae in his arms in wonder, sensing her power and the speed with which it was being leached by the sun.

“Take more. There are things you should see.” The strain in her voice was clear to him now and he knew that her earlier statement about this being painless had been less than truthful.

He breathed in again, sucking the mist deep into him. There was an echo of power in the city. As he became aware of it, he wondered how he had never noticed it before. It was almost like a dull throbbing, just beyond the point of hearing. He could feel its tendrils running throughout the streets, and then the larger channels leading in from all sides of the city and converging on the stone circle. Joran turned, tracing the lines of power under the ground until they met, deep below the gardens he stood in, lying sullen and dormant.

The power left him all at once, leaving him gasping and sagging in her arms as his knees buckled. She knelt and lay him down onto the grass, shifting to the side so she could lie beside him.

“That was…” Words failed him, but she knew what he meant. She lay watching his face with an indulgent smile.

“What was it?” he managed, after a while.

“That was the Gift the Lady grants to us. The Grace passed from me to you. I’m told it is lesser in manlings. You are unused to the Grace it gives and it pales swiftly, but it gives you a glimpse of my world.”

He pulled himself up and turned. “What about the things in the city and this under here?” he said, waving at the streets surrounding the gardens, and the ground beneath them.

“The manling’s folly,” she said, with a sad smile. “It is a long and sad story. Perhaps one that is best saved for another time.”

“No. Please?” He forced himself to sit up.

“Please? What is it you would give in exchange for this tale then, sweet Joran?” Her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

“Anything,” he replied simply.

Her smile fell away and she met his eyes. “You should be more careful with your offers, Joran. Not every fae is as forgiving as I.”

“Kisses then?” he suggested.

“Are you so sure of your skill all of a sudden?” She laughed. “Very well. I will tell you the tale but take note that you have put no limit on your kisses. You are not a good bargainer.” She smirked and then began.

“Our history goes back much farther than most realise. Fae and man once dwelt here together. They were our servants. Slaves, if you will. I will make no apology for this, for it was long before my time. It was simply the way of things.” She stood and began to pace as she spoke, her feet stepping lightly, barely leaving any impressions in the grass.

“They served us in all things. They hunted for us, made wine for us, entertained us and serviced us. It is troublesome for we fae to beget children. True children, that is. More often than not, a union between fae produces satyrs or fae’reeth.”

She noticed his expression. “You did not know this, did you? Are the fae at Tir Rhu’thin not taking humans to mate with? Did you never question why? Your face speaks louder than your voice, Joran. Yes, the satyrs and the fae’reeth are fae themselves, after a fashion. I have many brothers and sisters among both.”

He glanced at the stones, not wanting to rush her, but the memory of that lake of power was fresh in his mind. She caught his glance and grimaced. “Do not hurry me, manling. A tale is something that should be savoured slowly. Like mating, if it is done too quickly then much of the pleasure is lost. There is a lot to be said for drawing out the experience.”

She paused for a long moment before continuing. “The manlings were gifted in one area above all others. A union between manling and fae would produce a cross-breed, what came to be known as the fae-born. These were simple creatures with short lives and little intelligence. Less than the satyrs, in many ways. They would, however, always produce a pure fae from a union with a fae.” She met his eyes to stress her next words. “Every time.”

“Our numbers were never great,” she said. “Before we encountered the manlings and took your people to serve us, we were a fading people. Your folk had another gift, however. You were uncommonly gifted with the art of glyphs.

Joran watched her intently, entranced by her story.

“We had long been able to imbue simple things with the Grace of our Lady,” she said. “Moonorbs for light, runeplates for heating and cooking, for example, so we could remove the need for us to deal with hateful flame. Creating glyphs for such things is a simple matter and maintaining the power they need to function is no real chore for any fae. You creatures though, you cannot simply accept what is. You have this need, this compulsion, to dig to the root of things, to tear them open and find what it is that makes a thing so. It was this way with glyphs.” Her tone had a reproachful edge that made Joran avoid her eyes.

“I can recall tales of wonder, stories I was was told as an infant, about things that the manlings created that defied our understanding of glyphs and the limits of their power. Perhaps all would have been well if those limits had been accepted.” She looked at him sadly. “But your people would not accept them. They continued to dig until they unlocked the power of Our Lady herself. At first, it was hailed as a wondrous thing. The manlings could power their own glyphs, without the need for fae to imbue them. This was the beginning of a new age, some said. And so it was.”

She looked down at the grass, avoiding his eyes as she spoke. “It began with the discovery of the Otherworld, the place Our Lady can take us to if we but know the way. It was an empty, dull place, but it led you to push further, until we reached the Land of Our Lady itself.”

Aervern spoke the words with such a hushed reverence that Joran was hesitant to speak, but she seemed to notice anyway. “Ask your question,” she said bluntly.

“I don’t understand. What was this place?”

“The Otherworld? It is a place between the two worlds, an awful place. Some call it the Outside. As for the Land of Our Lady, it is the world the manlings fled to. For, you see, there were those that rejected the changes that the manlings had brought. The ability to create and power glyphs without the need for our help made your kind question your place. There were those who thought that the manlings no longer accepted the rightful order of things.” She glanced at him but he motioned for her to carry on.

“The war was short and barbaric. There are things I have been told which are terrible to recall. The manlings fought back as best they could against my kind, but you must know that we are not evenly matched. They were forced to leave their cities and towns, fleeing as the silver banners of the fae moved ever closer. It was here that the manling's greatest feat was accomplished, and their greatest folly. The few that still lived tore open the sky and fled this land, claiming the Land of Our Lady as their own. This was the land you were taken from, the land your kind locked us away from with your Wyrde.”

She fell silent and gazed into the distance, a worried look on her face. Then, without a word, she gathered her clothes and dressed quickly. Ignoring his calls, she disappeared into the distance.

Chapter Sixteen

“Well?” Joran asked again.

“I don’t know!” Ylsriss snapped back at him, as she knelt over the stone. “Sorry. Look, just give me some more time to look at this, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry too. Do you think it’s what you were looking for, though? You said this city had a purpose,” he persisted.

“I’m not sure. There is an activation sequence here. I can see the start of it. It's as obvious as the ones on the moonorbs.” She pointed out a series of glyphs near the centre of the stone. “But then there are all these other glyphs leading out from it. I have no idea what they do at all.”

“Is there no mention of any of them in your books?”

“It’s only one rack of books, Joran.” She stood to face him. “You seem to forget that there is an entire library in there that we can’t read. I’m piecing together the tiny scraps that I can understand, but there are huge sections that I don’t. You’re expecting miracles from me.”

He stepped back from her as she spoke and lifted his hands. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just excited to see what this is, okay?”

“Why this?” she asked, as she knelt again, tracing the glyphs with a finger as she tried to read them.

“What?”

“Why this thing?” She looked at him again. “I mean it’s impressive, I’ll grant you, but you’ve shown no interest in any of the other glyphs in the city. Why now?”

He looked away for a long moment. “I...umm...well, I just want to get moving, you know?”

He was lying about something, that much she could see clearly. What it was, she couldn't tell, and why was an entirely different question. “Fair enough.” She shrugged and knelt down to examine the stone disc again.

Eventually, she rose to her feet in defeat. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “I can see the start of the activation sequence, but honestly, it could be anything.”

“So let’s find out,” he suggested.

“What? You mean just activate it and hope for the best?” Her eyes were wide with the shock that she couldn’t fit into her voice.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” He shrugged as he spoke.

“A painful death? A signal calling down an army of fae?” She waved her arms wildly at the stones. “It could do anything, Joran. Anything!”

“You know you’re not going to walk away from something this big, Ylsriss,” he said, with a knowing smile. “Let’s just try it and see.”

She muttered to herself as she glared at him. He was right, though. There was no way she could leave without finding out. The glyphs were calling to her, speaking much louder than her common sense. She crouched before she could second-guess herself and examined the first activation sequence. The symbols were laid out in an arrangement that was far larger and more complex than anything she’d seen before. Despite this, she could see where it began. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she whispered, as she reached out for the stone.

The sigils flared a dull red under her hands and the standing stones around her seemed to shimmer for the briefest moment. Then the light of the glyphs sputtered and died.

“What happened?” Joran demanded. “It just stopped.”

“I don’t think it has enough power,” Ylsriss said, guessing. “If this is the thing we were looking for, it has power channels running to it from all over the city.”

“So what do we need to do?” Joran asked.

She looked down at the glyph-inscribed stone, then back to his eager face. “This is probably a bad idea, you know?” she said, although she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to Joran or to herself.

***

It was two full days before she let him talk her into trying again. She’d barely seen him. He was usually gone for most of the day anyway, but he had always come in to see her before these last couple of days. There had been days lately when he hadn’t visited once. She was curious about it, in a vague, distracted way, but also glad for the uninterrupted study time.

They left the library before the sun had even gone down. She’d marked out a route through the streets that would pass as many of the capture plates as possible. Now, as she examined the book and reread the passages, even though she knew them by heart, she wished she could learn more.

She wandered over to the other shelves and ran her hand along the wood. They were mostly bare now. She’d worked her way through the books, lifting them as carefully as she could, but only one in ten had held together long enough for her to open it. She had collected the pages that had survived together, but she could only understand a tiny fraction of what was written on them.

She glanced over at Joran who was practising drawing glyphs in the dust. “Are you sure you know the sequence now?” she asked, for what felt like the tenth time.

“I’m sure, Ylsriss. Do you want me to show you again?” Joran sighed and walked to the door. He was the very picture of impatience as he waited, his hand on the door frame and a sack tossed over one shoulder.

“Fine, if you’re sure,” she said. “It’s just that if they aren’t all open, we probably won’t have enough power.”

“I know, I know,” he said, boredom clear in his voice. “And if I do it wrong, they might explode or lock open. You’ve explained all this, Ylsriss.”

“Okay,” she laughed, as she let him lead her through the hallways. “I’m turning into an old nag, aren’t I?”

“You’re not a nag,” he said, with a grin.

She caught the implication and scowled. “Just old?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, failing miserably in his attempt to look innocent.

“You just didn’t use the word, that’s all.” She wagged a finger at him. “You'll pay for that one.”

They worked on the first three capture plates together. Ylsriss watched carefully as he traced the glyphs that would start the mechanism and send the heavy stone cover plate grinding loudly over the cobbles as it shifted to one side.

After that, they split up, working as quickly as they dared. Joran had discovered more than thirty capture plates throughout the city, but there were probably many more. They split them evenly between them, but still it took time.

The moon was already rising as Ylsriss finished the sequence on the last capture plate and the silvery metal flared even as the heavy stone shifted into its resting place. The plate dimmed, but continued to glow faintly to show it was active as it absorbed the moonlight.

“What now?” Joran asked, watching her.

“Well, if we’ve done it properly, then they should close on their own as soon as the moon goes down.” She frowned down at the plate. “I think we’d better check them anyway. This first time, at least. I’m not sure if I trust it to work. Letting sunlight hit them when they’re full of power like this doesn’t strike me as a good idea.”

“Why do I know I’m not going to like the explanation to that one?” he groaned.

“Hmmm?”

“When you said ‘this first time.’”

Ylsriss chuckled. “It’s not that much of a chore, Joran. I think we need to do this at least twice before we try the glyphs at the stones again, though.”

They returned to the mansion hours later, with eyes gritty from lack of sleep. The capture plates had all glowed brightly as they'd covered them under the heavy stones that hid them from the sun. It irked her that she couldn’t find a way to make them close on their own, so they didn't need to be there to trace the sigils. The glyphs were all there. It ought to have worked. There was just something missing in the sequence she’d traced out. She chewed at the problem as they made their way back to the mansion and their camp.

By the time she woke, the sun had already risen and was close to being gone. Joran was nowhere to be seen but that was nothing unusual. She climbed out from the tangle of blankets she used as a bed, blankets stolen from the camp at Tir Rhu'thin when they’d escaped. The mansion was comfortable but it was still essentially a ruin. She sipped water from her waterskin to wake herself and pulled a handful of nuts from the dwindling supply at the bottom of a sack. For the first time, she shied away from the prospect of spending another day alone in the library.

The steps were strewn with fresh leaves which she supposed had been blown in by the night winds. There were few trees in this part of the city. Statues were commonplace, as were the myriad of fountains, but the only garden she’d ever seen had been the one Joran had led her to.

Her footsteps echoed through the empty streets as she made her way along. She wasn’t quite moving aimlessly. She was drifting in the direction of the garden. Joran was probably hunting, either in the areas closest to the forest or amongst the trees themselves. The deer that had once roamed the streets had long since learned not to venture too far into the city.

She stopped and glanced behind her more than once, as she felt eyes upon her. Most of the time, she could ignore the sensation. It never truly went away, although she felt it less often when she was working in the library. She shook her head and pushed herself onwards.

She caught sight of him long before he noticed her. He was beside one of the tall stones in the centre of the garden. Ylsriss started to call out but stopped herself. There was something odd about the way he was standing there. He wasn’t resting or looking at the stones. He was waiting for something.

His guilty start when he noticed her only served to make her more suspicious. He looked around as she approached, his eyes searching the gardens around the stones for something.

“Lost something?” she asked, as she climbed the grassy bank.

“No. I… what do you mean?” He stumbled through the sentence, tripping over his guilt.

“You just seemed to be looking for something or someone. I don’t know.” She shrugged. Why did she suddenly feel like she was in the wrong, as if she was trespassing or unwelcome? Joran stiffened and she followed his gaze. The fae stood at the apex of the arched bridge, watching them calmly with her amber eyes as the wind tossed her pale hair.

Ylsriss plucked at his clothing. “Joran!” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “Joran, we've got to run.”

He didn’t move. His face was frozen in an expression of dismay. Ylsriss grabbed his arm and pulled hard. “Come on!” She glanced over one shoulder and saw the fae was walking into the garden towards them.

“We don’t need to run,” Joran said, each word its own confession.

His meaning was lost on her and she looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “What? Let’s go!”

“Joran,” called the fae. “You have company already. Perhaps I should go?” She spoke the language haltingly, with an odd accent that placed emphasis on the wrong syllables, but it was clearly Islik.

Joran looked stunned.“You speak Islik?”

“Your languages are not to hard for my kind to puzzle out, sweet manling. Our own is a rich melody, but yours are a simple blow of the flute.” She laughed, as if she had made a clever joke.

Ylsriss looked from the fae to Joran, shaking her head as her face twisted in disbelief. “You know her?” It was barely more than a whisper, but the accusation echoed louder than it would have if she’d screamed it into his face.

He gripped her upper arms, turning her to face him fully. “I meant to tell you, Ylsriss. I couldn’t think of a way how.” The betrayal she felt was clear on her face as she looked at the approaching fae.

“Really, she’s no threat to us,” he said.

“Let me guess. She’s not like the others? She’s different?” The sarcasm was thick in her voice as the initial shock began to fade. “You’re Touched again, Joran!” She stepped back as the fae drew closer.

“You need not fear me,” the fae said.

“Thanks,” Ylsriss scoffed, taking another step away from the creature. “Lords above, Joran! What were you thinking! We only just got away from the satyr and now this?”

“What is this?” Aervern rounded on Joran, laying a possessive hand on his arm. “Why did you not mention this?”

He shied away from her furious expression “It was weeks ago. I didn’t think it was important anymore.”

“Foolish manling! Have you learned nothing from your time here?” the fae spat. She spun away from him, her eyes searching the horizon.

“Aervern, seriously,” Joran began, “it was weeks ago. We lost him at the ravine on the other side of the city. It won’t be able to track us now.”

Her laugh was a mocking sound, devoid of mirth. “You fool. You believe a manling could hide his passage from a satyr? They live for the hunt. You risk everything!” The willowy creature turned to Ylsriss. “You need not fear me, but fear those that hunt you. Gather what things you have and prepare to leave.” She stabbed a finger at Joran. “This one cannot be trusted with such things.”

Joran looked stricken as he met the eyes of first Ylsriss and then Aervern, his mouth gaping as he sought words that would not come. The fae gave him a withering look, then turned and ran through the garden towards the empty streets.

***

Ylsriss walked through the streets in an icy silence, ignoring Joran as he followed her. “Prepare to leave,” the fae had said. It wouldn’t take long to gather their things. They didn’t have much. The jagged shard of runeplate, some food. Some moonorbs would be useful. The books! She stopped in her tracks as she realised she’d been preparing to leave them behind.

“Come on!” she snapped at Joran, who’d stopped beside her, looking at her warily. She threw her arms in the air with a sigh of disgust and began to run.

The library was only minutes away, but she tore through the streets as if all the satyrs from Tir Rhu’thin were already at her heels. Joran kept pace behind her.

“Make yourself useful,” she shot at him, as they marched into the library. “Fetch down those moonorbs. We’ll take whatever we can carry.”

She walked to the far end of the room without bothering to check to see if he was doing as she'd asked. The books were not small. Each one measured about two feet along the spine and was as thick as her spread fingers. Even before she'd lifted one, she realised that the idea was foolish. She’d managed to stagger from the rack to the lectern with them before, but there was no way she could run with one. Which one would she take anyway? The knowledge she’d only just begun to get to grips with was spread throughout them all.

She picked one up anyway, but quickly dropped it again. It was useless. It was simply too heavy.

“Shit!” she spat, in frustration. Joran looked on in awkward silence.

With no other options, they gathered what little they had together and waited. The sun had risen and set again by the time Ylsriss could bring herself to speak to him.

“Explain,” she said, as they sat on the steps outside the building.

“It was a couple of weeks ago,” he began. Ylsriss hissed a breath in through her teeth, but he plunged on. “She came to me at the stones in the garden and we… talked.”

“Talked?” Ylsriss would have been hard-pressed to raise her eyebrow any higher.

“Yes. She was interested in hearing about our time in Tir Rhu’thin.” Joran spoke quickly, hoping the blush would fade. “She’s not from there, Ylsriss. There’s a whole other sect of the fae that we know nothing about!”

She sat in silence as he recounted their time together and told her the things the fae had shared with him. He was less than half of the way through his story when Aervern came to find them.

She stalked across the square and glared at Joran. “Your satyr has returned from Tir Rhu'thin with his brethren,” she growled, holding up a hand for silence as both Ylsriss and Joran started to speak. “The ravine is known to us, although probably not to those so recently returned here. There are numerous places to cross, if you know where to look. They have not yet located your tracks, but I expect them to be within the city before the moon rises.”

Ylsriss blanched. “What do we do?” she asked Joran.

“There is little you can do,” Aervern said, answering for him. “If you run, they will inevitably find you. There are too many for you to fight. If it had been just the one, I might have been able to aid you, but even I cannot succeed against so many.”

“So we just die?” Ylsriss demanded.

“He will die,” Aervern pointed. “You, I expect they will have other uses for first. But yes, you will die eventually.”

Joran gasped as the thought struck him. “The stones!”

“What?” Ylsriss said, in confusion.

“We can use the stones!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her lightly in his excitement.

“We don’t even know what they do,” she protested.

“Aervern does.” He gestured at the fae, who stood watching them, unconcerned. “She called them the manling’s folly. It’s a path home, Ylsriss.”

“Even if that’s true, and even if it still works, we don’t know how to use it,” she replied.

“But you said you’d found the activation glyphs, didn’t you?”

“I did, but there are whole sections that I don’t understand,” she admitted.

“How is it you have knowledge of these glyphs, She?” Aervern demanded.

“My name, is Ylsriss, fae,” she spat back.

“Ylsriss then,” Aervern replied, in her thick accent. “How is it you know of glyphs?” The mollifying tone seemed out of place coming from this creature from legend.

“We were taught how to use runeplates and moonorbs at Tir Rhu’thin,” Ylsriss explained. “Nothing advanced or complicated. But then we found the library here, with books about the art.”

“A listing of glyphs then?”

“Yes, but it’s much more than that. The writing talks about the theories, the construction of glyphs. I've barely scratched the surface, but I’ve already learned so much.” Ylsriss smiled briefly, before remembering who she was speaking to.

“This writing.” Aervern struggled with the unfamiliar word. “It can do this? Impart knowledge with no need for an elder to recount it?”

Ylsriss nodded.

Aervern sucked in air through her teeth. “This is an alien thing to me. There is so much we have forgotten about you. Knowledge that has been lost.” She glared at Joran. “Now there is no time to regain it.” Joran’s attempts to look apologetic went unnoticed, as Aervern looked back to Ylsriss. “If you can make use of the manling’s folly, you should do so. My own designs are largely thwarted now.” She shot Joran another black look. He seemed to be working hard to crawl into the stones. “I can slow the satyrs, but I dare not be seen. If they approach in any real numbers, I will not risk myself.”

“We’ll need to be fast, Ylsriss,” Joran warned. “You know as well as I do how fast those things can be. We’ll need to get as many capture plates open as we can before we try the stones.”

Ylsriss nodded in silence as her eyes glistened, a terrible realisation coming over her. She buried it down deep. It would be of little help to them now.

***

They ran through the empty streets as fast as they dared. The city was quiet at the best of times and any noise seemed to echo on forever. The satyrs might be there already and they knew they couldn’t risk doing anything that would draw the creatures to them any faster.

Aervern ran beside them, moving in long easy strides, her bare feet making almost no noise whether they struck stones or dried leaves. She led them to an innocuous-looking house, ducked inside and emerged with a bow, as tall as she was and fashioned of polished black horn, and a quiver of arrows.

“If it comes to it, my little hunter, aim for the eyes. The satyrs cannot really be harmed by your weapons. You might cause them pain, but no more. A shaft into the eye will have more of an impact.” She smiled as she spoke, her own eyes glowing softly in the fading light. Ylsriss shivered in spite of herself.

They kept close to the sides of the street, darting in and out of the growing shadows. They opened the first capture plate and Aervern gasped, almost in awe, as it slid back over the stones.

The fae left them after they had opened the third plate, stopping to look back at them once as she loped along the street. She made a strange gesture, touching her hand to her forehead, her lips and her stomach, before running into the growing gloom.

Joran’s face was unreadable as he watched her vanish. “Come on, let’s go,” Ylsriss said. She led him off towards the next capture plate without looking back.

She traced each set of glyphs as fast as she was able to before speeding off to the next plate, sometimes leaving before the grinding of the stone cover plate had even really started. They worked separately where they could, but only split up when they wouldn't need to move out of earshot of each other. Ylsriss was hesitant to lose sight of him as it was.

Time seemed to be slipping away from them. It was already growing darker and several times she fancied she’d heard distant noises in the city. Joran knelt to trace the glyphs, his face turning ruddy in the dim red light of the sigils as he moved his fingers through the sequence. Ylsriss stood behind him, chafing at his slow pace. She’d already finished the plate she had been working on. She glanced back along the street. It was already growing harder to see as the twilight began to turn to true night. Something seemed to move in the lengthening shadows and she squinted, trying to decide if it was just her imagination. A staccato clack of hoofs on stone came first, then the pinpricks of amber became visible as the satyr charged towards them.

Her scream echoed off the walls, probably carrying across half the city, and she clamped her lips shut tight to trap in the sound. Joran spun, one hand still on the glyphs as he finished the sequence.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered. He snatched up the bow and strung an arrow with shaking hands. He pulled back and released. The arrow flew wide and deflected off the wall of a building before falling to the ground and skittering along the stones.

“Shoot it!” screamed Ylsriss, scrabbling at his belt for the knife. The satyr was now less than a hundred feet from them.

Joran's second arrow bounced off the creature, causing it no visible damage. It slowed, seeming to enjoy their panic, and stalked towards them, long knives held low in its fists.

“I should thank you. You've led us a merry hunt,” it said, with a delighted grin.

Ylsriss backed away, holding the knife before her in one hand, and pulling Joran backwards by his shirt with the other. The arrow came from nowhere, hissing through the gloom and burying itself in the satyr’s eye. The creature let out a scream then, piteous and dreadful, as it clutched at the shaft. The sound put Ylsriss in mind of the tortured cries she used to hear from the abattoir close to her cellar in Hesk. The satyr staggered, then fell to the cobbles and was still.

Joran stared at it in amazement and then spun, tracing the roofline until he spotted her. Aervern was pressed into the shadow of the chimney pot, barely visible. She raised her bow once in salute and then ran lithely along the roof, leapt easily to an adjacent building and was gone.

“Come on!” Ylsriss urged him, as she shifted into a sprint. They ran towards the garden, passing unopened capture plates as they sacrificed the increase in power in order to put more distance between them and the unseen satyrs. They stopped three times to frantically trace glyphs, but had to abandon their final attempt and flee at the sound of hooves on stone.

Screams rose intermittently, the echoes carrying to them through empty streets, as Aervern fired her bow from the rooftops. If anything, the noises seemed to be spurring the satyrs on, and Ylsriss felt panic rising in her as they entered the gardens.

The light had faded almost completely and a tiny sliver of moon was making feeble attempts to illuminate the skies. The gardens extended for some distance and the faint sounds of animals that came from beyond the stones did not help her nerves.

Joran paused to glance towards the bridge. “Come on,” she said, and reached for his hand. He seemed to have left all his self-assurance on the streets of the city, and he let her lead him along as though he was one of the children from her cellar in Hesk, all those years ago. No, she corrected herself, he was nothing like those children. They had been hard. Beaten down by a life that either makes you strong enough to bare your teeth back at it, or broken and damaged enough not to care what happens to you.

Joran was neither. He was a child newly emerged from the cocoon that the Touch had forced him into. So much of his life had been lived through a fog, it was a miracle he could function at all. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and turned the corner, passing the last overgrown hedge that obscured the stones.

They charged up the grassy bank and made their way to the stone disc that lay at the circle’s centre. The moonlight shone faintly onto the stone, a pale watery light, but just enough to work by.

Joran stood behind her, watching in silence as she squatted and then moved, crablike, around the stone, reading the glyphs and muttering to herself as she whispered the names of the symbols.

It looked different in the moonlight, but not just because it was harder for her to see it. The symbols seemed unfamiliar, as if something had changed.

“I don’t understand this,” she whispered to Joran.

“What?” His response was shrill.

“No, not like that. I can read it, but it’s like there’s more here than there was before.”

“You’re imagining it,” he told her. “Hurry!”

She shook her head and traced the first of the runes. It flared into life, bright and strong, bathing her face in a golden light as she moved onwards.

The disc had glyphs that worked inwards in a spiral, but also some grouped into circular patterns that she couldn’t understand. This was so much more complicated than anything she had ever looked at before. Runeplates and moonorbs had a simple activation sequence, releasing some of the energy they had stored within them, be it light or heat. The glyphs were almost the same on both of them.

The stone disc had glyphs she’d never seen before, interspersed with sigils she recognised but in arrangements she’d never considered before.

“Hurry up!” Joran hissed at her.

“It’s not like lighting a fire, Joran!” she snapped back. “Give me a minute.”

He didn’t respond but she felt him stiffen. The satyr approached slowly, in no hurry and obviously savouring the moment. The moonlight picked out the grey in the fur on its legs and its beard, reflecting off the horns that seemed longer than those of the other satyrs she’d seen.

“A blood debt is owed,” it said in a calm voice. Its eyes, however, radiated a fury that far outshone their dull amber glow.

“Blood debt?” Joran said, nudging Ylsriss with his foot as he spoke. She didn’t need to be told twice and bent over the disc again, searching for the next of the glyphs that had seemed so simple to read in the daylight.

“Keeping your kind was always a mistake,” Thantos said. “More than once have I told Aelthen this. You are fit for the hunt and no more. ” Its knives were long and curved, the bone blades pale in the light. Joran plucked the knife from Ylsriss’s belt. It looked tiny and shook in his hand as he faced the satyr.

“You spilled the blood of a fae’reeth. One who abided with me in the Outside for untold years before the return. To meet her end at the hands of a creature as low as you is something that cannot be borne. I will not accept that Sabeth will not go to the Realm of Our Lady, whilst the manling that stole her life still walks. No, I will not permit it!”

It moved in, not in a rushed charge like Joran would have expected, but slowly, almost formally, offering a tight bow before falling into an odd stance.

When the attack came, he didn’t even have time to move before the creature was upon him. The bone blades slashed twice, cutting into his side and slicing his forearm open before the satyr moved off to one side. Joran staggered, reaching for the closest stone to steady himself. He was going to die; it was simply a matter of how long the satyr would toy with his prey before he let it fall.

He clasped a hand against the deeper cut in his side, bending into an awkward crouch against the pain as he faced the satyr again. The creature staggered forwards as the arrow smashed into the back of its head. Two more followed, so close together that they seemed to strike it almost at the same time. The missiles did not penetrate the satyr's skin, but splintered as the force of the impacts shattered the shafts.

The creature spun round, snarling in fury as it sought the source of the attack, and another arrow hurtled out of the darkness, exploding against its chest. Light poured from the glyphs as Ylsriss traced sigils furiously, squinting against the light that erupted skyward.

A figure emerged from the darkness, blades held ready as she nodded towards the two within the circle. “These manlings are bound to my purpose, satyr.”

Thantos gasped in shock and fury, then narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “I do not recognise your face. How can this be?”

“It is not important,” Aervern replied, her voice filled with icy rage. “I am fae, you are but satyr. You will obey.”

“You are not of the returned!” Thantos gasped in recognition. “I owe you no allegiance. You and yours had not the honour to follow in the hunt. You are lesser in the eyes of Aelthen than even these manlings.” He raised his blades again and took a step towards her, dropping into a low stance.

“You dare!” Aervern gasped. Her shock did nothing to slow her as she dropped into a stance herself, her knife weaving intricate patterns in the air before her.

The satyr bared his teeth in fury and launched himself into the fight, slashing at her with his blades. He moved almost faster than Joran could follow, yet Aervern stepped casually aside, her eyes blazing bright with amber as she moved out of the line of attack. Thantos shifted his own line in response and the blades made a soft hiss as they slid against each other.

The fight was fast and Joran realised in moments that he could have been killed before he could even react, had the satyr wanted it. The two fae creatures moved back and forth before the stones, slashing at each other in an elegant but deadly dance. The blades did not clash against each other, that would have wasted an opportunity to redirect the force of the attack. Instead, each blow was met with the barest touch, as it was guided past the defender.

The satyr growled and cursed in the lyrical fae tongue as he fought. Aervern fought in silence, an icy calm radiating from her as she stepped and shifted in the flow of the fight.

She leant backwards as the twin knifes of the satyr thrust at her throat, arching almost until her pale hair brushed the grass. A twist of her torso and she shifted out from under his overextension, her eyes growing dimmer as she drew on her Grace to move faster than the satyr could ever hope to. The knife's thrust, imbued with the same power, parted the flesh like the water of a millpond and buried itself to the hilt in his side, just under the armpit. Blood fountained from Thantos’s mouth as he sank to the grass, the light already fading from his eyes. Aervern pulled her knife from the body and met Joran’s eyes for just one moment before she disappeared into the night.

Joran slumped against one of the stones as the fae vanished. The rough stone behind him shuddered as Ylsriss traced glyph after glyph, activating the complex sequences, and then the entire circle burst into light.

“You did it!” he cried, his pain forgotten as he pulled Ylsriss to her feet.

Her cheeks were wet with tears as she smiled sadly at him. “I can’t,” she said, in a voice thick with anguish, as she shook her head.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I can’t go, Joran. I can’t leave Effan here.”

He looked at her incredulously. “This could be our only chance to get home, Ylsriss. The whole city must be crawling with satyrs. We’d never make it out of here alive.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, but I still can’t leave him. You go. Just walk out onto the disc. Leave me.”

“But you don’t even know where he is, Ylsriss!”

“It doesn’t matter, Joran. I can’t leave my baby behind. If I go, I know I'll never see him again. I can't do that.” She had never been more certain of anything in her life.

He stared at her for a moment. His mind was suddenly cold and clear. He knew exactly what he had to do.

He fixed his gaze on something behind her. She couldn’t help but turn her head to follow his gaze, and he smashed his fist into the side of her face with all the force he could manage. Ylsriss dropped to the grass, her eyes glassy and unseeing as the impact drove the tears from her cheeks.

Joran snatched her up, clenching his teeth against the pain as he walked onto the disc with her in his arms. The lights of the glyphs blazed around him, and then all was brilliant light and a bitter cold that drove the breath from his lungs. He felt the stones of the world pass through him and then they fell into darkness.

Chapter Seventeen

Selena climbed down from the carriage, accepting the footman’s hand as he guided her down to the gravel path. Her gown was stupendous, pale crystal blue with touches of white that made her look as if she were encased in ice. Combined with her hair, she was the perfect storm of frost and fire.

She had arrived alone. Hanris would have been more than welcome, but she couldn’t be seen to be leaning on a man, even a servant.

The villa was decorated for the occasion, with banners of red, gold and flaming orange giving it an autumnal flavour. She thought briefly of the farmers that had been forced from their newly leased farmlands by the Bjornmen. What would they think of the attempt by the Celstwin nobility to celebrate the harvest and the turning of the seasons?

“Selena, you look simply stunning!” Jantson gushed, as she swept in.

“You’re really very sweet, Jantson,” She looked down at herself with a pained frown. “You’re an awful liar, though. I’m starting to show. I look like an iceberg in this dress.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “You look better than my wife did on our wedding night.”

“Didn’t you tell me, just the other night, that your wife was chronically overweight when you married and that you put your back out trying to carry her over the threshold?”

Jantson coughed. “I may have mentioned something to that effect.”

She laughed, taking his arm as they made their way into the villa and through the halls towards the ballroom.

The group had met on several occasions since that first dinner, each time at a grand affair, a dinner or a ball. She was beginning to suspect that Raysh was just using the need for them to get together as an excuse to throw more lavish and grandiose events.

“Another ball,” she muttered, in mock complaint, to Jantson.

“Oh, they’re not that bad,” Jantson said, as he looked for the others. “It gives me an excuse to dance with a beautiful woman, after all.”

“Well, could you at least wait until we’ve found the others before you abandon me?” Selena joked.

He chuckled. “Shall we?”

She nodded and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor. The musicians were playing a muted piece in a minor key. It made for a slower dance, allowing for quiet conversation, making it perfect for their needs.

“Rentrew has dispatched his forces, I hear,” Jantson said. He spoke softly, behind a broad smile.

Selena laughed as if he’d told a particularly good joke. “Yes, some time ago now. They ought to be reaching Rhenkin any day, I believe. Have you heard anything about the king's army?”

“No movement still,” Jantson said, his expression grim. “He’d have to send out a general muster order if he were going to respond in any significant fashion.”

Selena let him guide her through a complex promenade, forcing a faint smile onto her face as she ranted. “What is he thinking? Our troops are never going to be enough to stop the Bjornmen. The best we can hope for is to slow them down and the losses will be terrible.”

“Perhaps that’s the point,” Jantson quipped with a snort. He stopped as her face went white. “Are you quite well, my dear?”

“Let’s find Salisbourne.” She strode off the dance floor, ignoring the surprised looks people were shooting her.

“This is less than subtle, Selena,” Jantson muttered, as he followed her. “There are bound to be at least one or two of the king's spies here, in addition to the usual sycophants.”

“Some things can’t be helped, Jantson.”

Salisbourne was in the study with Raysh and Rentrew.

“It occurs, Salisbourne,” Selena said, as she was shown in by one of Raysh's staff, “that there is little point in throwing these elaborate functions if we all end up sequestered in a smoky study.”

The older man shrugged and drew on his pipe. “Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t wasting our time with this subterfuge anyway, Selena. There is little in Celstwin that our esteemed monarch doesn’t know about and less still that he can’t uncover.”

“That doesn’t mean we should simply be blatant about these things,” Jantson said, as he edged around Selena to find an empty chair.

“Relax,” Raysh muttered into his drink. “The king doesn’t seem interested in anything much at the moment. Except his pet projects, that is.”

“Gentlemen, if I can drag this back on track for a moment?” Selena turned to Rentrew. “Jantson tells me your troops have been dispatched and are well on their way.”

He nodded. This was not news to anyone present. “The question is, then, why is the king not acting himself? The Bjornmen have taken a sizeable chunk of land and, whilst it is part of my duchy and encroaches on your own lands,” she nodded to Rentrew, “it is, perhaps more importantly, part of his kingdom.”

“Did you have a point, Selena, or were you just going to meander through until you tripped over one by accident?” Raysh asked, as he drained his glass.

“I do, as it happens,” she replied, giving him an arch look. “Even with Rentrew’s forces added to my own, there is little we can do to stop the Bjornmen taking more lands. We can slow them, certainly, but the costs in terms of both men and finances will be enormous. So what is it that Pieter stands to gain from this? The pact demands he act, yet he ignores this invasion.”

“Selena, please?” Raysh groaned.

“I’m getting there. Don't be so impatient,” she chided. “What’s making him so boorish?” she asked Salisbourne.

“The treasury found an irregularity in his tithe,” Salisbourne said, from behind a smirk.

“It’s not an irregularity.” Raysh snapped. “It's a levy based on laws that weren’t even in place at the time of the trade. They’re making up rules as they go along, just to gouge any merchants who might be making a small profit.”

“Just how small is small?” Selena asked, her curiosity peaked.

“Enough to run your duchy for a good few years,” Salisbourne snorted. “Raysh here managed to steal the march on a number of people and corner almost the entire Suraman wine export market some years ago. If you listen carefully, you can still hear the echoes of the howls of protest.”

“The bean counters couldn’t touch it since the trades were all made in Surama, so they decided to levy a retrospective import tithe on wine. It’s blatant!” Raysh stopped, realising he’d stormed to his feet and sank back into his chair, still muttering.

“Anyway, my dear, I believe you were making a point?” Rentrew smiled.

“It was more of a question than a point, but thank you.” She turned back to Salisbourne. “I think it’s so obvious, it’s been staring us in the face. What does Pieter gain from us being forced to act in his stead, throwing our own wealth and forces in the path of this invasion? We’re not equipped to stop them and all that results, unless he acts, is our impoverishment.”

“That’s true, but if he continues to ignore it, he risks outright rebellion. He flies in the face of a thousand years of tradition. This defiance of the tenets of the pact will never be allowed to stand,” Jantson said.

“And if there is outright rebellion?” Selena asked.

“Well, then I expect he would have to bring in his own armies to crush it. You know that. That's why we’ve never considered acting in open opposition,” Salisbourne replied, his tone mirroring the confusion on his face.

“Suppose, for a moment, that we were forced into outright rebellion. Even if we had the majority of the lords on our side, Pieter would respond in force. He’d most likely crush us under his boot.” Selena ticked it off on one finger. “Then, with his armies already mustered, he could engage the Bjornmen and drive them out. That would leave him with newly recaptured lands, noble houses that had either been weakened or destroyed outright, and a populace that sees him as their saviour. What, gentlemen, do you think he might do in such a situation?”

“Anything he pleased, I imagine,” Raysh said. “It’s any politician’s utopia. He could do anything.”

“I don’t think it’s as broad an opportunity as all that. He’s king already. The scope of ambition narrows the more power you attain. He really only has one place left to go.”

“You don’t mean...?” Rentrew gasped.

“Emperor.” Selena nodded. “What’s to stop him? Abaram’s Pact will be dead in the eyes of the peasantry. Most of the nobles will have shown themselves to be unable to protect them. They will even have risen up against the king, the very man who then overcame the rebellion and drove the Bjornmen invaders from his shores. Why not rebuild the empire and concentrate the power?”

“Why not simply declare himself emperor and not risk the lands?” Raysh asked.

“Because the lords would oppose him. He couldn’t be seen to just seize power like that. Aside from anything else, it would fly in the face of Abaram’s Pact,” Salisbourne said softly.

“It’s still a hell of a risk,” Raysh argued. “What if he can’t retake the lands?”

Selena went to the drinks cabinet and lifted a crystal decanter, sniffing at the wine whilst holding the heavy stopper. “It wouldn’t matter. He'd still be emperor. With all the armies of Anlan at his disposal, I expect he’d be able to retake the lands at his leisure. Unless he underestimates the Bjornmen hugely, of course. Even if it took years though, he’d still have massive support.”

“So what do we do? We seem damned either way,” Rentrew interjected. “If we openly oppose him, we play right into his hands. If we ignore him, the Bjornmen continue to take our lands.”

“I would suggest a measured response,” Selena said, setting the wine down untouched. “Outright rebellion is risky at best and doesn’t really meet our purpose. No, the core of this is the pact.”

“The pact?” Raysh scoffed. “It’s a political measure. Does anyone here even know what it says? It’s simply an agreement that we pay the tithe in return for his protection.”

“I rather suspect it might be more than just that,” Selena replied, pursing her lips in thought. “The pact is more than some obscure document. It’s become a convention without most people knowing what it really says. We're bound to the concept of it, as is Pieter. His whole kingdom functions on the basis of it. Perhaps with a little research, it can be turned to our advantage.”

“You want to go and poke your nose into dusty old books?” Raysh was scathing. “The king has ignored the fact that your lands are being invaded, and levied taxes that defy sense and reason. He dismisses the missives of his nobles asking for aid and even rejects your requests when you petition him to his face. He does all this and that’s your response?” He swept his legs off the desk and stood, brandishing his glass at her.

“I thought you were serious about this,” Raysh grated. “How much more land do they need to take from you before you’re willing to act?”

He pushed past Salisbourne and gave them all another dark look before he left.

“Well, that was spirited,” Jantson said, with a forced chuckle.

“He’s drunk,” Salisbourne said, with a shrug that was almost an apology.

“How much was his tithe?” Rentrew asked, looking at the open door.

“Upwards of ten thousand marks. He didn’t tell me the exact figure,” Salisbourne admitted.

“Ten thousand,” breathed Selena. It was more than half her annual tax revenue.

“Yes, well, you can see why he might be upset,” Jantson murmured.

“I think it’s time we got back to the ball, gentlemen.” Selena said, becoming businesslike again to move past the shock of Raysh’s tithe. “We’re going to become conspicuous like this. Salisbourne, why don’t you come for dinner in a day or two. It’s not necessary for us all to meet at once and if, as Jantson says, Pieter has spies here, we need to be more careful. I’ll see what I can discover about the pact and if there is a way we might be able to use it. I would suggest it might be an idea to see to your own forces, gentlemen. We might need them all if things go wrong here.”

She opened the door and swept out into the hallway, before looking back over one shoulder with a crooked smile. “Coming, boys?”

***

“Where is it?” Selena muttered to herself, as she flipped the page over. “Mention after mention of it, but where is the document itself?”

She strode to the doors of the study, wrenching them open and moving through the halls to the staircase.

“Get me a carriage,” she snapped at the first servant she saw. “Oh, and fetch Hanris. He's going to accompany me.”

She stood at the entrance to the villa and tapped her foot until the carriage was brought around, then tapped it some more until the sound of running footsteps heralded Hanris's arrival.

“your grace,” he greeted her, in between puffs and wheezes. “Had I known of your excursion, I would have planned accordingly.”

“You didn’t know because I didn’t know, Hanris,” she said. “I can’t think what keeps you so busy here, anyway,” she said, as she made her way out into the grey afternoon and down to the carriage.

She clambered into the carriage and waited while Hanris climbed in. It really was so much simpler for a man, she noted. Gowns might look fine, but they really were impractical in many situations.

“So, Hanris,” she said brightly. “Tell me what you know of Abaram’s Pact. I thought we might go to the royal archives and see if we can find a copy.”

“Abaram’s Pact?” he burst out.

She looked at him calmly. “You know, Hanris, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were genuinely irked. What is the problem here?”

“your grace, might I speak freely?”

She nodded.

“Your grace, whilst your holdings are not quite as extensive as they were before the Bjornmen incursion, there is still a significant amount of land and holdings. All of which produce revenues and costs which must be properly logged and accounted for. I am hampered by distance as it is.” Hanris sighed.

“Do you mean to tell me, Hanris, that you are still doing the accounts for the entire duchy? From Celstwin?” She normally adopted a rather playful, teasing manner with Hanris. He was so much fun to torment. This news, however, had thrown her completely.

“Such are the requirements of my position, your grace.”

“Lords and Ladies, Hanris,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t bring you all this way so I’d have an accurate tally of the corn taxes! I brought you because you happen to have a rather keen mind buried underneath all those dusty reports and figures.”

“But, your grace…” he began.

“Hanris,” she snapped, raising a finger between them. “I realise, now, that you must be drowning in tiresome reports. Understand, however, that I no longer retain you on my staff for that. Frankly, any child who knows to count past his fingers could do much of this work for you. Find some suitable people and bring them on board. Delegate, Hanris, delegate!”

He deflated then, although she was sure she saw the ghost of a smile haunting his lips.

“Now, tell me what you know of the pact,” she said.

“To be honest, your grace, not a great deal,” Hanris admitted, taking his glasses off his nose and polishing them with a pristine white handkerchief. “I know it is an ancient document dating back to just beyond the fall of the empire. I believe it was an agreement between the regional barons and Earl Abaram, designed ostensibly to obtain his support against the Feldane invasion. In practice, it formed the basis upon which the Kingdom of Anlan was formed.”

“Top marks.” Selena clapped her hands together. “Now, tell me this. Why is it I cannot find a single reference in any of the histories as to the contents of this agreement?”

“I have...” He paused. “I honestly have no idea,Youryour grace. I must confess, however, that I was never really a scholar of history. No mentions at all? That seems very strange.”

“Oh, there were mentions.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Broad strokes discussing the impact on the form of the state and the monarchy. That was all, though. There were no specifics, no meat to it.”

“And it’s ‘meat’ you require, your grace?”

She laughed then, a tinkling delighted laugh that filled the carriage. “Hanris, you are a delight sometimes.”

“Indeed, your grace,” he said, without a trace of a smile. “If I might be so bold, your grace, I notice you are spending a great deal of time with the Lords Salisbourne and Jantson, and their associates. Attending balls and the like.”

“Yes?”

“I have always found it odd that the man leads in a dance. The woman cannot help but go where the man leads, even if it results in the dance going poorly.”

She smiled. The man was genuinely worried about her. It was actually quite touching. “Dear Hanris, your concerns are sweet but really not necessary. A man might lead in the dance, but any woman who truly knows what she is about can direct a man without him ever knowing.”

He fell silent at that and she watched the streets pass as they moved through the city. The trouble with manipulating people, she thought, is that you can never be entirely sure you are not on the wrong end of the marionette’s strings.

The royal archives were not actually in the grand library, as she’d expected. Instead, it was a small, drab building in a side street. Selena looked out of the window with a puzzled frown as she waited for the driver to open her door.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” she asked, as the man opened the door and extended a hand to help her down onto the stepping stool set by his feet.

“The royal archives, your grace,” he said, with a short, tight bow.

She raised an eyebrow and shrugged before heading for the doors. “Coming, Hanris?”

The interior was poorly lit, the narrow windows in dire need of a good clean. Lamps were strung on the walls to compensate, and the smell of the oil mingled with the musty smell of old paper and parchment.

A balding man in brown robes, behind a desk, half stood as they entered. “Can I be of some assistance?”

“Perhaps,” Selena said, with a warm smile. It never hurts to start off on a friendly footing. “I have been doing some research into Abaram’s Pact and I wondered if you had an extant copy?”

“We may have a duplicate stored away.” He stopped and frowned. “You do realise, of course, that this is not a library. These documents are extremely fragile and not available to the common public.”

She sighed, and it had been going so well for a moment. “Hanris,” she muttered.

Hanris stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Might I have your name, Sir?”

The archivist stepped out from behind his desk and drew himself up. “My name is Brent, Second Assistant Archivist.”

Hanris flashed a cold smile before turning to Selena. “Your grace, Brent, Second Assistant Archivist.” He turned back to the man and gestured towards Selena. “Allow me to introduce Her Grace, Selena Freyton, Duchess of Druel, The Wash and the Eastern Reaches.”

He stepped a little closer, speaking in a low voice as he leaned in towards the man. “As you must realise, she is far from the ‘common public’.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, your grace,” Brent said, swallowing hard. “I’m afraid, however, that the archives are simply not open to visitors.”

Hanris gave the man a look which clearly called into question not only his competence, but also his parentage and his grip on reality. He drew in a breath but stopped as Selena placed a hand on his arm.

“Second Assistant Archivist?” she queried, in a mild tone.

“That’s correct, your grace,” Brent replied. “As I said, I’m sorry but…”

She cut him off. “Do you think I might meet the First Assistant Archivist?”

“Well, I...err…,” he managed. “I’ll see if he has a moment to spare.”

“Do,” Selena said, allowing a hint of steel to fall into her voice.

They waited in silence, listening to the distant voices grow steadily in both volume and urgency. Hanris raised an eyebrow at Selena at the sound of hurried footsteps and she gave him a brief smile.

The man who entered with Brent was short and thin, with close-cropped, silver hair. He smiled warmly and gave a small bow. “My apologies, your grace,” he said. “I am Ditton, the head archivist here. I am so sorry. Brent has clearly misunderstood the situation.”

“I quite understand, Master Ditton.” She favoured him with a dazzling smile. “Working with a small staff can be so challenging, can’t it?”

He gave Brent a sour look. “One problem of a reduced budget, your grace. Rest assured, Brent will have ample opportunity to reflect on certain realities. I understand you have an interest in Abaram’s Pact?”

She nodded her agreement.

“The original document is far too fragile to be moved, I’m afraid. Simply opening the case could cause irreparable damage to it.”

“Surely there are copies?”

Ditton raised his eyebrows and flashed a look at Brent that spoke of a temper barely contained. “Of course, your grace. We have several. If you’ll follow me?”

He waved them through the double doors leading into the archives, pausing long enough to whisper something hard and short to Brent as he passed.

***

Jantson burst into the room, not waiting for the servant to announce him. “They’ve taken Raysh,” he blurted.

Selena sat back in her chair, placing a hand on the large book to mark her place. “They’ve what?”

“Raysh has vanished. His servants don’t know where he’s gone. They say he was there in the evening but the next morning, when one of them brought in his breakfast, he’d gone.”

“Perhaps he simply went for a walk?” Selena suggested.

“Oh, don’t be foolish, Selena. He’s been gone two days now,” Jantson said, his manners rushing out of the way to let his worry through.

“What makes you think he’s been taken, though? Taken by who?”

“Oh, who do you think, Selena? Honestly, this isn’t some game we’ve been playing here!”

Her eyes turned hard at that. “I am quite aware of the stakes, thank you, Lord Jantson. My people are being butchered as their homes burn. Can you say the same?”

He suffered her gaze for a silent minute before sagging down into a chair. “I’m sorry, Selena. This has caught me on the back foot and I’ve not steadied myself yet. If Pieter has taken Raysh, he could come for any of us. I keep looking behind and expecting a hand to fall onto my shoulder.”

“Calm down, Jantson.” She reached for the bell and rang it loudly.

“Bring some brandy for the earl,” she instructed the young man in livery who appeared in response.

She waited in silence until the man returned with a snifter already filled with the dark amber drink, together with a crystal decanter containing more. He passed the glass to Jantson and, after a nod from Selena, set the decanter down on the table.

“Now, tell me,” she began, after he’d managed a shaky swallow, “what makes you think Pieter has him?”

“He hasn’t just left, Selena. He’s quite literally vanished,” Jantson explained. “His servants are panicking. They have no idea where he is. Salisbourne even tells me his business associates are looking for him because he’s missed meetings. He runs almost everything himself. He can’t simply walk away for a day or two. His entire business would collapse.”

“Well then, I suppose we’ll just have to locate him, won’t we?” Selena smiled.

“How? Pieter won’t be holding him openly. He could be anywhere in Celstwin.” Jantson emptied his glass and poured another, the neck of the decanter clinking loudly against the glass.

Selena thought for a moment. “You’ve hit on it yourself. He can’t be held openly. A lord can’t simply be dragged out of his home, not even by the king. Pieter has changed the tune, thus we must change the dance.”

“What?” He shook his head with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll deal with it.” She smiled again. “Trust me. In the meantime, though, I need you to pass word to your associates and to Salisbourne that I’m going to issue a call for a Council of Lords.”

Jantson coughed and threw his palm in front of his face to keep from spraying brandy across the room. “A what?” he blurted. “There hasn’t been a Council of Lords in more than two centuries!”

“Well then, I suspect it’s high time we had one, isn’t it?”

Jantson pulled himself to his feet, downing the brandy in one long wincing swallow. “I’ll get on to it now. You really think you can do something for Raysh?”

“Leave it with me.” Selena walked him to the doorway. “Don’t forget to tell Rentrew for me too.” He gave her a worried nod and left.

Selena settled back into her chair and pulled the book closer, reaching for her cup with the other hand. She sipped at the tea, then pulled a face. It was cold. How long had it been sat there?

“Thompson?” She raised her voice rather than reaching for the silly bell.

“It is Thompson, isn’t it?” she asked, as the servant came into the study.

“Sanderson, your grace,” he replied, with the faintest hint of a smile.

“Oh, I was fairly close.” She smiled her apology. “Do be a dear and have some fresh tea brought up, would you? This has gone cold on me again.”

“Very good, your grace.” He gave a bow which went unnoticed as she sank back into the book.

“Oh, Thompson?” she called, as the door swung closed.

“Your grace?”

He really was very good. Not the faintest hint of temper. It almost took the fun out of it, really. What was the point in baiting the staff, if they wouldn't rise to it?

“Have you lived in Celstwin long?” she asked.

“All of my life, your grace,” he replied.

“And your family? Are they all in Celstwin, as well?”

“My brother and youngest sister, your grace. My parents passed on some years ago.”

She nodded, pausing in thought. “And would you say you know the city well, Thompson?”

“As well as anyone, your grace,” Sanderson said. It was starting; he wasn’t totally immune. There was just the faintest hint of a clenched jaw.

“I wonder if you could arrange something a little unorthodox for me, Thompson?”

“Of course, your grace?” His acceptance was automatic, with just the slightest lift of tone to make the statement a question.

“I’d like you to find me someone of less than savoury character. I need to speak to a cutpurse or someone of that ilk.”

“Your grace?”

“Find me a thief, Thompson.” She smiled. “Do you think that could be arranged?”

“I... err...” His perfect control cracked at the request, allowing emotion to leak out for the first time.

“Well?”

“I expect that could be done, your grace,” he managed.

“Excellent. Please arrange it as soon as possible. I’ll receive them here.”

“Very good, your grace. I’ll have tea brought in momentarily, your grace.” He bowed again.

“Thank you, Thompson, that will be all.” She smiled again and then looked down at the book.

“Sanderson, your grace,” he corrected her.

“I’m sorry?” Selena glanced up, with a confused frown.

“Sanderson, your grace,” he repeated.

“Who?”

Sanderson drew a visibly deep breath. “Never mind, your grace.” He sighed and left the room.

Selena clapped her hands and stifled a laugh, but her smile faded too soon. Anlan might be at war, her people themselves threatened, but taking on her own king? That would require nerves she wasn’t sure she possessed.

Chapter Eighteen

Gavin fought down the wave of nausea and wished the damned door would just open. The press of menand the stink of sweat and tar, were enough to make anyone’s stomach lurch, but it was the swaying of the ship that was making him green.

“Still got your lunch on the inside of you, Retcher?” a voice jeered from behind him.

Gavin glanced back over his shoulder. He couldn’t put a name to the man that grinned back at him. The pig-eyed idiot was so impressed with his little dig, it looked to be all he could do to keep the smile from splitting his cheeks.

He ignored it, though. Pig-eyes was right. Managing to keep food down aboard ship was a rarity for him and he didn’t dare open his mouth to respond for that very reason.

The wall of leather-clad flesh in front of him pushed back, forcing him tighter into the crowd. There was a muffled thump, followed by a waft of fresh air, as the ramp thudded down onto the long dock. “Finally!” a voice breathed from behind him. Gavin grinned, his seasickness forgotten, as they began to move forward.

It hadn't taken him long to work his way onto a ship headed for the Farmed Lands. The haulers that travelled back and forth through the Vorstelv no longer just carried trained oarsmen and settlers. These days, so long as you could swing a sword and follow directions, you were accepted.

Gavin sighed as he took deep breaths of the cool air. “Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, what am I doing here?” he said to himself. It was a hell of a gamble, coming all this way to find Klöss, but then what other choices had he had?

He fought down a wave of guilt that was just as strong as any of the seasickness he’d suffered. The creature had followed him. He’d been a fool to lead it to Ylsriss. Because of him, Ylsriss had lost her baby. Because of him, Klöss had lost Ylsriss. His debt was not something he could pass off. Anyone would see where the blame lay, if they knew the facts. If they believed them, that is.

Rhaven had not believed him about the creatures in the park, not even for a moment. He’d scoffed at first, then grown angry, demanding to know what Gavin had done with Ylsriss and the baby. Gavin didn’t blame him. He almost didn’t believe it himself. His face warmed with remembered shame as he thought of the way the man had thrown him out of his house. The shouts had drawn almost as many stares as the picture - a crippled old man hurling a boy less than half his age out onto the streets. Gavin could still feel the wet cobbles under his hands. He'd scrambled to his feet and fled, Rhaven's curses echoing down the street after him. His time at sea, retching over the side of the ship, wasn't nearly penance enough for what he had done.

He stamped down the ramp onto the docks, following the other men. The city seemed a strange sight to Gavin. He was used to the narrow alleyways and tall buildings of Hesk. Wood was almost a rarity there so, if something could be constructed of stone or slate, it was. This place was a confused mix of wooden and stone structures, most of which appeared to be in the process of being replaced, repaired or, in some cases, rebuilt. He looked around as he made his way along the dock. The tightly-packed crowd of men filing out of the ship gave him little choice as to where he was going. Participating in extended military service had never been a goal of his, though. He was going to need to find a way to get out of this line, and soon.

The harbour was crammed to capacity, thanks to the newly arrived fleet. The ships' jet black sails provided a stark contrast to the blood red sails of the reavers that had already been at dock. The line shuffled down the docks towards a small group of people who were sending them off in different directions. Assigning billets, Gavin realised. This was no good. The moment he was assigned a billet he would be on their records. It would be that much harder to disappear. He hadn’t come all this way to play at being a soldier.

Crates were stacked up beside the line of men; cargo waiting to be shipped back to the Barren Isles, by the looks of it. If he could somehow slip out of line and in amongst them, he could be gone in moments.

The line crept forwards. Sweaty men shuffling inside sweaty leathers; it was not pleasant. It was also the worst circumstance for him to try to duck out of line, with the men barely moving. He needed to do something. He staggered and fell hard into the man in front of him, pushing himself off, then stepping back and to the side as the man turned.

The man stumbled, then caught himself and spun to face the line behind him. “Watch yourself!” he snapped at Pig-eyes, as Gavin shifted to the side.

Pig-eyes looked back at the man with a flat stare. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

The line moved onwards. As they drew level with the crates, Gavin allowed himself to slow, moving into the space at the edge of the piled cargo as he drew level with Pig-eyes. A well-planted foot and a good shove sent the idiot staggering forward until he crashed into the back of the man in front.

Gavin drifted into the space between the crates as the voices rose. “I. Told. You. To. Watch. Yourself!” A series of fleshy thumps punctuated the sentence. Gavin wore an evil smirk as he eased himself around the boxes and stepped into an alleyway. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.

He ditched the boots first, pulling his own soft-soled pair from the sack that held the rest of his greys. The leathers he wore would do a better job for blending in with the crowd, but the boots were just too clunky for him to move in easily. He tossed them into the gutter and made his way along the alley before pausing, swearing and then retrieving them. It was never a good idea to just toss part of a disguise away, no matter how much you hated it.

It took just half an hour for Gavin to decide that he didn’t like Rimeheld. The place was too ordered, too structured. This wasn’t a city that had grown naturally over time. It had been made and designed this way. Someone had thought about where the streets should go and how the alleys should intersect. Its design probably had something to do with overall defence plans but, to Gavin’s mind, it was profoundly unnatural.

It was also, so far as he could see, almost completely devoid of places to skulk and hide. He had no need to hide, of course. Nobody knew he was here. A city formed of broad avenues, though, with each alleyway as straight as a die and well-lit, thanks to regularly positioned torch brackets? Well, that was just wrong.

After less than an hour, he'd got a feel for the city. It was actually more of a fort, but every place has a soul, a flavour, and he quickly had the measure of it. It took him longer to find the right kind of inn, however. Finding someone to get information from subtly requires a particular type of place. Somewhere quiet enough for a hushed conversation, but loud enough not to make it look suspicious.

The dockside inns, he dismissed immediately. Not only was there the slim chance he'd run into someone from the ship, places like that were also renowned for fights. It’s very hard to get information from someone whilst dodging glasses and flying fists.

He passed three more taverns that were busy with soldiers of one form or another. The places were loud and rowdy, with patrons playing table games and laughing. He’d have had to shout to be heard.

Eventually, he settled on a small tavern in a quiet backstreet. The paint was already peeling from the sign hanging from the wall. The Golden Goose looked to be just the place.

A barman looked up from where he was making a half-hearted effort to polish the bar and nodded at him as he came through the door. Pig-eyes had been useful in more ways than one and Gavin smiled to himself as he opened the man’s purse. He looked around at the dingy interior and turned to a small man huddled over a tankard. “How’s the mead?”

“I’m right here,” the barman said.

“He’s drinking it. You’re selling it,” Gavin replied, unabashed.

“S’not got any rats floating in the keg, if that’s what you’re asking,” the small man muttered, giving him a gap-toothed grin.

“Good enough, then,” Gavin nodded. “Mead,” he said brightly to the barman, who shook his head.

“You with the fleet then?” he asked. “That'll be four farthings.”

“Four!” Gavin sputtered. It was extortionate by Hesk's standards.

The small man chuckled over his tankard. “He’s from the fleet, alright. We ain’t really got mead here yet. S’either ale or pay for what gets brought over on the haulers.”

“Ale it is, then,” Gavin muttered, and handed the single copper farthing to the barman. He sipped at his drink and winced at the sour taste.

The small man chuckled again. “You'll get a taste for it.” He drank deeply from his own tankard and sighed in appreciation.

“Buy you another?” Gavin asked.

“S’very kind of you...?” He paused, waiting for Gavin’s name.

“Gavin,” he supplied, holding a finger up to the barman.

“Scarit,” the short man replied. He took the tankard quickly before Gavin could change his mind. “How is it you're not with your men, then?”

“My men?” Gavin asked.

“You’re fresh to Rimeheld. It's written all over you.” Scarit shrugged. “The only ships that have arrived lately have been the Black Fleet. That makes you the sealord’s man.”

The man was sharper than he looked. So much for subtlety. Gavin drank some ale. His companion was right. It didn’t take long to get used to the taste. Either that or his tongue had gone numb.

“I’m looking for someone,” he admitted. “The fleet was just a way to get here.”

“You must need to see ‘em awful bad,” Scarit snorted. “It’s a long way to come just to collect a debt.”

“It’s not a debt,” the barman said.

“How d'you know, Rolant?” Scarit demanded.

“No man’s going to cross the Vorstelv just for a debt,” Rolant explained, picking up the rag and scrubbing at the bar again.

“Well, s’got to be sommat like that,” Scarit said.

“It’s not a debt,” Gavin said. Their bickering was getting on his nerves. “There’s a man here I need to see, that's all. I need to tell him something.”

“Think I’d have just sent a message,” Rolant muttered to Scarit. The short man snorted and set his drink down quickly, before clapping his hand to his face to catch the ale that was dripping from his nose.

“Dammit, Rolant!” Scarit cursed, between laughs from behind his hand. “You can’t wait until I swallow ‘fore you come out with sommat like that?” The barman, for his part, did his best to keep the grin from his lips as he shrugged.

“You might know where I can find him,” Gavin said. It was a risky move but he had little choice but to try now; he’d gone this far. “An oarsmaster called Klöss?”

“He’s no oarsmaster. Don’t know who told you that!” Scarit scoffed. “He’s shipmaster and second to bloody Frostbeard himself!”

“Shipmaster? Frostbeard!” Gavin moaned and took a long drink. “How am I going to get to see him?”

“You’re not,” Rolant stated flatly.

“Send a messenger,” Scarit advised, waving his ale at Gavin. “S’what I’d do.”

“Won’t help,” Rolant said. “He’s not here. Or at least he won’t be for long.”

“What?” Gavin gasped, his persona slipping a little as shock set in. The possibility of Klöss not being at Rimeheld had never occurred to him.

“He’ll be headed inland. Last I heard, he was, anyway.”

“You’d be better off with your company, lad,” Scarit observed. “Some of them are bound to be sent to join him, anyway.”

“You think?”

He waved his other arm and Gavin noticed, for the first time, the fabric of the sleeve was pinned over what must be a stump. “I didn’t lose this hand threshing wheat, lad. I didn’t fall off the last fishing boat either. S’obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re lying about sommat. I don’t want t’know. You need to find Klöss, you say. Your best bet would be with the company you left. I’ll tell you this for free though, lad, you’d best not tangle with him. His is one reputation that was earned.”

Gavin nodded and sipped at his ale as he thought. It didn’t improve over time, he decided, as he failed to keep the grimace off his face.

“Thanks for the advice,” he said to Scarit.

The man shrugged over his near-empty tankard. “Din’t cost me nothin’.”

“You want this? I don’t think I’m thirsty.” Gavin nodded at his ale.

“You don’t know what you’re missing, son,” Scarit said, as he snatched up the drink.

Gavin snorted and nodded a farewell to Rolant, as he made his way to the door and out into the sunlight. He moved further into the alleyway before he started swearing. They’d not told him much he didn’t know already but, of all the damned bad luck, he’d managed to sneak out of the very unit he needed to be part of.

***

Klöss fought down the obvious response and listened in silence.

“It’s totally out of proportion. He couldn’t have made it more obvious if he’d just swanned in with a proclamation!” Frostbeard ranted, pacing back and forth behind the desk.

“Have you considered that it might just be exactly what it appears to be? Simply that he has sent reinforcements drawn from the islands?” Klöss suggested.

Frostbeard sank into the chair behind his desk. “They aren't just reinforcements, Klöss,” he sighed. “He could have sent reinforcements without those colours. Sending the Black Fleet only means one thing. That he’s taking a direct hand.”

Klöss sipped at his keft, savouring the bitter taste. “Let him. It’s all politics, Uncle. What difference does it actually make?”

Aiden ran a tired hand over his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted, with a sigh. “You’re right. As a people, we’ll still have these new lands, the new opportunities.”

“So it’s vanity then?” Klöss asked, aiming the shot over the rim of his cup.

“Vanity!” Aiden sat upright as if he’d been slapped. “You dare?”

Klöss laughed at the reaction, watching as Aiden’s face grew darker by the second. “Hear me out,” he managed, before taking another sip of the keft. “Think about it. The sealord sends the Black Fleet and you see this as him seizing control of the lands we’ve taken. But what is the Black Fleet? In theory, it’s the thane's own force. In reality, though, it’s a relic of a bygone era and hasn’t been used, or really even existed, in two hundred years. What he’s really done is take some of our own haulers, fill them with whatever men he could scrape together and then put black sails on the ships.”

Frostbeard grunted and waved his hand in a motion that Klöss took to mean he should continue.

“For that matter, who is the sealord? He’s the servant of the thane, but then aren’t we all? These lands we’ve taken, the fleet we built, that was all done under the auspices of the thane. The sealord is just trailing in your wake, picking up the scraps.”

Aiden looked at him from under his bushy grey eyebrows. “When did you get so clever about politics?”

“Probably around the first time I sailed out as shipmaster,” Klöss sighed. “You see my point, though? It’s all about how you look at it. You’re here and the sealord isn’t. You’re in charge, not him. For crying out loud, Aiden, you have your name hung over the door!”

“Door? I’m not following you.”

“What’s the city called, Uncle?”

“Now, you know that wasn’t my idea!” Aiden started, holding up a warning finger.

“No, I know it wasn’t. And that’s the point!” Klöss took his last sip and set the cup down, a tiny measure of black sludge remaining in the cup. He ran a finger over his teeth to wipe away the grounds that had made it into his mouth.

“Fine, you’ve made your poi…” He cut off as a knock came at the door. “Your point,” he finished, before turning to the door. “Come!”

A head poked round it hesitantly. “Beg your pardon, Seamaster, but there’s a man here says he needs to see Shipmaster Klöss. Something about billeting and a message?”

Klöss groaned. “Tell him to go and find Tristan. I’m busy.” He waved a hand in disgusted dismissal, but the door was already closing. “Honestly, half the time I don’t know if I’m leading men or if I’m a damned nursemaid!”

Frostbeard laughed. “It doesn’t get any better, you know.” He leaned forward, serious now, and all remnants of the complaining old man fell away. “What’s your feel for it out there?”

“You’ve read the scout reports.” Klöss pointed at the pile of papers on another desk.

“Bah! You know my opinion of them!” Frostbeard said.

“Never trust an opinion on troops from a man who’s been trained how to run away,” Klöss recited.

Frostbeard scratched at his cheek through his coarse beard. “No, not troops. They can count troops easily enough. I say it as a joke, but I’m serious. The average scout has little feel for a battlefield or a battle.” He turned in the chair so he could look at the map pinned to the wall. “What do you feel about it at the moment?”

“I expected more,” Klöss admitted. He sat up, leaning his arms on the desk. “Look, we didn’t know what this land was like. In truth, even though we scouted as much as we could, we didn’t know what to expect at all. We’ve pushed inland for...what, about twelve leagues? We’ve driven off their people and we've burned their villages. So where are their armies? Where is the response? I keep waiting for the door to crash open with word that they’re on the march.” He walked around the desk to point at the map.

“After the battle at that last village, I expected more from them. They were good, very clever. Their commander made good use of the land and improvised to compensate for what he didn’t have. Using logs in the catapults was genius. His forces, though, were nothing compared to ours in terms of numbers.”

“You think they hold back?” Aiden asked.

“They have to be. The plan was to engage them, defeat them and then pull back to the lands we’d taken. To discourage them from trying to retake lands. That 's not going to happen unless we meet, and defeat, a significant force.”

“That was more or less what the sealord was saying in his last letter,” Frostbeard snorted. “Fine. I want you to push inland in force. You’ll have the men from the sealord's fleet but I wouldn’t put any faith in their ability. Take ten companies with you, and go and find me their armies. Bring me back a victory we can drink about.”

Klöss nodded, concealing a smile at his uncle’s refusal to name the Black Fleet.

“Oh, and Klöss?” Frostbeard called him back as he headed for the door. “Try to keep the supply lines as short as you can. We don’t have the men to leave whole armies guarding your supply dumps.”

Klöss grunted. To be fair, that was all the response it deserved.

***

Gavin pulled his cloak closer against the rain. It was more than a misting drizzle, but less than a light shower. If it had been any heavier, he’d have just been wet and been able to ignore it. As it was, it managed to seek out those parts of him that were still dry, sending the occasional fat drip running down inside his leathers in search of them.

He trudged. It was a particular type of walk that he’d been forced to develop over the last three weeks. The men in front of him never moved fast enough for his liking, but there was no point trying to pass through the line. Gavin muttered and tried to kick his boots into a more comfortable position as he walked.

Klöss would be somewhere up ahead of them. His troops had left Rimeheld days before Gavin and the others with him had even been organised.

The arrows came from nowhere, whistling from the trees in a little chorus of hate.

“Shields!” someone shouted, though they needn’t have bothered. Any man with any sense was now huddled down behind his shield, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. Then the line was moving towards the trees and Gavin bit his lip to keep from screaming.

The men of the Black Fleet or, as he thought of them, the Dead Men, were mixed in with experienced oarsmen. What the oarsman acting as their leader had done to deserve this duty, Gavin had no idea.

He was surrounded by a pocket of Dead Men, a tight phalanx of oarsmen on each side of them. The differences were obvious and immediate. The oarsmen moved their shields as a unit, working together to provide themselves with the best cover possible as they headed for the trees. The Dead Men moved sluggishly, receiving the occasional kick from the oarsmen that were acting as their squad leaders to keep them moving.

He saw first one man, then two more, go down as arrows found the gaps between the shields and he looked to either side of him. The man on the left was too far away, so he reached out to the right, grabbed the edge of the man’s shield and yanked.

The Dead Man gave him a look of pure terror, and then moved closer as he saw what Gavin was doing. Overlapping the shields provided them with slightly more cover, although two alone made little difference. He looked to the left again to where his neighbour scuttled along, hiding more behind other men than taking cover from his own shield.

“You!” Gavin called. “Come over here.”

The man gave him a startled look and then shook his head violently. “Fuck that!” he hissed back.

“Get your flea-ridden hide over here or I’ll gut you myself!” Gavin spat back. He flicked his cloak aside to reveal the long, curved dagger at his belt and pulled it an inch from the sheath. The man, now more frightened of him than of the arrows, moved within reach.

Gavin stepped back slightly, so the second man’s shield overlapped the first. With his own shield held high, they had an improvised wall. The arrows thudded into it with a regularity that was both terrifying and oddly reassuring. He relaxed slightly and looked about for the rest of the squad. They had melted away like mist in the morning sunlight and their leader was nowhere to be seen.

Gavin swore to himself and thought for a second. The wall enabled them to move faster and he saw some of the other Dead Men grouping into threes and fours to copy what he’d done. It would have worked better if they’d worked as a single unit, but they hadn’t the training for that.

A cry went up from ahead of them and the oarsmen broke into a sprint, charging into the trees. Gavin watched them go for a second, before lowering his own shield for just long enough to gauge the distance to the trees. “Come on!” he shouted, and raced for the closest trunk. Let the oarsmen have the fight; he had his own agenda and, at the moment, that included having a good two feet of tree trunk between him and the next arrow.

He threw himself into the undergrowth close to the trees as arrows continued to hiss past. His leather armour was bulky and it felt alien to him. Despite wearing it during the weeks of training they’d been given before the sea voyage and for the week or more that they’d been pressing into enemy territory, it still felt wrong. He forced himself to ignore it and squirmed on his belly towards a tree.

Men surged past him, running blindly into the trees with their weapons drawn. Let them, Gavin thought. He was no coward and would fight when he needed to, but to run blindly towards flying arrows crossed the line between bravery and stupidity, as far as he was concerned.

The arrows first slowed and then stopped, as the distant sounds of fighting carried through the trees. He moved towards the sound, although he was in no hurry. Keeping his sword sheathed at his side, he pulled out his long dagger. They might have forced him to drill with the sword, but really it was just an oversized knife. Once you got the first inch of any blade into someone, they ended up just as dead anyway.

He could move far faster with the smaller weapon than he would ever have been able to carrying the sword. Even sheathed, it was getting in the way. After a moment’s indecision, he drew and then dumped the heavy weapon. He kept his shield for now. It was large, heavy and made moving with stealth almost impossible, but it was rather good against arrows.

He came across the first body moments later. It lay in the ferns, face up, as if the man were just taking a nap. The feathered shaft jutting from his chest told another story, however, and the fact that his armour hadn’t stopped the arrow was not lost on Gavin.

“Waste of bloody time,” he muttered, picking at the heavy leathers he wore. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he had other clothes with him so he could be rid of the hateful stuff.

The sound of the fighting grew louder and he ghosted from tree to tree as he approached. He stopped as he caught sight of them and pressed himself close to a broad tree trunk to take stock.

The men in green cloaks were easily distinguishable from the leather-clad Bjornmen. They were clearly better trained as well, he noted, as the one closest to him held off two Bjornmen with ease. They were probably Dead Men, he realised, as he saw them waste several opportunities to strike.

He knelt to ditch his shield and move in closer but, as he did so, the green-cloaked man’s sword dipped, almost delicately, into one of the stomach of one of the Bjornmen. The man fell like a stuck pig, screaming as he rolled in the leaves. Gavin swore to himself and moved quickly before the fight could turn the two men round to face him.

The leaves were dry but the noise of the fight covered his approach as the Bjornman puffed and wheezed. Green Cloak, for his part, didn’t even appear to be winded. He turned at the last second, sensing something, and twisted as he spotted Gavin. By then, however, it was too late and Gavin thrust his long knife deep, sinking it into the man's kidneys. He was moving again before the man hit the ground, drifting forward, seeking the cover of the trees, while the surviving Bjornman sank to his knees in the leaves, shaking and sobbing.

Gavin knew how to kill. You didn’t live long amongst the Wretched unless you did. His training hadn’t come from instructors in ridiculous schools, though. It had come in the shadows of back alleys at the hands of boys trying to kill him for a warmer shirt, for the bread he carried or even just because he was there, in that place.

He moved on through the trees, killing where he had to. Some of the time, he could just step past the skirmishes. Getting killed in a senseless fight after he’d travelled all this way would be beyond stupid.

Any sense of order amongst the Dead Men seemed to have gone out the window as soon as they had entered the trees. They were scattered, fighting a thousand small fights alone or in twos and threes. If it weren’t for their obviously greater numbers, Gavin knew they would probably have been slaughtered to a man by now. As it was, the death toll was horrific and every empty space seemed to be littered with bodies.

The sound of a twig cracking was the only warning he had, and he ducked purely on instinct as the sword hacked at the air where his head had been. Gavin followed his movement through and turned it into a tight roll, before coming to his feet and turning.

His attacker was already pressing in, his longsword held low and his large wooden shield ready. He was dressed for speed and wore none of the ridiculous metal armour that Gavin had been warned to expect.

Gavin pulled his knife and stood ready, weaving it through the air. The movements were purely for show; it was a trick he’d picked up from long years on the streets. . Show the enemy your weapon. Let the light catch it, shine off the edge, so they focus on it and see the sharpness of the blade, the cruelty of its point. A man imagining the feel of a knife slicing into his vitals is not a man concentrating on the fight.

The swordsman struck, with a feint and then a thrust, and Gavin spun to the right, pushing the sword blade to the side with his knife and moving in close to the shield. His intent was to spin again and then be behind the man, so he was utterly unprepared for the blow when the shield slammed into his face.

The impact sent him reeling and he fought to keep hold of his knife as the world spun around him for a second. The man gave him no time to recover though and moved in, his sword held high to strike.

Gavin backed away, giving ground to keep the steel outside of his skull. The swordsman grinned at him, the contempt he felt for the weapon in Gavin’s hand clear in his eyes. A knife has one advantage over a sword though, and Gavin gave a snide grin back as he flipped the weapon over in his hand and hurled it into the man’s throat.

The skirmisher clutched at the knife and made a tortured, gurgling noise as he fell. Gavin stepped forward to retrieve his blade, then froze as another man emerged from behind the fallen body and charged, his sword ready to thrust. Gavin dived for the knife, knowing he’d never reach it in time, and tensed for the blow he knew must come.

Instead, he heard a grinding, slicing crunch, followed by a crash as the man fell to the dirt. Gavin lifted his head to see a large Bjornman oarsman wiping a double-headed axe on the dead man’s cloak.

“A good trick with the knife,” he observed, “That, he was not expecting, I think.” He held a hand out to help Gavin up.

“Thanks,” Gavin said, as he pulled himself up. “Good timing.”

“I was watching,” the big man confessed with a shrug.

“Watching?” Gavin didn’t attempt to keep his feelings from his face.

“I had never seen a man attack a swordsman with just a knife before.” He shrugged. “Stupid but interesting. Perhaps next time use your sword?”

“Swords are slow,” Gavin muttered and stooped to retrieve the knife.

“We are falling behind. Come.” The big man slung his shield over his back and strode off through the trees, hefting the axe in one hand.

“Wait! I never got your name,” Gavin called after him.

“Tristan.” The voice carried back to Gavin as he ran to catch up.

The Bjornmen seemed to have managed to push the skirmishers back through the woods, thinning their numbers, by the looks of things, but never quite managing to fully close with them. Gavin followed Tristan through the trees and they made their way out of the woods. As they stepped out into the field, Gavin looked around in confusion. He had been expecting to emerge into a battle. The signs of fighting were all around them, from the torn and muddied grass to the bodies lying on the ground like discarded toys, but the scene was nothing compared to what it should have been.

Tristan examined the grass. “Horses,” he grunted. “Clever.”

“I don’t follow,” Gavin admitted.

Tristan glanced over to him. “These men. They attack us from the trees, yes?”

Gavin nodded.

“They goad us, allow us to push them back through these woods, picking us off with arrows as they go, staying out of any real fight.” He turned, waving at the torn ground. “Then here, they escape on the horses they left.” He pointed off to the south.

Gavin nodded again, struggling slightly with the man's thick Far Islander accent. It was a clever plan. The Dead Men, in particular, would have been easy pickings for the archers as they moved back through the woods.

Men were forming back into their units and Gavin watched them for a moment, making no move to join them himself. He looked to the south, where the grassy hillside dipped down into a shallow valley. He could just make out the horses in the distance, as the skirmishers made their retreat.

“What would you have done?” The question caught him off guard and he was silent for a time, while Tristan looked at him appraisingly.

“I would never have put the Dead Men all together,” he said, finally. “They should have been dispersed throughout the other units.”

“Dead Men?” Tristan asked, with a snort.

“This lot.” Gavin waved his arm in their direction. “The men from the Black Fleet.”

“Why Dead Men?”

“The training is a joke,” Gavin explained. “These men are more used to threatening people with their weapons than actually fighting with them. As fighters, they’re dead already; they just haven’t found a sword to stick themselves with yet.”

Tristan stared at him long enough to make him wonder just who this man was, and whether or not he’d just shoved his foot all the way down his own throat.

“Come,” he said, finally. “There is someone I want you to talk to.”

“What about my squad?” Gavin ventured.

Tristan gave the Dead Men a scathing glance. “You do not belong with them. Come.”

They travelled west, pushing faster than most of the other men. The fact that nobody stopped them or even raised an eyebrow as they went past was not lost on Gavin and his concerns grew by the minute.

They had passed the foremost elements of the column by evening and made a rough camp in a stand of beech. Tristan was quiet and offered little in the way of conversation beyond asking Gavin his name and what training he'd had. They rose early and pushed on. During late afternoon, the shallow valley through which they were travelling opened up into a vast grassy plain and Gavin suddenly saw a sea of white tents and men in leather armour. The Bjornman army was like nothing he could have imagined and the camp stretched as far as he could see.

Tristan moved through the troops unchallenged, although several men offered nods of greeting and respect. He led them into the very heart of the camp, to a cluster of tents surrounded by guards, and entered one of them without pause.

The tent was cramped. Two men were consulting maps and papers that had been spread out across a camp table. Another stood apart from them, reading over a crumpled note with a sour look on his face. His expression brightened slightly as Tristan entered.

“I thought you’d still be pulling arrows out of your skin,” he said, the scars on his face twisting as he smiled.

Tristan didn’t bother to respond, although his glare spoke eloquently to the scar-faced man, managing somehow to curse, insult, and suggest an unhealthy inclination towards farm animals, all at the same time.

“I have someone you should talk to, Klöss,” Tristan said.

“You’re Klöss?” Gavin blurted out, drawing questioning looks from both of them.

“What of it?” Klöss asked.

“I came all the way from Hesk to find you. I need to talk to you in private.”

Klöss let out a sigh as he rolled his eyes. “Listen, lad, I’m a bit busy for tales at the moment. Most of the things you’ve heard are crap, anyway.”

“What?” Gavin looked confused. “No, it’s about Ylsriss.”

His despairing expression faded at that. “Ylsriss? What do you know about her?”

Gavin noted the other men's eyes were on him. This was not the way he wanted to do this. “You and I have met before. Years ago, in Hesk. You chased a cutpurse into an alley and got coshed. You woke up in a cellar filled with street children.”

Klöss's eyes widened and he nodded. “Carry on.”

“I was one of those children. Something’s happened to Ylsriss. I came all this way to explain it to you.”

“I already know she's vanished,” Klöss growled, clenching the note in his fist.

“That's probably from Rhaven, isn't it?” Gavin nodded at the note. “I tried to talk to him first, but he threw me out. I've travelled all the way from Hesk to tell you the truth about what happened.”

“Alright boy, you’ve got my attention. What is it?”

“Not like this.” Gavin motioned at the others in an exaggerated manner. “I need to tell you in private.”

Klöss sighed. “Fine. You've got two minutes.”

Chapter Nineteen

Rhenkin stood in the rain, absently patting his horse’s flank as he watched the men file in. His mind churned through the figures in his head - men, supplies, units. Were they going to have enough? The numbers would be close, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“Larson!” he shouted, without turning.

The footsteps were more squelches in the wet ground than anything else. “It’s Kennick, Sir.” The man sounded apologetic.

Rhenkin swore silently to himself. Larson was a resource he was going to find hard to replace. “Sorry, Kennick,” he muttered. “Force of habit.”

Kennick nodded in silence. It was probably as hard for the new lieutenant as it was for him, Rhenkin realised. Trying to fill someone else’s shoes was never a pleasant experience.

“How well do you remember your academy strategy, Kennick?”

“Well enough, I suppose, Sir,” the man replied, scratching at his moustache as the rain ran down his face.

“Accepted ratio for victory over a force with unknown composition?” Rhenkin snapped out the question.

“Your force must outnumber theirs by a minimum of a third, Sir,” Kennick replied. “That is, unless there are significant strategic enhancers, such as true surprise, terrain or defensive structures.”

Rhenkin looked at him. “Did you do well in strategy, Kennick?”

“Top of my class, Sir,” Kennick replied.

“How much stock do you put in what you learned?” Rhenkin asked.

“Honestly, Sir? Not a great deal. Some of the tactics are useful, but I don’t really believe you can break a battle, or a war, down to numbers and ratios.”

“Is that so?” Rhenkin kept his voice level.

“There are too many factors that the books don’t take into account, Sir. You can break a battle down to numbers in terms of troop levels, training and so on, but you also need to consider things like morale shifts or necessity.”

“Necessity?”

“It’s all very well saying it’s strategically unwise to attack unless you outnumber your foe by at least a third, Sir, but you can’t give ground forever,” Kennick said, with a slight wince.

“Very good, Son.” Rhenkin favoured him with a tight smile. “Necessity drives every campaign. Necessity is why we must attack now, rather than giving those bastards any more land.” He looked at the sea of tents and men. “Are Rentrew’s men set up?”

Kennick nodded. “Some are still on their way, Sir, but most of the officers have arrived and have been brought into the command structure.”

“What have they sent us? I see mostly mounted troops.”

“It is largely mounted heavy lancers, Sir. A fair number of mounted archers as well, though the infantry is not an insignificant force.”

“And the skirmishers?”

“Still making their way back to us, Sir. They sent a man ahead to report.”

Rhenkin pulled off his helmet and scratched at his hair. How the hell did the rain work its way in underneath it? “I want you to send out some scouts. All on horseback and with orders not to get even close to being within arrow range. I want to know where the Bjornmen are going and how they’re being deployed. Get reports to me every day, without fail.”

“That will require messenger relays, Sir,” Kennick warned.

“So the men will need to sit and wait in the rain for a while,” Rhenkin sneered. “We’re doing that now!”

“I’ll see to it, Sir.”

“In the meantime, I want your analysis of the terrain around here. We’re going to do this on our terms and I’ll be damned if I’ll let them choose the battlefield.” Rhenkin waited for the man to nod before speaking again. “For now, I’m going to get out of this pissing rain and get some sleep. Send a man in with something hot and wake me if anything happens.”

“Who shall I report to in your absence, Sir?”

Rhenkin gave the man an evil smile. “You’re my second now, Son. While I'm sleeping, they report to you.” He walked away, chuckling to himself as he headed for his tent. Kennick seemed to be a good man and he had no doubt he could do the job well. He was no Larson, though.

That attack had come from nowhere. They’d not seen or heard a thing from the fae in weeks. A man could almost have been forgiven for thinking the whole thing had been a fever dream. But then they’d come, charging down out of the moonlit sky on horses as pale as a dead man's face. Larson had been at the forefront of the battle, screaming orders for iron weapons. He’d probably never even seen the one that took him. Rhenkin shook his head as he ducked into the tent and sat on a camp chair to prise his boots off. The mud was thick and oozed between his fingers as he worked.

“Bloody waste,” he muttered to himself. Years of training and excellence had ended on the bone blade of one of those lantern-eyed monsters.

He pulled some camp shoes on and went to the table, pushing the reports aside so he could see the map properly.

“We ought to be killing these bloody hell-beasts, not fighting each other,” he muttered. “Damn it though, if you want a fight, by hell, you’ll have one.”

Location, that would be the key. His force was now split evenly between mounted troops and infantry, and there are few troops more useless than a mounted unit with no room to move.

Rhenkin traced his fingertips over the map. The local area was sketched in rough shades of charcoal. The woods, valleys and hillsides were useless for his needs. Even the plain was barely large enough for the manoeuvres they'd need to make for this to work.

“This has been a shit-storm from the start,” he muttered, before stomping over to the torture device known as a camp bed.

He was asleep long before the young soldier arrived with the food and didn’t wake as he set it down on the table. Sleep had been slow to find him, missing him entirely these past two nights. Now that it had him, it would not let go.

***

The Bjornman army covered the land like a dark blanket as it moved towards them, out of the trees. Keiron could just see the smaller contingent that he knew contained their supply wagons making its way around the edge of the woods to the north. They’d been moving steadily for three days now.

“Gutsy bastards,” he muttered to himself.

“What’s that?” asked the dark-haired man beside him.

“They came directly through the woods.” Keiron pointed. “I know it's a small wood, but look, their supply wagons had to go all the way around. They took a hell of a risk. What if we’d raided them?”

They’d worked together four times now, staying for a day and a night before one of them headed back to give their report to the next pair in the line. The scouts surrounded the Bjornmen and watched their every move. It was three days hard ride to their own lines, so a messenger relay line had been strung out over twenty miles, with men stationed a day apart, rotating the line and sharing the scouting duties.

Fallon had been sour with him from the outset. He spoke little, offering up nothing about his past or his experience. The only thing Keiron really knew was that he didn’t care for him or his superior attitude.

“You think too much, Keiron,” Fallon said. He hawked and spat into the grass. “You be just as keen as you like. Lick that corporal’s boots until you can see your fawning little face in them. It won’t help you. You're a messenger boy dressed up in a scout’s uniform, plain and simple.”

Keiron felt the blood rise in his face. “Screw you, Fallon. I’m as much a scout as you. Captain said so himself.”

“Well, scurry off and deliver your message then, scout,” Fallon spat, his words dripping with contempt.

Keiron glared at him and swung himself up onto his horse, only turning back as Fallon sniggered at him.

“What now?” Keiron snapped. He was done with this self-important idiot.

“You might want this.” Fallon waved his travel sack at him, with a sneer.

Keiron shook his head, despairing at himself as much as at the annoying man. He nudged his horse forward and snatched the sack out of Fallon's hand.

It was probably only because he was so sick of the man and wouldn’t meet his eyes that he was looking beyond him. He frowned as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Something wasn't right. Then the grassy plain simply stood up and levelled crossbows at them.

It must have taken them three full days to crawl through the long grass. The blankets they’d draped over themselves were covered in thick tufts that blended with the grass on the plain. They wore only light clothing under them, so as not to hamper their movements.

Keiron noted all of this in a second, but his attention was focused on the large crossbows the pair carried. “Fallon, move!” he finally managed to shout. It was too late. The loud twanging report of the weapons seemed quieter than the sickening crunch the bolt made as it tore into Fallon’s chest, and even quieter than the sound of the second bolt as it passed his face.

Wheeling his horse, Keiron dug his heels in and urged the beast for more speed, bending low over its back. He had no idea of the effective range of the Bjornman crossbow or how long it took to reload. The hollow sensation between his shoulder blades drove him to turn the horse wildly as he charged through the long grass.

The horse was coated in lather and blowing hard by the time Keiron reined her in. His hands had stopped shaking about five minutes before, but his legs felt like they’d barely support him. He climbed down out of the saddle, but clung onto the pommel as his knees threatened to buckle.

There were no signs of the Bjornman scouts, although their army still loomed in the distance. Of course, there’d been no sign of them right up until the second they'd attacked either. Fear forced him to move, whispering into his ear, and he led the horse through the grasses. After an hour of walking, he stopped and allowed her to drink from a small, stream-fed pond before mounting her again.

He rode steadily, careful not to strain the horse too much, running her hard for only short periods before permitting her to drop down to a canter and then to a walk.

By evening, he was exhausted. The riding was taxing enough, but the fear was visceral and it ate away at him. He hadn’t really stopped for any rests, other than to walk the horse. He'd tried to, on several occasions, but soon found he was glancing back or staring nervously at the grasses as they blew in the wind, so he'd pushed on.

Navigating by the stars was simple enough when all he had to do was to go in a straight line, but the darkness was total. Keiron wasn’t a city boy, by any means, but there is a huge difference between the darkness inside a town or village and the darkness found in the middle of nowhere.

The stars seemed very bright and the moon, although not yet quite full, hung fat and heavy in the sky, lighting his path. When the wind blew the clouds across the sky, however, they cloaked the glowing orb and the night enveloped him. The darkness swallowed him, taking him down to that place every child has visited and which every man carries with him in a small, secret part of his soul; the place where the night holds a touch of terror.

He slept twice, waking with a lurch each time and nearly falling from the saddle. On both occasions, he also discovered that the horse had strayed off course and he had to search frantically to find the constellation he should have been heading towards. He felt a sense of true relief when the darkness finally began to lift, revealing the grey light of dawn.

The hill was miles to the south. He must have drifted off track during the night and never really corrected course. It was visible, however, and that was enough. He let the horse graze while he ate a handful of something dried and tasteless from the sack, then set off again. The warning couldn’t wait. The Bjornmen were coming.

***

Klöss moved forward towards the front lines, muttering an almost rhythmic stream of curses. It was a low song of frustration, one that he sang to himself as he watched the hated horsemen peel off and retreat again. Their riders were lightly armoured and were, as far as he could see, wielding only bows. They would be easy prey if his men could ever get close enough. Every attempt they had made, however, had been met with a hail of arrows and the riders had eventually simply broken off without truly engaging.

His army was spread out behind him, company after company of men awaiting his orders. He ignored them, however, focusing on the horses and the endless sounds of arrows striking shields as his men crouched against the onslaught again.

The bows of the riders were small and didn’t really have the power to penetrate the thick leather armour of his men, even if they did make it past the broad shields. Despite that, there was a scream of pain with every hail of arrows, as either an archer was lucky or a Bjornman wasn’t.

“These horses, they are effective.” Tristan spoke conversationally, as if they were just taking a stroll.

“They’re a pain in the arse, is what they are.” Klöss looked at the low-lying hills and the army in the valley between them. The horse archers had been harrying them for days as they'd advanced, riding in and raking them with their bows, only to peel off and retreat as soon as an advance was ordered. The one time he had allowed a force to truly pursue them, riders in heavy steel armour had come thundering into position and charged into his troops, their lances devastating the exposed Bjornmen, while the fallen were churned under the steel-shod hooves of their mounts.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to play his game,” he muttered.

Tristan gave Klöss a wry smile. “His game?”

Klöss waved at the view before them. “Look at the hills there. He’s basically set himself up with a fortress. He expects us to come plodding along and walk right between them as his archers slam arrows down onto us and the rest of his troops charge.”

“A good plan, as far as plans go,” Tristan acknowledged, with a grunt.

“And one I don’t plan on following,” Klöss muttered, waving an arm to catch the attention of the man following him. “Gerrig, find out if they have assembled the catapults yet. Oh, and pass the order to bring the arbalests to the front line.”

The young man nodded and left at a run.

“A good lad, you have there,” Tristan noted, watching him vanish through the lines. “Needs a sense of humour, though.”

Klöss gave him a long look. “A sense of humour? Tristan, you do understand we’re about to have a battle here?”

“Then it is required even more.” He laughed as Klöss treated to him to an icy stare.

The army undulated as the men shifted and those carrying the heavy arbalests moved towards the front.

Klöss gave the order and waited. The army had halted now, a high wall of shields protecting those in range of the arrows that flew towards them. The horse archers continued to worry at the army like flies at a horse’s eyes.

The weaponsmaster stood beside the long rows of catapults that were situated in an otherwise clear space in the middle of the army. The weapons were too valuable to risk by leaving them exposed to an enemy attack, but nobody wanted to be that close to them. They threatened a violent death, involving flying shards of jagged wood and ropes lashing fast enough to cut through flesh, to anyone within reach, if anything should go wrong.

The older man scowled down at his crews as they made adjustments, then finally raised the white baton.

“Let’s go and spring their trap, shall we?” Klöss said to himself.

The order was given and the men moved forward, organising themselves into three companies as they trotted towards the enemy lines. After only a few minutes, volleys of arrows began to fly towards them, but it was nothing close to the storm that they had been expecting. Very few of the arrows managed to cover the full distance, and the Bjornmen simply closed ranks and raised their shields as they drew closer.

The hillside before them erupted as the men stood, throwing off their concealing blankets and setting arrows to strings. The Bjornmen reacted instantly, clustering together and overlapping their shields to form three protective domes.

“Now!” shouted Klöss, raising his sword to give the signal to the weaponsmaster.

He watched as the storm of arrows engulfed his companies. They huddled low, all forward movement forgotten as the arrows slammed into the wooden shields or shattered as they hit the steel central bosses.

The sound of the catapults was thunderous as their operators launched them almost in unison. Stone was hard to come by on the plains and even harder to transport with any speed, but Klöss had learned the lessons his battles had taught him and the woods they had passed through had provided amply.

A hail of rocks, hunks of wood and broken weapons tore into the poorly armoured archers. His arbalests would never had managed the range; the enemy archers were using the height of the hills to add to their reach and they were probably at their limit, as it was.

Those that hadn’t already fled at the sight of the incoming storm were torn to pieces as the deadly barrage struck. The huddled Bjornmen dropped their shield wall and formed back into lines again. They all knew there could be only one response from the enemy.

Klöss waited in silence. It was always a risk to assume your opponent thought the same way as you did, but he couldn’t imagine anyone passing up the opportunity. The men trotted forward, their heavy shields raised in front of them and long spears in their hands. Arbalest men followed, pressing close to the spearmen so they could use the cover from their shields.

The horse-borne heavy lancers came in a wave, passing out of the enemy lines and forming up as they began their charge. A blur of thundering hooves and shining steel, they bore down upon the seemingly hapless companies of Bjornmen, who were now far from the rest of their lines.

The spearmen shifted their heavy shields slightly to the side as the horses flew towards them and, with a sharp report, the arbalests fired. The heavy bolts ripped through the ridiculous steel skirts that hung over the horse's chests and then ripped into the flesh. The spearmen braced their weapons against the earth, as what was left of the line crashed into them.

Klöss watched his men shift backwards, allowing the fight to move them rather than becoming locked in one position. His location afforded him a good view of the battlefield, but the chaos was just too intense for him to see what was going on with any clarity until it was too late.

The second rank of heavy lancers had been positioned far enough behind the first that almost thirty seconds had passed by the time they struck. There was simply no time to reset the arbalests, however. The heavy weapons were notoriously slow to reload. The heavy lancers drove their horses into the Bjornmen, trusting in the weight of the animals rather than their own weapons. They broke through the line before wheeling and stabbing down into the mayhem. They worked swiftly, destroying the Islanders before retreating to the relative safety of their own lines.

Klöss swore and gave the order to charge. He looked out at the battlefield to see a single Islander moving. He continued to watch, even though he knew it was a mistake. The man lay face down in the dirt, surrounded by blood and gore, crawling mindlessly towards his own lines. The lone remaining lancer sat astride his horse, calmly looking down at the Islander. For a moment, he seemed content just to watch as the man dragged himself along, grasping at the grass and dirt. The charging Bjornmen were less than a hundred feet from their companion when the lancer drove his weapon down, ramming it through the man's shoulder blades and into the blood-soaked earth. The Islander screamed then, all his energy spent in one long, agonised burst.

The lancer left his weapon there, pinning the man to the dirt, and gave the charging Bjornmen a mock salute as he wheeled his horse and trotted back to his own lines.

***

“Bastard!” Rhenkin raged, as the catapults devastated his archers. “Send the horse,” he screamed at Kennick. He forced himself to watch as the few men who had survived ran, falling and sliding down the hillside in an attempt to escape the deadly barrage.

“Set the archers three ranks in behind the front lines, ready for when they try and close with us. I want them to use a combination of direct shots and overhead volleys for as long as is practical,” Rhenkin ordered. “Let’s see the bastards try and do their shield wall tricks against two lines of fire. Have small squads of the heavy lancers ready to charge the moment they drop into a tortoise, too.”

They watched as the heavy lancers charged, their two ranks split far apart. Rhenkin was impassive as stone as the Bjornmen fired their crossbows. Kennick, to his credit, said nothing, though he winced visibly as the first rank of horsemen was torn apart by the heavy bolts.

The second rank struck, crashing into the unprepared Bjornmen. For the first time while fighting these people, Rhenkin felt a surge of triumph as he watched the horsemen do their grisly work.

The Bjornmen charged. It was not a probe or a feint this time. Instead, a howling mass of leather-clad savages hurled themselves forwards. There was no time to give orders and Rhenkin surveyed the scene in silence as the men crashed together, hacking and stabbing. The battle descended into pure savagery, with no room for tactics, and men slipped and fell as the ground became soaked in blood and churned into muck by heavy boots.

His remaining archers were sending a steady sheet of shafts high into the air so that they fell within the Bjornman ranks. For the first time though, Rhenkin could see the tactic was having an impact. Bjornmen positioned as far as three or four rows from the front line were being struck. It was likely some of the arrows were striking his own men too, but he forced himself to ignore that possibility. The Bjornmen began to raise their shields, robbing themselves of much of their forward momentum.

“Catapults,” he ordered, sensing Kennick turn to relay the order. They hadn’t found much in the way of stone but now was the time to use it. The barrage tore gaping holes in the Bjornman lines, and the attack faltered and they began to withdraw.

Rhenkin shook his head at Kennick’s unasked question. The temptation to pursue and harry them was strong, but their position was too advantageous for them to consider doing anything that might risk losing it.

The day became an endless succession of attacks, with the Bjornmen coming in waves, steadily grinding away at their front line. They pushed them back twice, emerging from the cover of the hills and spilling out onto the plains, but they'd had to pull back again on both occasions. Now, as evening fell, they were retreating again as the Bjornmen sought to envelop the hills and flank them.

Rhenkin wheeled his horse and ran an eye over the formation of the front line. They'd retreated a good distance from the hills, but the stench of battle was still overpowering. The mingled stink of sweat, blood and horses was overlaid with the fetid smell of fear.

“Do you think they’ll come again, Sir?” Kennick asked, glancing at the sky. “It’s going to be dark before too much longer.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past them at this point, Kennick,” Rhenkin began. “They attack then withdraw, attack then withdraw again. They ebb and flow like the waves on a beach. These Bjornmen know nothing of retreat. They are like the sea itself, pushing ever onwards, driven only by the tides and its own relentless hunger. They are unlike anyone I’ve ever fought before. Unforgiving, merciless and as cruel as the waves of winter.”

The battle slowed as evening fell. The Bjornmen made a succession of half-hearted probes and then withdrew.

“Send the order to withdraw us further. Set sentries and fast response units,” Rhenkin said, fighting a yawn as he spoke. “I want men strung out ahead of our lines. If their men take so much as a step towards us, I want us to know about it.”

“Yes, Sir,” Kennick replied. “I hope I’m not crossing boundaries, Sir, but you should try and get some sleep while you can.”

Rhenkin gave the lieutenant a long look and then snorted in amusement. “There aren’t many men that would have the balls to make that statement when they're so new to their post, Kennick. I’m impressed.”

“First rule of command support, Sir,” Kennick said. “Mother your commander because he’s too busy to look after himself.”

Rhenkin barked a short laugh. “You’re right, of course. I’ll try to get some sleep as soon as we’re settled.”

***

Klöss gnawed at the chicken leg in his hand. It was an extravagance to be eating fresh meat and he knew he shouldn’t be doing it in front of the men. They would be on a rough stew made from dried meat that would have to cook for a good hour or more. The torches set into the ground by his tent were flaring in his eyes and he stepped around to the side of them to get into the shadows.

He could just make out the lights of the Anlan army in the distance. The name still sounded wrong to him. He'd spent too many months calling the place the Farmed Lands. He tossed the bone aside and fingered the letter tucked into his belt. It was well worn and creased, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d read it now.

Gavin’s story bothered him. It was something he’d had to fight not to scoff at. It was an instant reaction. Keiju and trells, the stuff of fairy tales for children. To hear that one of them had supposedly snatched his son and carried it away was laughable, yet the man had travelled halfway around the world to find him. He’d passed through the Vorstelv just to deliver his message. That, alone, gave Klöss pause for thought.

The note he’d received from his father had mentioned none of this, saying only that Ylsriss had vanished with the child. Rhaven had never been one for long messages, but the letter seemed to be short on details, even for him.

He batted the thought away and looked towards the lights of the enemy camp. They’d pushed them hard today. Twice he'd thought they had them at the point of breaking, as his men broke ranks and worked their way in amongst the enemy lines. The tactic worked particularly well against these men from Anlan. They were so regimented that they couldn’t think outside of a unit. They didn't know how to react when faced with men who were just as happy to fight alone as they were in a squad.

It had been their commander who’d made the difference, sounding a retreat to restore control even though their own men outnumbered those attacking at that point. Klöss smiled in grudging admiration of the man. A commander without vanity was a rare thing.

He glanced up at the sky. The full moon was hidden by the clouds, unlike on the past two nights when it had lit the plains almost as clear as day.

“Christoph!” he called, making his way back into the torchlight again.

A head poked out of the command tent. “Shipmaster?”

“Get me some volunteers for a reaping. A goodly-sized one.” Klöss didn’t wait for the response and stepped back into the darkness, his eyes on the enemy campfires again. If they found it hard to cope with men who could function outside of units, it would be interesting to see how they managed in the dark.

The man worked quickly, passing the word to gather volunteers and lining them up outside of the camp. The Bjornmen's dark leathers worked well in the night and even Klöss struggled to make them out as he worked his way past the sentries. He spotted a form that could only have been Tristan looming out of the dark and headed that way.

“How did we do?” he asked, softly.

“It’s too dark for counting, but I think close to a thousand,” Tristan rumbled. “Your messenger included.”

“Messenger?”

“He means me,” Gavin supplied, emerging from behind Tristan.

“What are you doing here?” Klöss asked.

“I wouldn’t be if I had more sense, but I owe your friend here a debt.” Gavin shrugged.

“You know what a reaping is?”

“Not the finer details, but it’s pretty obvious it’s a night attack.”

“It’s more than just a night attack, boy,” Klöss explained. “You’re on your own in this. We don’t work in units and you don’t owe anything to the men with you. Your only job is to get into the enemy camp and kill as many of them as you can. If you can get out alive, that’s always a plus.”

Gavin nodded slowly. “I understand.”

Klöss gave him an appraising look and then shrugged. “It’s your life. At least for now, anyway.” He looked at Tristan. “Are they ready?”

Tristan nodded.

“Then let’s move them out.”

They jogged slowly, quiet despite their numbers. None carried shields or more than a single weapon, taking nothing with them that could make a noise and give them away.

The reaping expanded behind Klöss and Tristan as they ran, spreading over the grass like ink spilled from a bottle. Gavin just managed to keep pace with the pair. The men spread out, none any closer than ten feet from the next, moving further apart as they travelled.

The only sound the first sentry made was a gurgling moan and, by the time the third guard had screamed his last, the reaping was well within the camp. Gavin pulled his knife as he ran, keeping low and following Tristan and Klöss. The two men seemed intent on killing themselves, as they charged headlong into the enemy camp.

The attack was so uncoordinated as to be a stroke of genius. There were no units, no formations and no plan more complicated than causing damage. The men simply moved as fast as possible. No time was wasted delivering a killing blow when a serious injury could be delivered instead. Dead men can be left behind, but the injured slow and hamper a force.

Gavin darted around the back of a tent and leapt over the guy ropes in an effort to keep Tristan in sight. The sounds of steel on steel were ringing louder than any alarm could have but, from what Gavin could see, the response was more confused than anything else.

There were no attacking units for them to face, Gavin realised. Instead, a thousand tiny fights began and ended every few moments.

A man emerged from between two tents, holding his sword ready. Gavin ducked smoothly under the swing of his blow and moved up behind his attacker, dragging his knife across the man’s throat and moving on. He was ten feet away by the time the body hit the ground.

He caught up with Tristan easily. The man had stuck doggedly to Klöss, fighting when he had to, but clearly acting as a guard. Klöss, on the other hand, was like a fell wind, dealing death and injury to anything that came within his reach. He left a swathe of dead and groaning behind him, moving through the enemy camp in a wide arc which would eventually bring them back out to the front line.

It was the horn that first alerted Gavin. It seemed out of place. The Anlan army used brass instruments - trumpets and cornets. This was a hunting horn. As it sounded, its note was joined by others. He whipped his head round at the noise and his eyes widened.

The skies to the west were filled with a roiling cloud bank that rushed towards them in the moonlight. It seemed almost as if the horns were sounding from within it. Men around him froze and turned as, for the moment at least, the fight was forgotten. The cloud had a strange greenish cast to it, with flashes that could have been lightning appearing from beneath its churning surface. As the horn sounded again, the cloud erupted and a mass of creatures emerged, charging down out of the skies and into the ranks of the army. Tall figures riding on horses as pale as any ghost.

Smaller figures moved through the skies, running alongside the horses, and the crash as they descended into the Anlan ranks was thunderous. Gavin moved to Klöss's side as the reaping was forgotten. Arrows flew up to meet the charge and blue fire lit the skies as they struck the creatures.

Klöss watched the creatures' descent with an unreadable expression on his face. He glanced at Tristan as the man muttered something, then gave him a curt nod before looking at Gavin as if he’d only just noticed he was there.

“This seems like a good time to get out of here.”

Gavin wasn’t about to argue. Tristan gave three long blasts on his horn and they ran. If the camp had been in uproar during their attack, it was in chaos now. They sped to the front line almost unimpeded, ducking around men they would have chosen to fight before. It was only as they raced back towards their own camp that it became apparent the creatures were attacking the Islander army as well.

Gavin grabbed at Klöss's arm and stopped for a second.

“Klöss, those things that are attacking...”

“Not now.” His face was hard and impatient.

Gavin grabbed at him again, ignoring the man's furious look. “That's what took, Ylsriss,” he said. Klöss's anger fled in the face of the shock and horror that followed.

Chapter Twenty

Devin looked back, checking the packhorses that were tethered to his saddle. They were fine, which was more than could be said for the rider in front of him. The old man was swaying back and forth on the horse. They’d been on the road for weeks and Devin had quickly learned that Obair pushed himself. He wouldn’t stop to take a break himself and he resisted resting the horses.

“Obair!” He stifled a laugh as the man jumped and nearly fell out of the saddle. Obair turned as Devin's horse drew level and glowered at him from under his hat, a wide-brimmed affair that seemed to use up all of its shape in maintaining the brim before giving up on the rest.

“Was that entirely necessary, Devin?” the old man asked, testily.

Devin grinned. “You were asleep again.”

“I was no such thing!” Obair retorted, the very picture of righteous indignation.

“Obair,” Devin sighed, suddenly not having the energy for this, “do we really need to go through this again? You ride poorly enough as it is. You can’t afford to fall asleep. You'll fall off and you'll probably hurt your horse. Let’s stop for a bit. The horses need a break, anyway.”

“We can’t afford to stop, Devin,” Obair snapped,“as well you know.”

“It’ll take a damn sight longer to get there if the horses go lame, old man,” Devin shot back, his temper finally gone.

Obair glared at him and drew in a breath to retort, before blowing it out in an explosive sigh. “You’re right again,” he said. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Devin said, “we’ll walk the horses for a few miles instead. If you can stay awake, that is?”

Obair gave him a wry smile as he clambered down from the horse. “I expect I’ll manage.” He glanced at the young man and raised an eyebrow. “Still?” he asked, tapping at his temple.

“Still.” Devin nodded. The headache had changed over the weeks, dulled. The pain was still there but he’d found he could almost ignore it. There was a sensation hidden within it though, a whisper drowned out by the thunderclap, and he found he was pushing the headache to one side as he searched for the feeling that lurked just on the edges of his perception. It still came and went, only ever-present between new and full moons, following the cycle so important to the fae.

He surveyed the land around them. The trees that climbed out of the valleys and into the hills were mostly pines. It seemed a lonely landscape, harsh and unwelcoming.

“How long were you alone?” he asked, the question coming before he really had time to think about how personal it was.

Obair looked faintly offended for a moment. “Probably the best part of thirty years, Devin.”

Devin blinked. The notion of spending the better part of a lifetime alone was alien to him, something his mind shied away from. “How did you cope?”

“Badly.” Obair chuckled but then fell silent, seeing Devin’s confused expression. “I lost myself in a routine. That helped a bit. The days sort of fell into a pattern. A bit like the ritual itself, you know? I’d start each day with the ritual anyway, then there were the animals and the crops to tend. It’s easy enough to distract yourself, provided you can keep busy.”

Devin was silent. The man’s entire life had been a sacrifice of one form or another. It made it hard to talk to him.

They walked for an hour, stopping briefly to water the horses at a stream that cut close to the road.

“How far do you think we have left to go?” he asked that night as he watched the old man coax the fire into life.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Obair admitted. “I can’t judge distances using this map, so I’m mostly going by memory.”

“You are sure you know where we’re going?” Devin asked. He couldn’t entirely hide the accusation in his voice and Obair’s face made it clear that he’d found it despite his efforts.

“Yes, I am quite sure, thank you.”

Devin looked away, feeling the heat in his cheeks. He knelt and set to work spitting the two pheasants he’d brought down earlier.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, not looking up from the birds as he worked.

“Go ahead. As long as it doesn’t involve any more insults about my memory or sense of direction.”

“That night in the glade, when the fae came through, I think saw my mother.” He spoke in hushed tones, as if the words were too raw to survive if spoken with any volume. “I saw the fae that took her too. She looked right at me. She spoke to me.”

“What did she say?” Obair interrupted, his curiosity peaked.

“Just a single sentence. She said ‘Fie, fly, flee, little manling’. It was similar to something she’d said to me years before. Before she took my mother.” He coughed and swallowed down a mouthful of water from the skin.

“That’s not important right now, anyway,” he continued. “What I was going to ask you was how she’d grown so old? My mother, I mean. She was taken when I was a small child but she looked ancient. She looked older than you.”

“Thanks,” Obair said, dryly. “You’re sure it was her? Not just someone that looked like her?”

“No,” Devin met his gaze and held it. “No, it was her. I know it.”

Obair nodded. “And how old would you have said she was when she was taken?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Devin shrugged. “Does any child that young know how old their mother is?”

He looked into the fire for a moment before he spoke again and, when he did, his words sounded like a confession. “I was very young and now I think that there has been a lot that I've kept buried inside, locked away in my head, until just recently. It was that night, when I saw her and the fae, that I think brought it all out again. I keep remembering things I didn’t know I’d forgotten.”

He shook his head and then looked around at the old man. “I suppose she must have been about thirty or so? Does that sound about right?”

Obair ignored the question. “And you say she looked older when you saw her?”

“She looked ancient, Obair. Older than anyone I’ve ever seen!” He set the pheasants to cook, close to the edge of the fire.

“I don’t know, Devin. There's so much we don't know about the fae and their world,” the old man confessed. “Are you going to put the kettle on since you’re down there?”

Devin gave him a dark look and then filled the kettle with water from a skin before setting it to boil. “There are fairy tales that talk about people going into the lands of the fairies. They live there for years and years, but when they come back out into this world, hardly any time has passed at all.”

“Fairy tales, Devin,” Obair snorted. “Full of nonsense and foolishness.”

Devin looked at him. “Are you actually telling me that there’s no chance of a fairy tale holding some truth, Obair? You, of all people?” The old man looked at him and met his eyes for a full five seconds before he started to laugh.

They slept in watches, as they had done since the first night they were really alone. Devin had woken to find Obair huddled beside the fire, staring into the darkness. He’d been genuinely terrified, convinced that fae were going to charge screaming out of the night. He would only sleep through the night if it were between the new moon and full moon.

Devin sat with his bow in his lap, an iron-tipped arrow nocked but held loosely in one hand. He glanced over at the old man. For all his worries, the druid had no problems sleeping once he knew Devin was on watch, and the soft sounds of his breathing brought a smile to Devin’s lips.

He looked up at the stars. His mother was out there somewhere. Did it work like that? Was the world of the fae under these same stars? Was she somewhere else? Or was she lying down in the night somewhere in the same world as he? He had a moment's guilt as he thought of Hannah and the way he’d left her at the duchess's palace.

He became aware of the noise slowly. It was so faint to begin with that he mistook it for his own breathing or a snatch of birdsong. It grew louder by degrees until at last he could place it. It was the distant sound of flutes. The rage came upon him so quickly, he was shocked by it. He could taste it, a bitter iron flavour, like blood upon his tongue.

He glanced back at Obair and snatched up the quiver full of iron-heads and the short spears as he stood. The leaves made no noise as he passed out over the iron scraps that lay strewn over the ground, encircling the camp as a final layer of defence, should they need it. With a last look at the old man, who was still sleeping in the dim glow from the coals, he disappeared into the night.

The darkness beyond the campfire was almost absolute and it took a while for Devin's eyes to adjust enough for him to be able to move with any speed. The music called him on and he felt chills as he remembered another night, when another person was called onward by the flutes.

Devin slowed and took deep, nearly silent, breaths. His heart was hammering in his ears and that would make for lousy marksmanship when he needed it to be perfect. The music was closer now. He pulled himself tight against a fir tree as the first glow of the coloured lights filtered through the trees.

He edged in towards the sound, travelling from tree to tree until he spied them. The five satyrs laughed as they danced, chattering away in a language that sounded more like music than words. Glowing balls of light floated in the air above them as they went, painting the woods in bright shades of red, violet and emerald.

Anyone with any sense would just lie silent until they'd moved on, he told himself. Anyone with any sense wouldn’t be setting their arrows into the ground in front of them for greater speed. His anger was burning inside him so fiercely, he felt he might scream with pure rage. These things, these monsters from another world, had torn his family apart. They would pay. It didn’t matter to him that the satyrs passing in front of him might have had nothing to do with Widdengate or with what had happened to Hannah and Khorin. All that mattered was that they were within range.

His first arrow flew true and he already had the second nocked, the string of the bow pulled back to touch his lips, as the night exploded with blue fire and screams. He let it fly and it took another satyr in the throat. He took his time aiming with the third, trusting to the hope that they couldn’t see him in the darkness. They had turned towards him, following the path of the arrows’ flight, and he glimpsed glowing eyes darting here and there as they searched for a sign of movement. Then they saw him and came charging through the trees. He fired, taking the closest beast in the thigh and dropping it to the ground. The blue fire flared, spreading through the satyr's body as if it were dry grass, as the creature screamed and writhed in the embrace of the flames.

They were close now, tearing through the bushes and trees, knives held ready. Close enough for him to hear the panting of their breath, as they bared their teeth in feral grimaces of hate and charged at him. He fired his fourth arrow when the first satyr was barely ten feet from him, and the creature fell to its knees.

The final satyr hurled itself into the air, reaching out with its knives as it flew towards him. Devin didn’t hesitate. He grasped the two iron-tipped spears from the ground by his feet and drove them before him, stepping into the thrust, and then the world exploded into blue fire.

It might have been moments or hours later when he came to. He had nothing to judge the time by. It was still as dark as it had been though, so he reasoned that must mean something. He pulled himself to his feet and ran probing fingers over his body, feeling for pain or cuts. His skin felt sensitive where it was uncovered, but other than that he seemed unhurt. A grim smile crept onto his lips as he felt around for his bow and the remaining arrows. The spears were ruined, charred and useless.

The walk back to camp took longer than he expected. The calm he’d maintained throughout the fight left his body, seeping away until he shook with shock at his own actions. Five satyrs. Should he be proud of himself or appalled at his own stupidity?

He was still pondering that question as he made his way out of the undergrowth and back into camp. Obair was still snoring. Devin stepped back into the circle of scattered iron with genuine relief. Sleep would not come, though, and he lay staring into the night sky, as the stars slowly paled and were swallowed up by the approaching dawn.

***

The hills grew steeper with each passing day, and both the horses and the two of them were showing signs of wear. Devin knew how to care for a horse, but there were limits to what he could do while they were still on the road.

He felt an almost palpable sense of relief when Obair led them in a new direction, following the line of a dense wood.

“It’s funny how you remember things,” the old druid mused, glancing back over one shoulder at a black rock with a line of white quartz running through it.

“What?” Devin turned his eyes from the path to look at him.

“Well, you worry you’ve been going the wrong way for days and then you spot something you didn’t even realise you remembered. That rock back there. I asked my master about it all those years ago. I remember the conversation as clear as day, but I haven’t thought about it in years.” He broke off with a chuckle, then noticed Devin’s expression. “What?”

“You haven’t been sure we’ve been going the right way for days?” Devin asked in tight, controlled tones.

“Well, you know how it is. You second-guess yourself,” Obair said, weakly. Devin muttered darkly to himself as he clenched his eyes shut and shook his head.

“It worked out. That rock shows we were going the right way the whole time!” Obair protested.

Devin nudged his horse past him, ignoring the old man as he called after him.

The path wasn’t even a trail, just a direction that Obair had steered them in. They trudged along at the edge of the steep hillside. It was little more than an exposed scree really, with the occasional tuft of grass or stubby bush poking out from between the stones.

The ground ahead of them sank down, as they skirted the trees, some of which came all the way up to meet the scree face. Eventually, they spotted something glinting in the sunlight. “Water!” Devin cried.

Obair nudged his horse faster, clinging to the saddle as he bounced around, and they rushed to the lake. They climbed off the horses at the edge of the water and let the animals drink their fill. The lake was large, so far across that the far bank was a just distant haze. Swifts darted in the air above the water, as they hunted the insects that flew in the late afternoon light. The place had a remote quality to it. According to the map, it was less than a week's journey from the nearest village, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Devin watched Obair for a moment. He was leaning against his horse, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was staring through the veils of a memory. His face was pinched, almost pained, and Devin wondered again at the life he must have led. Had he ever truly known happiness?

“Do you recognise it?” he asked, in a hushed voice. The sense of peace was overwhelming and he was hesitant to shatter it.

“Oh, yes.” Obair gave him a small smile. “It hasn’t changed all that much. We need to skirt around to the east. If I remember rightly, the cottage is about four or five miles away.”

Devin refrained from making any of the numerous comments that sprang to mind about Obair’s sense of direction and memory. He had led them here after all, despite keeping his fears of going the wrong way secret.

The trek around the lake was pleasant. The ground was level and even, and they opted to walk rather than ride, so that they could give the horses a break. They spoke little, however. Obair drifted out of the conversation and into a silent reverie twice, so Devin gave up.

He couldn’t see the cottage when Obair stopped, but the druid's hissed intake of breath was signal enough. Devin followed Obair’s gaze and ran his eyes over the bushes and trees. “What is it?” he asked, giving up his search. “Do you see it?”

Obair nodded and pointed in silence. It still took Devin a moment to make it out. The cottage was built against a massive oak tree, with the trunk forming part of the structure. Like Obair’s cottage, it had a tumbledown air to it, and the timbers were covered with ivy and moss. The shadows created by the oak broke up the image and the windows were hard to pick out unless he focused.

It was quiet though, too quiet. Devin slipped his bow off his back and set an arrow to the string as they approached, earning a look from Obair but no objections.

“Hello?” Obair called out, as they approached. His voice was too loud in the silence and birds flew up from the trees, disturbed by his shout.

The body lay in the long grass, one outstretched hand jutting up from the ground like a twisted, broken stick. Gnawed, sun-bleached bones wrapped in the shredded remnants of clothes were all that really remained. Devin froze as he saw it, and Obair muttered something long and hushed in a pained whisper.

The druid raced towards the body and knelt over it in silence. His moan, when it came, was low and terrible, the agonised wail of a man who had trapped his feelings deep down within himself. They tore free of their prison, rising within his body and growing in strength, until a cry burst from his lips and banished the peace of the lake, its echoes forming a harmony of anguish as they carried through the trees.

Obair clutched the bones to his chest. They were held together by scraps of grey fabric, tiny remnants of hair and leather-like tatters of flesh. Devin turned away, unable to watch any longer, and made his way towards the cottage.

The door was closed tight and the structure seemed sound. He ran a hand over the ivy and moss that covered the walls, noting odd lumps in the surface. Picking at the moss, he revealed short stubs of iron that had been embedded in the wooden beams of the cottage and jutted out to ward away those that sought to enter.

He gave the door an experimental push but it was stuck fast, warped by rain and neglect.

“Give it a shove,” Obair said. The man stood a few steps behind him, his face an emotionless mask.

Devin shoved it hard, but it only moved an inch or so before sticking again. He had to pound his shoulder into it to make it give. The interior of the cottage was dark, the windows too filthy to let much light in. Devin wiped at the glass with a cuff and the light that shone in revealed a much larger space than he was expecting. A small kitchen led into a large living area where a long desk, surrounded by bookshelves, was tucked away in a corner. A low doorway led into a dark room which Devin assumed must be sleeping quarters. He moved aside to let Obair pass him and stepped back outside into the daylight. There were small outbuildings set back behind the house in a little clearing that had been stolen from the woods, and he could make out a small barn, as well as a patch of ground which, at some point, had obviously been a vegetable plot.

A well-worn path led off into the trees and, on a whim, he followed it. Obair needed some time alone and Devin needed to be away from the pain etched on his face.

The path led to another clearing and, as he stopped at the end of it, beside an old wooden bench, he wondered what else he had been expecting. A ragged circle of stones surrounded three larger stone blocks with one laying atop the two uprights to form an arch of sorts, or a doorway.

Devin found Obair at the desk, a small book in front of him. He glanced up as the young man came in. “A diary,” he said, waving the book in the air. “Her handwriting is awful, but it might tell us something.”

Devin nodded. “What do we do now, though? I mean, we came hoping to find someone. Do we head back?”

Obair shook his head. “I don’t think so. At least, not yet. There are a lot of books here. Who knows what they might tell us. I’ll need at least a week to go through them and see if there’s anything of any use there.”

“There’s a stone circle around the back, like the one in your glade,” Devin said. “Are we going to be safe here, though? I mean, you said the Wild Hunt comes from your circle. Will something else come out of this one?”

“That’s a good point,” Obair said, glancing at the rear wall of the cottage. “Maybe the books will give us some answers. The cottage is studded with iron. If we clear off the moss and ivy, that should be protection enough, should we need it.”

“There were an awful lot of ifs and shoulds in there, Obair,” Devin noted.

Obair spread his hands. “I have nothing else to offer you, Devin. You know as much as I do at this point.”

Devin sat down in a plain wooden chair. “So what do I do? You’re going to have your nose in a book for a week. What should I be doing?”

“You could always help me,” Obair suggested. “Or we could try something,” he added, as he saw the look on Devin's face. It might come to nothing, but it can’t hurt to try.”

Devin gave him a confused frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Show me these stones. It will make much more sense there, anyway.”

***

“No, not like that.” Obair stopped him. “Your left leg has to sweep the ground there. It’s not just a step. Watch.” He performed the sequence again, slower this time. He took a slow, measured step to the right and then brought his left leg around in a long sweeping arc.

Devin sighed. “I’m not going to get this, Obair.”

“Of course you are!” Obair laughed. “You’re much farther along than I was on my first session. We’ve got three sequences down already. I didn’t even get past the first one.”

“Really?” Devin perked up a bit at that, but then a thought occurred to him. “Three out of how many?”

“That’s not important. It’s enough that you realise you really are doing very well.”

“How many, Obair?” Devin demanded.

“A hundred and forty two,” Obair admitted, in a small voice. “Look, just keep practising this one. I’ll come and check on you in an hour or two.”

Devin gave him a defeated look. “Can’t I at least do it by the cottage? This place gives me the creeps.”

Obair looked around, as if seeing the stones for the first time. “Really? I find it rather peaceful. And no, you need to get the sequences in the correct placement and you can’t do that without the stones. It’s as much about doing the sequence in the correct position as it is getting the movements right.”

Devin sighed and moved back to the starting position. Obair watched in silence as the young man began again, moving slower than necessary, concentrating on his movements. He smiled to himself and then set off back down the path to the cottage.

It felt odd to sit in Lillith’s chair. No, it was worse than odd. It felt like a violation and reading her diary did not make the feeling any less.

The book was more than frustrating. It had the look of a journal but it didn’t appear to have been used as such. Or rather, it had been, but not in the normal sense. Lillith hadn’t written a daily record of events; instead, she'd just jotted down random thoughts. At some point, she must have run out of pages and had gone back through the book, using up any spare space. The result was a tangled web of thoughts, scrawled in a cramped, untidy hand. She used a shortened form of writing that probably made perfect sense to her, but it was taking him time to tease any meaning from it.

He sighed and leant back in the chair, angling the book to catch the light from the windows.

“It remains to be seen,” Lillith had written, “if the guardian can maintain the barrier with the increased pressure. Anastasia has proven to be an apt pupil, but I am loathe to divulge the vile truth of our burden too soon. She is so young. Was I ever that young? Of course I was, yet sometimes it seems as if it all happened to someone else. I am fighting the urge to send a bird to the guardian again. Anastasia is a diversion to me and her training occupies both of our minds, but she is poor company. It is hard to accept anyone else in my space after all this time. The girl questions too deeply, argues too often and trusts too much that what we do is for the good of all. If she only knew.”

He set the book down and stared up at the ceiling. There were so many questions. Who was this guardian the book mentioned? Worse still, what was this mention of a burden and why would she have considered it to be evil? Obair sighed and made his way outside. They hadn’t really unpacked; they'd just unloaded the packhorses next to the cottage. He rummaged around in the bags until he located the kettle and filled it from the skin. At least, with the lake close to hand, lack of water wouldn’t be an issue.

Lillith’s stove was covered in dust and cobwebs, but clean enough to light. He set about making the tea, his mind working as his body went through the mechanics automatically.

The books were unlikely to be of much help. He’d had a quick skim through them. They covered an eclectic range of topics, including everything from herbalism and the medical arts through to wildfowl and their migratory patterns. There was little of any use, or interest.

He left the kettle to boil and picked up the diary again, flicking through random pages.

“She is becoming a worry. Though she knows nothing of the secret, she is concerned at the burden that maintaining the Wyrde places on the guardian. More than once, she has asked why it is that we do not shoulder some of the burden ourselves. How can I explain that whilst the guardian maintains the Wyrde by keeping the source trapped and confined within, we maintain the barrier itself? The truth would horrify her. It still horrifies me.”

The kettle was boiling, but he sat there ignoring it as steam belched out of the spout and the kettle itself jumped and shook from the water bubbling way inside. The book hinted at things he didn’t understand. What did it mean confining the source? A sense of dread was coming over him though he couldn’t say why. Frustrated he tossed the book down and stood to make the tea.

***

Devin slipped again and swore as he crashed to the dirt. He'd almost had it then. There was a rhythm to it, something he’d felt the edges of the last few times, but not quite managed to grasp.

He hauled himself up and pulled the iron staff upright. It ought to provide more support. If he had to move around in these ridiculous patterns, it really would make more sense to use the staff to lean on. More often than not though, he had to hold it on the wrong side of him, making him even more off balance as he strove to keep its weight off the ground. Tapping here and marking out a complex shape there, it was like using a oversized pen, in many ways.

The grass was becoming worn. “Stop falling into it then,” he told himself. His laugh was too loud in the silence and he stopped himself quickly. The stones gave the clearing an uncomfortable feel. He’d always been at home in the woods and here, surrounded by trees, he ought to be at ease. He wasn’t though. He felt tense, almost as if he was being watched, though it wasn’t quite the same sensation.

A look at the sky told him it wasn’t past noon-hour yet. Obair hadn’t come as he’d said he would, but then Devin hadn’t really expected him to.

“One more try and then it’s time to see what there is to find in these woods,” he muttered to himself, thinking of his bow and the simple pleasure of tracking a deer.

The starting position to the ritual was easy enough and he flowed easily through the first sequence. Obair had mentioned that, at some point, he’d need to do the movements in his mind at the same time, forming images that mirrored the steps of the ritual, creating channels and forcing the sensation of the headaches to flow through them.

Devin tried to picture the movements as he made them. It was easier with his eyes closed, though he had to slow himself to keep his balance. How odd that balance depends so much on being able to see. He caught himself as he felt his mind wandering and bore down harder, concentrating.

There was something there. He could feel the edges of it, tantalisingly close. He held the image in his mind and fancied he could feel the surge of the force, as it poured through the channels he was trying to hold in his imagination.

There was a pressure building. It didn’t seem like it was coming from him though, or even from anything he was doing. It felt more like it was coming from the opposite direction, moving towards him. The feeling grew stronger, taking shape and form, as it crashed into the channels he’d formed in his mind and tore them apart.

His balance fled and he opened his eyes as he tumbled to the grass, clutching at his temples as the pain grew and then the scream exploded out of him.

The air was shaking, or so it seemed. Maybe that was just him. He tried to concentrate on a stone, pulling his eyes back into focus as his vision swam. After long moments he struggled back to his feet and turned to the central stones, pulled by sensations he couldn't understand. The air was shimmering, like the distorted air over a fire. He looked about for his bow before remembering he’d left it at the cottage. The staff! He ran for the iron staff and snatched it up, holding it before him like a shield against any fae that might emerge from the stones.

The air became almost reflective and rippled like water in the breeze. The figure that emerged from the stones and staggered forwards onto the grass was nothing like he would have imagined. It was a young man, his eyes wide with horror as he collapsed to the ground, dropping the blonde-haired woman he’d carried over one shoulder.

Devin stared as he felt his mouth fall open. They were human. At the very least, they certainly weren’t fae. He dropped the staff and stepped closer. The man didn’t look much older than him. He lay on the grass, curled into a fetal position, shivering so violently it almost looked like he was having a fit. As Devin drew closer, he realised the white coating on the man’s clothing was frost. It covered his hair and formed a crust on his exposed skin. These two were no threat. They were barely alive.

“Kris han shellern vere?” the young man gasped, seeing Devin for the first time.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

The young man smiled then, relief flooding his face, and he spoke again. The words were pronounced badly and with an odd accent, but they were undoubtedly Anlish. “Where are we?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Obair pushed the rest of the books to one side and picked up the diary again. The wind was blowing through from the open window and he'd propped the door open, but the place still smelled musty. The smell of death, he thought to himself. The smell of a place with nobody moving to stir the air.

“A tomb,” he whispered, then shuddered at the thought. He pushed himself away from the desk, scraping the chair over the wooden floor, and walked over to the doorway. The sun was still low over the lake and the birdsong carried on the breeze.

He was glad of the quiet. He’d sent Devin off to practise the ritual, more for a chance to have some peace so he could read than for anything else. The lad...no, that was wrong...he wasn’t really a lad any longer. Young man might have been more accurate, but Devin wasn’t really that, either. He’d been aged by events, by the things that had happened to him. In many ways, he was older than Obair himself.

The young man had a talent for the ritual, that much was clear. He was picking up sequences and movements far faster than Obair ever had. He'd even grasped the concept of making the movements in his mind at the same time as making the physical motions. All of this, however, was overshadowed by the question that niggled at Obair constantly. If the Wyrde was gone, and he’d felt it fail himself, then what it that Devin was feeling? It was the Wyrde itself that should be allowing him to feel the changes in the phase of the moon. If it wasn't there, what Devin was doing ought to be impossible.

He breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh air outside the cottage. They’d tried to make the place habitable, sweeping out the worst of the leaves that had been blown in. The door must have been left open and then blown shut at some point.

There were still layers of dust in places and the spiders' webs in the highest corners were as thick as spun wool, but it would do for now.

Food wouldn’t be an issue in the short-term, either. The forest was likely to be full of animals that Devin could hunt and, although the vegetable plot at the back of the cottage was overgrown with weeds, some plants still grew there. Coupled with their remaining supplies and the dried goods in the kitchen, they would be fine.

The wind caressed the grass, tossing the tattered ends of the clothes on Lillith’s remains about. He’d told Devin not to move them, that they should rest where they lay. Now he regretted it.

He tapped the book against his lips, stopping in surprise. He hadn’t even realised he’d brought it with him. “Why did you have to be so bloody awkward, Lillith,” he muttered, as he turned the pages. The entries had no uniformity. Some were neat and concise, while others were scrawled. Some were even written at a different angle to the rest of the text. He stopped at random on a page near the front.

“I can no longer bear to write to the guardian. His task horrifies me. The very fact that he is ignorant of what it is he does makes it worse.”

Again, these hints. He tried to force himself not to dwell on it. The diary was completely full, so perhaps...? He moved over to the shelves as the thought struck him and pulled a handful of books off them. He flicked through the pages of each one and then pushed it aside. The books all had notes in the margins but they were related to the text. Finally, he found what he sought.

“The girl was never suited to her task and I should have sent her away long before now. Now she has learned too much and I am forced to choose between continuing to train someone who I cannot trust with the task, or releasing a girl who knows enough to risk all.”

The next page contained only the text of the book. Obair flicked through the rest of the pages, cursing under his breath, but there was nothing more to be found.

He snatched up another book and scanned the pages, tossing it onto the desk when he found only the main text. Another five followed in its wake before he found something.

“I have been a fool. I saw only what I wanted, a girl able to accept the truth and carry on my work. Instead, she was a coward, pressed into service and sullen for all these years. How have I not seen it before now?

It matters little, I suppose. I tested her and she has failed. The secret, that vile knowledge that I have kept inside myself all these long years, has been told. It is no wonder she fled. There is a part of me that envies her. The Wyrde is weakening. Obair, in his distant glade, works his ritual as well as he ever has. I can feel the source is secure, yet the Wyrde weakens. When I work the ritual, I can feel that it does not have the power it once had. Things are slipping through.

I curse those who thought this would ever work. It makes a horrible sense to keep the guardian ignorant of the soul he keeps trapped by his working of the ritual. The power of this soul is all that allows me to maintain the Wyrde itself. Yet, in forcing the keepers to pass down this knowledge, they have placed the burden on us. I do not blame Anastasia for running into the night, I envy her. I wish I had done the same all those years ago.

She is gone, fled into the moonlight. Stupid girl, has she never listened to me speak of the things that can pass through between the full and new moons? I must find her.”

Obair forced himself to read the last sentence again, the book shaking in his trembling hands as the realisation of what the words meant struck him. and his words were coated in guilt as he rasped, “Stars above, what have I done?”

***

Devin yanked the door open, ignoring the crash it made as it slammed back against the wall.

“Obair, help!” he shouted, as he struggled to support the man with one arm while trying not to drop the blonde woman he had thrown over his shoulder.

Obair rushed to the doorway, reaching out to take the man’s arm and ducking his head under it, so he could walk him to a chair, while Devin carried the woman through to the bedroom.

“What’s going on? Who are these people?” he demanded, calling through the doorway.

Devin ignored him, covering the woman in the blankets as best he could. She hadn’t moved once. If it wasn’t for her shallow breathing, she could have been a corpse.

Obair knelt down beside the woodstove, slicing up a log with his knife and feeding the small slivers of wood into the fire. He looked up as Devin came back in. “Grab the other blanket for this fellow. He looks like he’s frozen solid.”

It was true. The man was slumped in the chair, his face an unhealthy blue colour and his eyes glassy.

“Who are they?” Obair asked, as Devin wrapped the blanket around the young man.

“I have no idea,” Devin replied. “They came out of the stones.”

Obair gaped at him, his jaw working but producing no noises that came close to a word. “They what?” he finally managed.

“They came out of something between the standing stones. It looked like they were passing through a doorway,” Devin said, as he studied the stranger. He didn’t look much older than he was himself. His dark hair still had chunks of white in it, where the larger bits of frost had merged together to form ice.

“What does this mean?” he asked, looking at Obair. The old man was staring at the semi-conscious figure in shock.

“I don’t know but, for some reason, it gives me hope.” The druid glanced into the kitchen. “Put some water on to boil. We've got to warm this one up.”

They both turned as the man hissed something between lips tinged cobalt from cold.

Obair leaned closer. “Try again?”

“Safe?” the man whispered.

“Yes, you’re safe here,” Obair muttered, as he raised an eyebrow at Devin.

They watched the stranger in silence as they waited for the kettle to boil, then helped him to take a few sips of tea. As he warmed up, the shivers began and, before long, he was shaking so hard that if both of them hadn't held onto him, he’d have fallen out of the wooden chair.

“We’ll get nothing from this one for now, Devin,” Obair decided, shaking his head. “Let’s get him into bed. We can try again once he's warmed up a little.”

He stood at the stove, watching as Devin placed the man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him into the bedroom.

“Tell me again,” Obair said, sipping at the cup in his hands, when Devin came back.

Devin looked over to the small doorway that led into the bedroom. “I was working the ritual. You know, the sequences you taught me?”

Obair nodded in silence.

“I’d been doing it for a while. I was getting ready to give up, to be honest.” Devin started to laugh but Obair’s expression stifled it.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I started to feel something. It was faint but still there. It was like a surge to begin with. I’d tried to imagine the path of the sequences, drawing the movements in my head and sort of pushing the sensations of the headache through it.” He stopped and looked up at the old man. “Does that make sense? This is hard to describe.”

Obair nodded and waved his hand in a circle impatiently, motioning for him to continue.

“Well, I felt a sensation, like I was right on the edges of something, but then it all shifted. It wasn’t so much that the force was coming from me but more that it was flowing into me, like someone was pushing it inwards. I felt a blinding pain and I remember seeing something weird in the air between the central stones. Then he stepped through and fell onto the grass.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Obair pressed.

“He started to but it was in a different language. I couldn’t understand him. When I told him that, he sort of smiled and then spoke in Anlish.”

“What did he say?” Obair quizzed.

“He asked where he was,” Devin said. “What does this mean, Obair? How did they even come through the stones? I thought they were fae to start with!”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think that was possible. Did they come from where the fae are? Did they come from somewhere else? I don’t have any answers, my boy, I’m afraid. We’ll have to wait for them to wake up before we get anything from them.”

Devin sighed and looked at the books that were strewn across the desk. “How about these? Have you found anything of use?”

Obair’s eyes flickered to a small book at the edge of the desk before he looked back at him. “Not really. There’s a lot of it to go through. Nothing so far.” His words were flat, but his eyes were haunted.

***

Obair raised an eyebrow as the young man made his way into the main room of the cottage. “I didn’t expect to see you up so soon,” he said, with a smile.

“I probably shouldn’t be,” he replied. His face was still drawn and he leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way to an empty chair.

“Well, I expect you might feel better with some food inside you. We haven’t much, but you’re welcome to some porridge, if you’d like some?” He motioned to Devin, who spooned some out into a wooden bowl in response to the man’s small nod.

“I expect you have quite the tale to tell. Do you feel up to answering some questions? Your name is probably a good way to start.”

The man nodded as he ate a small mouthful. “My name is Joran,” he managed around the porridge.

“Joran,” the druid said, testing out the word. “I'm Obair. Now, my young friend here, Devin, says that he saw you two come out from the stones. I’ve only ever seen fae and satyrs do that. How did you manage it?”

“We escaped,” Joran said. “We were both held in the slave camps near the fae city of Tir Rhu’thin. When we escaped, we stumbled upon the ruins of a human city. There were glyphs there that Ylsriss was able to use to get us home.”

Obair’s eyes widened. “This might be faster if I just ask you some questions, rather than interrupting you every two minutes.”

Joran smiled and nodded, taking another mouthful of porridge.

“Ylsriss? That's the name of the woman you're with?” Obair waited for the nod. “So, you escaped? Am I right in thinking you were in the world of the fae?”

“They call it the Realm of Twilight, but yes.”

“And there are other humans there?”

“Hundreds, maybe thousands. More arrive every day. I never saw all of the camps and there are many more in the breeding pens.”

“Breeding pens?” Devin burst out.

Obair held a hand up quickly to stop Joran’s response. “No, wait. Let me ask things in order or it’ll just get confused. Tell us about the other humans there,” Obair asked, after a moment.

“Most are taken there as young children, some still as babies. I think the idea is that they grow up in the Realm of Twilight and never know any other life. If you don't know that there is anywhere else, why would you try to escape? Even those that weren’t captured as children accept their lot, though. There’s something about the fae that makes humans compliant and docile if they stay with them for too long. Ylsriss calls it the Touch,” Joran shrugged. “It’s as good a name as any.”

Obair opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, frowning. “Hold on a moment. You said children grow up there? How long were you there?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Joran explained. “It’s hard to tell the time, the days work differently. The sun isn’t in the sky for long. I was probably about nine or ten when I was taken and I think I’m seventeen now. No older than nineteen, anyway.”

“You don’t know?” Devin asked, his face twisted in disbelief.

“You don’t understand. I was under the Touch for a long time. Nothing matters to you when you’re like that. Not the passage of time, not hunger. All you live for is to please the fae.” He fell silent, staring into the empty bowl in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” Devin said, in a soft voice. “I didn’t understand.”

Joran snorted. “You still don’t. There’s no way you could.”

They carried on, Obair asking question after question and becoming increasingly disturbed by the answers. They listened as Joran told the tale of the fae realm, their escape and discovery of the human city, and finally the fae that had helped them to find their way out through the stones.

“This is what confuses me the most,” Obair confessed, as he sipped at a cup of tea. “Why would she help you?”

“I don’t know,” Joran shrugged. “We’d grown close, but there was much that Aervern didn’t share with me. She did make it clear that she and her kind have nothing to do with those at Tir Rhu’thin though.”

“Hold on for a moment, Obair.” Devin stopped him. “I think maybe the problem is we’re thinking of the fae just as monsters. An evil force intent on killing us all.”

“Aren’t they?” Obair asked, giving him a look.

“Well, perhaps, but what if they’re more. What if, in some ways, we’re not that dissimilar?”

“Go on?”

“Well, look at us. Mankind. Our world. We’re made up of who knows how many nations and peoples. We don’t all want the same things. Who’s to say the fae do either?”

“Did she say anything else? Any little thing might be important,” Obair pressed.

Joran’s face twisted in concentration as he tried to remember. “She did say something. She said that her people hadn’t had direct contact with those that had returned yet.”

“Those that had returned? Returned from where?” Devin broke in, but fell silent at a look from Obair.

“There’s not much more. He’s right, though.” Joran nodded at Devin. “There's a lot we don’t know. She mentioned something about a court. I don’t know what that means.”

“Factions?” Obair muttered to himself. “What about the woman with you? Will she know more?”

“Not really,” Joran shrugged. “I doubt she’ll want to talk to me after what I did, anyway.”

“What did you do? It sounds like you saved her!” Devin said, before he could stop himself.

“I did, I suppose,” Joran said, in a low voice. “At the end, though, she couldn’t leave her baby. We’d agreed we would try to search for him, but then there was the city and the satyrs coming at us...I couldn’t just leave here there to die, could I?”

“What did you do?”

“I hit her,” Joran confessed. “She wasn’t thinking straight, so I hit her, then picked her up and carried her. I dragged her through the stones to keep her safe, but I’ve stolen her baby from her as much as the fae ever did.”

***

Ylsriss woke to pain. Her entire body ached, as though she’d spent a hard day in the fields. She rolled over in the bed, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell, and her eyes snapped open. This wasn’t her bed or even her blanket. Where was she? She pushed herself up, trying to see through the darkness. Someone was breathing softly nearby. She wasn’t alone.

“Joran.” The word was a whispered curse in the darkness and, as she spoke, it all came back to her. The satyrs, the glyphs at the stone circle, and Joran sweeping her into his arms and carrying her onto the stone plate, as she screamed at him to leave her there.

The memory was bitter, bringing a foul taste to her mouth, and she clenched her fists as she thought of it. She stood, steadying herself on the edge of the bed, and looked towards the source of the breathing, as her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. It was him.

For a moment, she just watched him as he lay there, the fury within her growing at the sight of him sleeping in peace, guiltless. Ylsriss threw herself onto his bed, punching him scratching him and screaming at him, all at once. He grunted in pain and then grabbed at her as she punched at him, rolling with her until they crashed down onto the floor.

“Ylsriss!” he yelled, trying to get a word through her screams. “Ylsriss, stop!”

“You took me. I told you to leave me, you bastard!” She screeched and clawed at his face.

His hand went to his cheek and he could feel the blood. “Shit…” He reached for her wrists and pinned her to the rough floor. “Ylsriss, just calm do…” He cut off as she slammed her knee up hard, and he crashed sideways to the floor with the high-pitched whimper that only a well-placed kick between the legs can produce.

Lamplight flooded the room as a door opened, and she felt hands on her, pulling her away from him. The fight left her all at once. The anger draining away in a flood, and the void that remained was swiftly filled with the certain knowledge that she’d never see her baby again. She felt her knees give way and the strength left her. As the tears flowed, hot and bitter, she sagged down into the nameless arms that held her.

They led her through into another room and sat her down in a chair. She was vaguely aware that they had helped Joran as well, but she didn’t really care about that. The tears wracked her body. It seemed like she was tearing flesh from her own throat with each retching sob.

A hand fell gently on her shoulder and then a man handed her a steaming cup. His face was old. Weary and old, but the sympathy in his eyes was real.

“Ylsriss?” Joran’s voice. She didn’t want to hear it. He could rot. She sniffed the cup. It was a tea of some kind.

“Ylsriss?” he called again, his voice soft but insistent. She turned her face to him, trying to muster as much hate as she could as she glared at him.

He recoiled from her expression and she felt a tiny spark of satisfaction.

“Ylsriss, I know you don’t want to talk to me. It’s just you can’t speak their language. I just want you to know that you’re okay here. We’re safe.”

She considered hurling the tea into his face, cup and all, but settled for sipping it. The others were babbling away in their language. She couldn’t understand a word. It was faster than Islik, all Rs and Ls. She wondered how Joran could pick out enough to make sense of it.

The old man seemed to be questioning Joran intently, leaning forward on his chair. The looks he was giving her made it clear they were talking about her. The other one was a young man, around Joran’s age, perhaps, although it was hard to tell. He looked on, speaking occasionally but seeming content to listen, for the most part. He looked at her suddenly, as if feeling her eyes on him. His expression was questioning but friendly enough.

On an impulse, she stood and walked over to the door, stepping out into the night. The sky was cloudy but a few pinpricks of light showed through. Stars, she realised. Stars and moonlight. The night air was cool and she revelled in it. The Realm of Twilight had never really grown cold and it felt wonderful to feel goosebumps rise.

She heard footsteps behind her and turned. The young man held the grimy blanket up, raising an eyebrow to make it a question. She nodded her thanks and let him drape it around her shoulders.

“Devin,” he said, pointing at himself.

Was that his name? A request? She pointed at him. “Deh’vin?” The word felt odd, the inflections flat and nasal.

“Devin,” he corrected her, with a smile.

“Ylsriss,” she said, pointing at herself.

They spent time pointing out simple things and naming them. The sky, the stars, the moon. She knew she wouldn’t remember half of the strange words, but it was something to occupy her mind. It felt odd not knowing what time it was. It looked like the middle of the night, but it felt like it should be morning.

Devin broke off as Joran came out to join them.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“I thought I should fill you in on what I’ve learned,” he said.

Try as she might, she couldn’t find fault with that. “Fine,” she said. “How do you know their language, anyway?”

“When I was first taken, it was the only language the others spoke in the pens.” He shrugged. “It’s been a long time, but I remember enough to be able to make myself understood.”

Ylsriss nodded. “So?”

“We’re in a place called Anlan,” Joran explained. “I think it's the place you told me about. The Farmed Lands?”

“Fine.” She looked at him with cold despite. “Go away.”

He looked like he was going to say more, but then turned away without a word.

Ylsriss lived in a fog for the next couple of days. She ate when food was given to her and slept when it was dark, although it took days for her to become accustomed to the time again. Day still felt like night and, try as she might, she couldn’t get to sleep when she should. She felt numb. No, it was more than that. It wasn’t that she couldn’t feel, it was just that she couldn’t bring herself to care.

The others worked to expand the living space in cottage as best they could, making up extra beds in the main room. Devin and Joran hunted, while she tried to resurrect the vegetable plot, picking through the weeds in a half-hearted attempt to rescue the remaining plants.

The old man spent most of his time searching through the books in the cottage. When he wasn’t reading, he peppered them both with questions, with Joran translating as best he could.

She sat on the small bench in the clearing that contained the standing stones. It was peaceful there and she felt closer to Effan when she was near the stones. The breeze was just enough to rustle the leaves above her head and she took a strange joy in seeing green, rather than the reds and golds of the Realm of Twilight.

Devin was moving about the clearing, practising the odd ritual he did, when she heard the leaves crunch behind her. She didn’t need to look up to know it was Joran.

“What do you want?”

“I thought we should talk,” he said, simply. “It’s time, Ylsriss. We can’t go on like this.”

She looked round at him, genuinely confused. “Like what, Joran? This isn’t some little fight. You didn’t upset me somehow or lose your temper and say something that you regret. You dragged me out of one world and into another. You made it certain that I can never see Effan again.”

“You’d have been killed, Ylsriss,” Joran retorted. “Surely you must understand that? There was no way you could have made it past the satyrs.”

“You had no right!” She bit off the words. Her temper was rising now and the bitter sting of tears pricked at her eyes.

“I couldn’t just leave you there to die!” Joran insisted.

“Why not? It was my choice!” Her voice rose and Ylsriss realised she’d stood and was shrieking at him. She rubbed the tears away with the back of one hand and sat back on the bench.

“You know, now I wonder how much of it was about me.” Her voice, which had been filled with anger as she screamed at him, was now cold and dispassionate.

“What do you mean?”

“You had no one to come back for,” Ylsriss began. She spoke in calm, level tones that cut deeper than her frenzied screaming ever could have. “You have no home to go to, no place in this world where you belong. I doubt you even remember where your family is, if you even have one left. You weren’t saving me from the satyrs, Joran, you were saving me for yourself!”

Joran’s face turned ashen as he looked down at her. “Ylsriss, you must know that’s not true.”

“I don’t know anything. I would never have believed you’d do something like this. That you’d even be capable of it.”

He looked away from her, gazing blankly into the clearing where Devin worked the ritual of the Wyrde, oblivious to their argument.

“Yes, look away, Joran,” she spat at him. “I can’t stand to meet your eyes. I don’t think you have any idea how much I despise the very sight of you!”

“Ylsriss,” he said, not turning away from Devin.

“You sicken me. You know that? You say you hate the fae but then you’re the first to lie down with one as soon as an opportunity affords itself.” She was past hearing him, lost in an orgy of hate and vitriol. “You’re as bad as the fae themselves. They creep into our world to steal children to raise for the breeding pens. You stole me and, in doing so, you stole my baby.”

“Ylsriss!” he repeated, louder this time.

“What!” she snapped.

“Look at him.”

“What?” The request was so outlandish that she couldn’t understand the sentence.

“Devin. Look at him!” Joran pointed.

“Stop trying to change the subject. You wanted to talk about this, so let’s talk about it.” She stood again, clenching her fists by her side. “You can’t ask me to forgive this, Joran, this is too huge. You’ve forced me to abandon my child!”

“Ylsriss, just shut up a second. Look at him!” Joran stepped closer, placed his hands on her face and turned her head towards Devin.

She batted his hands away. “What are you talking about? He’s practising. It’s like a dance or something. Some ritual that kept the fae away, or something like that.”

“Look at the way he moves his feet. Look at the whole picture.”

She fell silent. The urgency in Joran’s voice had robbed her of her anger and she watched Devin. There was something there, right on the edge of her understanding. The movements he made were clumsy, but the pattern...

“Oh, Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky!” Her hand flew to her mouth as she gasped a breath in through her fingers.

“You see it, don’t you?” Joran asked, eyes bright with excitement.

“I see it,” she nodded. “Joran, this ritual, the pattern of it...”

“I know.” His grin matched the wonder in his eyes.

“Joran, those are glyphs!”

Acknowledgements

Once again I owe a debt of gratitude to the team that helped put this book together. Clare Davidson, Anya J Davis and Vin Hill you guys are great. To my wife Gillian and my kids, thanks for putting up with me while my head was in a book (I kind of did it again didn't I?) Finally a big thanks to everyone who bought Fae – The Wild Hunt and got in touch, or left a review. Your support is more valuable than you know.

Fae – The Sins of the Wyrde

by Graham Austin-King

Fae - The Sins of the Wyrde: Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Two

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Three

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Part Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

For Liam, Naomi and Matthew.

PART ONE

Chapter One

Miriam moved mechanically, trudging as she pulled a foot free of the sucking mud, and took another step. There had been many times when the smothering touch of the fae’s mind had put her into a stupor, but this time her daze was caused by exhaustion. Her feet faltered in the oozing mud created by the passage of hundreds of satyr and the human slaves that followed, and the muscles in her legs burned.

The group of fae, satyr, and fae’reeth had been following Aelthen for days, travelling the ancient trails and paths as they headed away from Tir Rhu’thin, moving southward. They paid little attention to the needs of their human attendants, barely seeming to stop during the day for food, or to rest. The satyr rushed out to hunt after they stopped each day, and the sounds of their feasting and drinking carried on late into the night as she sought what sleep she could.

Miriam stumbled as her foot caught on a rock, her black robes flapping wet around her ankles as she sought to regain her balance. The leather cuff dug painfully into the skin of one wrist as the spun-silver chain grew taut and Ileriel glared back at her as she hurried to catch up with the fae’s mount.

Ileriel had always laid only the barest touch of her influence over Miriam. It was as if she wanted Miriam to be fully aware of where she was and the torment she was enduring daily. Even after all these years the fae seemed to delight in her misery and in the bargain Miriam had made, taking pleasure from the fact that Miriam had unwittingly invited this life. Of late, her influence seemed to have been lighter still. Perhaps she simply wasn’t worth the exertion of the fae’s yoke any longer? Perhaps Ileriel simply no longer cared. After all, she was no longer necessary for the fae to pierce the Wyrde. She was too old now to breed from. What use was she? The thought gave her pause and she stopped in the track without paying attention.

“Keep up, human!” the fae spat back at her, pulling hard on the chain so that Miriam had to struggle to keep from falling.

Miriam flushed and tried to ignore the childish giggles that rose from the satyr around her. More than anything else in this nightmare world, they terrified her. She could cope with the other horrors she had been forced to endure, the half-breed children that had been pulled from her, and the thousand other daily torments. The satyr, however, filled her with dread.

More than once she’d thought of killing herself, ending it all. At once an image flashed into her mind, of her surrounded by a crowd of satyr in the woods as one of them forced himself between her legs. She looked up sharply and met Ileriel’s eyes defiantly as the fae looked back at her. The unspoken promise was as clear as it had ever been. Death was hers to choose should she wish it but it would come at the hands of the satyr once they had tired of her, not from her own.

She glanced around, avoiding the scathing eyes of the other humans in the group. The trees were different here. They were clearly getting closer to their destination but, unlike Tir Rhu’thin where the trees were sculpted and shaped by the will of the fae, these were somehow wilder. It was a subtle difference and it had taken Miriam some time to notice it. The sculpting was by no means lesser, it was just less pronounced. As if the design were more in tune with nature, celebrating the wildness of the environment rather than it being twisted for the sculptor's own delight.

The trail led down a gentle slope as they crested the rise, and she enjoyed the respite until the different set of muscles began to burn. Abruptly Ileriel stopped ahead of her and the line slowly drew to a halt. Humans would have questioned it by now, or made some protest at the sudden halt, but the fae simply waited in silence as their human slaves shifted and fidgeted beside them. She could feel Aelthen ahead of them, further along the trail. He was far out of sight around a corner but even from this distance his presence was palpable. The sheer weight of his mind was a sensation pressing against her. It challenged her. Diminishing her as it questioned her right to breathe, to exist, even as it demanded that she wonder at his glory.

The stop was both long and yet somehow still short enough to be cruel. Her muscles protested violently as they began moving again and she hurried along behind the white horse Ileriel rode. It was a glamour, of course. A conceit. No horses existed in the Realm of Twilight, not that she had ever seen. The beast was most likely a shade-cat, concealed beneath the casual magic of the fae’s illusion.

The trees parted abruptly with none of the gradual thinning that would be found in Haven, her own world. They passed out onto a lush plain, an island of grasses in the ocean that was the endless forest. For all her years in this world of the fae, this was the first time she had ever been beyond the trees. The place felt suddenly wondrous and alien to her all over again. The empty sky screamed down at her and she fought back a wave of fear and the urge to huddle down like a mouse hiding from a hawk.

It was hours before the city came into sight, though doubtless the fae had been able to see it long before her. It sprawled, spreading out in a ragged circle from the titanic tree at its centre, visible even at this distance. Unlike Tir Rhu’thin the city had clearly been surrounded by a high wall at one point but the buildings had long since spread beyond its protection. Beyond the walls, what seemed to be farmed fields stretched out towards the distant trees on either side of the city.

The differences between this place and Tir Rhu’thin did not stop there. The homes and buildings here were more fashioned stone than the tree homes she was used to and the streets were paved and laid out with a clear structure. Tir Rhu’thin ambled. It reached out from its centre in a languorous stretch with buildings and dwellings laying where they would, with no thought given to order, or at least none that she had ever understood.

Her eyes were wide with wonder as they moved towards this new fae city and her gaze passed along the long line of fae, past Aelthen at its head, and back towards the enormous tree.

The tree was normal enough, save for its massive size. If it weren’t for the city surrounding it the sight would have been nothing to raise an eyebrow. As it was the buildings gave her some perspective and the sheer size of it was enough to take her breath away. The uppermost branches and much of the leaves were obscured by a mist, or haze of some kind, and she squinted as she tried to focus on the fog that seemed to swirl and shift slowly about the tree.

The effort made her eyes water and her head ache. She soon gave up and looked down the slight hill, following the line of fae towards Aelthen, far ahead of them. She watched as he approached a small group that had emerged from the city and stood waiting on the path to greet them. They were largely satyr by the looks of things, with only a single fae among them. Her eyes widened in shock as the great creature bent a foreleg to incline his head in a stately bow as he approached the group. Whatever it was that Aelthen wanted here it was clear he didn’t hold himself as superior.

“Come, my prize.” Ileriel urged her forward, pulling her out of the line so they could move more swiftly. “I’ll not sit with the pack whilst Aelthen enters the court.”

She ran awkwardly, her old joints working as fast as they could with a lurching, painful, gait. Ileriel glanced down at her, giving her a look of utter disgust at her pace, and then reached out to haul her up, laying her over the horse’s rump like a sack of meal. The texture of the beast’s skin did not feel like horse. The motion was somehow more sinuous than any horse would ever manage but, in her position, it still jolted and forced the breath from her lungs. She forced herself to try and relax as she gripped at its flanks with her hanging arms as Ileriel rode at a canter to the head of the column.

Miriam was vaguely aware they had passed under a large archway into the city but her position made it difficult to see much beyond the flagstones that made up the path even after Ileriel dropped the horse back into a walk. A buzz filled the city, laying beneath the musical sound of the fae as they spoke. It was a low drone and Miriam had a fleeting mental image of the bees she had once seen kept in hives by a long forgotten uncle. She mentally shook her head at the memory and slid off the horse and down to her feet as they drew to a halt.

The plaza was wide and surrounded by columns with intricate carvings, though all showed signs of age and weathering. Miriam stood in silence and watched curiously as Aelthen followed his escort and stepped forward, accompanied by Ileriel and a handful of his fae. A small group waited for him in the centre of the plaza. Fae with a handful of satyr and fae’reeth that surrounded a tall, pale figure.

Aelthen stopped just short of the group and offered a short bow. The tall figure stepped forward out of the cluster surrounding her, gossamer clothing trailing behind her, and revealing a fae woman of incredible beauty. Miriam stared at her openly as she felt her mouth fall open. It wasn’t just at her beautify, albeit a cold alien beauty. The woman filled the plaza, the sheer presence of her was overwhelming. She commanded the eye in much the same way as Aelthen always had, but it went far beyond her appearance. Her mind pressed against all that stood within the plaza, a raging force that touched the edges of Miriam's consciousness and seemed just barely contained.

“After all the long ages the hunters have returned at last,” the fae intoned. Her voice was little more than a whisper yet somehow seemed loud enough to shake the leaves from the closest trees. “Among all of those that remain in Tira Scyon I am among only a handful who might have known those old enough to remember the last days of the hunt. I was a babe at the time. You are as tale or song come to life. You are myth made flesh and you will find things much changed in these lands, I think. I would be the first to bid you welcome anyway. I am named Tauntha. Welcome to Tira Scyon, the last home of the fae.”

Miriam ignored Aelthen as he made some formal reply and frowned as she looked at the fae woman. There was something not quite right about her. Her eyes refused to entirely accept what they were seeing. There were minute eddies and disturbances in her form, she realised, as if her perfect features were somehow formed of a mist surrounding a hidden truth. She narrowed her eyes as she concentrated, and then, as if she had blown into a fog, the image parted and for the briefest moment, Miriam caught a glimpse of the ancient and wizened creature at its centre. She gaped at the sight and staggered as Ileriel jerked the silver chain, pulling her forward even as the ancient creature paused in what she was saying to look at Miriam curiously.

“…my favoured daughter, Ileriel, the Pathfinder,” Aelthen was saying as they drew closer. Miriam ground her teeth as another sharp jerk on the chain forced her down to her knees by Ileriel’s feet as the fae gave a short bow. “Be welcome also, Ileriel,” the woman greeted her. “And this creature? A manling she? The first I have seen, I will confess.”

“A trophy, Revered Elder,” Ileriel replied with pride shining in her eyes. “This human is the Wyrde Reaver. Were it not for her we should still be locked away within the Outside.” She favoured Miriam with a cruel smile. The old woman shrank away from her expression as thoughts of Devin and her betrayal bombarded her, cutting like jagged glass. She bit back tears as she fought to keep the emotions from showing on her face. So long as Ileriel wished to torment her with these thoughts she must leave Miriam’s mind free to react to them and the pain was a price she was willing to pay. Despite that, Miriam would sooner claw out her own eyes before gave the fae the satisfaction of knowing what effect her words really had.

Across the plaza a fae hissed, a sharp intake of breath to cover her obvious anger as she glared at Ileriel with fury clear on her face. The Elder turned at the sound and beckoned her forward.

“My own daughter, Aervern,” she said by way of introduction.

Ileriel looked at the newcomer, a frank appraisal clear in her eyes. “Were you admiring my pet, Aervern?” Ileriel asked. “Or was your little squeak intended to mean something more?”

“Your time in the Outside must have blunted your mind as well as your tongue, Ileriel,” Aervern spat. “Tauntha rules here. Over fae, fae’reeth, and satyr. She is no mere Elder. You owe her your respect.”

“Aervern, be still.” Tauntha muttered, her voice was pitched low but the tone was hard and sharp enough to carry.

“There is much that will have changed, much that must still be discussed. Make amends for your rudeness.” Aelthen said, half-turning to Ileriel. His words were ostensibly a rebuke but they held none of the harshness that Tauntha’s had and Miriam caught the warmth of approval in his tone.

Ileriel bowed her head in acknowledgement and turned to the still-seething fae. “My apologies, Aervern,” Ileriel offered. “Perhaps if I present you with a gift to atone for my thoughtless words?”

Aervern’s eyes narrowed at that. “What do you offer?”

Ileriel tugged sharply on the chain, pulling Miriam forward on her knees. “I have had little opportunity to amass trinkets but perhaps you would take some small pleasure in my trophy?”

Aervern glanced at Miriam, eyes narrowing as she weighed the value of the gift. “I thank you,” she managed to grate, though her eyes told a different tale entirely.

Ileriel passed the silver chain across as Aervern drew closer and, as she did so, a wave of emotion passed through Miriam. She had thought herself relatively free of the crushing influence of the fae but, as Ileriel relinquished her hold, the rush was almost enough to overwhelm her. She stood, half-stunned, as the conversation carried on about her. Tauntha and Aelthen were still speaking. She was dimly aware of plans for a great feast but her mind churned and spun too furiously for her to pay much attention. She walked blindly as she was led to the far side of the plaza and hardly noticed when she was eventually ushered away.

Aervern walked her through the streets to a shining stone courtyard surrounded by columns. Over-hanging archways and trellises, bedecked with ivy and creeping flowers, stood beside a strangely shaped stone building that was almost swallowed by a stand of tall trees. It was as alien a dwelling as any she’d seen, and it was only her years in the world of the fae that allowed her to understand that the trees were as much a part of the building as the stone was.

“You will reside here, as my guest for a time,” Aervern spoke softly, eyes still appraising her as she headed towards a corner of the plaza.

“Yes, mistress.” Miriam gave a half bow.

Aervern shook her head. “No! I will not be your mistress. I will not keep you, human. You will be a guest with me, not a possession.”

Miriam blinked. The words were such a foreign concept to her that she almost asked the fae to repeat herself. No, better to be still for now. To watch and learn. Long experience had taught her that one did not question the fae. This was far more likely to be another game than anything else. Daring to hope for anything more would only lead to crushing disappointment and the laughter of this creature as she watched it unfold.

“Seat yourself,” the fae prompted as she sank down onto a collection of pillows.

Miriam lowered herself awkwardly down to the cushions with a grimace. Her hips and thighs still protested the march she'd endured tethered to Ileriel’s wrist.

“I confess I am unsure just what to do with you. I expect there is much we can learn from each other and much we should speak of.” Aervern began. “The returner named you, 'Wyrde Reaver',” Aervern said. Her words were halfway between statement and question, with an odd intonation, and Miriam sat in silence as she waited to see if she would say more. Eventually she gave a small nod.

“I would know the tale.” Aervern said formally, placing a strange emphasis on the words.

“I don’t remember a lot of it, Blessed One,” Miriam hedged.

Aervern laughed, genuinely amused. “Do not call me that. I am no more blessed than you.”

Miriam looked at her, careful not to meet her eyes for too long. “In what manner should I address you, mistress?”

“The name I was gifted is Aervern. You may use that.” The fae favoured her with a smile as she looked at her curiously. “'Wyrde Reaver' is an awkward title. Do you not have another name?”

“Miriam.” The word came too hard to her lips, little more than a whisper as it passed them. She tried again. It was easier the second time. “My name is Miriam.”

“A serviceable enough name, I suppose,” Aervern said with a snort. Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something she’d rather not. “And will you tell me your tale Mir’ Rhiam?” she asked. “Of how you came to be with the Returned and how you pierced the Wyrde? In exchange I offer you wine and meat and shelter.”

She let the odd inflection pass. “I will tell you what I remember, Blessed…” she stopped herself at a sharp look from Aervern that was softened with a small smile. “…Aervern,” she finished with a sheepish look.

“Compose your thoughts. A tale such as this should not be recounted unprepared. I shall arrange for your refreshment.” She stood in a fluid motion and made her way over to an archway, clapping her hands loudly as she approached. The satyr that appeared was nothing like those Miriam was used to. His features were the same as the others but his demeanour was one of servility rather than that of a barely-restrained hunter. Aervern spoke to him, giving swift instructions in a low voice before she returned to the cushions and looked at Miriam expectantly.

“It’s hard to remember too much, it was all such a long time ago. I do remember that I was injured,” Miriam began haltingly. “I’d been wounded, an arrow in my leg, and the wound had turned sour. I remember being lost in the woods, feverish, and waking in the night to the sound of flutes. There was something about a ring of stones…” The words came slowly at first as she struggled to remember things that felt more like the tatters of a dream than anything else. Aervern proved to be almost the perfect audience, however. Quiet and attentive yet willing to prompt if Miriam faltered, and she found herself telling the whole story. Of how she’d first been brought to the cold and barren place that held the fae, and then later, onward to this twilight world.

“And what of the Wyrde?” Aervern asked Miriam after a time as she sipped at the wine the satyr had brought. “How did you ever learn to pierce it? How did you learn to travel to the Land of Our Lady?”

Miriam looked at her, the interruption throwing her train of thought for a moment. “I didn’t. I mean, I don’t know that I did anything myself. They took me with them whenever they needed to cross but I never did anything. It seemed like just my being with her was enough at the time. Now, of course, I am not needed at all. I think Ileriel only brought me here because it amused her.”

Aervern fell silent then, a deep frown on her face. “I think that is enough for now. I would ask something of you, however. Though I have no intention of keeping you as Ileriel did, it would be curious if I did not make some use of you. I would have you act as cup-bearer at the coming feast. An easy enough task, and one which will send the correct message to the Returned. If you will consent?” She waited for Miriam’s bemused nod before she spoke again. "Take rest. I will have Gannkis take you to a room. I do not imagine that your journey was an easy one. You have some days until the feast, which you may use as you will. Gannkis will provide sustenance as you require it, you need only ask. I would not suggest you leave my dwelling unescorted, however. You are more of a curiosity in this place than you know.” She gave a complex short bow, touching her forehead with one hand, and then left Miriam with the odd little satyr.

“If you’ll follow me, human?” the creature waved her onward and led her through an archway and into the marble-clad building. The interior was well lit, with numerous windows and polished mirrors positioned to make the most of the natural light. Gannkis led her up a sloped corridor that ran in a spiral until they reached her rooms. A wooden bed, fashioned from a single piece of timber and carved with intricate vines, filled a large portion of the room. Against one wall an odd wooden bowl sat resting upon what appeared to be a tree stump that looked to have sprouted from the wooden floor itself. The window looked out into the courtyard, half obscured by thick leaves that hung from the branches that reached to stroke the window in the breeze.

Miriam sank down onto the bed as the satyr turned to leave. Her hands curled, resting inside each other, as she looked unseeing at the polished stone wall. The world had moved beneath her and, somehow, she was lost without having really taken a step. Eventually she sank down onto the silks and slept. A true sleep, without a touch on her mind or dreams. Perhaps her first in years.

The house seemed different when she woke. The light was little changed and she lay in a tangle of silks as she tried to decide what time of day it might be. It was empty, she decided. A house has a certain feel to it when there is someone else there, something entirely different when it is empty. She stood slowly with no need to hide the aches and pains that vanity normally demanded. With little other option she threw on the tired black robe and decided to explore.

The house seemed huge and rambling with its gently sloping floors that turned in a lazy spiral taking the place of stairs. It wasn’t really even a house, not in the conventional sense anyway. The majority of the structure was stone but one turn in a corridor revealed thick bark making up a section of the wall. At some point a tree must have formed the core of the building and had long since been enveloped. Perhaps there was a message to take from that. For all the veneration the fae seemed to have for nature they were quick to discard it when it no longer suited their needs.

Miriam wandered slowly, giving no real thought to her destination. To say the house was odd would not have even touched the edges of it. There was an entire room filled with tiny bells, strung on strands of thread that ran from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Another room seemed empty aside from a wide band of blue silk than ran from the floor to where it hung suspended by a polished rail strung near the ceiling.

Miriam shook her head and headed in the other direction, down towards the courtyard. She was intercepted before she ever got close. The manservant satyr proved impossibly light on his feet, his cloven hooves seemed to make no sound at all on the polished wooden floors.

“Are you in need of sustenance, human? I was about to wake you.” The words were polite enough but the eyes were as hard and angry as Caerl’s had ever been. Caerl? Lords and Ladies where had that thought ever come from? She hadn’t thought of him in years. But then, had her mind been hers to wonder with? She realised Gannkis was still stood looking expectantly at her and she coughed to cover her embarrassment. “Not at the moment, Gannkis, thank you.”

The satyr gave a curt nod and turned to go. “Aervern mentioned you could show me the city?” She called out, stopping him. He paused and looked back at her, his unblinking amber eyes almost making her falter mid-sentence. “If it’s not too much trouble that is?” she finished weakly.

“Such was the mistress’s instruction.” Gannkis replied, his words as flat and expressionless as his eyes.

“If you’re too busy…” she trailed off. He was so hard to read. It wasn’t quite hostility but closer to some kind of resentment, though even that wasn’t the right word.

He shrugged. “It is of no moment, human. We shall leave now if you have no wish to break your fast.”

He led her out through the courtyard and into the streets. The morning was among the brightest she’d seen and rare white clouds scudded along in a light breeze. The streets were quiet and Gannkis led her at a brisk pace in the rough direction of the massive tree she had glimpsed at the city’s centre.

“Gannkis!” she gasped after only a few minutes. “I can’t go as quickly as you, we’re going to have to slow down.”

He looked at her then, as if only just now seeing her for the first time. A tiny old lady wrapped in a dark robe hobbling along behind him. He bowed his head slightly, tilting it in acquiescence, and then set off at a slower pace.

She gawked like a child at the marble-clad buildings and intricately carved statues. It was so beautiful. So wild. So utterly wrong in so many ways. The realities of this world were suddenly as sharp as any razor’s edge and her mind recoiled from both them and the realisation of how much of her life had been lived through a fog. Before Gannkis had led her more than ten minutes from Aervern’s home she was pleading with him to take her back, and she fled back to her room to huddle in a ball with the bedsheets held tight between her fists as she sobbed for a life both lost and stolen.

As the days passed Aervern seemed content to let her come and go at will. She had done little more than look in on her since the first night. The second trip came at Gannkis's insistence and lasted far longer, allowing them to make their way to the larger streets. This time it was the staring of the satyr that drove her back to the compound, away from eyes as awestruck as her own.

She was dressed and ready for Gannkis the next day. It had come as a simple realisation as she lay sleepless in the bedsheets. This was her life now. She could either embrace it and take it for her own, or she could hide for as long as Aervern would let her, or until the darkness claimed her.

“Do you mind if I ask some questions as we go?” Her only response was a grunt and a curt nod. It would do, she needed something to distract her from the eyes she could already feel upon her.

“Would you tell me about this place? All I know of this world is Tir Rhu’thin. I didn’t even know there were other fae until we travelled here.”

“This is Tira Scyon, our home for more years than any of the tales I have learnt will tell. From the age of legends, the time of the hunt, and the search for the Land of Our Lady, we have resided here. Here and the surrounds,” he added. “There are those that prefer the wild of the forest to the city.”

Miriam was silent for a moment as they walked, admiring the statues that seemed to sit at the centre of every crossroad. “The time of the hunt?” she asked finally.

“Before your kind forged the Wyrde.”

“I think there is a lot I am missing here, Gannkis,” Miriam admitted.

“Did they not answer your questions at Tir Rhu’thin then, human?” the satyr asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes.

“They keep humans as slaves in Tir Rhu’thin,” Miriam said, her voice low. “We’re breeding stock and little more.”

Gannkis grunted and looked at her as if waiting to see if she would say more. “There is some wisdom in that I suppose.” He gave her a wry smile as she gasped at his words. “Look around you, human, do you see many fae? Little ones at play? No.” He shook his head. “We are a dying breed. More often than not a coupling leads to one of my kind or to a fae’reeth. A fae child is a rare thing indeed, and one that has been in decline for many years.”

“You seem very different to the satyr I have encountered.”

“Different?”

“Calmer, somehow more human I suppose. The satyr at Tir Rhu’thin are almost feral.”

The satyr snorted and gave a grim smile. “No doubt those at Tir Rhu’thin have not had to adopt the measures we have undertaken here. My kind are creatures of desire, be it for the hunt or for womankind. How well do you think our people and this city would fare were it filled with endless satyr with no hope of release?”

“I suppose I’d never thought about it,” Miriam managed through her blush. She inwardly laughed at herself, fancy blushing at her age!

“We are a long-lived people. Eventually urges give way to rage, and rage to destruction. We learnt that lesson long ago. Satyr here are given the choice once they draw close to this point. Either go to the wilds or be gelded.”

“Gelded!”

“It is a minor thing, and one that soon heals.” Gannkis shrugged. “There are times when I regret my choice but not many.”

“What happens to those that go to the wilds?” She asked.

“None could say. They never return,” he told her with a strange look.

Silence fell clumsily between them, stumbling over the remnants of the conversation as Miriam followed after him. Gradually she became aware of the eyes upon her. It was a prickling, uncomfortable feeling that made her feel exposed despite the full-length robes she wore. The satyr watched her openly, some peering out from doorways, some gawking at her as she passed by them. The few fae they encountered were little better themselves, though they fell short of actually stopping in the street to stare at her.

She ignored them as best as she could, examining the city around her. The simple fact of her curiosity was overwhelming. It wasn’t something as obvious as a blind man regaining their sight. It was closer to regaining a sense of smell that had been fading for years. The freedom of her own mind both delighted and disgusted her as each new sight brought home the reality of just how far under Ileriel’s power she had been buried.

The city was beautiful, but gloomy. The dim light from the sky was barely enough to light their path on the narrower streets, once the tall buildings and trees had blocked their share of it. Gannkis walked her around the city, careful to move at her pace but, despite this, she was soon forced to lean on his arm. The very act of taking help from the creature made her skin crawl despite herself, and she fought hard to keep her expression blank.

It was a slow process but she eventually began to notice the city itself. It was ancient, but then any city can be ancient. Kavtrin hadn’t been a new settlement. No, it wasn’t just that it was old, it was tired. That was a good word for it, she decided as she nodded to herself. The buildings sagged, some falling from the embrace of tree limbs that had decided to grow in different directions than those they had been bidden. More than one dwelling sported the remains of wellpumps outside its doors. The pipes covered in verdigris and lost to time and neglect.

Miriam looked ahead to the tree, more to give herself something to focus on than anything else. The haze she had noticed as they’d approached Tira Scyon was more pronounced now, a purple tinged mist that swirled around the leaves. “What is that around the tree, Gannkis?”

He looked up and smiled at the sight before looking back at her. “The Swarm. It is more impressive once you draw closer. Come.” He waved her onward, leading her through the streets past dark windows and sculpted foliage towards the massive tree.

The droning grew louder, the sound seeming to split into a harsh fluttering, and then to increase almost to a roar. Gannkis took her hand as she hesitated, drawing back from the noise, and pulled her the last few yards to the end of the street. The square was almost completely filled with the roots of the tree as they thrust through ancient paving slabs and quested down into the earth. The trunk alone was so vast that it would have taken ten broad men linking arms to reach all the way around it. This was not what made her gasp, however. The purple mist that had seemed to surround the foliage of the tree was now clear. The tree was surrounded by a swirling mass of fae’reeth. The tiny winged creatures moving in an endless pattern, shifting in a slow dance around each other and the tree as their wings formed a wind all its own that buffeted at Miriam as she stood with one hand pressed to her mouth.

Their numbers were beyond count, and she found herself almost entranced by the swirl of the pattern before she noticed the figure behind the curtain of tiny bodies. It was a fae’reeth, or at least something similar. Rather than flying with the others, though, it hung almost motionless in the air, its wings holding it still but close to the trunk of the tree as it met her gaze and stared back. There was no animosity in the gaze. It held little more than curiosity, and perhaps an invitation.

“It is… unwise, to remain too long,” Gannkis told her as he tugged her back out of the square. “The tree is the place of the fae’reeth. Even Tauntha would hesitate to outstay her welcome here.”

She let him lead her away, casting frequent looks back over her shoulder. The sheer number of the fae’reeth had staggered her. There had to have been tens of thousands of them, all as beautiful as they were deadly.

“I would appreciate it if we could return now, human.” Gannkis said with a faintly pained expression. “The sun will be rising shortly and I have never cared for its touch.”

His words touched a chord with her and the connections fell into a neat order in her mind. The sun would leach his power just as the light would render any exposed glyph powerless. She looked around again, noting the dark windows, the unlit streets. Since she had come to Tira Scyon she had yet to see a single moon-orb or rune plate, even the wellpumps had all been in ruins. There hadn’t been a glyph in sight.

Chapter Two

“Gannkis tells me you managed to go as far as to The Swarm?” The voice was soft, but it still made Miriam jump. She bolted upright on the cushions and hurriedly set the tea down on the floor beside her as she looked around.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said with a nervous laugh. The fae stood in the archway leading out towards the city, watching her with an unreadable expression.

“May I join you? I would speak with you,” Aervern asked with a strange formality.

Miriam pushed down a shrug. That would have been rude, but then why was Aervern even asking for permission? “Of course,” she managed with a watery smile.

Aervern sat cross-legged at the very edge of the pile of cushions, silent for the moment as if wondering how to begin. “How are you finding my home? Do you have everything your kind requires? I confess I am not overly used to humans.”

“It’s very comfortable…”

“Yet?”

“I’m sorry?” Miriam frowned.

“You had more to say,” Aervern explained. “Do not let some odd sense of propriety still your tongue. It is very comfortable yet…?” she left the question hanging.

“I’m not quite sure what I ought to be doing.” Miriam let out a noise that could have been a nervous laugh had it just a little more courage.

“It is for this reason that I would speak with you.” The fae woman’s eyes held her own. It wasn’t just that she was staring, it was more that she obviously didn’t place any emphasis on it or understand it might be considered rude. The creatures were so very different and it showed in the thousands of tiny little ways far more than it did in the obvious things. “The feast will take place this night and I would have you as my cup-bearer but there is a deeper task I would have you perform.” She cocked her head to one side, as if thinking . “Perhaps it would be simpler for me to show you. Are you able to walk for a time?”

Miriam pulled herself to her feet. “Of course, although I walk a lot slower than I used to.”

“I will be mindful of this,” Aervern nodded.

They left in silence, taking the same winding route Miriam and Gannkis had followed that meandered towards the city centre, but then branching off towards areas that Miriam had never seen before. They passed through a long-neglected park to a series of low bridges that led them over shallow streams and then through a succession of tiny islands, each with its own marble bench or statue. Even these were marred, however, with the broken ruins of other bridges laying in the waters, the thick roots that had once supported them, twisted and wild.

Miriam looked at her often but the fae appeared content to remain silent for now and seemed oblivious to her companion’s curious glances. She gave up. If the woman wanted to walk in silence then so be it. The city was quiet, with only faint strains of music drifting on the light breeze with the faint smell of wood smoke. These fae seemed to have no particular compulsion to live close to each other, or to form neighbourhoods, she noted. Whole districts stood empty between those dwellings that she could see were occupied. The buildings that stood between them were often half-collapsed or fallen from the trees that had once cradled them. Not for the first time Miriam wondered at the place. Half the city seemed to be in ruins yet the fae seemed not to notice as they lived in opulence amongst the rubble.

As they passed over another low bridge the sound of music grew louder. Lights became visible in windows and strung across tree-born platforms. Between one street and the next the feel of the city changed. What had felt like a lifeless ruin suddenly shook itself awake and stirred to life. She glanced at Aervern only to find the fae watching her, gauging her reaction. Within another hundred yards there were fae and satyr everywhere. They wandered the streets in groups of twos and threes, lounging in the gardens as they sipped wine from wooden goblets or listened to the satyr play as fae’reeth circled the musicians in a lazy spiral.

The light from moonorbs spilled out from buildings and the aromas of roasting meat wafted from more than one doorway but without the tell-tale smell of wood smoke. Miriam turned slowly, her eyes tracing the skyline. The chimney pots over the city were scattered but smoke could be seen rising from all areas, all except this district.

“This is the enclave of those come from Tir Rhu’thin,” Aervern said in a low voice. “We will not linger here but will pass through swiftly. I would have the use of your eyes. Pay close attention to what you see. I will wish to speak with you on this.”

Miriam shot her a confused look but the woman was already moving, striding forward towards the light of the moonorbs. She did not slow but rather led Miriam at a pace through the district. In contrast to the rest of Tira Scyon this area fairly buzzed with life. Fae and satyr were everywhere she looked but far more striking were the fae from Tira Scyon. The look of awe stood out all the more strongly on their faces. That most human of expressions looked out of place on the beautiful features of these fae. Like a fire burning on the water, it did not belong.

Aervern ushered her along at a brisk pace, allowing her only the most cursory of glances as they passed through the throng. Often though, one glance was enough as the fae from Tir Rhu’thin astounded a crowd of fae and satyr by infusing long-dead series of glyphs with a trickle of power. Grime encrusted wellpumps hissed to life, throwing steam and muddy water in all directions amid a burst of laughter and delight from the throng. Moonorbs that had been kept only as a curiosity piece, flared to life after centuries lying dark and dormant. All around the fae delighted in this trinket and that as they were infused, and all about Miriam was that same expression, awe and delight. It was like being surrounded by children opening Midwinter’s gifts.

They ventured only the smallest distance into the Tir Rhu’thin enclave, turning the corners so that within five minutes they had stepped back out away from these foreign fae. Foreign fae? Had Tira Scyon become her home? The notion stilled her enough that Aervern shot her a curious look and hurried her along. She slowed her pace as they passed the first of the bridges and turned to her. “Do you understand why I brought you?”

“I don’t, mistress,” Miriam confessed, using the title before she thought and casting a guilty glance at Aervern’s face.

“The day you arrived here in Tira Scyon, when I first saw you chained to the wrist of Ileriel, you did something extraordinary.” Aervern met her eyes as her feet slowed. “When you beheld my mother, Tauntha, tell me, what did you see?”

Miriam froze, the question could mean so many things. “I saw a great beauty, mistress.”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Aervern snapped. “You are not a cup or a knife. You are not my possession, human.” She took a deep breath as she waved away Miriam’s attempts at apology. “That Tauntha is beautiful is without question but that is not all you beheld. Tell me.”

“I… I saw a beautiful fae woman but, that’s not all I saw.” Miriam glanced up and Aervern motioned for her to continue. “As I looked at her, I could see that there was something surrounding her, almost like a mist. It seemed to cling to her, cloaking her like a second skin. It seemed so odd to me and I remember trying to make sense of what I was seeing, and then suddenly I could see through it and see the form that stood within.”

Aervern nodded, her eyes regarding Miriam intently. “Do you know how many fae could have pierced a glamour created by Tauntha?” She shook her head, her long hair floating in a cloud around her for a moment. “Maybe one in ten score, and then only if she was distracted. Tauntha felt you pierce the glamour. She looked at you, if you remember? For a human could do this…” she frowned, losing the thread as she stared at Miriam. “I almost wonder…” she muttered, shaking her head again.

“This is why I brought you with me today,” Aervern began again. “Ileriel’s gift,” she twisted her lips on that last word, “may be far more than she ever imagined. You see what is really there, Miriam. Eyes such as those may prove invaluable.”

“I don’t understand,” Miriam admitted with a shake of the head.

Aervern looked around them suddenly, scanning the empty homes and ruins. “Come, we should not speak of this here and there is much that should be done before the feast.” She moved off, leaving Miriam to struggle behind, fighting to keep up as they headed back to Aervern’s odd home.

“Attend me whilst I change,” she instructed as they entered the house. For all her protests that she would not keep Miriam as a slave she was apparently not opposed to issuing commands. The fae moved swiftly, leading Miriam to her rooms and shedding her clothes with a casual abandon that would have shocked Miriam had she not already spent years with Ileriel. “We were speaking of your piercing of my mother’s glamour, were we not,” she asked over one shoulder as she plucked at the simple garments hanging in front of her.

Miriam nodded but the fae had already turned away. “I value eyes that can see what is truly there before them. The Returned present a challenge to us, one that has already become evident. Did you perceive this when we entered their enclave?”

“There seemed to be a lot of excitement,” Miriam said slowly as her mind raced, replaying the events.

“There is much knowledge that has been lost to us. The working of these glyphs is one of the things my people have forgotten.”

Miriam moved to a simple chair, considering Aervern’s words before she spoke. “Then surely this reunion is a good thing for your people?”

“You think they will give this knowledge freely?” Her laugh was bitter. “No, there will be a price to pay. Every service has its reward and every gift its cost.” She tugged at the shoulder of the diaphanous garment and turned to face Miriam. “Your service this evening will also command its own price. What would you have of me?”

Miriam froze, the thought tearing up from the darkest hidden corner of her mind where she had buried her hopes. Her tongue moved and she spoke without even thinking. “If I am no slave of yours, would you let me return to my world, to my home?”

Aervern smiled then, a small smile touched with regret. “I cannot.” She spoke softly, the denial delivered gently and the disappointment was a knife that thrust slowly through her flesh.

Miriam nodded once, and fell silent as her lips pressed together. Better to be still than to provide the response that this creature had clearly been looking for. She let her mouth twitch in the smallest of wry smiles. To think, she had almost begun to let herself believe that this one might have been different.

Aervern seemed oblivious to the silence and continued to preen herself in front of the looking glass. “You will need to leave shortly. Gannkis will take you to the feast. There will be preparations you can busy yourself with until my arrival.”

Miriam stood, biting down on the tender flesh inside her lip as she gave a stiff bow and left.

Gannkis was easy enough to locate. He grunted his acknowledgement of her as she entered the long low kitchens. The sight of the satyr bustling about the kitchen was almost enough to lift her mood. Almost.

“You are quite correct.” Gannkis replied to her question. The mistress will require you at the feast shortly, and doubtless there will be much that is still to be done. I will escort you now, if you are ready?” Miriam looked down at herself. She was still dressed in the black robe Ileriel had provided for her. Was this fitting for this feast? It wasn’t as if she had anything to change into and, at that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She shrugged. “I'm as ready as I can be.”

Gannkis gave her a look, its meaning lost in his amber eyes. “Shall we depart then?” He led her back out through the courtyard and towards the centre of the city at a brisk pace. Her hips were screaming within the first half a mile but Gannkis either chose to ignore her limping or, perhaps, he simply didn’t care.

She heard the noise of the preparations long before the feast came into sight. The central plaza was filled with a series of long, low tables, surrounding a central portion with other tables set into a horseshoe shape. Bright cushions were strewn about where humans would have put chairs, and the tables themselves were set low to the ground. A huge fire had already burnt down to dull coals in the centre of the horseshoe where whole deer were turning on spits, watched by a handful of satyr. Their expressions were serious, and they were clearly concentrating on the task at hand. Gannkis pointed out the long table set to one side of the plaza, filled with wine and platters of food, and left without a word, a dark look burning in his eyes.

Miriam threaded her way through the throng, ignoring the weight of the stares of the satyr around her. They worked mostly in silence with only the briefest of conversations carrying on around her. She was given no direction, and largely ignored, as she carried empty goblets and plates, setting them in place on the table.

The time passed swiftly, and as the first flutes struck up a tune the mood of the place shifted. What had become a comfortable silence for her, as she worked alone against the background of the murmured conversation of the others, suddenly became taut. A bowstring pulled tight to the lips as it strained for release. She turned, knowing what she would see before she looked. Figures were approaching the edges of the square. She watched as they drew closer, frowning as her mind tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

The closest figure seemed wrapped in a thousand cobwebs, and spiders scurried in and out of the web as she walked. Another was wreathed in a storm of fire and frost that spun about him in a tornado that just barely revealed the form standing naked and unconcerned within. Of course, Miriam nodded to herself as it became clear. This banquet could never hope to accommodate all of the fae. Only the highest echelons of fae society could hope for a seat. In her own world the guests would have been dressed in their very finest clothes, gowns that would have bought her father’s inn three times over. What need did the fae have of elaborate gowns and clothing? Instead they wrapped themselves in the most spectacular glamours they could fashion.

A fae with a tattered black cloak sank down into the cushions beside the low table and waved her over to him. It was only as she drew closer that she saw the tortured faces that screamed and writhed in the folds of the cloak. It was as if it were woven from the very fabric of nightmares itself. She fought down a shudder and hurried to fill the goblet he waved at her.

Aervern’s entrance was subtle and Miriam would have missed her had she not been looking in the right direction as she slipped in just ahead of Tauntha and Aelthen. Her glamour was simple. An elegant gown that reached down to brush against the earth. It was the colour of the true-night sky and, as she looked, she realised that no, it wasn’t just the colour of the night sky, it was the sky itself. Dark clouds scudded across it, allowing the stars to shin through for just the barest moment, leaving the beholder to wonder if they’d really seen them at all.

Tauntha was stunning as she rode in beside Aelthen. She wore no glamour save the one she always wove to conceal her real form. Instead, she rode on the back of a massive shade-cat, the largest Miriam had ever seen. The shade-cat seemed docile and utterly under her control. Its green eyes passed over the assembled fae with little interest as it yawned, revealing sabre-like fangs. She drew it to a halt with a word and a hand pressed to its broad neck, and extended her other hand to Aelthen. The horned creature dipped a foreleg in a bow as he took it, assisting her as she slipped off the side of the massive cat. Miriam could see why she had chosen to ride, standing by his side she was dwarfed by Aelthen. He stole the eye and did not share it with the smaller figure.

Tauntha slapped the rump of the shade cat, which came easily to her shoulder, and it darted away in shock, turning to give her a baleful look before running through the streets toward the distant forest.

“An impressive entrance was it not?” Aervern spoke into her ear, her breath hot on Miriam’s neck.

She jumped. “Most impressive,” Miriam replied, her keeping her eyes and voice neutral. Aervern didn’t seem to notice, pressing an ornately carved wooden goblet into Miriam’s hands. She leaned closer, her lips hardly seeming to move as she spoke in a whisper. “I regret the way I must act this night, Miriam. Know it is a display for the eyes that watch us. Take note of what you see and hear. I would value your thoughts.”

“I don’t understand, mistress.”

“This is the court, Miriam. The remnants of the greatest of the houses gather here at Tauntha’s call to welcome those who have returned. There are ten times a thousand tales of treachery and deceit I could tell you of the court but know this, they are watching you and I as intently as you watch them. Take note of what you see and hear, wine and pride have loosened many a lip.” She nodded towards the end of one table, to a figure shrouded in mists that seemed to emanate from the horned helmet and heavy plate armour he wore. “This fool here styles himself as the Lord of Mists. Pay special attention to him, feed him wine as often as you are able and have an ear for his conversation.” She turned Miriam, steering her with a hand on her shoulder. “The one dancing with the satyr is Dehr’mione. She is skilled at acting the fool but her mind is as sharp as any here. Be wary of her but she is another I would have you pay attention to. Note what she says if you can. If not, then note who it is she speaks with.”

With that she directed Miriam to the serving tables set to one side. “Your duties are simple enough and will leave you ample time to observe. You are to serve me before any other. You may pour wine and bring food to other fae but only if I have no need of you. Make sure my cup does not run dry and fetch me some meat once Aelthen has begun to eat. As the night goes on spend less time attending me. Your ears will catch little if they are tied to my table.”

Miriam rushed to fill the cup from the pitchers of wine, looking about her as she did. Aelthen’s fae had brought other human attendants with them. She could see the lost hopeless expression that she associated with the press of fae minds. They probably were barely even able to function, lost in the fog that filled their heads. She doubted they would even notice the glamours that surrounded them.

The satyr, she noted, could be easily split into two groups. Those who served were much like Gannkis, subservient and somehow less wild than the satyr she was used to. It was nothing obvious, present only in the mannerisms and the way they carried themselves. Those satyr from Tir Rhu’thin lounged at the tables drinking and eating or dancing to the ever-present flutes. They looked at their cousins with clear contempt. Over time disdain gave way to dismissal and finally they ignored them.

The numbers continued to grow until the plaza couldn’t possibly hope to contain them. The fae stretched as far as she could see, leaning against decrepit doorways, crouching on rooftops or simply standing in the streets. Those closest to the plaza drank wine that had been passed to them but many simply watched.

They seemed wilder, these fae. Many were dressed in leathers or pelts whilst still others sported glamours that had them entwined in ivy that seemed to sprout from their bare feet. At least she assumed it was a glamour. She paused, thinking about it as Aervern glared at her, holding her empty goblet.

Aelthen sat in the centre of the high table sipping at a cup as his eyes swept over the gathering. He rose slowly to his feet, allowing his movement to still the tongues of those about him rather than calling for silence himself. He stood for a long moment, simply looking at the assembled fae and satyr before he spoke.

“Long years were we trapped in the cold, the Outside. I have dreamt of this return so many times, that all of this scarcely seems real. Yet real it is, and I rejoice that we are able to breathe the sweet air of our homeland once more.” A cheer rose up and he held a hand up for silence as he continued.

“The days pass more slowly in the Outside. Long ages have my huntsmen and I lost as the years flitted past here, turning just as the leaves flick in the winds. Now we have finally returned and I find my people are as a shadow of what they once were.” One hand gestured to the deer roasting on spits over the coals as he spoke. “Never in my time would we have stooped to burning meat over hateful flame. Never would we have treated our brothers of the hunt in the fashion you now do, gelding them as if they are common beasts.”

Miriam could see the faces of those closest to Aervern growing grim and it must have been obvious even to Aelthen as he lifted a hand again to stem the growing whispers and angry mutters.

“I do not hold my children as superior, or claim they are the only true fae. I only say much has changed in the time we were locked away. The treachery of those who were once our servants has taken its toll upon all of our peoples. You are much changed from the people we left behind when we embarked upon that last hunt. There is much that could divide us, but instead I call for unity. Let the court be united in purpose as we recapture the glory of our people. There is much we can teach you, glyph-lore and a thousand uses for the Lady’s Gift. In return, I ask only that we join under one banner. I would lead you to the Land of Our Lady. Lead you so that we might remove the infestation that pollutes that place. That land that was truly meant to be our own.

“Since our return I have led my children through the Worldtrails. I have passed through to the Land of Our Lady, and led our people on the Wild Hunt. I have seen what they have become. Those scattered few manlings that ran from us, those that fled from battle and through the Worldtrails rather than face us with honour, they have bred like maggots in rotten meat. They infest our promised land, covering the earth like a blanket of filth. They have bred beyond control and now they must be culled. Our promised land will be reclaimed!”

He fell silent and the silence spread out from him, enveloping the plaza until the only sound was the faint hiss of fat falling from the roasting meat onto the coals. The cheer when, it came, grew all at once. Starting as one voice, and then becoming a roar as the fae stood in concert and cried out their support. Miriam looked in horror at the assembled figures with their fists held high. Among the throng only Aervern and Tauntha remained seated, their faces telling different tales. Aervern’s one of horror, whilst Tauntha’s face was etched deep with resignation as she beheld a destiny that she had likely long seen coming.

The music was swift to follow the cheers and fae and satyr alike moved out onto the floor to dance to a tune too wild and frenetic for Miriam to really follow. Fae’reeth flitted through the air over the feast, forming their own dance over the heads of the fae below.

“A human!” A deep voice spoke, penetrating the wonder she’d felt for a moment. “An old one at that. Can you be the one they have been speaking of? The Wyrde Reaver?”

She turned to see the figure wreathed in smoke-like fog stood before her. “Blessed One,” she acknowledged him with as deep a curtsy as she could manage. “Ha! And versed in our tongue no less. It seems the Returned have trained you well.” The voice seemed delighted, but with the face shrouded in the glamour it was hard to tell. As if reading her thoughts the fae reached up to its head, pulling the fog that was formed into the rough shape of a horned helm back over its head until it was reformed as a cowl thrown back on its shoulders.

“I am known as the Lord of Mists,” the fae said as he smiled. “I expect many among the Returned will come to know my name before much time has passed. Now, tell me, are you truly this ‘Wyrde Reaver’ I have been hearing about?”

How to respond to that? “I am, Blessed One.” Miriam replied, making sure her head was slightly bowed in submission.

“And now you belong to little Aervern, is that right?”

“My mistress made a gift of me, Blessed One.”

“A pity you were not fortunate enough to be placed under a fae of greater stature. Little Aervern has been riding Tauntha’s tail for as long as I can remember.”

What did this creature want? “Truly, Blessed One. My new mistress spoke of you before attending the feast. I must say meeting you in the flesh far outstrips the tales she told.”

The fae were not immune to flattery and Miriam had to stifle a laugh as the creature basked in the compliment, almost seeming to preen in front of her. “Come, dance with me, human. You can tell me more of what little Aervern said of the Lord of Mists.”

Miriam glanced past him to the whirling figures and shook her head violently. “I couldn’t possibly, Blessed One!” she gasped. “My old bones could never match your pace and I would mar your own perfection with my stumbling.”

“Nonsense.” He moved in a blur and took her by the wrist, leading her out among the dancers as a father would pull a wayward child. He leaned close, “Only a fool lets the music set the pace. The dance belongs to the dancers.” He pulled her into a complicated series of steps that passed through the melody and rhythm of the flutes, coming close enough to brush the beat they set, but then drifting off into its own arrangement before returning to visit once more. They moved slowly, passing both fae and satyr leaping and spinning to a much faster beat yet somehow it did not seem out of place. It was as alien a thing as Miriam had experienced in all her years in their world but yet, on some strange level, it made sense. The dance had a beauty that moved beyond the music and she found herself smiling despite herself.

He quizzed her as they danced. Questions that seemed to bear no relation to each other, ranging from Aervern, to how many cups she’d filled that night, to Tir Rhu’thin and the humans there. Eventually he stopped, leading her out of the dance. “I’ll return your pet now, Aervern,” he said as he pulled Miriam into the space between them. “She’s an entertaining thing, though worthless given she can no longer breed.”

“Caraviel,” Aervern replied, inclining her head politely. His smile twisted at the sound of what Miriam assumed must be his real name and, giving the briefest of bows, he dropped Miriam’s arm and turned on his heel.

The feast went on long into the night and Miriam lost count of the number of times she refilled cups or was pulled out onto the floor by fae or satyr. The fae seemed capable of eating, drinking, and dancing without limit. Aervern finally dismissed her and she fought to make her way through the revelry in search of her bed, slapping away the hands of the satyr who sought to drag her back to dance. She glanced back once at Aervern and the image stayed with her long after the tables were out of sight. Aervern, tearing at a slab of venison with her teeth and bare hands. The meat so rare that it bordered on raw, the blood running freely down her chin as it caught in the firelight.

Chapter Three

Aervern woke her with a gentle shake and Miriam sat up in the bed, rubbing at eyes that didn’t want to open. The darkness of true night was gone but it didn’t quite feel like the day had started.

“I would not wish to take from your rest,” the fae woman apologised. “We have tasks this day and I would speak with you before we need to begin them.” She rose from where she perched at the end of the bed. “Dress. I will arrange for food to be made ready.”

Miriam pulled herself upright as the fae left. The smooth floors felt odd under bare feet. She was too used to the roughly fashioned hut that Ileriel had kept her in. She shook her head, and then her eyes grew wide as she realised what she was seeing. Where her tattered robe had hung the night before over an ornate rail set against one corner, now a selection awaited her. She ran the fine fabrics over her fingers. Silks, satins, and fabrics she couldn’t even name. Robes of every colour and design, dresses she would have blushed to wear when she still had the looks for them. They must have been brought in whilst she was sleeping, but where had they even come from? Since she had arrived in Tira Scyon she had yet to see a single trade being performed. The satyr worked the fields and provided fruit and meat but who made the clothes? Who made the knives and pots she’d seen in the kitchen? In Tir Rhu’thin these things had largely been done by the slaves, but even then there had been some things which were just there. She’d been too fuddled by Ileriel's mind to notice it, but now that she thought of it there were many things that didn’t make sense.

She caught herself, suddenly aware of the time that she’d wasted, and picked out a simple white dress with an odd belt that tied at the waist in an elaborate clasp, dressing quickly and heading down to meet Aervern.

The fae sat in the courtyard, a selection of fruits and honeycakes set out before her. “Sit. Eat.” She waved a hand at the food set before her and waited as Miriam eased herself down into the cushions.

“I would tell you of some things whilst you eat. Do not interrupt me, I will have questions of my own for you once I am finished.” She somehow managed to make the sentence sound like a question and looked at Miriam intently, holding her gaze, until she nodded.

“I spoke of how those that have returned present a challenge for my people? You will have seen some of these things as we entered their enclave here. Even that, my calling it an enclave, is a sign of the problem. There has been no gift to them, no ceding of power or right. This enclave is merely an empty portion of Tira Scyon in which they were allowed to rest during their stay here. Already we speak of it as being theirs, of belonging to them.” She waved a hand, brushing the thoughts aside. “It is of little importance now.”

Miriam picked up a honeycake and nibbled at it in silence as Aervern leant forward, placing a hand on the low table. “You saw the glyphs at work amongst the Returned when we visited them?” Miriam nodded. “You have seen these things before, at Tir Rhu’thin, of course. Here though, here that knowledge is lost. We have no glyphs and none among us has the knowledge of how to imbue them with what grace we are given.” She paused and took a deep breath before she continued. It was a very human act and Miriam caught herself. These creatures were not human, she reminded herself. It would be all too easy to fall into the trap Aervern was obviously setting for her. To allow herself to accept this feigned friendship the creature offered. The only difference between Aervern and Ileriel was the city and their names.

“You see what it is that Aelthen offers, do you not?” Aervern didn’t wait for her to answer. “His offer is benevolent on the surface, but like the frozen lakes in the Lightless Steppes it is a trap. The ice is too brittle. The waters, and the creatures that lurk beneath the surface, hunger for anything foolish enough to attempt it. Aelthen’s offer is much the same. Likely you did not hear this when you were serving at the feast but, already, names are fashioned for us. Wildfae they call us. As if we are some pitiful satyr lost to lust and madness in the woods. Already I have some of my own people look upon them and call them Trueborn or Highfae. This is how it begins, Miriam. This is how my people will be enslaved.”

She snatched up a goblet Miriam hadn’t even noticed was there, draining it of the wine it held in long, graceless gulps. “What was the mood of those you served last evening? How did they look upon Aelthen?”

“They were certainly admiring,” Miriam hedged

Aervern slammed the goblet down onto the table, the anger coming fast and terrible. “Do not clasp your thoughts so tightly to your breast, human. I could rifle through your memories in moments if I but chose. If I wanted a witless slave such as those from Tir Rhu’thin keep their humans I would have kept you as such.” She forced down her anger with a visible effort. “It is your opinions I want. Tell me what those wise eyes of yours saw.”

Miriam uncurled slowly from the fetal ball she’d recoiled into. There was a desperation clear in the woman’s amber eyes. Despite everything she found herself beginning to hope.

“What do you offer in return?”

Aervern rocked back as if she’d struck her. “You dare?”

Miriam waited, keeping her face impassive as she fought down the rising fear.

“I feed you, give you shelter, and more,” Aervern told her in a voice made all the more dreadful for its icy calm. “You are free of the Returned. Free of the Touch. I owe you nothing.”

Miriam looked down at her hands, the wrinkles and calluses marking out her years as a slave. “I’m an old woman, Aervern. Most of my life has been spent as a slave to Ileriel. I don’t imagine I have many years left to me. If you want my thoughts, my help, you’ll have to offer me something in return.”

The fae’s eyes narrowed in thought as she looked at her, measuring her. “What would you ask of me?”

“Nothing more than I have asked already.” Miriam told her. “Return me to my home, to my own world.”

Aervern stood, throwing her arms into the air. “Have you not heeded a single word I have spoken to you? That knowledge is lost to us. I could no more pass through the Worldtrails than I could imbue a single moonorb. Your only path to your home lies with the Returned.” She fell silent, watching as Miriam collapsed in on herself. “I will make you this oath, however. Should a way present itself I will aid you however I am able.” Miriam’s eyes shot up at that and Aervern met her gaze with one as stern as hers was hopeful. “You must understand what I offer here risks my life and those of my people. If you betray me, human, singers will refuse to tell the horrors of your ending.”

Miriam nodded once, silent, as the fae sank back down to the pillows.

“Now, tell me of the feast. Begin with the Lord of Mists.”

***

Miriam cursed as the hem of her robe caught on another branch. She freed it quickly, stabbing herself on the thorns as she did so. Aervern was already ahead of her, following at a respectful distance from Aelthen and Tauntha. If Miriam didn’t hurry she’d lose sight of all of them.

She forced her legs into a slow trot, ignoring the twinge of pain from her hips and knees as she rushed through the forest. Aervern watched her, looking back over one shoulder with a faintly amused expression.

“Like someone watching a new pet,” she muttered to herself in briefest of whispers. She regretted it instantly and fought to keep the guilty expression from her face as she gauged the fae’s eyes. Had she heard her? It was impossible to tell.

She fell back into a walk beside Aervern. At least the creature didn’t insist she walk three paces behind her or some other such nonsense. A glance to the right showed Ileriel, Aelthen’s escort, some fifty yards away, as she passed easily through the trees. As if she’d felt Miriam’s eyes upon her she glanced at the old woman. Her eyes were flat as she regarded Miriam with cold disinterest, and then turned away.

“How you do propose to proceed?” Tauntha asked as she walked, her voice carrying easily through the trees.

“The humans have grown in numbers, far beyond what we could ever have imagined. Though they are pitiful creatures, even the strongest shade cat could be brought down by enough rats. The full strength of our race will be required if we are to succeed.” His look was direct and clearly conveyed a meaning that was lost on Miriam as she listened in silence.

“You do not know what you ask,” Tauntha said after a moment. “They were given their choice and they have made their oaths. They have gone to the wilds and owe nothing to Tira Scyon. They will not return. They will not listen.”

Aelthen met her eyes and turned to look out through the forest. “I am not of Tira Scyon. I was Lord of the Hunt before your banished were ever born. I am a figure returned from an age of myth and legend. I am as much a tale to them as the Mistress of Shadows or Firla Flameseeker. I am a song made flesh. They will listen to me and when the call goes out, they will come.”

Tauntha stopped as she considered this. It was a handful of breaths before she spoke again. “Still, it is a risk you propose. I could not say where they reside or guess at their numbers. This is a thornsnake you suggest we snatch up blind, not knowing if we grasp the head or the tail.”

“You speak of risks?” Aelthen gave a mirthless chuckle. “Do you know how it is I came to this form? How I came to be satyri? A thousand nights and more I spent basking in the light of Our Lady’s full strength. Years spent hoarding her Grace and fleeing from the rays of her jealous brother. I shunned the chase and those who would tempt me to squander this power. I became a mockery of what it means to be a satyr and few were those who would suffer my presence. Do you suppose I received some signal when the time was right? That there was a great light from the heavens or that Our Lady herself spoke to me? No. There was merely the risk of attempting it, and failing, wasting years of effort and endured scorn for naught. Do not speak to me of risks.” He led off again, moving through the trees in silence as he looked into the distance.

“Much has changed here. Our numbers are diminished greatly from my time, our people once covered this world. Is this truly all we are now? What of the Carnath? What of Tir Riviel? Of the Singing Woods?”

Tauntha shook her head. “All gone, all fallen.”

“All?”

“The Carnath sought to rule. They rejected the Ivy Throne, and the Court, and marched upon the people of the Singing Woods in a bid to claim them. Theirs is a sad tale I do not wish to recount but both are long gone now and Carnath itself is nothing more than a collection of charred stones. Tir Riviel is deserted. Its people left this realm just a handful of centuries after the Wyrde rose. They sought the home of the manlings, though none remembered the ways. Perhaps they found them. Perhaps they wander the Worldtrails still.” She lifted her eyes from the trail. “Are the numbers of the humans truly as great as you say?”

Aelthen nodded. “Greater. Their number seems beyond count. As well guess at the number of leaves in the forest.”

“You propose a slaughter then?” Her words were light but even from the distance they followed at Miriam could see the anger than played just below the surface of Aelthen’s eyes.

“I propose to reclaim what is rightfully ours. The Land of Our Lady was found using our arts. The humans would never have discovered the power of glyphs had we not taken them to serve us. The knowledge was given to them and they have abused it. Their betrayal is without peer. They turned the grace of Our Lady into a mere tool, an insult to every fae that ever drew breath. They fashioned their devices to harness her like a beast of burden. Then they rebelled, and when it became clear we would not suffer them to live, they fled. Of all the places the might have fled to, why there? It combines insult and betrayal in one act.” He snarled out the words, eyes flaring as he spoke.

“No, Tauntha. I will not flinch from your words. I do propose a slaughter. I propose we wade, hip-deep through their blood, until only a manageable number remain. These we will keep in their proper place, in the breeding pens. Our people will rise to greatness once more and we will know revenge.” He fell silent and for long minutes the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the cracking of twigs under Miriam’s feet.

“What of the Ivy Throne?” Aelthen asked then. “It is empty?”

“It is,” Tauntha sighed. “Empty since before you, yourself, left this land I believe?”

Aelthen nodded, half-listening as he stroked his long beard with one hand. “I should have thought it claimed by one of the houses.”

Tauntha laughed then, an ugly, bitter sound at odds with the beauty of her face. “The houses are all but gone, Aelthen. Did you not say it yourself? We are a shadow of what we once were. A fae child is born maybe once in a hundred births. The number of fae’reeth begin to challenge the stars in the skies and I could not tell you how many satyr choose the wilds. My own daughter, Aervern, was one of the last fae born to us. Our numbers dwindle as each fae passes. Though it would pain you to admit it, we need the humans.”

Aelthen drew back as if she’d slapped his face. His face grew dark and Miriam felt Aervern stiffen beside her as her hand crept to the small of her back.

“We need them as the flower needs the bee,” he said in a dreadful, quiet voice. “They are a means to an end, a tool, and those we choose to keep will be treated as such. Among all who remain among the fae you should have learnt these lessons. You have lived long enough to know how far we have fallen.”

He shook his head then, as if shaking off the conversation. “What of you? Why have you not claimed the throne yourself? Your daughter herself called you ruler here.”

Tauntha glanced back at Aervern and shook her head, an odd expression playing over her features. “I do not truly rule. I lack the support to mount a successful bid for the throne. The rule of Tira Scyon, of what fae remain, is a tenuous thing lying between myself and Variska, the Light of the ‘Reeth.”

Aelthen raised an eyebrow at that, genuine surprise on his face “A Fae’reeth? Truly? I would not have thought one of them capable.”

Tauntha nodded. “She is ancient, far older than I, though she seldom leaves the tree and her swarm now. There are a score or more of self-styled lords who would reach for the throne but their game, of houses long-fallen, is little more than petty squabbles. They have not the influence or the numbers to make a true claim.”

Aelthen waved the response away. “Enough of this. Our Lady will be full and glorious as she fills the skies no longer than a handful of nights from now. I will take my children, and all that choose to come, on The Hunt. Will you come and see for yourself of what I speak? Of what the manlings have become?”

Tauntha shook her head with a laugh. “You flatter me, Huntmaster, but these bones are too old for the Worldtrails. My daughter perhaps?” She looked back at Aervern with a raised eyebrow. Aervern fell still under their attention and nodded once. Beside her, Miriam kept her face impassive but within her a desperate hope took shape.

***

Aervern stepped out into the courtyard behind Gannkis as he carried the tray of honeycakes and fruits to Miriam’s small table. It had become a morning ritual of sorts, Aervern would join her for breakfast and question her on the events of the previous day. Half the time, in fact, most of the time, Miriam didn’t understand what it was Aervern was looking for. She seemed to focus on the most unlikely of events but, as the night of the full moon drew closer, she seemed increasingly anxious.

Aervern sat down into the cushions with a fluid elegance that would have made a dancer weep while Gannkis set down the tray. A human would have sunk down or simply collapsed into the cushions. Miriam herself struggled to sit in the cushions and retain any shred of dignity. She smiled a greeting as she reached for one of the honeycakes.

“Did you sleep well?” Miriam asked, prodding a gentle smile out onto her face even as it fought to run and hide. She couldn’t really care less if the fae had slept well or not. What she wanted was to understand what this creature really wanted from her.

“We do not truly sleep,” Aervern was saying. “Not as your kind do. To say we take rest would be closer. It is hard to explain.”

Miriam nodded.

Aervern picked at a cake, breaking off small pieces barely larger than crumbs. “I would know your thoughts of Aelthen’s intentions.”

Miriam coughed on the honey cake, the seeds and nuts spraying from her lips and bouncing against her raised hand. The fae woman looked at her, her amber eyes intent, clearly waiting for her to begin. “You want to know what I think of Aelthen’s plans? His plans to travel to my world and slaughter my people?”

“That was my question, yes.”

Miriam stared at the woman for a moment and shook her head in wonder. “I think—” she began but cut off as Aervern sprang to her feet and looked about wildly. She clapped a hand over her mouth and sprinted across the small courtyard. Miriam stared after her as Aervern ran to a tall clay urn and bent over it, retching and heaving.

“Aervern!” she struggled to her feet and hobbled after her on legs gone stiff from sitting.

The fae was pale and shaking. She shrugged off Miriam’s hands as she reached for her and wiped at her mouth with one trembling hand.

“Are you sick?” Miriam asked.

Aervern sneered at the notion. “We fae do not get, ‘sick’.” She went back to the table and snatched up a goblet of wine. “I do not understand this. It has been the same most mornings for days now.”

Miriam’s eyes widened. “Days?”

Aervern nodded. “Always the same. I catch the scent of these cakes and then I am…as you saw. I do not understand this. The aroma is not unpleasant.”

Miriam looked at the fae curiously. “Aervern, could you be pregnant?”

“What would this retching have to do with that?”

“Women often find that they become sick in the early stages,” Miriam said with a shrug. “For most it’s something that passes.”

“Fae females do not suffer from this.” Her voice was firm but her eyes darted about under a tight frown. She was hiding something.

“Ileriel would sometimes have me serve those fae who’d visited the breeding pens in Tir Rhu’thin,” Miriam said, the words coming slow and cautious. “Morning sickness was not unknown amongst them.”

“Fae do not get sick.” Aervern glared at her, biting off the words.

Miriam ignored her. “Those carrying a human child did.” She fell silent as Aervern’s head sank down into her hands.

“What is it for then, this sickness?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What purpose does it serve?” Aervern asked her.

“Purpose?” Miriam shook her head.

“All things have a purpose when birthing a child,” Aervern stated, brooking no argument. “The urge to eat increases, providing food for the babe. The teats grow, and ready themselves for milk. What purpose does this retching serve?”

Miriam laughed but stifled it at Aervern’s expression. “I don’t think it works like that, Aervern.” Her smile faded. “Really? Fae women don’t get morning sickness? Ever?”

The woman shook her head firmly. “Never.”

Miriam fell silent. If Aervern was pregnant it was by a human. She thought back, had the fae ever told her she had never met humans? If what she’d told her of the Wyrde and the Returned was true, she couldn’t have. But then how could she be pregnant? The thoughts tumbled over themselves inside her until her common sense gave way and she spoke without thinking. “I thought I was the first human you’d met?”

Aervern’s eyes flashed as she caught the slip and she sipped at her goblet before she spoke again. “I did not feel the need to speak of it.”

The words were mild enough but there was a heat behind them, warning Miriam off. She ignored it. Life was short enough and she’d lived a life she’d despised. “Yet you expect me to tell you everything about Tir Rhu’thin, about how the fae here react to the changes Aelthen brings. You’ve made me your spy, Aervern. Don’t you think you owe me this news about my own kind?”

Aervern started to speak, the tone hot and angry, but then bit it back and Miriam relaxed out of the flinch that had only half-started. “You are right. I do have truths I should tell.” She met Miriam’s eyes and her expression was both haughty and ashamed, like a child forced to admit a lie. When did childhood end for fae? Miriam wondered. She pushed the thoughts away as Aervern began to speak.

“Far from here, closer to Tir Rhu’thin, lay the ruins of a city, Tir Riviel. It is ancient, older than many parts of Tira Scyon, and it is a place of mysteries. Humans dwelt there, ages past, when fae and human lived as one. I travel there sometimes, to wander its empty squares and lost gardens. I met two humans there, not long before you arrived here with the Returned.”

“Humans!” Miriam blurted. “From where? What happened to them?”

“From Tir Rhu’thin,” Aervern replied. “They had escaped the camps there and fled. They came upon that place by chance.”

“When was this?” Miriam demanded, excitement filling her.

“Ten or twelve weeks past.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t long before I got here?” Miriam protested, biting her tongue as Aervern shrugged, unconcerned. “So where did they go? What happened to them?”

Aervern drank deeply from her cup, draining it and reaching for the jug to refill it. “They stayed for a time, long enough for the male and I to grow close enough to couple anyway. Eventually I left them.”

Miriam let that one pass, focusing on the rest. “So they could still be there?”

“No, Miriam.” Her voice was soft, almost gentle.

“Why not? They could be!”

Aervern shook her head. “They had escaped from Tir Rhu’thin. Satyr were already hunting them.”

“What are you saying?”

She looked down into her cup as she spoke. “They were hunted, Miriam. You must know what happened to them?”

Miriam nodded as tears pricked at her eyes.

“Say it,” Aervern insisted.

Miriam lifted her head to glare at the fae. There was no reason behind this. This was purely spite and she would die before she allowed another of this race to take pleasure in her misery. “They’re dead,” she said, her voice flat and cold.

“I would have saved them if I could,” Aervern said. “The Returned had not yet made contact with Tira Scyon, though we knew of their presence. I could not have our first contact be overshadowed by tales of us aiding their escaped slaves.”

“No, that would be terrible,” Miriam said, drawing out the words until the sarcasm fairly dribbled from them.

“You forget yourself!” Aervern snapped.

“No, Fae.” Miriam snapped back, slamming a hand down onto the table. “I remember myself. For the first time in thirty years or more, I am not buried under Ileriel’s influence. My mind is free to see things as they really are. I see you are not the same as Ileriel but you are still fae. You, and all your kind will always see us as beneath you, less than you. We are barely a step above animals to you and you will always use us as you will!”

“Yes, we will.” Aervern agreed, calm despite Miriam’s outburst. “The difference will lie in how we treat you. How those at Tira Scyon might treat humans need not be the same as how those from Tir Rhu’thin have. Aelthen will soon make his bid for the ivy throne. Already the Returned hold themselves as superior. Already fae here accept the name Wildfae.” She stood abruptly. “Walk with me. I wish for you to see something. It is something you have seen before but clearly you did not get the message.”

She led Miriam out into the streets of Tira Scyon and towards the enclave they had visited before. She did not speak, ignoring Miriam’s attempts as she hurried her along. The streets were crowded as they entered the enclave. It seemed that most of the fae in Tira Scyon had packed themselves into the district. Aervern still did not speak. Instead she would touch Miriam’s hand and subtly indicate things she wished her to see.

A tall fae made her way along the path, her bearing imperious and she looked through Miriam rather than at her as her eyes swept over them both. Behind her three fae followed, bearing baskets. On the wrist of each of them was a black leather cuff, embossed with red markings. Miriam raised an eyebrow at Aervern in question but the fae shook her head and led her onwards.

The leather cuffs were suddenly everywhere she looked, on both fae and satyr alike. Fae wore haughty expressions as they paraded along the winding paths or lounged on the stone benches.

“Aervern, are you taking your pet for a walk?” Aervern spun in place to face Ileriel as she made her way towards them. A satyr and male fae stood to one side of her, eyes downcast as they waited.

“As are you, it would seem,” Aervern replied, unruffled.

Ileriel gave her companions a glance and shrugged. “These two? They serve in exchange for knowledge. I could accommodate one more, should you wish to learn of glyph-lore yourself?”

The hiss was soft but Miriam was close enough to hear it as Aervern fought down her rising anger. “An interesting offer but I must decline. I was under the impression that glyph-lore was to be shared freely?”

“As it is,” Ileriel forced frost into the shape of smile. “These two just wish to acquire the knowledge more swiftly than other wildfae.”

Aervern shrugged, looking bored.

“And what of your new pet? Will you be bringing her along this night as Our Lady rises? Will she ride along behind you on The Hunt? There is little point in possessing a trophy if none can see it, now is there?”

Aervern studied Miriam as if seeing her for the first time. “She would be of little use I expect.”

“A banner is of little use if not flown,” Ileriel countered. “Bring her. She can be the living flag of the wildfae as they taste the sweetness of the hunt.”

Aervern’s eyes flickered to meet Miriam’s, carrying an apology in that briefest of looks. “Perhaps I will, at that.”

Ileriel flicked a glance at Miriam, laughter in her eyes though no smile touched her lips. “Excellent. I look forward to seeing you as we muster at your great tree.”

“At the tree?” Aervern asked.

“Had you not heard?” Ileriel looked honestly surprised. “Variska herself will join us on The Hunt. The Swarm will rise.”

Aervern gasped. “The Swarm has not left that tree in my lifetime.”

“And how long has it been since any wildfae joined the hunt?” Ileriel laughed. “When we reclaim that land that is truly ours the fae’reeth will have their place. Of course the Swarm rises! As soon as Aelthen find the satyr you sent into the wild they will rise also.”

“Until the Lady rises then.” Aervern nodded her farewell and pulled Miriam after her. She dragged Miriam along by the wrist until they passed beyond the enclave and into the empty pathways of Tira Scyon. “The Swarm,” Aervern breathed. “I had not thought Variska would leave her tree again.”

She looked over to Miriam. The mask had shattered and for the first time Miriam could see true fear in her amber eyes. She looked lost.

As a very young child Miriam thought of her father as perfect. His deep voice was rarely raised in anger and his strong hands were always there guiding her. They had often wandered the woods close to the inn, harvesting the wild mushrooms her mother was so fond of. It was just a scratch really, but when the knife slipped in his hands, slicing into the delicate skin of her leg, the real wound was her sudden realisation he was human. He too could make mistakes. He wasn’t all-knowing. The thought had shocked her so much she hadn’t shed a tear or uttered a sound as her father fussed about her, binding the wound and carrying her in his arms all the way home. The look on Aervern’s face was the same as she’d worn then. The world had shifted under her feet. Something about the fae’reeth joining the hunt had shocked her to the core of her being.

“I must leave you for a time.” Aervern spoked suddenly as she collected herself and looked at the old woman. “I will return in good time to collect you for the hunt. I will have to bring you on this. I wish it were not so but Ileriel gives us little choice.” She gave a short bow of farewell, apparently forgetting herself so thoroughly that she bowed to an almost-slave. Miriam stared after her in silence before turning to make her way back to Aervern’s home.

Chapter Four

The moon climbed into the cloudless sky, cresting the trees slowly, and ignorant of the dread it brought along with it. It spilled out over Miriam, carried along by the silvery light, and then it gnawed at her. The courtyard was silent as she waited and the windows of the house watched her, dark and soulless.

She waited. Aervern had not returned even as the twilight faded into true night, but still she waited. She knew it could not be long. The moon was still rising but the horns did not wait. The first call, long and mournful, sounded as soon as the lowest edge of the fae’s silvery goddess no longer reached down to touch the trees. Other horns rose to join with the first. To them it probably sounded glorious and jubilant but to Miriam it sounded a death knell. A call to butchery.

Aervern appeared without ceremony, passing through the archway into the courtyard and reaching out to take Miriam’s arm as she drew close. The silvery cord that she fashioned was just a glamour, Miriam knew this, but it was identical to the one Ileriel had chained her with. She raised an eyebrow at Aervern and lifted her arm experimentally, testing the weight though there was nothing to feel but a cool, mist-like touch on her skin.

“Ileriel has me bound by her expectation but she cannot force me to become her, no matter how much she forces me to appear as if she has. So long as we two know the difference, that is enough.” The fae ignored Miriam’s questioning look. “It is a glamour only. Do not stray far from my side or we will be undone.”

Miriam followed as the fae began the walk towards the distant tree at the centre of the city. The chain hung between them, weightless but yet heavy with implication. She ran a hand through it, the silvery links of the chain passed through the flesh of her fingers as if they were no more than fog themselves. Aervern glanced back at her, perhaps feeling her actions. She was intent on not treating Miriam as a slave, as less than her, yet they walked together towards a hunt that would see the fae chasing down humans like rabbits. The notion was ridiculous and the long bone knives strapped to Aervern’s back muddied the waters further still. Miriam was close to giving up on her attempts to understand her but the questions refused to still in her mind, and she worried at them as they drew closer to the tree.

The central square was packed, fae creatures of every colour and size were pressed in. Miriam shivered under the weight of the eyes that fell upon her. Free of Ileriel’s influence she realised for the first time that she truly was a trophy. She shifted closer to Aervern and looked down at her feet, avoiding the eyes around her.

Those closest to Aelthen sat astride pale white horses, waiting in silence. Aelthen stood at the tree itself, a hand pressed to the trunk as fae’reeth beyond count swirled around the branches above him. The moonlight played over him as he stepped out from the shadows, his fae and satyr parting to make way for him.

A human would have spoken. He would have given a speech or said some words to mark the event. Even as she realised that Aelthen had no intention of speaking she recognised what a human thing it was to do. They all knew why they had gathered. Why speak about it?

He stopped, raising his face to the moonlight as he drank in the power, and then lifted a hand, palm upraised, as the Lady’s Grace rushed out of him. It began as more of a sensation than a spectacle. A chill swirled around her feet as if a cold tide had rushed in. Miriam looked down between the press of feet and saw the first tendrils become thick coils as the mist began to form, motes of light dancing inside the shifting grey mass. He lifted his palm upwards and then stepped up onto the ever-thickening blanket of mist. With one hand he beckoned, calling the fae to follow as he charged upwards into the sky.

Miriam kept close to Aervern as the packed fae surged forward. Huntmaster, Tauntha had called him and, as he led the pack, he did, indeed, look glorious. His antlers shone in the light and his powerful form was a challenge to all that beheld him. Miriam pinched herself and muttered a curse at the pain. It wasn’t that she was falling under the fae’s influence at all. He simply was just a magnificent sight.

Those on horseback easily outpaced the others until they stepped up onto the mist. It swept them along behind Aelthen and Miriam found that she easily kept up with those in front. On an impulse she stopped moving altogether and yet somehow was still beside Aervern. It didn’t matter if she ran or not. She laughed out loud at the pure vanity of the creatures. The shining armour, the galloping horses, all of it was fuel for their incredible egotism.

The host rose above the trees, turning in a broad spiral as they climbed. Miriam looked back and watched as the Swarm rose from their tree, Variska shining at their centre as if they’d somehow stolen a piece of the moon. The fae’reeth needed no help from Aelthen to take flight and they flew to one side of the trailing mist, keeping level with the head of the column as they flew towards the farthest edges of the city.

They swept out over the fields, empty now of the satyr that tended them, and passed over the forests, leaving the city far behind. Aervern’s eyes were wide with shock and wonder as she looked behind them, and then up to the head of the column and the antlered figure that led them. Miriam followed her gaze. Thousands of fae and satyr were running in this hunt. Did the creature know no limits? How much power and effort was this taking? He certainly showed no sign of strain. Another facade, she realised. If he could have lifted the fae so easily why would they have trekked all the way from Tir Rhu’thin? No, Aelthen was not without limits. He was expending the power he’d hoarded during their journey to Tira Scyon. This jaunt was designed to gather fae to his banner but it was not without its cost.

She looked down at the trees beneath them. The sight was dizzying but her stomach was already roiling and focusing on something solid seemed to help for a little while. The moonlight was bright enough for her to see down into the forest clearly and dark shadows moved and shifted with them, seeming to course after the host as it flew.

They were not headed for Tir Rhu’thin, that much she was certain of. After spending so much time with Aervern it was easy to forget that the Returned were not strangers to this land, just to the land it had become.

After a time the trees began to thin and, as she looked down again, she saw the shadows moving once more. The moonlight caught on something, and then again, and as the thin clouds parted the bright light was reflected on something with numbers beyond counting. The host surged overhead as she stared down at them and suddenly she realised they were eyes she was seeing. Endless pairs of amber eyes, glaring up at them in the moonlight. She caught at Aervern’s sleeve but the look on her face showed she’d already seen.

“This is where they flee to.” Aervern explained sadly as she leaned close to Miriam’s ear. “When we drive the satyr from Tira Scyon this must where they much gather.”

“Lords and Ladies, there must be tens of thousands of them.” Miriam gasped. The forest parted ahead of them and as they drew closer Miriam finally realised the sheer scope of the numbers. The clearing was packed to overflowing with satyr, pressed shoulder to shoulder as they glared up at the fae. The laughter of the fae fell silent as more and more of the host saw what lay beneath them, and then knives were bared and thrust skyward as the satyr screamed out, hurling their hate at the sky and the fae that had rejected them.

Aelthen did not spare them a glance but urged them onward, galloping at the head of the host. He charged ahead, outdistancing the others and reared suddenly, stabbing a hand down towards the earth. The stone ring was smaller than the others Miriam had seen but Aelthen raced down towards it, green mist already rising from his arms as he reached for the central monoliths.

The cold was as bitter as she remembered it as they moved through the stones into the darkness. It clawed at her, scouring her skin as her lungs threatened to burst. To breathe in here would bring unending agony. Ileriel had warned her of that. Only the living could pass through the stones. Those who fell in here were too close to death to escape or to pass on. They would remain, lost in the darkness with only their agony for company but denied the final release.

They charged through the featureless darkness, passing into another place and touching onto an expanse of lifeless grey stone before moving into the darkness again. She had almost convinced herself that this place existed only in her nightmares. Tangled memories twisted in her head as recoiled from them. And then they were out, pushing through the stone into the warmth of the night as the same moon looked down onto a different world.

Miriam sagged, and would have fallen, if Aervern hadn’t caught her. It was all very well being able to walk on her own but when she had been brought through on Ileriel’s horse at least she had been able to collapse over the animal.

Around her, wildfae shook off the frost and ice that clung to clothing and hair as they recovered. Most ignored it, their elation too bright to be dulled by mere ice. A blast of a horn called them onwards and Aelthen lifted them into the air once more, his skin sparking with fresh power under the light of the moon. The night was chill but Miriam barely noticed. The differences were slight in the darkness but looking up she could see the stars. This was her world. This was Haven. She was home.

The fae climbed until it seemed they must reach the clouds and the vista opened up beneath them. Lights in the distance drew closer as they skirted a fishing village and Miriam marvelled at the sight of the moonlight dancing on the waves. A small town was next as they traversed the skies. As, what must surely be a city, grew before them Aelthen’s voice sounded in her ears, clear despite the rush of wind and the clamour of the fae. “See how our wayward servants have spread? How their rude settlements litter this land as they themselves spawn and defile it? This was to be our land. The Lady herself promised it to us and yet these manlings have stolen it away. All this shall be reclaimed. All this we shall purge!”

He turned sharply, banking away from the lights of the city on the horizon and driving the host down towards a farming village Miriam hadn’t even noticed was there until the last moment. Fields spread out around the walls and the buildings were dark save for a smattering of oil lamps in windows.

Aelthen’s hoof pushed down through the mist and hit the packed dirt of the road like a thunderclap and, as the fae charged, a dog inside the village began to bark a desperate warning. The village gates shattered, hunks of splintered wood flying in all directions as he shouldered them aside, and then the hunt began.

Miriam looked in horror at Aervern as the slaughter began but her eyes were locked on the spectacle. Fae and satyr crashed through doors and windows, and the screams that followed told a sickening tale of what happened thereafter. They were the lucky ones. Others were driven out into the streets for the satyr to torment. Aervern’s eyes gave nothing away of what she might be feeling but she made no move to join the others.

Miriam looked around at those closest to her, and then took an experimental step. The mist had reduced to a thin ribbon running along the road, no longer pulling them along but still keeping them a few inches above the ground itself. She reached out with a foot, past the edge of the ribbon and touched down onto the hard earth. A wild glance back at Aervern, distracted by the gory spectacle, and she slipped away into the night.

She had done it. Fear and hysterical laughter fought for control of her voice as she slipped between two buildings, and then she ran. She went as fast as she was able down a small back-street. Screams were rising over the shrieks of delight and the laughter of the satyr. A desperate wail turned her head and she glimpsed a man being carried aloft by the Swarm as the fae’reeth tore him to bloody shreds.

Doors opened around her as heads poked out into the streets before slamming shut far faster than they had creaked open, curiosity replaced with terror. She didn’t look back, just running took all she had. The village wasn’t a large one. She would need somewhere to hide. Running for any length of time would be futile, she knew. Her feet splashed through the muddy puddles, soaking her robes and feet.

A scream, closer than the others, forced her under an over-hanging roof and tight against a large doorway. The smell of straw and manure filled her nostrils and she fumbled with the door until the latch gave and she stumbled inside.

The sound of animals shifting nervously filled her ears as she eased the door shut and moved forward, one hand thrust out awkwardly in front of her in the darkness. Faint shafts of light filtered through the cracks in the stable’s door and walls. As her eyes adjusted she could make out a series of stalls and what she hoped was a ladder leading up. A pail clanged loudly as she kicked it over and she fumbled on the floor to right it, looking back at the faint outline of the door before she shuffled deeper into the stable.

Flailing hands found the ladder and she pulled herself up into the hayloft on her hands and knees, clambering over the straw. A hand touched flesh and she jerked away as the foot kicked out and a young voice cried out, “Who’s there!”

“Hush, lad,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ll not hurt you.”

A scraping accompanied a burst of sparks, and then soft lantern light filled the stable. “Who are you?” the boy asked as she flinched back from the light. His head turned before she could answer as the sound of screams reached him.

“Lords and Ladies, child, put that out!” she hissed.

He snuffed the lantern quickly and she pulled him down to the hay. “What’s going on? Who’s out there?” he asked in a tight whisper.

“No one you want to meet,” she muttered and winced as another scream sounded, seeming to come from directly above the roof. A wet spattering on the shingles was followed by a series of thuds and she reached for the boy’s hand without thinking, squeezing tight.

The door creaked and then slammed a moment later, catching in the night breeze. “You’re not from here. Are you with them?” The question was barely louder than her own breath.

“I’m not with anyone. I ran from them,” she replied. “Be still now, child. I’ll tell you anything you want to know later but for now, shush.”

As she said the last word she realised just how quiet the stables had become, the animals still and silent. She inched closer to the edge of the hayloft, lifting her head to peer over the edge. The eyes were calm as they locked on her, glowing gently in the darkness of the stable.

“You cannot run from me, Miriam. Not now.” Aervern’s said in a small voice “I might wish it were otherwise, but for now you must be bound to my purpose.”

Miriam sighed as hope left her and she reached for the ladder. “Why can’t you just let me be free? I’m of no use to you.”

“You are of more use that you know. It is more than that though, Miriam. I do not expect you have been missed but your absence would be noted when we return to the Realm,” Aervern said softly, every word an apology. She needn’t have bothered. Nothing she could say would ever be enough for this.

The anger came all at once, hot and fierce and bringing a bitter tang to her tongue. “I am not your tool to use, fae!” she spat. “I won’t go back. You’ll have to kill me.”

Aervern gave her a cool look. “I am sorry for this, Miriam. I never would have wished this.”

Miriam looked down as she felt the cool touch of the glamour as the chain formed around her wrist once more, and then the full weight of Aervern’s mind fell upon her, crushing her, and sense and reason left her.

Another scream sounded close to the stable doors and Aervern glanced up at the hayloft. “Be still now, manling,” she whispered to the child. “They come!”

***

Miriam stood on the crumbling balcony. The building stood close to the edge of Tira Scyon, in an area none of the fae seemed to bother with. She took an experimental step towards the low wall and felt the presence grow inside her head. It grew more alert, watching for her next move. She was close, only six feet from the edge where the wall had broken and tumbled away. Two quick steps were all it would take. She could hurl herself into the air and end it all.

It didn’t take much, just a slight shifting of her weight in preparation to throw herself forward. The presence moved faster than she would have thought possible, smothering her, draining away her will, her anger, until she sighed and stepped back, numb.

Aervern had tried to speak with her several times in the days since they’d come back to Tira Scyon. She’d removed ‘the Touch’ as Aervern had described it, as soon as they reached her home but Miriam had refused to speak to her since. A small part of her had thought she was being childish but then, what more could she do? The hunt had demonstrated one thing, however. Despite all that Aervern claimed she was as much a captive under her as she had ever been with Ileriel. Aervern’s plans, whatever they were, required her cooperation.

Her attempts at suicide were not truly serious, not that she wouldn’t have welcomed death if the opportunity presented itself. It was more an effort to show the fae that she was the one in control, not her. However much Aervern might be able to smother her attempts Miriam was the one triggering the fae’s actions. Aervern may have made her into a puppet but the strings ran in both directions. She could tug on them too. Her lips curved into a perverse smile at the thought.

Movement on the disused street caught her eye and she stepped forward again, leaning on the remains of the wall for support as she craned her neck out. They moved furtively, the cautious movement itself somehow drawing more attention than moving normally would have. It was a satyr, though one far more wild than any she’d seen before. Its clothing was little more than rags, a tattered length of cloth flung over one shoulder and tied around the waist. A flicker turned her head and she caught sight of another, then three more.

She was halfway down the stone steps before it came to her. These satyr must be coming in response to Aelthen’s call. These were the ones who had taken the other path to Gannkis. These were the satyr that had chosen to be exiled from Tira Scyon rather than accept gelding.

The thought gave her pause. The satyr she had encountered in this city were more like servants than anything else. The barely contained wildness and cruelty she’d know from those at Tir Rhu’thin had been cut away. These satyr she had glimpsed from the balcony seemed somehow worse than those serving Aelthen.

She forced herself onwards, suddenly wishing that she hadn’t sought out this deserted quarter. The street was still and empty by the time she reached it but distant shouts made her head for the city centre. The cries attracted others and she soon found herself following a growing crowd of fae and satyr.

Aervern’s voice was clear long before Miriam was close enough to see her or make out the words. She stood in the centre of the square railing at Ileriel as Aelthen watched on impassively.

“What right do you have to violate our law and custom? These have made their choice. They chose exile and yet you invite them to return? You, who are not even of Tira Scyon? You send missives to this beast and his pack and you bring you him here? Here, of all places?”

“Aervern!” the voice was somehow all the more penetrating for its gentle tone as Tauntha made her way through the throng. “It is not your place to do this, child.”

Aelthen nodded in a polite acknowledgement as Tauntha turned to face him. “The question is not hers to ask,” she said in even tones. “Yet it stands unanswered. By what right do you violate our laws? By what right do you invite this creature here?”

“This creature is Riahl, Lord of the Great Revel. He is owed your respect, Tauntha, for he is as much an elder as you yourself. He answered my summons as Lord of the Hunt and he comes to bear witness.”

“Bear witness?” Tauntha echoed him with a frown and shook her head. “You do not answer the question. By what right do you violate our law and custom?”

“By right of challenge.” Aelthen’s voice rolled out over the assembled fae like a wave. It broke over Tauntha’s words and sent them tumbling to the surf. “I summon your exiled satyr, my brothers in the hunt, to bear witness. I am Aelthen. Huntmaster, Worldwalker. I stand as leader of the Returned and I would lead all fae. I would claim the Ivy Throne. Are there any among you who dispute my right or contest my claim?”

Even from the back of the square Miriam could see the impact of the words. It was almost funny. The shock stripped the fae of their arrogance and, for just one moment, many looked almost human.

“I contest.” The call came from the back of the square and heads turned to see the fae Miriam had been forced to dance with, once again wrapped his glamour of mists. The crowd parted as he approached and Aelthen regarded him evenly.

“How are you called?” he asked after a long silence.

The mists sank down, curling about the fae’s shoulders and revealing the proud face “I am Caraviel, Lord of Mists.”

Aelthen studied him, measuring his worth. “You pose no threat to me, faeling,” he told the fae. “Withdraw your challenge. I will not hold you to words spoken with no thought or reason.”

Caraviel’s nostrils flared as he glared at Aelthen and spoke through clenched teeth. “I will not withdraw.”

Aelthen sighed, waving a dismissive hand at his challenger. “I will not waste time on this. You cannot best me.”

“The dance of blades.” Caraviel roared in anger as he tore curved daggers from within the mists that clung to his body. “My challenge will be by blade.”

Aelthen sighed again and looked at the fae with contempt. “You foolish child. You challenge, knowing little or nothing of me and yet you place no limits on your challenge.” He extended an arm in a lazy fashion and stones erupted skyward as thick roots flew out of the ground beneath, wrapping around Caraviel’s limbs and dragging him spread-eagled to the stones.

Aelthen ignored the struggles of the fae as he fought the grip of the roots. “Let all take note that I offered this faeling the chance to withdraw.” He looked back to his challenger and the smile left his face. Caraviel’s shouts became cries for help, and then screams of pain as Aelthen gestured and the roots began to pull. The screams grew louder and more frantic until, with a wet tearing sound, Caraviel’s arms and legs were ripped from his body and he exploded in a shower of gore. Aelthen smiled then, a thin smile devoid of mirth or compassion as he ignored the roots as they feasted and turned his eyes back to the crowd.

“Does any other contest my right?”

“I contest, Worldwalker.” The call was soft, almost regretful, but the words carried anyway. Aelthen turned to regard Tauntha and smiled. She made her way to his side with no hurry, nodding thanks at those who murmured support as she passed.

He bowed with genuine respect as she approached. The gesture stood in stark contrast to the contempt with which he had treated Caraviel and, as Miriam looked on, the square fell silent.

“What form would you choose?”

“I choose the Grace of Our Lady. The art of glamours,” Tauntha replied and, for the briefest moment, Miriam saw a flicker of doubt cross Aelthen’s face. “Strip me of my glamour, if you can. The challenge is by Grace alone.” Tauntha spoke formally and turned to face the watching crowd as she closed her eyes.

Without really thinking about what she was doing Miriam moved through the throng until she reached Aervern’s side. The fae nodded to her once in greeting but said nothing.

The attack came without preamble. No foolish posturing, no wasted words. Aelthen extended one hand towards Tauntha and the power began to flow out of him. The green mist came from his hands, rising up above Tauntha, and then crashing over her in a wave that continued to curl under and around her until she was surrounded in the eye of its storm.

In the centre of it all she stood, silent and unmoving, unruffled by the power that raged around her. The contest carried on in silence, each of them focused on their efforts. Motes of light swarmed around Tauntha like maddened fireflies and her form rippled for a heartbeat, before solidifying once more. Aelthen muttered in obvious frustration and thrust another hand out, bearing down with his teeth clenched in a grimace.

Miriam glanced once at Aervern’s face but the fear and worry was enough to turn her gaze away. Aelthen roared out in frustration as the torrent of power flowing from him began to wane. He glanced out once into the throng before reaching a hand out towards the crowd.

An anguished gasp passed through the crowd as the first tendrils of power rose from them, leeched away by the force of Aelthen’s will, and passing swiftly into his outstretched fingers. He became a conduit, draining power from the fae only to send it blasting into Tauntha's form.

The gasp became more pronounced, overlaid with thin, reedy, wails of pain as some of the weakest collapsed to the ground. Aelthen drew himself up, shoulders bunching as the power infused him and his eyes flared with a bight amber light. A torrent of power burst from him, slamming into Tauntha and tearing around her, shredding the layers from her glamour as she screamed in the centre of the cyclone of mist that surrounded her.

As the power raged Miriam became aware of another current. A flow of mist trailing back out of the torrent surrounding Tauntha. Aelthen wasn’t just destroying her glamour, he was tearing the power from her.

Tauntha shook as the torrent rocked her, her image wavering as chunks of it were torn away, revealing the truth concealed beneath. She began to shine brightly, the light blasting out from her to be greedily absorbed by her adversary as her glamour was destroyed. A final roar of triumph from Aelthen and, at last, Tauntha’s voice rose to join his in an agonised scream, pain twisting her face before she fell silent and collapsed to the dirt.

Miriam looked from the horror on Aervern’s face to the scene that was unfolding before them. The creature she had only ever before glimpsed for the briefest moment lay in the dirt, exposed and unmasked for any to see. She lay gasping, naked in the truest sense of the word, as those closest gaped at her frail, wizened form. Her chest rose and fell in painful, laboured breaths as Aervern made her way forward and knelt beside her. She bent low, perhaps to catch one whispered sentence, and then Tauntha was still.

Aervern stood then, striding forward toward Aelthen. Fae and satyr rushed from her path and from the dreadful silence she seemed to carry with her.

“The challenge was to strip Tauntha of her glamour,” she snarled.

Aelthen looked down at her. “She placed poor limits on her challenge.”

“It was to be by the Grace of our Lady alone,” Aervern grated.

“And as it was.”

“That is not so.” Aervern snapped. “All here saw how you drew upon the Grace of those present.”

Aelthen frowned in mock confusion. “Is that not the Lady’s Grace?”

“None from Tira Scyon could draw the grace from another,” Aervern persisted.

“Should I have limited myself then?” Aelthen asked in mock concern. “Been less than I am? If this challenge had been by blades ought I to have fought with less skill? This was my right to the Ivy Throne contested. I would bring to bear any and all of my skills to win, as would any other here. You do no honour to the fallen with this display.”

Aervern stopped cold and looked around at the eyes upon her. She drew herself up then and gave a curt nod of acceptance before stalking into the crowd.

“Is there any other among you who would contest my claim?” Aelthen called out across the square. He waited in silence for five long breaths before turning to the great tree. “Variska,” he called. “Speak for the fae’reeth. Is the claim accepted?”

The only answer was silence and the ever present sound of the wings as the fae’reeth circled the branches in their endless dance. Aelthen smothered a look of frustration that was not lost on Miriam as he turned to face the crowd once more.

“Riahl, will you kneel to the throne? Will your Revel return to make the fae as we should be once more?”

“We will, Satyri. Our people should be as one.” The voice was soft, urbane, and not at all what Miriam had expected.

“My children,” Aelthen spoke up as he lifted his arms high. “My lost brethren of Tira Scyon, Brothers of the Hunt, I would make our people great once more. I would reclaim the Land of Our Lady and purge the maggots that infest her body. I claim the Ivy Throne by Grace and blade. Join with me so that we might summon the throne to us.”

The roar that followed his words seemed all the louder for Aervern’s silence as Aelthen smiled his acceptance. He turned to the Great Tree and held a hand out, as if beckoning. Stood to one side of the square Miriam could see his eyes close. The first rumbles were so slight she barely noticed them but soon there could be no doubt as the earth heaved and boiled before him. The stones moved first, buckling and being forced aside as the first of the thick roots thrust up through the earth. More soon joined it, twisting and weaving around each other as they formed together. Smaller tendrils worked around the larger roots, whipping around in a fury as they wove themselves into a tight lattice.

“What is he doing?” Miriam whispered to Aervern.

She did not look at her and her words were thick with emotion. “He summons the throne. Not seen in the days of my life or those of my sires.”

The roots formed into a broad dais with thick columns rising up to support the latticework roof the tendrils had formed. In the centre of the dais the throne itself sat, roots and vines still writhing under his will. Aelthen nodded once in satisfaction as the vines burst into bud, and then sprouted, surmounting the back of the throne in a crest of ivy.

The square fell silent, doubly silent Miriam realised as the fae’reeth stilled their flight, landing lightly on the boughs of the great tree. All eyes were on Variska as she took flight alone, glowing brightly as she flew across to the House of the Throne. Though no sound was spoken something must have passed between them, Miriam realised, as the Swarm itself descended upon the House of the Throne, touching down lightly on the roof until the fae’reeth filled it entirely. Those that could not land began a new spiral, flicking around in their complex dance above the throne in a whirling column that extended up toward the sky.

Aervern spun abruptly, pushing through the crowd of awestruck fae and satyr as she fled the square, leaving Miriam struggling to keep up as she followed.

Chapter Five

Torna reach back into the sack at her waist and flung the handful of rye seed onto the broken field. The sun was already starting to think about giving the day up but she'd made a good effort on the field at least. It was just too big. The farming they’d done on Bresda was no different but the land here seemed to go on forever. She could sow a field in Bresda in a day. She’d been working on this one for two full days already.

“Daft man,” she muttered. “If he listened to anything except what’s between his legs once or twice…” she trailed off. She told the bloody fool there was no need to start so big. Their farm of Bresda hadn’t been a tenth of the size of what he’d plotted out.

Torna sighed and tossed another handful of rye. She’d have her moment to laugh when it came time to reap this lot. It made sense to plant winter rye, she knew. There was already a huge demand for fodder for the horses and livestock. Kornik’s plan would see them in good stead, and with a healthy pile of coin if they could manage the crop.

She looked up at a half-heard sound in the trees. Some animal or other, she decided. This land was different in so many ways. Wilder in some ways too. Man had left such an imprint on Bresda that it was hard to find a spot where the land had been left to do as it pleased. Almost every inch was given over to farming, if it was green enough, or mining and fishing if it wasn’t. Here, though, there was so much untouched. It was like stepping into a fable. You could walk through the trees and wonder if they’d ever known the touch of man.

Her ears pricked again and she looked up at the sun, just visible through the gathering clouds. It had already found the horizon and was almost half-gone. Time she was getting back, she decided. It looked like rain and Kornik should be heading in soon anyway. She pulled the drawstring tight on the seed bag and hushed at her growling stomach as she thought of that evening’s meal. They had chickens but it seemed senseless to kill a bird when the woods were teeming with game.

Kornik rushed out of the trees in the distance in a crash of bushes. It was too far to make out his face but the way he’d stumbled out of the woods and his frantic, staggering, stirred her. He shouted at her, something too garbled to make out as he flapped his arms in her direction and her tentative steps towards him became a run.

“What is it?” she cried as she drew closer.

“Get away woman, run!” he gasped between ragged breaths. He glanced back over one shoulder and froze as he saw the empty field, the still trees. “They were behind me, scores of them. Chasing me and laughing.” He fell silent, shaking his head.

“What were?” Torna asked. She’d never seen the man like this. He was actually shaking.

“Monsters,” the word seemed to slip out before he could stop them. “Some kind of beasts.” He pushed past her, walking instead of his frantic run but still moving swiftly.

“What do you mean beasts?” She demanded as she hurried to keep up. “There’s nothing in those woods worse than a bear. You told me that yourself.”

“I was wrong,” he muttered and kept walking.

“Damn it, Kornik. You dragged me halfway around the world to this place. If you go soft in the head on me now…”

He whirled around on her, moving so fast that he staggered to keep from falling. “I know what I saw, Torna. They were right behind me!”

She let him go. His face had been twisted with anger as he’d spoken but she’d still seen the fear hiding behind it. The trees on the far side of the field were still as the last rays of the sun fell upon them. “Monsters or not, I’ll not stand in a field in the night.” She snorted and hurried after his distant figure.

The rain began before she made it back to their cottage. It was light but the dark clouds made it clear that this was a rain with plans and ambition. The cottage wasn’t much but at least it was their own, and she cursed under her breath as she saw the door left open and the rain blowing in.

“Kornik where are you? You left the door wide open!” She fell silent as he came out of the small bedroom, travel-sack in hand.

“Where are you going?”

He met her eyes. The panic had abated and he looked at her with a calm resolve. “We’re going to the village. I want stouter walls around me tonight.”

“The village?” she protested. “But you said you hated it there. Crammed into those little huts they’ve thrown up. It’s why we moved out here in the first place.”

“There’s guards there. There’s people there, Torna,” he said in a soft voice.

She shook her head. “Are you still on that? You got spooked by a shadow or boar or something. It happens to everyone now and then.”

“No, Torna. It wasn’t a boar, it wasn’t a shadow. My nanna used to tell me tales about what it was. We’ve all heard those tales. There’s trels, or something like them, in those woods and I’ll not sleep out here. You stay if you won’t believe me but I know what I saw.”

“Trels!” she snorted, stifling it quickly at the look on his face. “The Keepers would never have shipped us all over here if there was something like that.”

“Do you see any Keepers here?” He asked, waving his arms around the room. “They’re all back in Hesk getting fat on the coin they make off us while we scrape by on farthings! Do you really think they have any idea what might be in these woods? What do we really know about this place?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Nothing! Everything we know, they’ve told us. Well this time I’m the one telling you something.” He stepped closer to her, jabbing a finger at her as he spoke. “I saw something in those woods. I saw a horde of those damned things and they near ran the life out of me, chasing me through the trees. I’m going to the village. You come or you stay but I’m gone.”

She watched him go, clumping through the cottage in his heavy field-boots and leaving mud with every step. It was only as he looked back at her on the threshold that she saw the size of the travel-sack. She glanced around the cottage, at the things that were missing, and she could see it in his eyes. He didn’t expect to be coming back.

It was almost fully dark by the time they reached the walls of the village. Flaming torches burned on the walls and out amongst the sharpened stakes that surrounded them. Torna huddled deeper into her cloak as Kornik shivered through a brief conversation with the wall guards.

The village only had the one street and rain and feet had already worked to turn it to a thick sludge that oozed and sucked at her boots. There was no chance of getting into an empty farmer’s cottage this late in the day and Kornik wasted no time in heading for the inn. It was rude by Bresda’s standards but it was still warm and dry. A fiddler was sawing out a tune in the corner, close to the fire, and the laughter and conversation, coupled with the smell of hot food, was almost enough to make her forgive Kornik for dragging her out through the wet.

She took a small table in the corner and held it with her wet cloak before going to the bar to order food and drinks whilst Kornik haggled over the price of a room. It wouldn’t be cheap. He was soaked through and it was late. It was a seller’s market.

He stumped back over to the table just as the food arrived. A turnip soup with a thick crust of bread. Not the best meal by a long stretch but better than nothing. At least it was hot.

He still hadn’t relaxed. She could see him throwing furtive looks at the window between mouthfuls of soup. She leaned over the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He grunted around his spoon and avoided talking for a moment by sticking his nose into the mug of ale. “I saw one before the rest,” he said finally, speaking softly. “Just stood there in the shadows of the trees, staring at me.” He shook his head and avoided her eyes, speaking to the wall beside them more than to her. “I thought I was seeing things until it moved. It pulled a knife, slow-like, and licked the blade. I ran then, charging through the woods like a spooked sow. I could hear it behind me. Even over all the noise I was making I could hear it laughing, like it was soft in the head or something.” He met her eyes finally and the fear was plain for her to see, all fresh and sharp edges.

“I thought I was just running blind but it was herding me or something. I remember falling in the stream, and when I looked back there were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They just stood there, waiting for me to start running again, like it was all a game of chase.”

He looked down at the soup, poking at it with the carved wooden spoon, and opened his mouth to speak. The horn was low and mournful, it cut through the room leaving only a shocked silence in its wake as eyes shot to the door and windows. Silence fled as the chairs scraped and clattered to the floor. Kornik reached for Torna’s hand and pushed through the press of bodies as he pulled her from the inn.

The muddy street surged with villagers as they raced to their defence stations. Torna snatched her hand away from Kornik as the horn blasted again. “What are you doing? You should be going to the walls?”

“Those walls won’t stop that lot,” he told her. “We need to get out of here.”

She shook her head at him, fear warring with a strange sense of betrayal. “No! Barad, Kevet, and all the others are going to the walls. We only need to hold long enough for help to come. They’re depending on us!”

He gave her a long look. “Fine, we’ll go to the bloody walls. Then you’ll see.”

He half-dragged her between two buildings to a quieter section of the wall and up the rough ladder lashed in place.

“There!” He stabbed a finger out to the darkness lurking between the flare of torches. “Do you see them?”

She looked at him in shock for a second, and then followed his finger out into the murk. It was hard to see anything past the torchlight but something was moving. It was as if the darkness itself moved, shifting and restless, and then she saw the eyes.

Her fingers clutched at his arm as the image came together. Amber eyes stretched out like an ocean of fireflies. The smallest were just pinpricks in the dark but the closest shone clearly, glaring out of the faces of nightmares. She looked back at him and the single nod was all the answer he needed.

The first screams were already turning to echoes by the time they reached the rear gates. They were already abandoned. There weren’t enough men in the village to man the walls properly, let alone keep men to guard gates that were on the wrong side from the fight.

Kornik threw the bar down into the dirt and shoved the heavy gate open, and then they ran. They ran until their sides heaved and their eyes burned with tears and, behind them, in the darkness, a village screamed in fear and agony.

***

Klöss made a mark on the chart and looked up at the messenger as he hovered in the doorway. “What is it?”

“A message for Seamaster Kurikson,” the messenger said.

Klöss muttered something vile under his breath and glanced down at the chart again. “So why bring it here? Do I look like Frostbeard?”

The messenger fiddled with a torn corner of his leathers. “No, my lord.”

“Do I look like a lord?” Klöss grated up at the man. He was possibly enjoying this a little too much but the man was irritating him.

“No, Shipmaster.”

“Am I going to have to drag this out of you, man? I’m a little bit busy. Why are you here?”

The messenger squirmed as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I did try, sir. The Seamaster, he isn’t answering his door and, well, I didn’t like to just barge in. But the message, sir, well it’s supposed to be urgent.” He let it hang.

“Oh, for the love of… Give it here, man!” Klöss snatched the paper from his hand, breaking the seal and reading quickly. He frowned and read the message again before tossing it aside and reaching for the chart. Skelf was a tiny village, one of the most recently constructed, but in an area to the north and far behind their front lines. How had they even managed to reach it let alone attack it?

He grabbed up the message and pushed his way past the messenger, rushing through the halls. Whoever Frostbeard was with would just need to cope with the interruption. This was more important. If they had found a way past the front this could upset their whole effort. It could ruin them. A large enough force could cut to the heart of the lands they’d taken. Supply lines would be severed, dispatches waylaid. It could spell disaster for everything they’d achieved so far. If it was the Anlish, that was.

He’d expected to hear voices through the door but Frostbeard’s study may as well have been empty for all the sound that escaped it. His knocking was met only with silence.

“He is in there isn’t he?” he asked the guard stood at the door, receiving a confused nod in response.

He tried again, louder this time and tried the door. Aiden was sat at his desk with a preoccupied, pained expression on his face as he rubbed absently at his arm.

“What is it?” he snapped as Klöss came in.

“A message came for you. There’s been an attack behind our lines.” Klöss frowned at the old man. “You don’t look so great. Are you sick?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aiden snapped, reaching for the paper in Klöss’s hand. His eyes widened as he read and he headed to the wall and the large map that hung there.

Klöss followed him. “You see my point? If it’s the Anlish then they’ve somehow passed through three districts and who knows how many patrol lines to get to there.”

“And why bother?” Frostbeard grunted. His voice sounded tight, strained. “It’s a small village of no real strategic value. They didn’t even bother to burn it. We could take it back and repopulate it in days. Why attack here?” He turned back to Klöss, the thought occurring to him obvious on his face. “You said if it’s the Anlish. You think it’s this other group? The ones that attacked during your Reaping?”

“I think that would make more sense.” Klöss shrugged. “More sense than the Anlish making it through our entire territory and passing who knows how many patrol routes without being noticed, anyway.”

Frostbeard raised an eyebrow. “You think they’re a third player in all this?”

“I think it's time we stopped fooling ourselves,” Klöss replied, throwing his arms in the air. “The men have been talking about it for months. These things, whatever they are, they’re not human. Call them keiju, or trels, or just something weird they have in this place. We need to deal with it. Enough of the men saw the way Verig was killed to set tongues wagging. Even Tristan has spoken to me about it.”

Aiden waved a dismissive hand, bending oddly at the waist. “He’s from the Far Isles though, and they’ve always been a superstitious bunch.”

“He hit one of these things in the face with an axe. It didn’t even draw blood.” Klöss pressed. “Lords of Blood, Sea, and Stone, Uncle, what is it going to take? You’ve seen them yourself. Do you really think it was the Anlish who managed to smash down our gates and ride through the streets of Rimeheld?”

Aiden grunted and staggered back to the chair. “Damn it!” he gasped.

Klöss had no time to respond as Frostbeard clutched at his chest and pitched forward. He grabbed for the arm of the chair with one flailing hand even as he sank to the floor, his face the colour of fresh ashes, pulling the chair crashing to the ground beside him.

“Aiden!” Klöss dropped down to his knees beside the man, and then rushed to the door, ripping it open. “Get a healer in here,” he screamed at the shocked guard.

Frostbeard lay half-curled on one side, his breath coming in short, pained gasps. Klöss sank down beside him. “Hold on, old man. You can’t leave me with this mess now, can you?”

His Uncle managed a watery smile. “You’d be fine you know?” he gasped out between breaths. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“Just hold on,” Klöss pled in a whisper but his Uncle wasn’t listening.

He sat in the chair as people rushed around him. The healers fussed and wasted time with a body they could do nothing to help. Messengers, and those too nosey to listen to their own good sense, came and went. He was vaguely aware that Tristan was somewhere in the mix, pushing people out with his gentle voice, and then with a harsher one when that didn’t work.

The room was awash with good intentions. They would do little. Frostbeard was already dead. Klöss stayed, even after they had carried the old man away, sitting at the desk staring at nothing, until a sound made him turn.

Larren stood in the doorway watching him. He tried a smile but gave up on it as he came in. “I thought we ought to talk.”

“Of course, Sealord.” Klöss, stood and righted the chair his uncle had toppled.

“Don’t fuss with that, lad. We can forget the silly titles for the moment as well.” He turned and shut the door firmly. “This probably isn’t the best time for this but we need to be pragmatic. Your uncle was the driving force behind this campaign. If we let it falter now there are whole sections of the Chamber just waiting to pull it apart.”

Klöss nodded but made no move to speak.

“What we need now is continuity,” Larren told him. “Someone has to run things here and I can’t spare the time away from Hesk to do that. I have my own duties that are already being neglected.”

The penny finally dropped. “You can’t mean me?” Klöss blurted.

“Who better?” the Sealord said as he smiled. “You’ve been involved since the beginning. You know the plans, the factions within your own men, which of the Keeper’s demands we can fulfil and which must wait.”

“Yes but—”

“But nothing.” Larren cut him off. “The timing is bad, I understand that, but I need you. These men need you. Do your duty, son. Make your uncle proud.”

Klöss sighed. He’d lost this before he’d even spoken. “What do you want from me?”

The older man smiled at that. “Not much more than you were already doing,” he said. “The thane would have to sanction an appointment like this anyway but, for now at least, I need you to act as Lord of Rimeheld.”

“Lord?” Klöss protested. “It never had a lord!”

“Don’t be absurd.” Larren snorted. “Aiden never liked the title but everyone knew what he was.”

Klöss fell silent. The man was obviously serious but could he really do the job? As he asked himself he realised he already knew the answer. He also knew that no matter how Larren dressed it up he’d never really had a choice.

“Good lad!” Larren clapped him on the shoulder as he nodded. “You’ll have a bit more oversight and input from me than Aiden did but I think we can both see why. For now, I believe you have a village that’s been attacked. And I have a ship to catch. Keep things moving along and don’t dwell on Aiden. He lived well. I’ll be in touch.” He clapped Klöss on the shoulder again and left. It wasn’t until his footsteps faded around the distant corner that Klöss thought to wonder how he could have known about the village.

***

Tristan stood, scraping his chair back, and gave a deep bow as Klöss walked in. He smiled at the dark scowl Klöss shot him, unruffled.

Klöss looked from Tristan to Gavin and back. “You’ve heard already then?”

“News like this moves with haste,” the large man said as he shrugged. “I am sorry about your uncle,” he added, his dark eyes serious for once. “He was a good man, I think.”

Klöss sank down in a chair at the table opposite Tristan. “He was, and thank you.”

“Is it not too soon for you to be commanding this vessel?”

Klöss gave him a long look before he spoke “He’s dead, Tristan. It’s been three days and right now it’s not going to get much better. I’ll not disgrace myself by falling apart or letting this campaign do the same.”

Tristan nodded, though he looked far from convinced. He jerked his head at Gavin who sat sprawled in a chair at the end of the table with his feet up, toying with a knife. “Your message said to for me to bring this one along?”

Klöss nodded. “There was an attack, a village called Skelf. It’s way behind our lines. I want you to take some men and find out what happened.”

Tristan grunted with a frown. “How far behind our lines?”

“Far enough that it makes me question if it was the Anlish,” Klöss admitted. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and ran his hand back over his head as he sighed. “I don’t know who it was but I can’t see how the Anlish could have made it past our lines and penetrated that deeply. The report we received says the village wasn’t burned, at least not that the farmers saw while they were running. If I were the Anlish I’d have burnt it to the ground.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Gavin spoke up.

“We all know what we saw at the reaping,” Klöss told him. “Whether these things are the trels and keiju from nursery rhymes, or whether they’re something else, it doesn’t matter. If they’re a threat to us we need to deal with it. Right now I need information, and fast.” He looked back to Tristan. “Take some men and scout the area. See just how good this one is on the way.” He gave Gavin a pointed look. “If he’s half as good as he makes out then we’ll have a talk when you get back.” He frowned, looking at the knife in the thief's hand. “What is that, iron?”

Gavin glanced at the blade and nodded. “Had it made a few days after the reaping.”

“Iron’s no good for a blade,” Klöss scoffed. “It’ll be no use against someone with steel.”

“It’s just something I remembered, things from stories.” Gavin shrugged to cover the flush on his cheeks. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Klöss raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d have some steel on me as well.”

Gavin snorted and stood to reveal the four daggers strapped to his back. “I’m not short on steel.”

Klöss gave a short barking laugh. “Very nice, but they won’t be much use against a good swordsman.”

“Swords are slow.” Gavin muttered.

Tristan sighed loudly. “If you are finished seeing whose one is bigger we have hunting to do, yes?”

Klöss and Gavin shared a look before glaring at Tristan but the big man was already headed for the door. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Klöss. “What will you do while we are gone?”

Klöss gave a twisted smile. “I expect this place will find a way to keep me busy.”

Tristan shook his head. “That is not good. You will mope. Papers do not clear a man’s head or stir his blood. You need more.”

Klöss raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“Why not come and view this village yourself?”

“Are you mad?” Klöss burst into laughter at the thought. “The sealord would have a merry fit! I’m supposed to be leading this campaign now not running around the woods.”

“And you will be of how much use with your uncle inside your head?” Tristan asked.

Klöss rose, scraping the heavy chair over the stone floor. “And what if something happens?” he pressed. “What if we’re killed or captured? What then?”

“These are not new risks to us, Klöss,” Tristan reminded him. “Who would the task fall to if you fell?”

That was something he hadn’t really considered. Klöss thought about it for a moment. “Lek, I suppose. He’s more at home with reports than a sword these days but he knows what’s important.”

“Then leave this paper to Lek.” Tristan shrugged.

“I can’t do that Tristan. The sealord—”

“Did he not just leave by ship?” Tristan interrupted.

“Well, yes but—”

“Then I do not see this problem.”

Klöss stared at him for almost a minute before his smile grew. He turned to Gavin who stood watching the exchange. “Let me have another look at that dagger. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”

***

They travelled north in bands of twenty. It made sense to keep the parties small and working independently of each other. The sun had been with them for the past three days but now the rains had swept in and Klöss glared at the back of Tristan’s head as they walked. The road was not much more than a mud track but it made sense to follow it while they could. They were far behind their own lines and speed was more important than stealth for the moment.

He’d thought of Anlan as lush when they’d first caught sight of it on that training raid all those years ago. The trees here were broader and more numerous than the thin pines of Bresda, but for the last day or so they’d made their way through a featureless plain and the rain had lashed at them driven by winds that seemed intent on reaching every last dry patch of skin that remained.

“Remind me why I’m here again?” he called over the winds.

Tristan didn’t turn. “You need more fun in your life.”

Gavin snorted at that, earning his own black look, but he seemed as impervious as Tristan. Klöss glanced around at the others, noting more than one barely suppressed smile.

The days dragged, and what had begun as an escape from the monotony of dealing with administrators and dealing with petty issues soon became its own chore. The rains pushed them on, refusing to let up and their nights were as bad as the days as they huddled in tents and tried to ignore the pounding of the rain on the treated canvas.

The trees came as a blessed relief when they reached them and by the second day under the canopy Klöss was close to forgiving Tristan. He glanced at the map again and thrust it back into his pack. “We’re probably another three or four days away from Skelf,” he said to Tristan. “Form the men up in scouting pairs in clusters of four.”

Tristan nodded and began passing the word. Each pair would act independently of the group as a whole but keeping within reach of one other. If they were forced into combat the pairs would form up into groups of four as they fell back and reformed into the company. If truly pressed the company itself would fall back and try to meet up with another of the scouting parties. He’d planned this well and the men were used to this procedure. Hopefully it wouldn’t be necessary. They were here to scout and gather information, not to fight.

He moved through the trees and undergrowth as silently as he could. Though he’d never make a tracker himself the time he’d spent in Anlan had made him stealthier than he’d once been. Tristan walked beside him, oddly silent despite his huge size. Ahead of them the grey-green ghost that was Gavin drifted through the trees, making less noise than a passing breeze as he scouted ahead from the noisier pair.

It was slow going but Klöss was glad for it. If the force that had attacked Skelf were still close it wouldn’t do to blunder into them. If the force that attacked Skelf wasn’t human it definitely wouldn’t do to blunder into them.

He found that the tension moved in cycles. He’d been an oarsman three years before he was trusted with a crew, working his way through oarsmaster to shipmaster in short order. He’d seen more than his share of blood and raids gone badly and he was well used to the fear that all men find in the silence of themselves before a battle. That was nothing to this. The things he’d seen on the reaping both fascinated and terrified him and the fear of blundering into them made him overcautious as he moved through the trees.

What started as caution gradually built into a fearful walk as his eyes darted about, trying to watch everything at once. No man can maintain that level of anxiety for long though, and he soon drifted through calm and into complacency until a cracked twig underfoot brought the cycle back around again.

Sleeping in watches in a cold camp made for poor sleep and stiff muscles. By the third morning it was beginning to show on the men, which Klöss knew meant it would be twice as bad as it looked, and he found himself almost hoping they’d encounter Anlish troops.

It was late afternoon when the call of a moonthrush sounded ahead of them. A runner emerged from the trees slowly. The moonthrush was rare, even in the Barren Isles, and so made a good signal, but a wise man moved out slowly. Rash scouts didn’t tend to live long.

“You have news?” Tristan asked, not lowering his handbow. Identical to the larger arbelest in every way but its size. Klöss had arranged for every man on the mission to carry one.

The scout answered to Klöss though he hadn’t asked the question. “We’ve reached the village, my lord,”

“I’m not a lord…” Klöss began but Tristan waved him to silence.

“It’s abandoned,” the man said. “It’s…” He glanced at Tristan and swallowed. “You’d be best seeing it for yourself, I think.”

Tristan and Klöss exchange a look before waving the man on. The village proved to be only be an hour away from them, a distance they covered all the more swiftly knowing the way was clear. The other scouting parties rejoined them as they walked, until they were at half their company strength by time the walls came into sight.

Skelf was not much of a village. A single street housing the inn and a smithy, and then cottages packed tight to fit within what had been the wooden palisade. It was the standard first-stage village for Bjornmen settlers.

Klöss made his way to the wreckage of the gates. He sank down to one knee and picked at the splinters as he examined the scene. “What do you think?” he asked Tristan over one shoulder.

“Odd,” the man muttered. He looked to Gavin and the scout who’d led them in. “Give me your hands for this?”

Together they hauled one side of the gate out of the mud and back up against the edge of the palisade. He looked closely at the muddy poles. “No marks.”

The other gate hung loose, sagging on one remaining hinge. Klöss examined it quickly and turned to shrug at Tristan.

“It’s obvious isn’t it?” Gavin spoke up, looking from one to the other. The gates weren’t bashed in. They were forced open from the inside. If it hadn’t been raining so much you’d be able to see the footprints. As it is all that’s left is this.” He pointed out the large depression in the mud just behind where the gates would have met.

“If they wanted out why not just lift the crossbar?” Klöss asked the thief.

“I don’t know. They obviously didn’t, or maybe it was more that they couldn’t.” He shrugged. “The only thing I can think is that they were pressed so tight to the gates that there just wasn’t room.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them as they each imagined the panic and fear it must have taken to push enough people against the eight foot wooden gate to force it open. The crossbar hadn’t moved, instead the hinges had given way.

“What else?” Klöss said as he walked into the village itself. “Survivors?”

“None, Shipmaster,” the scout told him. “Some fouled tracks heading north is all we’ve found. Aside from the bodies that is.”

There was a tone in his voice that made Klöss ask, “Bodies?”

The scout avoided his eyes and looked vaguely sick as he motioned them through the village to the wreckage of the other gates. They had been pulled from their hinges and torn apart. Thick posts from the gate were stacked to one side, their intended use was obvious.

The corpses were piled high, impaled on thick posts taken from the ruined gates. Men and women had been stripped naked and then rammed down over the spiked end of the posts that had been driven deep into the earth. Flies were already thick around the grisly scene and the stench was rising in the late afternoon sun.

Klöss took it all in with a stony expression. He was no innocent but this was sick. The tortured faces of the bodies showed that some, at least, had still been alive when they’d been impaled. It wasn’t just that it was barbaric, it was senseless. These people weren’t warriors, they were simple farmers. He was honest enough with himself to admit that, if he’d attacked this village, then they probably wouldn’t all have survived. He’d have burnt the place to the ground, but if they’d chosen to flee he’d have let them. He glared at the line of posts whilst, behind him, Gavin retched noisily against the ruined palisade.

Chapter Six

Skelf lay a day and night behind them. Klöss had to fight against the temptation to have it burned to the ground. The villagers deserved something better than they’d been given but there was no sense in announcing their presence to everything within thirty miles. In the end they’d left the dead where they were. They hadn’t the time or the tools to dig the posts out, and cutting them down wasn’t an option. There is little noise that carries better than the sound of men chopping wood. The dead wouldn’t complain. They seldom did. It is the living that worry about the dead, and there was nobody left in Skelf to care.

The scouting parties fanned out again, forming into a rough arc with Klöss and his group at the centre though he’d halved their number by doubling their size. The sight of the corpses of Skelf had stuck with the men and his order for the scouting parties to stay closer together had been received with more than one satisfied nod. They were here to scout he’d reminded them, not to fight. If it came to it he’d rather run than get bogged down in a meaningless skirmish.

Gavin led again, with two others working to each side of him. The man had an ability with tracks that was almost uncanny. Considering his life had been spent on the streets of Hesk it had taken him little time to adjust to the woods of Anlan. He moved quickly, eyes down at the leaves and bushes as he followed the trail.

Rather than take the roads the villagers seemed to have headed into the woods, breaking their own trail through the brush. Though he’d lost it a few times even Klöss could spot the occasional footprint.

The woods were quiet. There was an occasional burst of birdsong but most of the time it was just the sound of the wind in the treetops or simply silence lurking behind the slight noise of their own passage. Klöss glanced up to try and catch sight of the sun and gauge the time but the thick canopy made it all but impossible.

He’d been enamoured with these thick leafy trees when he’d first seen them. There was a world of difference between seeing them and being between them, however. The woods seemed dark and oppressive, with thick stands of nameless bushes that seemed to have grown up in any space large enough to hold them. The rare sound of a small creature in amongst the leaves was enough to make him jump almost every time. Frankly, he’d have given a lot for an honest fight on a beach or in an open field.

Gavin’s hand shot up, warning them to still their feet but Klöss had already heard the noise, a sharp rustling as something darted through the leaves in the bushes ahead of them and off to their right. He looked to both Tristan and Gavin, motioning for them to spread out and approach from the left whilst the others took the right. Drawing his sword felt good, the stress bleeding away in expectation of something more honest than skulking through the trees.

Tristan was already moving, crouched low and with feet more sure and quiet than Klöss had ever managed. He pointed into the bush and waved them forward, breaking into a run and crunching through the dry leaves underfoot as he crashed through the thin branches that sought to stop him.

It was the sound that stopped him. A thin mewl of terror that a wounded animal or a terrified child might make. A flash of brown scrabbled back away from him, deeper into the bush, and then Gavin was there, appearing from nowhere to grab a pale arm and yank hard.

The woman he dragged howling from the bush was filthy. Mud streaked her long, dark hair that hung lank and heavy where it wasn’t stuck to her face. She screamed and twisted weakly in Gavin’s grip, reaching to claw at his wrist until Tristan took her other hand.

“Damn woman, calm it down,” Gavin told her as she howled and screamed. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

Then Klöss saw the blood. Her dress had probably once been a dull green or grey colour at one point but the mud covered it so thoroughly that now it was hard to tell. A dark stain he had first taken for more mud spread from her waist, streaking down past her knees and blooming up over her belly.

“Let her go,” he said, repeating himself as they gave him odd looks. She didn’t wait for them but instead wrenched her arms out of their grip and lay on the ground with her chest heaving.

“Were you from Skelf?” he asked, crouching down to her level.

She looked at him then, pure misery and anguish on her face.

“Were you?” Gavin persisted. She glanced at him but stayed silent.

“Answer the bloody question, woman.” Klöss snapped. They didn’t have time for this. He needed answers.

“She cannot, Klöss.” Tristan murmured.

Klöss looked at him in irritation. “What?

He spoke with a pained look. “It is not that she keeps silent. She cannot speak, look.” Klöss looked back to her as she opened her mouth in an anguished wail and what remained of her tongue glistened wet and angry in a mouth stained with blood from where it had been crudely hacked out.

“Lord of Midnight!” Gavin breathed.

Klöss tried a different approach. “Can you understand us?”

She nodded once and wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her dress. It didn’t help and streaked the mud and dirt on her face.

“You were at Skelf?”

She nodded once.

“The attack, was it the Anlish?”

She shook her head and buried her face in her hands as sobs overtook her. Gavin moved to take her into his arms then, letting her sob into his neck as the other two looked on awkwardly. “I think I know what it was,” he said to her, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve seen them too. Was it the monsters?”

She pulled back away from him, her face was incredulous as she looked at Gavin like he’d just sprouted wings, but then nodded.

Klöss motioned Tristan aside as Gavin continued to question her and the two of them stepped back away from her. “What are we going to do with her?”

Tristan winced, and then shrugged.

“That’s not much help,” Klöss muttered. “We can’t very well take her with us and there’s nothing to send her back to.”

“They took about thirty of the villagers,” Gavin said, interrupting them. “I can’t get much more out of her with nothing to write with but I get the impression it was mostly young women, though there were a couple of men too. She made it pretty clear they’ve been making free with the women every time one of them can’t keep up.”

“Making free?” Tristan asked, confused, and then held a hand up to stop him. “No, I understand now.”

“We can’t take her with us, Gavin,” Klöss said.

He nodded, looking back at her. “I know. We can’t just leave her here like this though.”

Tristan sighed and made his way back to her. “It is dangerous where we travel to,” he explained. “We will follow these creatures and seek out where it is they come from. You cannot come with us. Can we leave you with anything? Is there anything you need? Some food?”

She shook her head, as her eyes filled with tears, and pointed to his belt. Tristan looked down, “You want a belt?”

She shook her head again. “Iyfff!” she said in little more than a whimper, pointing at the belt again.

He looked at the others helplessly.

“She wants the dagger.” Klöss said.

“No,” Gavin said as the woman shook her head. “She wants to die.”

They looked at her then, raped and bloody, tongue ripped out by something so far removed from humanity that it was closer to monster than man.

Gavin pulled out his own knife. “Nobody wants to die alone. I’ll stay with her. Go on ahead and I’ll find you.”

She looked at him gratefully and he settled down beside her, speaking in low comforting tones. Klöss met his eyes and gave a grim nod as he waved the trackers ahead.

It was three hours before he caught them. His eyes were flat and hard. They did not speak of it.

They came across others on the trail, broken bloody things that had been discarded. None were still living and Gavin’s eyes flashed at every body they found.

***

They moved at what felt like a snail’s pace for the next few hours. Gavin was visible, not much more than twenty yards ahead, picking his way through the ferns as he moved from trunk to trunk.

The faint sound tore through the trees like a scream at a wedding, echoes of an agonised howl that cut off with a silence that was as savage as the scream had been.

Tristan met Klöss’s eyes. They were close. Possibly too close now. He shifted towards Klöss, whispering directly into his ear. “We should wait now, wait for darkness.”

Klöss considered it briefly. The scream couldn’t have been that far away though it was hard to judge how far it might have echoed. Normally he’d have agreed. Night was the perfect time to scout an enemy’s territory. The guard relaxed, no matter how well disciplined the men. Those on watch soon became bored and spent more time longing for hot food and a warm bed than keeping an eye on the darkness beyond the camp.

The battle where Verig fell though, that had taught him a lot. These creatures clearly had no problems seeing in the darkness. He shook his head and moved his lips to Tristan’s ear. “No. They are not blind in the dark like us. I’d rather we could both see than just them. Let’s send Gavin in. He’s the quietest anyway. Send Kest and what's-his-name to pass the word to the other groups as best they can. Scout the perimeter and try to get an idea of their numbers. I want only our quietest out there.”

“Kahrlson, Klöss,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “His name is Kahrlson.”

Klöss waved the reproach away and waited. It was funny. He’d grown accustomed to the blood. He’d even become used to the fear that sometimes struck in battle but he’d never found a way to cope with the waiting. Though this was a scouting mission, the waiting was just as interminable, possibly worse.

He hunched down behind a tree, toying idly with a dagger. A wild, savage part of him wanted to just charge in, numbers be damned. The beast wanted battle and the feel of steel in his hands. He forced it down. It was hungry for bloody vengeance against these things, these creatures that had stolen his child and his wife in all but name. He could feel it rising the more he thought about it and found his hand clenched so tight around the dagger’s hilt that his cramped.

Tristan gave a soft whistle and then Gavin was there, breathing hard. He sank down quick beside the tree and pulled out a skin, drinking water in short gasping gulps before he spoke. “It is the trels. There must be thousands of them. The land dips a bit up ahead, almost into a little valley. From what I could see they’re filling most of it, though there’s some kind of mist blocking a lot of the view.”

“They’ve made camp there then?”

Gavin shook his head. “Not that I could see. They just seem to be milling around, waiting for something I’d guess. There’s some kind of old standing stones in the centre but I couldn’t get close enough to see much of it.”

“What about the villagers?” Klöss asked.

“I couldn’t see any of them…” His voice made it clear there was more.

“But?”

“There’s something else. I thought they were men until they walked into the shade. Their eyes are like the ones we saw in the reaping except these are blue.”

“Blue?”

Gavin shrugged. “They shine bright as any lantern’s flame, except for the colour.”

“Fine,” Klöss said. “I’m not taking on thousands of them, villagers or no. We’ll wait for Kest and Kahrlson, and then we’ll move out. I don’t mind admitting I don’t like being this close to the bastards.”

Tristan snorted at that but Gavin was silent, looking out through the trees. The hiss of his daggers as they came from their sheaths was almost buried in the explosion of leaves as Kest burst from the trees.

“They’re coming,” he managed as he turned and held the arm of his small handbow against the earth with his foot whilst he levered the wire back over the hook.

“Shit!” Klöss said as he drew his sword and long dagger, moving away from the tree he had rested against to give himself room.

The first of the creatures tore through the woods, coming at them at a dead run and pulling knives as it ran. Gavin moved like a snake, shifting to meet the attack and throwing himself into a roll only to come up with daggers extended and thrusting at the trel’s chest. It batted the daggers away as if they were nothing, slashing with its own blades and forcing the thief back.

Tristan hacked at the creature’s legs as they passed his position, but though his blade staggered it the monster suffered no injury and continued on in amongst them.

The daggers flashed as both thief and trel slashed at each other, the blades meeting with a dull rasping ring with every block and parry. Klöss stood ready, waiting for an opening but the two spun and wove as they battled, making any swing risky at best.

Between one slash and the next Gavin dumped his dagger, his hand flashing to the small of his back to grab another. He swung hard with his left, leaving his arms open wide, an invitation the creature couldn’t resist as it darted in with blades extended. Rather than simply stand there though, Gavin had never stopped moving. He spun against the attack and thrust the knife deep into the side of the beast’s neck as it passed him, its blades missing him by less than a finger’s breadth.

Blue fire flared around the blade of the dagger and Gavin swore, flapping his hand and darting away as the trel burst into flame, screaming and clawing at the blade buried in its neck as it fell writhing to the leaf-strewn dirt.

Klöss shut his gaping mouth with an audible clack of teeth and plucked the dagger free from the still smouldering corpse, handing it back to Gavin. “I guess you were right about the iron then,” he said. “Next time though, let’s try one of these first?” He hefted the handbow and grinned at the little thief as he sucked at his burnt fingers.

The smiles soon faded as the sounds of combat drifted through the trees and they moved out at a trot. They headed in the rough direction of Skelf, covering each other with the handbows as they moved in two groups, leapfrogging each other’s position and turning to cover each other’s withdrawal. Their numbers grew slowly as other scouts found their way back to them. First individuals, and then small groups of two and three, all with wild eyes and small wounds.

Attacks came sporadically and seemingly spontaneously. The trels came individually at first, rushing at them through the trees until an iron bolt brought them down. The handbow bolts were well made and were largely recoverable, if the men moved quickly enough. Blue fire had ruined several and they were too valuable to lose.

Then the attacks began in earnest and it seemed that they barely had time to recover what bolts they could before the next group of trels ran at them.

“We cannot keep at this, Klöss,” Tristan managed between heaving breaths.

“I’m not exactly having fun myself.” Klöss replied, looking over the man as they ran. “If you’ve got ideas I’d love to hear them.”

Tristan stopped and ducked behind a broad oak, covering the second group as they ran past them. “The road.” Tristan pointed vaguely through the trees. “It should be in that direction. We would move faster on the road with less chance of being surprised.”

“Less chance of concealment too,” Klöss muttered beside him.

“I do not think concealment is a worry at this point, do you?”

Klöss looked back behind him at the retreating men, waiting until they were in position. “Fine,” he said to Tristan. “You lead off then. You’ve got a better idea of where you’re going.”

“Lost again?” Tristan sighed. He flashed a grin at Klöss’s darkening face and, with a last look in the direction the trels had come from, started off at a run.

The sounds of fighting still dogged them as the light began to fade. It was too distant to risk calling out and trying to gather the men to them. There might be safety in numbers but the noise would draw the trels. Klöss knew the information they carried was more important than individual lives but it was poor comfort each time the sound of blade on blade fell silent and the screaming began.

Their numbers had grown to over thirty and they moved in three groups of ten in an almost continuous motion. It grew into a rhythm, cover a retreat, turn and run past those covering them, then cover their retreat. Again and again. And again. It did mean they were covering more ground but the attacks were wearing.

A snarl of rage announced the satyrs at the last second as they attacked, tearing into the right side of them. Bolts flew wildly into the trees as shocked men turned to meet the attack, and for long minutes chaos reigned. The steel weapons they carried were largely useless. They clearly caused pain to the beasts but did little or no damage. Five men were down before the handful of iron daggers among them could be brought to bear. A trel went down with an iron bolt slammed into its face and, as the blue fire flared, men snatched up the bolts, using them as improvised daggers. In moments, silence fell.

“Shit!” Klöss spat as he surveyed the mess. Ten men were down, a full third of his force. He examined a shallow cut to his forearm, a slash that had gone through his leathers as if they weren't there.

“Three are dead,” Tristan reported after a few minutes. “Five can probably run but will be poor use when fighting. The last two we will need to carry.”

Klöss swore again. “Let’s get moving as soon as we can. I think we’re still ahead of most of them. I really don’t want to tangle with a large force do you?”

Tristan grunted and went to hurry men along as wounds were examined and rough bandages tied.

The two that were worst were men Klöss barely recognised. He felt a brief pang of guilt about that but shoved it aside. Now was not the time. Tristan took one over his shoulder whilst two others carried the other man. Both were pale, with teeth clenched tight as they fought to keep the groans inside their mouths. With a grim expression, Klöss waved them forward and the group set off at a slow jog.

The first man died before it became fully dark. They’d stopped to catch their breath and Tristan let loose a long string of curses as he bent to look at the man he carried. He glanced at Klöss and shook his head. There was no time to mourn. The man was stripped of anything the others could use and wrapped in his cloak. It wouldn’t be the first man Klöss had left in the woods of this land but it didn’t make it any easier.

The road caught them all unawares as they passed through a thick stand of holly and then out onto the broad, packed earth. They were all of them exhausted and Klöss ordered a staggered run. Five minutes jogging would be followed by two minutes walking, and then back to the run. It didn’t work as well as he’d hoped and they were forced to abandon it and drop into a walk as men started falling behind.

“We will need to find somewhere to stop, Klöss,” Tristan observed in low tones.

“Where do you suggest, Tristan?” Klöss snapped. “Is there a handy fort around that I don’t know about?” He regretted it instantly but didn’t make apologies. They needed leadership right now not coddling. He looked around and up at the dark, clouded sky. “We push on until while we can still see. I want to cover as much ground as we can.”

They moved on in silence, the only sound the pounding of boots on the hard earth and the occasional rattle of a loose weapon. The pace slowed. Slipping from a jog to a trot, then from a trot to a walk. They’d had no signs of the things that stalked them for over an hour when Klöss finally called a halt but he knew they were out there.

He looked around at the road. The path itself was little more than twenty feet wide but the trees and brush were cut back to either side, presumably to help deal with bandits and the like. He motioned the men closer and sank down in the centre of the group.

“All right, normally I’d say we’d lost the bastards but I trust them like I’d trust a new oarsman with an itchy arse to row to the drum. If we’re going to fight I want to bloody well see what I’m doing and they can see just fine in the dark already. Build me some fires, boys. Make it so I can see what I’m shooting at.”

The scouts set to work gathering up what wood they could without having to range too far into the trees. The fires surrounded them, arranged in rough rings that expanded out and away from them. Klöss looked out over the flames and into the darkness beyond.

“You think this enough?” Tristan asked as he came up behind one shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Klöss confessed. “They’d have to be blind to miss us but we can’t risk going without the light. If even one of those damned hell-beasts got in here among us in the dark it could do for us all. At least this way we have a chance to see them coming.”

“Go and sleep,” the man told him. “I will sort the watches.”

Klöss thought about protesting for half a second, and then nodded. He settled down in the centre of the circle of men. Half were already snoring. The other half stared out past the fires with handbows held ready. The tiny sliver that was all remained of the moon peered down through gaps in the cloud at them. Duty fought with fatigue. Duty lost.

He woke with a grunt as Tristan kicked at him gently. “I think they are coming.”

The words were all he needed to bring him fully awake. He rolled to his feet, taking up the handbow as he rose.

“There have been shadows about the farthest fires,” Tristan advised quietly. “Nothing worth a shot but they are increasing. They test us, I think.”

Klöss peered past the fires, into the darkness. The farthest had burnt down to coals that glowed sullenly against the black of the forest. “Has it all been from the same direction?” he wondered as he glanced around to either side of them.

“This far,” Tristan grunted.

“That won’t last unless they truly are stupid. Have you got them in quads?” Klöss nodded at the men closest to them. They’d worked out the idea of the quads on the retreat through the woods. Once the trels began to close, and they could no longer rely on handbows alone, then the men would work together in groups of four, one with a steel blade to engage the trel whilst the second struck with an iron dagger or a handbow bolt and the third fired handbows with his partner reloading.

“They’re ready.”

They waited. Sparks flew up as men darted out to throw wood onto the fires closest to dying. The shadows beyond the furthest fires grew, shifting in the darkness as the number grew. Firelight obscured the eyes that Klöss knew would be glowing in the darkness but there was no doubting they were out there.

They came in tentative pushes at first. Small groups of four or five that flinched past the first of the fires and came charging at the waiting Bjornmen. Blue sparks exploded in amongst the fires as the trels fell writhing to the dirt.

As if the first few had burst a dam the trels charged, a flood of dark bodies howling hate as they poured past the farthest fires. The Bjornmen fired in pairs, with one shooting a handbow whilst the other worked frantically to reload for him. The explosions of blue fire were all but blinding as the bolts tore into the seething mass.

Klöss called out orders to fire, and then pass back the handbows to be reloaded in a calm voice that fell into a steady chanting rhythm. The keiju were advancing on them but the toll was horrific, and the stench of burning flesh and fur carried easily to them in the soft night breeze.

They formed into the quads as the keiju grew closer, and Klöss abandoned his chant to draw weapons and take his place in the line.

The keiju threw themselves into the fight with a savage abandon, seeming almost to relish the danger even as the steel swords left them open to the thrust of an iron dagger.

The quads worked almost perfectly and blue fire flared along the line as the trel fell. Then the first man fell as the creatures adjusted to the tactic. Another screamed as a bone knife took his eyes and the line staggered as the Bjornmen were pushed slowly backward.

There is a moment in a battle just before the panic takes hold, when the realisation that this is the fight that you cannot win slowly sets home. Klöss had seen it half a dozen times, on raids gone badly and in fights aboard ship against Dernish in their Broadscows. It began in the eyes, and by the time it had reached a man’s courage it was already too late.

He could see it now in the men closest to him. There were simply too many of these damned things. Another two men fell, far along the line to his left, but their screams carried and he couldn’t help but look as they pitched forward and fell to the dirt.

“Hold the line!” he growled, his order taken up by those closest and shouted on.

Men on the right staggered back another five feet, forcing the rest to move with them or be left exposed. “Hold the fucking line!” Klöss roared.

Tristan’s axe drove a creature to its knees and Klöss darted in with the knife before it could rise. He rammed the blade home, wrenching it free and backing away from the blue flames that gushed from its throat as dark blood boiled and hissed in the fire.

Still they came. When one of his men fell the others only knew if they heard the scream or if they were close enough to see. These creatures though, with the fire that erupted whenever iron pierced them, the others couldn’t help but see it. Despite this, despite seeing every death, they came on.

The line broke. A man fell, and then another, leaving a hole in the line as men staggered back away from the raging trels. It only took one to turn and run before the others followed.

“We cannot hold, Klöss,” Tristan shouted at him, his voice barely audible over the screams of the creatures.

He was right. It was the choice between turning and running, risking a knife in the back, or staying and knowing he’d eventually get one to the throat.

“Ready handbows and fire!” he roared, shrugging the weapon from his back and loosing the bolt without really bothering to aim. It would have been more work for him to miss at this range.

The line exploded in fire and sparks again and Klöss was already turning as he shouted “Now run, you bastards!”

He led off in a sprint, throwing the bow onto his back. Tristan ran beside him, his heavy axe in one hand. Already men were screaming as the monsters pulled them down one by one. Bursts of blue fire flared as men turned to loose a bolt into the horde that followed. A glance over one shoulder revealed an image that belonged in a nightmare. The fires were all but obscured by the creatures as they surged forward, dark against the failing flames. Their eyes though, burnt as bright as any flame. Glowing bright in the growing darkness, lit by strange magic or just by hate, it didn’t matter.

Men fell around him. Some screamed as the clawed hands pulled them down, some gasped as the knife took them. He fought against the desire to rip his sword and dagger free and turn to fight. His own hot rage warring with the knowledge that he had to get the news back to Rimeheld. Death was a luxury he couldn’t afford to indulge in.

His anger was bitter in his mouth as he ran. He’d failed. These deaths were his fault and his own death, another failure, would soon follow. A hand fell on his wrist and he glanced in shock at Gavin as the thief pulled him and Tristan off to one side of the road and into the trees.

Gavin stopped them almost immediately, pressing his hands to their mouths to call for silence. He used his hands alone to push at them gently, making them crouch low and move no faster than a crawl through undergrowth that they could barely see. All the time, the sound of the pursuing trels thundered in their ears, punctuated with the screams of his men as they were dragged down, one by one, and butchered.

Gavin stopped them with another hand in the darkness, pulling them down. He pushed and hissed curses at them as they reluctantly wormed under the edge of a half-rotten log. The ground was slick with mud and what could have been moss or perhaps some manner of mould. Either way it stank, and the damp worked its way through clothes and leathers until the icy touch of the stuff found skin.

The night fell silent eventually as the sounds of the chase faded away. They did not speak. The trels might still be close enough to hear them and none amongst them had words for what had happened. They lay in the filth, each with their thoughts tormenting them as they drifted in and out of a fitful sleep until dawn eventually found them.

Chapter Seven

Klöss walked on silence. The trip had been grim from the start, even after they’d sacrificed the stealth of moving through the woods for the speed of travelling on the road. They’d passed body after body, torn and broken on the packed earth. They were scattered in groups of two or three, never more than five. The signs of their battles lay in the dirt around them. Blood sprayed wide on the road next to the scorched earth where a trel had fallen.

There had been too many to even consider burying or burning. The creatures might still have been close enough to find the smoke and each body he abandoned was another betrayal, each pair of sightless eyes hurling its own accusation. Coward. You hid!

They had been his men, his responsibility. His mood had grown darker with each man they came across, and they had walked in silence long after they had finally stopped checking for any signs of life in those they passed.

Some had made it farther than others and the trail had lasted for miles. The sun had shone happily down on the bodies and the flies and birds had wasted little time settling on the corpses. The image of the crows pecking out gobbets of flesh, or an eye, only for the flies to settle in the oozing holes they left, stayed with him as they walked. Even now, days later, the sight was there whenever he closed his eyes.

He ached, bruises contending with sore muscles. They’d been on the move for over a week, and their journey was nearly over. The minor cuts and bruises he’d suffered had mostly gone but the worst of his wounds were still healing. Every step brought an aching pain that did nothing to improve his temper. He spent his time alternating between thinking about what he could have done differently and wondering where the beasts had vanished to.

“No signs?” He shot over to Gavin, walking on the other side of Tristan.

His head whipped round, startled after hours walking in silence. “What?” he asked with a confused look. Then, “Oh, no, Nothing. Not for days now. I’ve stopped really looking to be honest.”

Klöss grunted and caught Tristan staring at him with an appraising eye. “What?” he demanded.

“Are you ready to speak about this?”

Klöss scowled at him and took a moment to kick a loose stone off the path, sending it bouncing down the rocky slope towards the river far below them on their left. “What do you mean?”

“You do this, you know?” Tristan explained. “You are a good man to follow. You have a mind for tactics and you never allow greed or anger to steer your course. My thought is that it is because of this that you have not lost many battles, or many men, in the years I have fought with you. When you do though, it is like an insult to you, a personal attack. We do not have time for you to sulk, Klöss.”

Gavin gave a snort which conveniently transformed into a cough as Klöss shot his head round to glare at him.

“I do not sulk.” He bit off each word.

Tristan shrugged. “Brood then. The word is not important. Are you ready to speak about it?”

“What about it?”

“This is not your fault,” Tristan told him, his voice brooking no argument. “There was no way to know there would be so many of them. We did not blunder in there. We took every care. They do not act like a normal enemy though. I do not understand this.”

Klöss frowned. “How do you mean?”

“You have never been stupid, Klöss,” Tristan chided. “Do not start now.”

Klöss bit back a retort as he caught the sly grin. “Go on…”

“These creatures, name them trels, name them what you will. They were massed in numbers higher than the largest reaving. Where were their supplies, their tents? They are not mindless animals. We all heard their speech as they fought, calling out to each other. For that matter, where have they now gone? We must have faced over a hundred as they gave chase. Who knows how many more passed us once we were hidden. There were easily a score of thousand in the valley.” He glanced over at Gavin for confirmation.

“Don’t ask me,” the thief said as with a shrug. “More than I could count, that’s for sure.”

“So where are they now?” Tristan waved his hands around at the silent trees.

Klöss glanced around him as he chewed on his lip. “We’re too close to Rimeheld now, they wouldn’t be here anyway.”

Tristan grabbed Klöss suddenly, grasping his shoulders and forcing him to face him. “They broke through the gates at Rimeheld,” he reminded him. “They came down from the sky to attack the Anlish during the reaping. Now they destroy this village, Skelf. They could be anywhere. They could be in Hesk tomorrow.”

“They’re in Hesk already,” Gavin added in a soft voice.

Tristan glanced at the younger man and gave a nod of approval. “It is time we faced this threat, Klöss. We need for our eyes to be open. Hiding from this will not help.”

Klöss nodded and pulled away from the man to begin walking again.

“That was not my meaning anyway.” Tristan said, looking down at the rocks and the water that dashed itself to a white froth against them. “Those that chased down our men, where did they go? They did not pass us and we have seen no sign that they continued on. The tracks from their feet simply end.”

“Maybe they went back through the woods?” Gavin offered.

Tristan looked to the trees. “I think not. They could have, but why? There is no threat to them here, why take a slower passage for no reason?”

“So, what? They simply vanished?” Klöss snorted.

“I do not know. We know nothing of these trels.” He jerked his head a Gavin. “This one took the idea of using iron for his dagger from old tales. How much more is true?”

Klöss stooped and picked up a stone, turning it over in his hands as he thought. “So what do you suggest?” he asked after several minutes.

“Perhaps it is time we talk to the Anlish,” Tristan offered.

“The Anlish? Why?”

“We both saw them being attacked during the reaping, Klöss. These trels are no allies of theirs. Could it be the Anlish know something of them?”

Klöss sighed and sent the stone flying, following the path of the one he’d kicked. “I can’t see them really being open to a friendly chat, Tristan.”

“So offer them something,” Tristan muttered with a shrug.

“Yeah, the sealord’s going to love that!” Gavin snorted.

“It’s not the time to start peace talks, Tristan,” Klöss told him. “Only a fool negotiates before he’s tried his full strength, and whatever else these Anlish are, they’re not fools.”

Tristan grunted and fell silent. The sun was already sinking and the shafts of light stabbed at their eyes as they fought through gaps in the trees. “It would not need to be peace talks. Just talks would be enough.”

Klöss grunted. “I’ll think about it. Gavin’s right though, I can’t see the sealord going for it.” He looked around. “I’d hoped we’d make it back today but it doesn’t look likely now and I don’t see much point in stumbling along in the dark. Let’s find somewhere to make camp.”

“That is another thing,” Tristan said as they left the road and picked their way into the trees. “You risk too much with the way you act here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The sealord, he is like the tide lapping at a beached boat. He will take what he can if nothing is done to stop him.

Klöss nodded, letting the conversation end as he brooded. They set up a crude camp only a few hundred yards from the edge of the trees. A broad oak provided their shelter, standing at the edge of a small gully. The leaves would keep them mostly dry if it decided to rain and the steep bank would be enough to conceal a fire. After days on the road, and only just missing the warmth of a real bed, Klöss was not prepared to suffer a cold camp. He sank down and let the others worry and light the fire, avoiding attempts at conversation. Despite being bone weary he found he couldn’t sleep and stared into the dying coals of the fire long after the other two had dropped into deep breathing slumber.

They set off at almost first light. The camp was cold when they woke and there was little point in staying any longer than it took to chew down some dried fruit and a ship's biscuit.

The day wore on and the sun seemed to sense his mood and hid behind the thick clouds for most of the morning. The path veered gently away from the river, passing beyond the trees and snaking between the low hills as they drew closer to Rimeheld. The closest of the farms and small villages were visible as soon as the three of them left the trees and the sight alone was enough to lift his mood. Despite the failure that dogged his thoughts they’d made it back.

It appeared, all at once, grim and forbidding in the distance as they rounded a small rise. The sight brought a sense of relief and despite everything that had happened he couldn’t help but give in to a small smile.

The path brought them close to the cliff’s edge, giving a view of the harbour. He looked over to Tristan breaking the silence. “You’re probably right about the sealord.” He admitted, eliciting raised eyebrows in response. “Frostbeard was worried that the fact he sent the Black Fleet meant he was going to try and take more control here.”

“He told you this?” Tristan asked in surprise. “I would not think he was ever a man to express doubts.”

“Not in public perhaps, but yes,” Klöss replied, nodding.

“What did you tell him?” Gavin asked with a curious look.

A smile grew on his dirty face. “I told him that Rimeheld was his. Everything else? It was all politics, appearances. The Ssalord could do what he liked, bringing in ships and calling it the Black Fleet but it was still Aiden the men had named the city after.”

“That doesn’t mean anything now though,” Gavin said. “Now it’s just a name.”

Klöss turned to the thief with a questioning look. “What makes you think that?”

Gavin shrugged. Then, seeing Klöss waiting for more, “I don’t know anything about politics but I know cities and I know power. Hesk has the thane and its stupid lords but they only rule what they can see. Hesk’s underbelly is ruled by the Six and they know more about power than any council member wrapped up in his fur and robes.”

“The Six?” Tristan asked with genuine interest.

“The leaders of the six major gangs in Hesk,” Gavin explained. “They run everything from the pawnbrokers that pretend they aren’t fences on the side, to the whores that stand by the docks.”

“This is all very interesting, Gavin,” Klöss broke in. “But what does it have to do with the sealord and Rimeheld?”

“Let me finish and you might just learn something,” Gavin snapped, and then carried on quickly as Klöss’s face darkened. “The Six rule in Hesk as much as the thane and his council does, but it’s a balancing act. If any one of the gangs were to grow too powerful it would pick off the others or they’d all work together to destroy it. It’s the same inside them. One man leads each gang, more by strength and fear than by brains, though I’ve known that to happen too.” He held up a hand to stop Klöss before he interrupted. “I’m getting to the point, just hold on.

“The leader of the Fishers died a few years ago. Nothing so exciting as being killed or taken down. He choked on a bone. Probably the first time one of the Six died of something that didn’t involve poison or blood. Anyway, his second thought he'd be able to just take over. That leading the Fishers would just pass on to him. He was wrong. The others fell on him like rats on a wounded cat. The Fishers rule the streets and warehouses around the docks. After dark the docklands of Hesk were nothing but knives and blood for weeks. Power belongs to those that take it, it doesn’t pass naturally. It needs to be seized.”

“What are you saying?” Klöss asked with a frown.

“I’m saying that Rimeheld won’t pass to you unless you reach out and take it. The sealord is probably testing you at the moment, seeing if he can use you. If he decides against it then he’ll try and take that power for himself. You’re sitting, nice and cosy and letting him make that decision for you. If you want this you need to act. The sealord can name you Lord of Rimeheld. Hell, he could call you King of Anlan if he likes. Until you take that power for yourself it’s just words.”

“What do you think?” Klöss said, but Tristan walked in silence, eyes on the harbour and a faint frown on his face.

“Tristan?” Klöss tried again.

“Hmm? I was not listening.” He looked back to the harbour. “Klöss, where are the reavers?”

“What?” Klöss shaded his eyes and looked down to the water.

“I see the fishing fleet and some of the smaller ships your uncle had built here but the galley reavers, the defence fleet, they are gone.”

Klöss stared, stupidly, as if just looking could make the view change. Tristan was right. The harbour stood almost bare and the briefest glance at the horizon told the same tale. The ships were gone.

***

They moved as fast as aching legs would allow. The urgency drove him but three weeks of travelling, fighting, and hiding in the dirt had taken its toll. Klöss was experienced enough to listen to his body when it spoke to him. He was definitely not going to ignore it when it screamed at him. That said, Lek had been left in command of a secure city and the task shouldn’t have been enough to move him beyond his precious papers. The fact the fleet had sailed both frustrated and worried him and his irritation at not having the answers he wanted grew with every passing step.

Chains clanked in the distance as the heavy gates swung ponderously open and a double rank of men rushed out, forming up around them as escort.

Klöss recognised their leader, though he couldn’t put a name to the man. He nodded an acknowledgement in place of voicing thanks. Conversation was not something he was looking for at the moment.

The whispers followed them through the streets. They’d began as whispers at the gates when the shocked guards stood at attention as they let them through. By the time they had passed the central market the whispers had grown beyond mutters, and the staring and pointing was beginning to get on his nerves. He dismissed the escort as they approached the keep and let his irritation show on his face.

“Where’s Lek?” he barked at the closest guardsman as he strode through the doors to the keep.

“Lord Klöss, you’re alive!” the man blurted.

“Obviously.” Klöss growled, ignoring the title for once. “Now, where is he?”

“It’s just, we’d heard your party was attacked.”

Klöss didn’t bother to reply. Instead his hand lashed out, grabbing the shocked man by the throat and lifting him up against the stone wall. “Listen, it’s been a really long week,” he grated. “I’ve got blood and dirt in places I can’t even put names to and I really don’t have the patience right now. So how about you just tell me where Lek is?”

Tristan pulled Klöss’s arm down gently as the guard made frantic noises. “Put him down, Klöss. The blame is not his.”

“I really would advise just answering the question,” Gavin suggested with a grin as Klöss let the man slide down the wall.

“Seamaster’s office,” the guard managed in a breathless gasp.

“Thanks.” Klöss growled and left the others as he headed through the halls for the closest stairs. The wide eyes and whispers followed him through the halls as he passed servants and guards and they did nothing for his temper.

The men standing guard outside Frostbeard’s office were smart enough not to voice an objection as Klöss opened the door without knocking.

Lek was an older man whose once formidable bulk seemed to have been drained from him as he’d grown older, falling away like sand through some twisted form of hourglass. He jumped up as Klöss entered and stepped out from behind a small desk that had been set to one side of Frostbeard’s. It looked ridiculous and somehow managed to make the large room feel small and cramped.

Klöss stopped with the words still in his throat as he looked at the small desk set beside the larger one. Reports and papers were still strewn about the surface of Frostbeard’s desk, just as they had been when its owner had last sat there.

“Why in the world aren’t you using the desk?” Klöss demanded.

Lek glanced behind him and turned back with an embarrassed smile. “It…just didn’t feel right somehow.” He laughed nervously, a weak and tremulous sound.

“Lords of Blood and Frost.” Klöss exploded. “It’s only a desk, man. You’ve set it up as a bloody shrine!”

“It’s not important,” he said, waving away the apology before Lek really had time to voice it. “Where is the fleet?”

Lek glanced out of the window at the empty docks. “The sealord gave orders for it to move south.”

“He did what?” Klöss demanded. “When? He was on a ship for Hesk only three weeks ago. He shouldn’t have even landed there yet!”

Lek spread his hands. “He returned to Rimeheld barely four days after he left, a day after the reports came in.”

The response stopped him cold. “What reports?”

Lek turned and pulled a handful of papers from his small desk, handing them to Klöss without a word.

“Kellik, Seros, Halfjur… These places are nowhere near each other!” He eased past Lek and went to the map on the wall. The villages were on opposite sides of Rimeheld, and all far closer than Skelf. “We have a fort between these two. How did they slip past us?”

“I only know what the report says, my lord,” Lek said with a wince.

Klöss ground his teeth. “I’m not a…” he began, but stopped. Tristan and Gavin’s words coming back to him. The power was there, waiting to be taken.

He waved the papers at Lek. “You’ve read these?” It wasn’t really a question. “What condition were they left in?”

Lek frowned at that. “I’m not sure I—”

“The villages, man!” Kloss burst out. Was the man an idiot? “What condition were they left in after the attacks? Were they razed? What happened to the villagers?”

Lek grimaced for a moment before he spoke. “The villages were left almost entirely intact, my lord. The villagers though…” Lek glanced out the window at nothing before looking back. “They were slaughtered to a man. Not just killed either. There were things done to them that—”

Klöss held a hand up to stop him. “It was the same at Skelf.” He looked to the far wall beside the desk. “Show me where he sent the fleet.”

Lek moved to the map and traced a finger down along the known coastline and off the bottom of the chart.

Klöss grunted as he gnawed at one knuckle. “He sent…how many ships?”

“We have two small fleets out patrolling the waters close to Rimeheld, and the normal escorts for the supply route through the Vorstelv. The balance of the ships, however, have been taken south.”

“That’s upwards of three hundred ships!” Klöss stepped away from the map, sinking into the heavy chair behind Frostbeard’s desk. This was too much. Was the man insane? He met Lek’s eyes. “Why?”

Lek blinked in surprise at the question. “These attacks, Klöss. He couldn’t just let them stand.”

“He thinks this was the Anlish?” Klöss laughed, an ugly, bitter sound. “Bloody fool! How fast does he think those horses of theirs can carry them? No, don’t bother. What was the fleet supposed to do?”

Lek sank down behind the desk and looked at him. The years were suddenly clear on his face, the lines etched deeper by the stress. “You need to understand, Klöss. He was furious when he returned. He expected you to be here, taking care of things, not investigating Skelf yourself. Then, when these reports came in, he snapped. He’s right though, in my opinion. We need to play to our strengths. If these Anlish can move past our lines this quickly, if they can attack like this, then we need to strike. We’re not meant for fighting in muddy fields. We are, and have always been, the wolves that come from the sea. He sent the ships south to burn. To find every fishing village and coastal city that they can and raze them to the ground.”

Klöss moved to a cabinet against the wall and rummaged around inside until he stood with a bottle. The neck clinked against the metal goblet as he poured the amber liquid and tossed it back with a grimace. “That’s just the thing, Lek. The attacks weren’t from the Anlish. Frostbeard knew this. Larren damned well should have known this. The things that destroyed Skelf, that killed my scouts almost to a man, they’re nothing to do with the Anlish. The sealord has just sent ships south to destroy the cities of the very people we need to be talking to!”

Lek stood silent for a long moment, absorbing that before speaking again. “He’s going to want to see you.”

“He’s here?” Klöss said in surprise. “I’d have thought he’d be with the fleet.”

“No, he stayed behind. Said he wanted to take a closer look at things until you returned, or until… Well, you know?”

Klöss filled the glass again. “Well I suppose I’d better go and find him. It’s not going to get any better if finds out that I’m here.” He looked at the glass, almost surprised to find it full again, and set it down on the desk, leaving without another word.

The sealord had been given rooms in the keep. They were nothing opulent. Nothing in the keep was. The building had been constructed for defence, the finer touches would come later. He had been given another room to use as an office, however, and as Klöss rounded the corner and saw the guard at the door he knew his guess as to where the man would be was right. There is little point in guarding an empty room, after all.

The guard nodded at him. He didn’t quite meet his eyes, Klöss noticed. The man’s gaze slid from his face like slipping on ice. Probably not a good sign. He knocked and took a deep breath before entering. The room was small, almost too small for the desk that filled one end of it. The Sealord sat, writing in a neat but tiny script in the glow from a single candle that sat on the desk despite the light from the window behind him.

“Klöss,” the Sealord said. His voice was dry, emotionless. Nothing more than an acknowledgement of his presence. “You’re back, I see.”

“Larren.” Klöss nodded politely.

The Sealord pursed his lips in thought, looking up at a spot on the ceiling. “I think, on this occasion, ‘sealord’ is probably best, don’t you?”

This was not going to go well. “As you wish, Sealord.”

“Yes, I rather think that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? As I wish.” The Sealord stood and stepped out from his desk, picking a speck of lint from his velvet robes. They were midnight blue, almost black, and served to make his hair seem all the whiter, the grey almost invisible.

“I’m disappointed, Klöss,” Larren told him, glancing at the floor as if unsure of his path. He looked up at him and the threat of his fury was clear in his gaze. He was just barely holding it in check. It was a weight held by a fraying rope.

“When I decided to return,” he grated, “to offer support whilst you came to grips with things here I did not expect to find you’d gone off for a little jaunt in the country.”

“The attack needed to be investigated, my lord,” Klöss said.

“Yes,” Larren agreed. “Yes, it did, but not by the would-be Lord of bloody Rimeheld. Any band of scouts could have gone to that village. Your job is too important.”

“I understand that, my lord,” Kloss managed. “I serve only at the thane’s pleasure.”

“No.” Larren let his voice drop, and it floated above a dangerous whisper. “I serve the thane. You serve me.”

Klöss gripped the back of the chair set in front of the desk. “This expedition began as a private venture.”

Larren gave him a scathing look. “Don’t be so stupid, boy! This began when Aiden came to me with the idea. Do you think I am fool enough to risk my own influence in the Chamber? I sponsored this from the shadows when you were still learning which end of the sword is the sharp one.”

He moved closer until Klöss could feel the air from his breath with each word he spat out. “You risked too much with your little stunt. Four villages were razed whilst you were playing soldier in the woods. That has a cost. In supplies, in man-hours, in blood!”

“I know, and I left Lek—”

“Lek?” Larren turned his face to spit on the rug. “If I’d wanted fucking Lek running things I’d have fucking left him in command! He barely knows what a damned sword is for anymore. If it had been left up to him he’d have sent a strongly worded letter to the Anlish in response.”

“Instead of which you sent my fleet,” Klöss said, meeting the man’s gaze. “South, to where we have no charts, no knowledge of what we might be facing. You stripped the walls and left us with men less skilled than boys I’ve sailed with to defend this city.”

Larren laughed and perched on the corner of the desk, shaking his head. “You have some more growing up to do, boy. You think that because you sat in a camp watching men build boats that the fleet belongs to you? Or even that it belonged to Aiden?” He lifted his head and his true anger was revealed, burning hot and bright in his face. “If it touches the water it is mine. From a galley reaver, to a fucking cork tossed into the harbour. I am sealord, the sword of the thane. If it floats or carries a blade, then it answers to me!”

“And what if I told you the attacks on these villages had nothing to do with the Anlish?” Klöss asked in a spiteful hiss.

That stopped Larren cold and he cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowed in thought before he stepped back away from him, turning to pick up a paper on the corner of the desk. “Go on…”

“There is a third player in all this,” Klöss explained through his temper. “Frostbeard knew it, the men know it.”

“These tales of trels in the woods?” Larren scoffed.

Klöss clenched his teeth until they matched his grip on the chair. “I saw them myself. I fought them. I only made it back with Tristan and one other. As far as I know the rest of the men were cut down as they ran. You’ve seen these things yourself, the attack on the night of the banquet.”

“I saw a city attacked because it wasn’t secure,” Larren said. “I saw no trels. I don’t recall seeing any laka’s hiding sweets inside anyone’s shoes either.”

“I—” Klöss began.

Larren cut him off. “I believe I have heard enough, Shipmaster. I am sure there’s some minor paperwork you can be doing. Lek will direct you to it, I’m sure. I have more pressing matters to deal with than your children’s tales. In time, if you prove trustworthy, I believe there are haulers that need shipmasters. If I need your presence before then I’ll be sure to send for you.”

Klöss bit back half a dozen responses and made his way to the door, the words burning in his throat.

***

The place was as grimy as Gavin remembered it. It had only been a matter of months since he’d first stepped foot in the Golden Goose but it felt far longer. He stepped inside and went quickly to the bar. The place was deserted for the moment and the innkeeper peered up as the door opened. A look that came close to recognition flickered over his face, then was gone.

“What can I get you?” the grubby man asked.

Gavin looked carefully around the small taproom. The windows were dirty enough that a man would need to press his face to the glass to see through. The place was as perfect as he’d thought it would be.

“Drink?” the barman pressed.

“No.” Gavin dropped a heavy purse of coin on the bar, noting the look on the man’s face as it struck. It takes a particular kind of man to gauge the contents of a purse by the sound of it landing. Gavin knew all about that kind of man.

“I need you to close, Rolant,” he said casually.

Rolant cocked an eyebrow on a face that was otherwise devoid of expression. “Do I know you?”

“I just have a good memory for names. You don’t need to remember me,” Gavin told him.

Fair enough.” Rolant shrugged. “Close?”

“Close,” Gavin confirmed with a nod of his head. “I need the use of this room for a few hours.

“I don’t rent rooms,” Rolant said flatly. “This isn’t that kind of inn.”

Gavin glanced around and snorted. “This is barely any kind of inn!”

“I don’t ha—”

“Look,” Gavin said, leaning forward on the bar. “You’re not busy. You’re not going to miss out on business. Just take the money and piss off for a few hours while I talk to some people.”

The man glanced at the purse and back to Gavin’s eyes. “I don’t want any trouble in here.”

“Talking is all,” Gavin said through a smile. “There won’t be any trouble, I just want some privacy.”

Rolant met his eyes, grimy cogs whirring behind conniving little eyes. When his hand reached for the purse, Gavin knew he had him. He smiled again as the man peered into the purse and noted the silver amongst the copper.

“Two hours and you’ll pay for any damage,” Rolant stated

Gavin stifled the laugh and nodded. “Of course, but I’ll want four hours.”

The man grunted sourly, and then snatched up the purse.

Gavin waited while the man fussed around the taproom. Then waited some more while he vanished into the back before returning in a cloak that had seen better days.

Once he’d finally gone Gavin made a quick search of the building, making sure there were no back entrances left open. Satisfied, he moved the tables around until one sat deep in the shadows of the corner, at an awkward angle to anyone trying to peer through the windows.

A quick look behind the bar produced three mugs. He sniffed into one and briefly considered giving it a quick wipe. Then he looked at the cloth laying on the bar, and thought better of it.

The ale was as bad as he’d remembered. Rolant was accommodating but, as innkeepers went, he had a long way to go. Gavin sipped at the ale, waiting for his tongue to adjust to the bitterness or just to give up and dissolve.

It was dusk by the time the door creaked open and two men in hooded cloaks entered. They stepped in quickly, closing the door fast behind them.

“And that was your idea of inconspicuous was it?” Gavin asked. “Look at the two of you. Hooded cloaks? Arriving together? You may as well have rung a bell as you walked.” He waved a hand in disgust and went behind the bar.

Klöss scowled as he shrugged his way out of the cloak, tossing it over the back of a chair. “See any mead back there?”

“No, but the ale’s not bad,” Gavin’s muffled voice replied. He stood and carried the drinks to the table, setting the tankards down with the edges of a smile on his lips.

“What is this about, Klöss?” Tristan asked as he reached for his drink, sipping at the ale and raising an eyebrow at Gavin’s intent expression.

“I needed somewhere to talk privately.” He shrugged and looked around at the empty taproom. “So I asked Gavin to sort it.”

Tristan frowned. “What is so private that it needs,” he paused to peer into his ale, “this?”

“The sealord is making his move,” Klöss said. “He’s removed me from command and plans on sending me out on a hauler just as soon as he can.”

Tristan gave a long, low whistle. “That seems harsh punishment. What is the reason?”

“Skelf,” Klöss spat.

Tristan’s face fell but Klöss stopped him quickly. “I know what you’re going to say, that my going was your idea. I don’t blame you. This really has nothing to do with Skelf. I think it’s more about my not being willing to be his puppet.”

“What are you going to do?” Gavin asked.

“There were four other villages attacked while we were at Skelf,” Klöss went on. “All were left in a similar state. Larren refuses to listen to me about the trels. He won’t even entertain the notion of there being a third player in this game. If we don’t work to counter them we stand to lose everything.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Gavin said, lifting his tankard to drink deeply.

Klöss looked at the faces across the table. “I’m tired.” He sighed. “I’ve only been in his shoes a month and already I’m tired of the politics, of the games. I don’t know how Frostbeard did it. Most of all I’m tired of fighting blind.”

He sipped the ale and gasped at the taste, wincing and giving Gavin a black look. “I’ve been so busy that I’ve never really taken the time to stop and think. Things have changed for me now. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.” He drank again, grimacing only slightly this time. “Ylsriss was supposed to have been living here with me by now. We said we’d wait until Rimeheld was secure and the baby was old enough to pass through the Vorstelv, but she should have been here.”

He leant forward, hunching over the drink and stared at the table as he spoke. “Everything has shifted on me. These damned trels have changed everything. We’d beaten the Anlish back. They were probably going to come at us in force at some point but we’d be too entrenched by the time that ever happened. We own the seas, our farms have started producing.” He shook his head. “These creatures have changed everything. We can’t fight them effectively and we have no idea how they can move around so damned fast.”

He looked up at Gavin, “You told me it was one of these trels that you saw take Ylsriss in Hesk?”

Gavin nodded.

“Tell me again what it was you saw?” Klöss asked in a low voice.

“Just as we saw in the reaping,” Gavin said slowly, picking his words as he thought back. “They were the same creatures, though when I first saw them they were dressed like priests, all in black. You remember the park in Hesk? The kissing stones there?” He waited for the nod before he carried on. “They killed Tessa. So fast it was effortless for them. As easy as breathing. One of them must have followed me from there when I ran. I had nowhere else to go, no one else to go to. Ylsriss was like a big sister to me when I lived with the Wretched. Lord of Blood, Klöss, I must have led it right to her!”

The muscles worked in his face as Klöss clenched his teeth together tight to match the grip he had on his drink. “What did it look like?”

“Tall,” Gavin said, his voice was a whisper stolen from confession. “Pale, but the skin had a kind of greenish cast to it too. It was the eyes that got me though, burning like a winter's sunset.”

He drained his drink and went behind the bar. “She could have let it go. She could have taken the coward’s way. She didn’t though, she fought it. She fought for your son.”

Klöss’s hands were trembling around his cup, and the ale threatened to spill out, but his voice was level, cold. “You’ve told me all of this before. I just needed to hear it again.” He looked over at Tristan. “I don’t think I’m going to play the sealord’s game. It’s time I did something for me. I want to know what the Anlish know about these creatures.”

Tristan looked at him, taking that in. “They seemed as shocked as our men during the reaping,” he said. “It is hard to know if they have any knowledge we lack.”

Klöss nodded slowly. “I know, and that’s why someone has to talk to them.”

Tristan sucked air in through his teeth and sat back in the chair. “Without sanction? This will be taken as treason, you know this.”

“I know.” Klöss shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about it all night,” he admitted. “Always before this there was a reason not to. Another attack to plan. Men depending on me. Even my uncle, needing my help. Now… Well, now I have nothing, do I?”

“This does not sound like you have thought things through,” Tristan muttered.

Klöss slammed his fist down on the table, shaking the tankards and slopping ale. “Damn it, Tristan! I’ve done nothing but think. My uncle is dead. My wife, in all but name, is missing with my son. My men have been taken from me. What do I have here for me?

Tristan watched the ale run across the table top and trickle down to the floor. “What is it you plan?”

“Just to leave. Head for their lines as quickly as possible,” Klöss said. “I need to know there’s someone here that I can still trust though. Someone with half an ounce of common sense.”

“Ha!” Tristan snorted. “You would need to look hard to find one like this, I think.”

“Not so hard as you would think,” Klöss said as he smiled.

“No,” Tristan said, standing to fetch the rag from the bar. “I see what it is you dance around and, no, I will not do this.”

Klöss frowned and the chair creaked as he sat back. “Why not?”

“You will need people at your back on this journey.”

“He won’t be going alone, Tristan,” Gavin said, ignoring Klöss’s startled look. “The reason I came here in the first place was to try and help Ylsriss.”

“And you will be a good help to him,” Tristan replied. “But he will need another sword arm I think.”

Klöss looked back and forth between them. “I’m right here, you know?”

“So you are.” Gavin grinned.

Tristan shook his head as he mopped up the ale. “No, I think I will be coming with you. He will only foul things up if he is not watched.”

Klöss threw his hands in the air. “Do I have any say in this?”

“Not really,” Tristan said, with a shrug. “No.”

PART TWO

Chapter Eight

Erinn swept. The room was dark and there was barely enough light to properly see the dirt. What little light there was came in from the small windows and the open door behind her and most of that was blocked by her own body. The room was always a mess. Ten women and girls sleeping in one room would make mess at the best of times but it seemed the floor was always dirty. The building opened onto the packed earth of the camp and mud was always being walked in. She couldn’t often see it, even with all the lamps and candles lit, but every time she stood in bare feet she felt the grains of dirt shifting under her feet.

They’d been lumped together when they first arrived, with families and friends sharing tents. That hadn’t lasted long though. Some busybody complaining about it being indecent with strangers and young women in the same tents soon put pay to it. Never mind the fact there were four or five to a tent. It was a shame really. It had been cramped but at least it had been family and friends. Now they slept in these bunkhouses, crammed together until something better could be arranged.

Feet clumped on the two wooden steps leading up into the bunkhouse and she turned her head as she bent to sweep under the edge of a bunk. The broom reached under as the boots thumped into the short hallway leading in.

“Don’t walk in here, I’m sweeping!” she snapped as she turned to the door, pulling the broom out behind her. The head caught the chamberpot as she pulled, sending it spinning across the floor to crash into the stone slab set under the woodstove.

“Damn it!” she swore as the pot smashed and the contents pooled out over the wooden floor she’d just swept.

“Erinn, are you?” Rhia stopped as it hit her. “Gah! What is that stink?”

Erinn pointed wordlessly and sank down on the edge of the nearest bunk. Just like that she was crying. It was just all too much. The tears fell as Rhia looked at her, stricken.

“I’m sorry Erinn,” Rhia said, sitting down beside her. “Look, I’ll clean it up. It’s not that bad.”

Erinn stiffened as the girl put her arms around her, attempting to pull her into a hug. “It’s not the mess, Rhia,” she managed. “It’s this place… It’s everything!”

“This place?” Rhia asked, looking around the hut. “It’s not so bad. It’s a bit crowded I know but it’s cosy. We’ve got this nice room and we’re warm.” She shrugged. “It’s a chance for a new home.”

Erinn pulled away from her, incredulous. “It’s not a home, Rhia,” she snapped. “It’s a hut. And before we lived in a hut we shivered in a tent.”

Rhia gave her a long look. “You’ve been in here too long. Why don’t you get some air. I can finish the rest of this for you.”

“It’s my turn,” Erinn protested, though not too strenuously.

Rhia gave her a knowing look. “It’s fine. You were almost done anyway until I interrupted you.” Erinn didn’t need to be told again and, mouthing her thanks, she left.

Carik’s Fort was a sprawling mess. It was a fairly new structure to begin with and this had brought its own advantages and challenges. The fort was, almost entirely, a military complex. It hadn’t been around long enough for a large village to spring up around it. This gave it some flexibility when the mass of refugees from Widdengate, and farther east, flooded in. There weren’t streets full of buildings in the way, there was space to pitch tents and then, later on, build shelters. The walls, though built of good, strong stone, could be supplemented with a wooden palisade encircling the camp farther out from the centre of the fort.

The disadvantages were almost entirely due to the fact that it was purely a military camp. There were had been few women in Carik’s Fort, a handful of wives, and certainly no children. Now the place groaned.

Rhenkin had stayed barely long enough to order the fort expanded before he left. Sarenson seemed to be a capable enough man to Erinn but he was slow. He was very clearly one of those men who needed to plan everything meticulously, examining every issue that might arise before beginning a project. As such, the refugees had huddled in tents, squeezed inside the walls for the best part of a month before any work began on more permanent shelters.

The village of refugees, that had once been a sea of tents, had begun as a well ordered construction. As more refugees flocked to Carik’s Fort the plans had suffered, and now the original fort was dwarfed many times over by the village that surrounded it.

Noise assaulted her from every direction as she made her way away from the hut she shared. The ever present sounds of sawing and hammering were overlaid with the cries of babies and small children, mingled with the laughter of yet others. Buried beneath all of this, almost overwhelmed, was the barely noticeable bark of command as Sarenson’s men drilled and did whatever it was that soldiers do when they aren’t fighting.

Sarenson had refused to move on that one point. Carik’s Fort was a fort, a military camp, and it would remain so. Though he’d had no issue setting men to work on building shelters, and then encircling these within the palisade that had become the outer wall, he would allow nothing that might have encroached on the fort itself. None of the wooden shelters stood within the original walls and the tents had been moved out as soon as the palisade was erected.

Erinn picked her way through the throng, lifting her skirts high to avoid the mud. It had been three days since it had rained with any real effort but the constant tread of feet had churned the mud into an oozing muck. She walked as close to the edge of the buildings as she could to avoid the worst of the mess but she’d have wet feet no matter what she did.

She didn’t really have any destination in mind, letting her feet pick their own direction more than anything else. Before long she found herself climbing the steps to the stone walls of the fort. Once constantly manned it was now largely deserted as men guarded the palisade instead. She leaned back against the stone wall, her eyes drifting over the camp, unconsciously seeking out the smoke and sparks of her father’s forge.

“Can help you, miss?”

She jerked around to face the solider, and then blushed at her own reaction. How had he moved so quietly in all that armour? “Sorry, I was just…I mean…no. Thank you, I’m fine.”

He frowned at her slightly, reminding her of Kainen for some reason, though he had to be at least ten years older. “You shouldn’t really be up here, you know?”

She smiled. “It’s not all that important is it? Just for a few minutes?”

He grunted as the hint of a smile flitted over his lips. “I suppose not. You’re the smith’s girl aren’t you?”

“I do have a name,” she grated.

If her temper bothered him he didn’t show it. Instead he nodded calmly. “You probably do, I don’t know it yet though.”

She flushed. “Erinn,” she supplied, feeling stupid.

He grunted. “Thought I recognized you. That hair. You’re like a spark from your da’s forge.”

That brought a smile from her. “Aren’t you quite the poet?”

“Just because I carry a sword doesn’t mean I don’t have a brain.” He turned away from her, looking out into the distance.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words tripping out in an awkward mess as she tried to cover her embarrassment. “I didn’t mean…” She stopped as she caught his smile. “You’re making fun of me!”

“Just a little,” he admitted with a shrug.

“You haven’t even introduced yourself and you’re making fun of me, how outrageously rude,” she said, smiling despite herself.

He grinned back. “Mayden,” he said.

“Maiden?”

“Mayden. With a Y,” he said again, in a tone which made it clear he’d already heard all the jokes he was willing to about this.

She looked out between the merlons, suddenly at a loss for words.

“What was it like?” he asked her.

She didn’t turn. “What was what like?”

“Widdengate.”

“Oh, it was lovely, peaceful.” She smiled at him. “I’d never known anywhere else until they came and burned us out.”

“The Bjornmen?” he asked.

She nodded, her smile a memory.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, giving her a look he probably thought was comforting. “It won’t happen here. Widdengate was a village. No matter what they did it was never built to be defended. This is a fort. They’d have a shock if they tried anything here. I can’t turn back the past but me and the boys can make sure it doesn’t happen to you again.”

She looked at him, nodding again, but she couldn’t make herself believe him. “Have you always been here then? This place?”

“No,” he told her. “Just this last year. Soldiering’s a funny job. You tend to move about a lot.”

“Where are you from then?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her manners. “Originally, I mean.”

“Reylan,” he replied. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”

She shook her head and reached to brush her hair from her face, tucking it behind an ear. “No, where is it?”

“West of here.” He shrugged, pulling his cloak tighter against a sudden chill from the wind. “Far west of Savarel… West, of anywhere really.”

He was actually quite good looking, she decided. In a gruff sort of way. Not that she was interested, of course. It was just interesting the way that it wasn’t immediately apparent. Some people wear their beauty on the surface, clouding what lurks beneath. Artor had been like that. She bit her lip at the thought. Artor, she’d barely spared him a thought since they’d fled Widdengate.

“Well,” she said, pulling her own cloak around her in a businesslike fashion, “I suppose I should get on. I’m sure you have better things to do than talk to some silly girl.”

He looked confused at that, sensing the shift in her mood but unsure what had happened to cause it. “Hardly silly, but you’re probably right. Maybe we can talk again?”

She lowered her chin, looking up at him artfully. “You never know your luck,” she teased.

His laugh was bigger than both of them. “You’re a dangerous one. Lords and Ladies, with a father as big as yours a man needs to be careful around you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, all wide-eyed and faux innocence. She couldn’t hold it in and laughed at herself and his reaction. “Besides, he’s all talk really.”

“Well if he doesn’t get me the captain will if I stand around here much longer.” He gave a mocking little bow. “I’ll look for you.”

“Maybe you’ll find me.” She threw a grin over one shoulder and skipped past him and made her way down the steps. Maybe Carik’s Fort wasn’t so bad after all.

***

Her arms ached from working the bellows. The pain ran up her shoulders and down to the small of her back. She’d stopped hearing the rush of air and the roar of the coals. Even the ringing of metal on metal had dulled in her ears as Harlen worked the swords, forcing the iron into shape with deft blows of the hammer.

She looked over at him as he set the hammer down. “Are we nearly done?”

He paused to wipe he grime from his forehead with the back of one thick arm. “Nowhere close to it, girl. You take a break for a few minutes, get a drink, and shake those arms out.”

She looked out of the newly converted building that now housed the forge, at the people passing by on the newly formed street. “I don’t see why Domant couldn’t have stayed on as your apprentice.”

Harlen pressed his lips tight as he took a deep breath and let it out, sighing through his nose. “You know full well they chose to go on to Kavtrin with the Taplock’s. Can’t hold a lad to an apprenticeship in times like this.”

“Why don’t you just take a new one then?” she asked, rubbing the backs of her arms.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady,” he shot back at her. His voice softened as he went on, “I don’t have the time to train someone, Erinn. It’d take me the best part of a month to teach them how to tend the fire right and work the bellows without me having to stop every two minutes.”

She gave him a look that said clearly she believed none of it.

“I’m behind as it is, child,” he said with a sigh. “It won’t hurt you to help out now and then.”

“I don’t see why you need to be the one to produce all this anyway,” she said, waving at the stacks of swords and crates of arrowheads.

Harlen gave her a penetrating look. “What’s this really about, Erinn? You’re too smart to be objecting. You know full well why I’m making iron weapons, just as you know why I can’t take an apprentice right now.”

“I was supposed to meet Mayden,” she admitted.

“That sergeant who’s been chasing you around?” Harlen grunted. “I don’t know I like the amount of time you’ve been spending together.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she laughed. “It’s my life though, Father. I’m a grown woman after all. I can’t spend it all pumping bellows.”

“You’re not as grown as all that,” Harlen muttered and bent to examine the blade he’d been shaping. “Besides, I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

“Oh?” She folded her arms and looked at him pointedly. “And how exactly is he looking at me?”

Harlen glanced at her and flushed behind his spark-singed beard. “You know what I mean. He’s too old for you anyways. He must have fifteen summers on you.”

“He’s nowhere near as old as all that!” Erinn protested. “And how much older than mother were you?” Erinn threw back. “For that matter, how old was she at the time? Fourteen when you first started walking out wasn’t it?”

He ignored that, going to the other side of the forge and busying himself with a polishing cloth set on the bench. “You were a lot more pleasant before you developed this clever mouth, Erinn.”

She grinned at his back. “You didn’t really answer the question though, father.”

“Which one was that?” He glanced back at her.

“How much longer will you need me for today?”

“That’s because you never really came out and asked it, Erinn.” He went to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. His hands engulfed her. He always made her feel like a child’s toy when he did this. “I suppose I can manage for now. You be careful with him though, Erinn. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

She swallowed hard and turned her face away, blinking back the pricking in her eyes. He always did this. One moment he was overprotective and completely unreasonable, the next he was like this. She buried herself in his chest, pressing her face the thick leather apron and hugging him tight for a moment.

“You just make sure you’re home when it’s still light,” he told her as she left. She smiled back at him. A smile was as good as an answer sometimes.

The day was dull and wet but warm enough, and she barely shivered from coming out of the forge. Normally it took her a good few minutes to get used to the fresh air. She rushed back to the bunkhouse, nodding at Mira who was sweeping it out, and quickly changed into the yellow dress she’d been saving for a day worthy of it. She was lucky. Harlen had packed properly before they’d fled and she had a selection. Some of the men had only the clothes on their backs.

Though she was in no real hurry she moved swiftly through the fort. Shops, after a fashion, were springing up already. Some of the refugees sheltering in the fort had little in the way of money and even less of a way of earning more. A life spent farming or making barrels is not something that lends itself well to doing nothing though, and those that could work were doing what they could.

Mayden had said he’d meet her by the stream. It wasn’t far from the front gates of the palisade and she passed through the stone wall and the streets of the refugee village to the palisade’s open gates with a small smile on her lips. She ignored the knowing grin on the faces of the men standing guard there. Word had clearly got around and they’d been doing it for weeks now. It was funny, once she’d moved beyond the ditches and spiked stakes, the country was truly beautiful here. She made her way through the long grasses, heading for the edge of the woods and the stream that lay just inside.

“I didn’t think you were coming?”

His voice made her jump and she spun around in a shock that ended in a girlish squeal as he caught her up in his arms. She turned her head, allowing his kiss to find her cheek but not what he’d sought.

“I said I would try,” she said, brushing down her dress with both hands.

“I know you did.” He laughed. “I just didn’t expect that bear of a father of yours to let you out of his sight.” He walked her over to the stream and threw himself down onto the carpet of soft moss, patting the ground beside him.

She looked down at him for a moment. “That bear, as you call him, is my father. I don’t like it when you talk like that.”

“Ah, you know I didn’t mean anything by it, lass.” He laughed.

She sat down on her knees, spreading her dress out in front of her. He hadn’t even complimented her on it yet. Had he even noticed it? So far this wasn’t going the way she’d expected it to. “Tell me about the places you’ve been?” she asked, more to give him something to talk about than from any real interest.

“Again?” he sighed in mock exasperation. “What do you want to hear about this time? Reylan? The time I went as a caravan guard to Feldane?”

“Tell me about Celstwin,” she urged, playing with the end of her plait. He’d not noticed her hair either, so far as she could tell. If she were ever to settle with this man he would need some of the edges worn off him. Now where had that thought come from?

She sat and listened to his talk of the capital, with its marble-clad buildings and soaring spires. Of the merchant fleet that sailed from there, bringing fine wines and spices back from Surama and islands she’s never heard of.

After a time she moved closer, settling down beside him. He smelled good. Not like the smoke and coal smell of her father. This was more leather and oil and a faint smell of horses. An outside smell.

They talked as they snacked on the bread and bottle of elderberry wine he’d brought.

“How did you end up in Carik’s Fort?” she asked. “You make travelling sound much more fun that being cooped up in a fort for years.”

“It is, more the most part,” he admitted. “There’s a freedom to being on the road, even if you are guarding merchants and travellers. It’s not as dangerous as most would think. Bandits value their own skin more than they do a cartload of wool or turnips. It does have its downsides though.”

“Winter?” she guessed.

“Winter’s no fun, no,” he admitted. “Once or twice I’d saved enough up to not have to work, and I managed to hole up for the winter. Other times I wasn’t so lucky. I guess that’s probably how I ended up here. It’s not much of a life but signing on for a three year stint means three warm winters instead of sleeping under a wagon, trying to stay warm.”

He propped himself up on one arm and moved in, kissing her neck. Erinn froze. It was so fast she hadn’t had time to move, let alone protest. He carried on, taking her silence for encouragement somehow. His weight came down on her, pressing her into the moss even though more than half his weight was on the ground or his other arm. His lips sought and found hers, kissing hungrily and she let out a moan that could have meant anything. His lips were soft for a man, though the stubble scratched at her. Her leg came up, seemingly of its own volition and then his hands were running over her, touching, then pawing.

“Artor, stop!” she gasped. He didn’t listen but she stiffened as she realised what she’d said. It was the same all over again, even the damned stream was the same!

“Stop,” she whispered. Then again, louder this time. “Stop!”

Her knee came up, sharp and hard and he stiffened with a gasp that swiftly became a groan as he rolled off her. She picked herself up, eyes streaming with tears, and ran.

Branches and thorns clawed at her, scratching and drawing blood even as they ripped at her dress. She was past caring or feeling. She was a wild thing, running on instinct, her mind a mess of shame and hurt. They were right. They’d all been right. She was a tease. She led men on and said no when it started getting serious. Artor had known. He’d told her right. Now Mayden, a grown man! She’d ruined everything again. Even now she could hear the whispers and the laughing following her through the trees.

The ground dipped unexpectedly and she stumbled, rolling down the steep bank and tumbling into the stream. A rock found her head as she pitched into the water and her vision tilted around her. Ironically it was the water that probably saved her. It was icy cold and the shock of it hitting her face was enough to stop her passing out. She pushed down with one hand, finding the bottom and lifting her face above the surface as she coughed and spat. The blood ran down her face, cutting a path down her nose and dripping into the water. Tiny red clouds bloomed in the stream, born in an instant, and then torn away by the current.

She crawled to the far bank, not quite trusting herself to stand yet, and huddled on the ground as the water streamed from her dress. “Stupid girl.” The first words she'd spoken since she fled, and the truest to pass her lips.

She’d led him on. That’s why he’d been all over her, pawing at her, tearing at her clothes. If she hadn’t screamed…

Her stomach heaved and she gagged, lurching forward onto her hands as knees as she vomited onto the moss. Her stomach lurching over and over until she had to gasp down snatches of breath between each heave. Finally it stopped and she crawled backwards a couple of feet before collapsing onto the moss. His hands, everywhere. The thought filled her with so much shame and bitterness. Except, they hadn’t been had they? He’d kissed her. But then, she’d been kissing back. His hands had just stroked her face and her neck. He’d laid down with her, laid on her a little but he hadn’t pinned her. Lords and Ladies, she hadn’t screamed at all! That had been Artor, not Mayden. What had she done?

She cried then. Tears of shame. Tears of anger at herself. The trees caught her sobs and threw them back at her, echoes twisting them into a thousand tiny laughs. The sound shook her and she scrubbed the tears from her face with the back of one hand. Sulking in the woods would do her no good.

She nearly fell twice until she had the presence of mind to use the tree roots in the bank to help her stand. It was so much darker than she remembered it being. How long had she huddled on the bank of the stream? A fallen branch made a useful crutch and she hobbled across the stream, discovering new aches and pains as she went.

“Mayden?” she called out. Not that the man would ever want to speak to her again. She tried again, louder this time. “Mayden!”

It took a ridiculously short time for him to find her. They must have been almost on top of each other. She stepped around a large oak, leaning on the trunk with one hand, and there he was.

“Erinn! Oh hells, Erinn!” He rushed to her, easing her down to the ground so he could get a look at her forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice too scared to project.

“Shhh, none of that matters.” He pulled her arm around his shoulders, helping her stand. “Let’s get you back to the fort. We can talk when you’re all cleaned up. Bloody Droos, you’re soaked. Here, take my cloak.”

“What’s that?” she asked, looking past him into the distance.

He turned and peered into the deepening murk. “I don’t see anything.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It sounded like…like laughing.”

Mayden stood silent, listening. Finally he shook his head and gave her a worried look. “I don’t hear anything. Come on, let’s get you home.”

They moved slowly. Despite her protests that she was fine, he seemed to think she was made of fine glass and stopped every time she made the faintest whimper.

They were still half a mile from the gates when the horns came. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and yet no particular direction. They both froze as the haunting notes sounded again, discordant and wild. Erinn looked at him, an unasked question sharing her eyes with the fear that was plain to see.

“I’ve no idea, Erinn,” he said as he looked around. “It’s not from our men, that’s for sure.”

They moved faster, the sound of the horns urging them on, though their source remained a mystery. The gates were shut fast against the darkness and Mayden pounded hard on the tar-smeared wood until the peep slid open. “Harkis, open the damned gates, you fool!” he hissed as the horns sounded again.

“Be bloody quick about it then,” the man said through the grate. One side of the gates creaked open just wide enough for them to squeeze through, and then slammed shut, the heavy crossbar falling back into place.

Mayden turned to Harkis as soon as the crossbar fell “What in the hells are those horns?”

“Caltus’s bloody balls, girl! What happened to you?” The guard looked Erinn up and down and shot a suspicious look at Mayden.

“It’s a long story,” Mayden muttered and helped Erinn away from the accusing eyes.

Harlen found them before they were even close to her bunkhouse. He came down the narrow street like an angry bear, roaring his rage and frustration.

One burn-scarred paw took her from Mayden’s side, pulling her close. “Lords and Ladies, Erinn. What happened?”

“It’s a long story, Da,” she managed, stealing Mayden’s line. “Let me tell it once I’m cleaned up?”

He held her at arm’s length, searching her eyes for something for a moment before he gave a non-committal grunt.

He put an arm around her and started towards the bunkhouse, making sure she was still moving before he turned back to Mayden. Harlen’s fist lashed out so fast Mayden didn’t even have time to flinch and he was lifted off his feet as the smith clenched his fist tight around his shirt. “If I find you’ve harmed one single hair,” he said, the threat hanging heavy from each syllable as the soldier’s feet dangled helplessly.

Erinn tugged at his arm. “It wasn’t him, Da. Stop it. Put him down!”

The horns sounded again, low and mournful, and the sound rolled through the fort like a wave. Harlen lowered Mayden to the ground as he looked first to the walls and then up at the rising moon. Trumpets were calling out on the walls and the sound of running feet and jangling armour filled the night. In seconds the evening had gone from still to frantic and Harlen was wide eyed despite his calm, serious voice as he looked to his daughter.

“The fae,” he said. “Get to the forge, Erin. Get some iron around you,” he said, his voice little louder than the wind that had picked up and was tossing leaves along the street.

“What’s going on? Where are those horns coming from?” Mayden asked.

“It’s the fae,” Harlen said again, face grim.

Mayden looked at him like he was an idiot. “The fae? What, fairies?”

Erinn wheeled on him in shock. “You don’t know? They didn’t tell you?”

“Get to the forge, Erinn,” Harlen repeated. “I’ve got to find that idiot commander.”

“I’ll take her,” Mayden told him, the threats forgotten in the face of the huge smith’s urgency. “Sarenson will probably be in the officer’s mess at this hour. Head for the barracks. Anyone can take you from there.”

Harlen gave the man a look, and then a curt nod of approval before he turned and ran towards the stone wall of the fort.

“Let’s go,” Mayden said, reaching to pull her arm about his shoulders again.

They did not speak. The fort was alive with the shouts of men rushing to their posts and the slamming of doors. The wind grew stronger still, whipping loose leaves at them and tugging at Erinn’s tattered dress.

“Where are you going?” Erinn cried, looking about her in dismay. “The forge is the other way!”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Mayden admitted. “Let’s get you to the bunkhouse. You can get cleaned up there and get out of this wind at least.”

A horn sang out so close it drove both their hands to their ears. Erinn matched Mayden’s look of shock and confusion as they both searched for the source of the noise, and then the night turned to horrors. Between one breath and the next the leaves that flew so close to them transformed, seeming almost to shimmer in the light of the moon as they became tiny winged creatures that hurtled through the streets. They both stared in wonder at the creatures passing them on all sides. A scream of incredible agony carried to Erinn’s ears, and then the spell was broken.

The swarm of fae’reeth tore through the fort like a vengeful storm, tiny knives clutched in their hands as they spun and wove around those fool enough to be out in the night. Erinn ran, half-dragging Mayden along with her as he stared, mouth agape, at the creatures. The bunkhouse was just ahead of them, door swinging in the wind whipped up by wings beyond counting.

A group of soldiers staggered around the corner ahead of them, flailing at the creatures spinning around them in a blade-filled whirlwind of wings and flitting purple bodies. Blood already oozed from a thousand tiny cuts and, as the other two staggered onward, the third was suddenly lifted into the air. Small hands buried in his hair or clutched at his clothing as he twisted and screamed. The cuts and slashes increased, matching the tempo of his cries until his throat was opened and the blood fountained as he fell, crashing to the dirt.

Mayden grabbed her, stirred from inaction by the scene. He sprinted to the side of the bunkhouse, pushing down on her shoulders and urging her into the air gap under the hut, where it rested on thick timber beams. Designed to keep the base of the shelters from rotting, the space was narrow, barely a foot high, but it was enough.

Erinn clambered under quickly, in a motion halfway between a crawl and a slither. She moved as fast as she dared whilst trying to be quiet. Her life might depend on her silence. She shifted back, making room for Mayden. Instead, a girl was shoved under the hut, shaking and making muffled squeals as she strove to hold in the screams that sought to escape. Erinn wormed closer to her, inching forward on her belly until she could whisper soothing noises into the girl’s ear.

The footsteps pounding on the floorboards above their heads were soon replaced by screams, the sound somehow all the more awful for being muffled. A drip landed on one cheek and Erinn reached to wipe it away. It wasn’t water. She shifted back in shock as her fingers found the thicker texture of it. As the blood began to drip down between the gaps in the floor Erinn bit down on the back of her hand to keep her screams from joining the chorus above. Pressed close beside her the other girl’s body shook with silent sobs.

The sounds of battle reached under the hut for them. Swords clashing and yelled orders mingling with the sounds of panicked screams. Blue flashes of light flickered at the edges of her vision and twice deafening crashes sounded but Mayden never joined them. They huddled, too terrified to let each other cry or make a sound louder than a breathy whisper as, all around them, the fort reeled under the onslaught.

Chapter Nine

Erinn lay in the darkness, listening. The shouting and screams had finished hours ago. They’d been followed by laughter and strains of a strange music but even that had gone now, cut short by harsh words in a language she couldn’t understand. Now she just listened to the silence, trying hard not to accept what that meant as she watched the darkness under the bunkhouse slowly turn into the dim light of dawn.

Survivors of the attack that had any real numbers would have been out searching for others by now. Sarenson’s soldiers would have been making their own noise if they’d lived. The silence fit. Carik’s Fort was empty. It was an oversized tomb.

She was struck with the need to know. To put the fears to rest one way or another. Almost everyone in the world she knew and loved was in Carik’s Fort. She couldn’t just sit in the darkness and hide. They might be wounded. They might need help.

And yet she didn’t move, she couldn’t. She lay in the mud cursing herself silently for a coward as hot tears ran down her nose and dripped onto her hands.

Tears turned to frustration and that, in turn, was shouldered aside by hot anger. She wormed her way forward. If the fae were still out there they were welcome to her craven soul.

“Don’t go out there!” The words were hissed in a voice just edging past a whisper but the desperation and the fear spoke more clearly in their own, far louder, voice.

Erinn looked back at the girl, just visible in the dim light from the edge of the bunkhouse. “It’s been quiet for hours. We can’t stay under here forever.”

The girl reached for her and clutched at her dress. “What if those things are still out there?”

“Then they’re still out there.” Erinn shrugged, surprising herself with her sudden calm, but then a person can only maintain anger or terror for so long. “Look…” She broke off. “I was going to say something then, but I’ve just realised I don’t even know your name.”

“Kel,” the girl whispered, still holding the fold of fabric in her fist.

“Look, Kel,” Erinn began again. “If those things are still out there they’ll come for us sooner or later. If I’m going to die I want it to be with the sun on my face not hiding here in the dirt.”

She took Kel’s wrist and pulled her dress gently from the girl’s grasp. Kel didn’t resist but watched her with huge eyes. The ground was damp as she wormed her way to the edge of the bunkhouse. Not wet, but a dampness that was easily confused with simply being cold. It seeped into her dress and leeched away at the warmth she’d worked so hard to hold on to as she’d clung to Kel in the night.

The edge of the bunkhouse scraped at her back as she pulled herself out into the light but she didn’t let it slow her. The village was silent. She turned, still in her crouch, and recoiled as she saw the first body only a few feet from her. It was torn and broken, covered in blood and hundreds of slashes. The glimpse before she turned her face away was enough. The uniform and the dark hair. She didn’t need to look closer to know it was Mayden.

Her scrapes on her back stung as she pressed against the side of the bunkhouse. She would allow herself this one moment, with Kel still under the floor of the building, when she could be human. After this she would be iron, hard and unfeeling.

A single sob broke from her lips, muffled as she clapped her hands over her mouth. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes with her sleeve before edging her way to the corner of the hut and peering around it.

The fort and the refugee camp that surrounded it were utterly still, the silence so total it was surreal. Bodies littered the ground in every direction, the blood staining the streets around them. A flutter of wings sent her scurrying back behind the cover of the bunkhouse but it was just a crow, landing on one of the bodies and pecking at the gore. The bird proved to be the first of many as she looked on, and the silence was broken by their caws.

Erinn stood in silence, trying to listen past the sound of the crows for long minutes until Kel called her.

“Erinn?” She turned towards the small voice and caught Kel’s face just as it withdrew back into the shadows under the bunkhouse.

“It’s safe enough,” she told her. “At least, I can’t see anything. Come on out but…” she grimaced, there was no other way to put it. “There are a lot of bodies out here, Kel. Try not to look, okay?”

Now that she could see her properly in the light she realised the girl was far younger than she’d imagined, no more than twelve at most. Her dress was in better condition than Erinn’s own, being thick wool. Looking at her, and then down at herself, Erinn realised just what a state they were in. She reached for the girl’s hand. “First thing's first then, let’s see if we can get some dry clothes, eh?”

Kel nodded, her eyes were wide and frightened and she gripped tight to Erinn’s hand as if scared it might slip away from her. Erinn moved slowly, barely making a sound as she listened for any sign of life. The crows were making too much noise to hear and she worked hard to listen past their incessant cawing. She froze again at the corner of the bunkhouse, pressing her ear to the wooden wall before she dared to peer around the corner. Kel was a silent ghost by her side. She’d have forgotten she was there if it weren’t for the hand that clung so desperately to her own.

They darted through the open door of the bunkhouse and into the dimly lit room. It was still as Erinn had last seen it, aside from the blood. Where the bodies might be was anyone’s guess but there was blood enough staining the floor for three men.

“Wait here,” she told Kel, turning her so she faced into the corner.

She fetched a sack and began stuffing clothes into it, taking others that she hoped might fit the girl.

With the bag filled with more clothes than they probably needed she looked around, suddenly at a loss. She headed out to the street and looked at Kel who stood watching her with expectant eyes. What was she supposed to do now? A loud rumble came from her stomach. “I suppose that answers that question,” she muttered.

“What?” Kel asked.

“I was wondering what we should do next,” Erinn explained. “I suppose we should find some food.”

They made their way around the village, slowly at first as they darted from building to building, and then more confidently as it became obvious that there was no sign of life. The bodies were everywhere and Erinn had to make a conscious effort not to look at them. Most were too torn and shredded to recognise anyway, but there were others where she thought knew the clothing.

The soldiers were clustered together. They’d died in groups. The villagers though, seemed scattered as if they’d been tossed by a careless child.

A heel of stale bread from an empty bunkhouse went some way to silencing her stomach, though Kel grimaced and refused to try to eat. The packed earth of the village streets was riddled with tracks. Erinn was no hunter but the cloven hoof prints were hard to miss.

The forge was empty. Somehow she knew before she even stepped inside that she wouldn’t find her father there. Bodies were scattered in a wide arc around the entrance, crumpled into a tableau of pain on the scorched earth. She picked up an iron sword and, just as quickly, dropped it again. The blade was far too heavy for her to swing let alone defend herself.

The swords were mostly where Harlen had left them, stacked to one side of the workshop next to barrels of arrowheads and the sheaves of iron arrows that had come back from the fort’s fletcher. She plucked an arrow out, holding it like a dagger. It probably wouldn’t do her any good if it came down to it but it made her feel slightly less helpless.

“Erinn,” a small voice said behind her.

She turned. “Yes?”

“I want my mother.” The plea was simple and heartfelt and Erinn glanced out at the bodies on the street before she could stop herself. She knelt and put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “I know you do, Kel. I want my Da, too. Let’s go, shall we?”

Kel was the first to call out, shouting for her mother as they made their way towards the fort. The sound shocked Erinn and she reached out to silence the girl before she realised there was no point. If the fae were still in Carik’s Fort they’d have found them by now.

They passed the silent buildings, shouting out on every corner. The streets took their words and swallowed them, not even replying with an echo.

The cottage was almost complete. Kel’s family had clearly been one of the first to begin construction. She stopped as they approached, standing half a step ahead of Erinn as she looked at the door.

It hung just ajar. Wide enough to let a draft through but not so wide that anyone could enter. Erinn looked down at Kel and grimaced. “Do you want me to go and look?”

The girl turned to look up at her and the tears hung heavy in her eyes as she nodded. “I’m scared.” The admission carried the first of her tears with it and she threw herself at Erinn, clinging on with her thin arms.

Erinn held her, drawing comfort from the embrace even as she tried not to think about what she might find and what this might mean for the chances of finding her own father alive. She stepped back away from Kel. The girl’s arms parted and fell to her sides as she looked at Erinn, hopeless and lost

Obligation is a heavy thing. It can weigh down to crush the very breath from you, but no matter the burden it is never as great as the guilt that follows if it is shrugged aside.

Erinn touched her fingertips to the door, glancing back over her shoulder at Kel’s expectant face. She smiled at her, a false smile filled with hopeful lies, and pushed the door open.

The smell hit her immediately, the air was thick with the metallic scent. She should have stopped then. There was nothing her eyes could tell her that her nose hadn’t already screamed. The first body was barely three paces from the door, face-down in a pool of blood. His pose was testament enough to the struggle. A woman lay across the table, her shredded dress and the blood on her thighs leaving no doubt as to how she’d died.

Erinn clapped a hand to her mouth and managed three steps before throwing up violently. She gripped the back of a wooden chair with one hand as her stomach heaved, over and over until she was left spitting and gasping. She made her way to the door, leaning against the wall beside it until she could trust her legs, and then she went to face Kel.

The girl knew. As soon as Erinn stepped out of the little cottage she knew, and the tears began again. She ran towards the door but Erinn caught her easily with one arm, pulling her back. “No, sweetheart. You don’t want to go in there. Keep the memories you have.”

She took her into her arms, holding her tight until the crying subsided from the wracking sobs to something softer, and somehow more grief-stricken, and then she led her away.

In a strange way having to care for the girl gave Erinn something to focus on and allowed her not to think about her own father. It was time for practicalities, she’d decided. They couldn’t stay in Carik’s Fort. Even if the fae didn’t return the bodies littering the streets would soon create enough problems of their own.

She glanced at the girl beside her. The tears had stopped for now but they had simply been replaced by a deeper hurt. Grief is a dangerous thing, she’d been once told. It can burrow down into a person, out of the sight of others where it will fester and spread. It hides there, in the core of who we are, gorging itself on all the joy and light it can find until misery is all that remains.

“How long have you been here, Kel?” Erinn asked for want of something better to ask.

“I don’t know,” Kel replied in a mutter.

“A month?” Erinn persisted. “Do you remember more than one full moon?”

“Maybe.” she shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Where had you come from?”

“Selene. It was new, we made it.” The girl couldn’t help let a sliver of pride slip into her voice.

Erinn smiled at that. “Did you have other family there? A Nanna or anyone like that?”

The reply was slow to come. When it did it was a whisper of wind in the tall grass. “A sister, Clarissa.”

Erinn felt a spark of hope at that. “She didn’t come here with you?”

Kel rounded on her then, her mouth twisted as she shouted the words up into Erinn’s face. “No, she’s dead! They’re all dead!”

There was nothing she could think of to say to that and they walked in a silence broken only by Kel’s sniffing.

“How do you feel about heading west?” Erinn asked eventually.

“Don’t you want to look for your Da?” came the soft reply.

Erinn stopped, realising she’d been avoiding making that decision. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, I think we should keep calling out, just in case. But no, I don’t want to see.”

Kel gave a shrug. The crying had stopped and been replaced with a numb ambivalence. She followed Erinn along without seeming to care where she went or what they did, even the bodies in the streets seemed to no longer bother her.

The entrance to the fort itself had been torn apart. Massive blocks of stone lay scattered around the crumbling entryway. Thick roots were mixed in amongst the rubble that had thrust out from the earth and grown towards the gatehouse. Erinn realised they must have wormed in between the stones of the wall, tearing them apart as they grew. The sight was as shocking as the realisation and she was silent as she climbed up onto the stones and looked into the fort.

Bodies lay thick beyond the gates, many pierced by long, pale arrows. The ground around them was scorched and burn-scarred. They may have fallen but at least they’d taken some of the fae with them, she realised. The thought gave her a bitter satisfaction, and she found herself gripping the iron arrow tightly in her clenched fist as she climbed over the fallen stones and into the square that lay beyond.

She glanced back at Kel, thinking to warn her not to follow, but the girl showed no signs of moving. “I just need to look about, okay? I won’t be long.”

Kel gave no response but sat down on the large stone, her feet kicking idly. The image of the girl sitting, seemingly unconcerned by the bodies only yards away, disturbed Erinn in ways she couldn’t explain.

The square had clearly served as a training ground and the straw targets lined up against one wall still sported arrows. Erinn walked around slowly, looking into the stables and farriers. They were both silent but she didn’t need to look to know the horses had not been spared. Bodies were thick in the entry to the main building of the fort itself. She picked her way through until she could shout through the doorway.

“Hello?” she called out. Her voice sounded weak and reedy in the silence. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Da!”

A faint sound had her spin in place. It was quiet, so slight she wasn’t sure she’d really heard anything. “Hello?” she called again.

She shouted until her throat grew hoarse. Her only reply was the silence she’d broken, but then what else had she expected? She looked around the training ground of the ruined fort, trying not to see the bodies, trying not to see anything. A small hand crept into hers and led her gently away.

They spent the night in the forge. She’d dumped scraps of iron over the ground inside  and tossed a fair littering out onto the street as well. Erinn built the fire high and worked the bellows until the coals fairly roared before tossing small iron scraps into the fire and pumping the bellows again until the air stank. Finally, surrounded by the iron weapons her father had forged, they slept.

The belch was long and heartfelt and Erinn jerked from her sleep, bashing her head against the barrel closest to her. “Damn!” she swore, clutching her head with one hand as she rose to her feet. The sunlight streamed in through the open entry to the forge and Erinn blinked against the light as she peered out.

An old man sat propped against the building opposite, a large wineskin in one hand. He tore a chunk from the loaf of bread he held in the other with his teeth and raised the skin in greeting.

“Samen?” She said, moving closer and shading her eyes with one hand. “Is that you? What are you doing here?”

“Eating breakfast,” the old man muttered. “Listening to girls snore.”

“I do not snore…” Erinn began, but looked back into the forge as Kel let out a great rasping sound.

Samen smiled at her expression. “You’re louder,” he observed, and took a deep drink from the skin.

Erinn shook her head and took in a slow breath. “Where did you come from?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Widdengate. Same as you, girl.” Then, seeing her expression. “All right, don’t get into a snit. I hid, same as you, I expect. I found an old storage cellar and hid in a pile of mouldy sacks.”

“I didn’t even know you were here,” Erinn confessed.

“Where else would I go? Most of Widdengate was here.” He scratched at his filthy beard and pulled himself up. “What were you planning on doing?”

She frowned. “Doing?”

“Well, I don’t expect you were going to stay here, enjoying the smell of a few thousand bodies in the sun.” He gave her a nasty smile.

“We were going to go west,” she told him, still trying to catch up.

“Obviously,” he snorted. “East is into the arms of the Bjornmen. West where?”

“I don’t know, maybe to find Rhenkin,” she managed. The old man was flustering her. Why was he putting her on the spot like this?

Samen grimaced. “Ah yes, Rhenkin. The illustrious commander who’s managed to protect us twice now. Oh, no, he hasn’t, has he?”

She shot him a look that he’d earned twice over for the sarcasm and turned at a light step behind her.

“Who’s that?” Kel asked, peering around Erinn’s body as she reached for her arm.

“This is Samen,” Erinn said in a gentle tone. “He’s a bit old and smelly but he does tell wonderful stories.” She looked over at the old man, pleading with her eyes for him to be gentle.

“Don’t know any stories,” the old man grunted and stooped to retrieve the wine. “And I don’t like little girls.”

“Well that’s just great, Samen,” Erinn snapped as Kel pressed herself closer to her. “Nice going.”

The old man gave another nasty smile, and then looked down the street. “When were you fixing to leave?”

“As soon as we get some supplies together, I suppose,” Erinn replied. She rubbed Kel’s shoulder absently as she looked down the street. “Do you think there might be others?”

“Other what? Survivors?” Samen asked, following her gaze. “I suppose there could be. They’ll find their way to us. Or not.” He shrugged.

She glanced at the bread he still held in one hand. “Do you think we could have some of that?”

He looked down at his hand. “There’s a pile of it still in the mess. Get your own,” he replied with a smile and took another bite.

***

The new stores had been built close to the palisade. Probably to make it easier to unload the carts as they arrived rather than have them wind their way through the streets to the fort itself.

As Erinn and Kel drew closer it became clear that the sharpened wooden posts of the palisade had suffered much the same fate as the gatehouse. Large sections had twisted away, tearing open portions of the defensive wall. Fresh leaves grew from branches that had somehow sprouted from some of the posts and thick roots could now be seen reaching down into the earth. Erinn shook her head at the sight and glanced down at Kel but the girl seemed unmoved.

The store was nothing more than a large warehouse. A small office adjoined the much larger room that was stacked with sacks of grain and barrels of salted meat. A row of meat hooks hung from a beam, ready for fresh meat.

“I suppose we’d better get started,” Erinn said to Kel, dusting her hands off and making her voice brighter than she felt. “Why don’t you see if you can find some apples or carrots? If they’re stored properly they’ll last well.”

She watched as the girl headed away slowly. It was probably a good idea to keep her active, force her to do things on her own. If left to her own devices she’d just sit and stare into space. “What about you then, Erinn?” she muttered to herself. “You’re as bad as she is, you just hide it better.”

She shook her head against a welter of feelings and reached for the closest sack of grain. One tug told her she’d never be able to carry it, and if she tried to drag it over the floor she risked it splitting. Erinn muttered choice words and looked around as she thought.

A stack of crates stood close to the wall. Splintered and cracked they were probably waiting to be broken down into kindling. She looked from the sack back to the crates and smiled as an idea took form. If she could get one side of the crate loose she might be able to push the sack over onto it. With luck it would slide over the floor easily.

She kicked and tugged at a likely crate until a long split carried down one corner. A good hard tug should have it coming loose, she reasoned. Laying it on its side allowed her to stand on the inside of the wall of the crate. She heaved upwards and was rewarded with a loud crack as the crate came apart in her hands.

The sack fell down onto the section of wood with ease, it even landed square which would make life easier. She leaned down and gave an experimental shove, cracking a smile as the board shifted a few inches.

“Work through your troubles, Erinn,” she whispered, quoting her father. It applied equally in both meanings, apparently. She shoved the sack out to the loading dock and rolled it off the board, before heading back for more supplies.

Within an hour they had a large pile of supplies stacked at the loading dock. They were also hot, sweaty and filthy. As Erinn lay back against a sack she wished she’d had the sense to bring some water with her.

“Still, we did it, didn’t we?” she said to Kel, smiling brightly, this time without forcing it.

The girl gave a small smile back. It was a weak, watery thing, but it was a start.

Erinn reached into a barrel and pulled out a couple of apples, handing one to the girl as she took a large bite. They were still crisp and, at that moment, one of the most delicious things she had ever tasted. She munched happily, closing her eyes and enjoying the sun on her face.

“An’ just where do you think you’re taking that lot?” The voice was harsh and accusing and Erinn’s eyes flew open as the apple fell from her fingers into the dirt.

The speaker was a dark haired man with an angry cut running from eyebrow to cheek around his eye. He stood slightly ahead of two smaller men and held an improvised cudgel in one hand.

“I…err…” Erinn sputtered.

“You what?”

She took a breath and tried again. “We’re going to head west, get away here. You’d be welcome to join us.”

He gave her a scathing look. “Are you soft in the head? The land out there is crawling with those Bjornmen, an' who knows when those monsters might come back. No we’re stayin’ right here. An’ so is that lot.”

Erinn climbed to her feet. “You can’t be serious. I mean, stay if you like but there’s enough in there for everyone!”

“Everyone that matters is stood over here by me, Darlin’,” the man said with an ugly smile.

“Look…” she looked at him expectantly.

“Stett,” he supplied.

“Look, Stett,” she tried again. “There’s food in there that will spoil before it ever gets eaten. Can’t we be reasonable about this?”

“What’s in there belongs to this fort. As there’s only us left I say it belongs to us.” He stopped, looking at her again as something obviously occurred to him. “For that matter, what makes you think you can just leave? It’s going to get cold pretty soon. A nice bit like you shouldn’t be out on the roads by herself.”

A clatter brought him up short and they all turned to see the cart coming down the street, drawn by a brown horse than had definitely seen better days. “Found some more friends then,” Samen said, eyeing the men and he eased the cart to a halt.

“They say they’re not going to let us leave,” Erinn explained.

“Is that so?” Samen replied, turning to look at the dark-haired man. “It’s going to smell pretty ripe here in a week or so.”

“I didn’t say anything about you, old man,” Stett said with sneer. “You can clear out now.”

“Very kind of you,” Samen muttered and reached for the reins he’d let fall to his lap.

“Samen!” Erinn blurted, unable to stop herself.

“He glanced at her and reached down. “Then again, maybe I think they’re better off with me?” he said, settling the crossbow into his shoulder. “Now I’m no expert with these things so I might hit any one of you, or I might just make a nice hole in the wall over there. Thing is, I know enough this thing to know that you’re on the wrong end of it.”

“You can’t get us all, old man,” Stett said, hefting his cudgel.

“No.” Samen nodded agreeably. “No, you’re right but I can get one of you. Have you ever seen what happens to someone who gets shot with one of these things close up? This bolt here will go right through you. Your boys over there are thinking really hard about that right now.”

Stett glanced over one shoulder at the worried expressions of the two men with him, and then turned to face them. “We can take him, you idiots. Look at his hands shaking.”

It was true, Samen’s hands shook gently and the point of the crossbow bolt wove back and forth between the three of them.

“Yer right, Stett,” one of them said, kicking at the dirt. “It’s just, I don’t fancy getting myself shot through. A few knocks with a stick is one thing but…” he shrugged.

Stett glared at him, and then looked from him to the other and back again. “You yellow bloody bastards,” he spat and then turned to run down the street.

“Not going with your friend?” Samen asked, lowering the crossbow a little.

“Nah, I reckon you’re right.” The man shrugged. “This place is going to be crawling with rats an' flies before long. I’ll…” he glanced at his companion. “We’ll tag along with you, if you’ll have us?”

“Don’t look to me, boy.” Samen snorted. “It’s the smith’s girl here who’s in charge. I’m just along for the wine.”

Erinn gaped at him for a moment before remembering herself. She looked the men over. Could they be trusted? Probably not, she decided. But then, if she left them here they might just follow along behind her anyway.

“What are your names?” she asked.

“I’m Fornn, that’s Jarik.” He jerked a thumb at his companion.

Erinn sighed. “Fine, come with us but Samen will put that bolt through you if you try anything else.”

His dirty face split into a relieved smile. “That’s kind, lady. More’n we deserve I reckon. You’ve a good heart.”

Erinn felt the beginnings of a blush at that and nodded at the cart. “Yes well, you can start by helping to load this lot.”

“Right away, lady.” Fornn hefted a sack of grain onto one shoulder and loaded it with an ease that made her mutter to herself.

They ended up with three carts. Samen insisted on putting Fornn and Jarik on their own, though neither were comfortable with horses, and taking another one for himself. “Might as well keep all the trouble in one place,” he’d muttered.

It took longer than she’d expected and it was already past midday by the time they had the carts loaded. Jarik made his way over to her as Samen checked over the horses.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said. He was a short man and he shifted from foot to foot as he spoke. “Most would have sent us after Stett or just left us behind.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I’m not most people,” she replied and looked away, fussing with the end of one of the ropes holding the load in place. She wished they’d just let it drop. This was embarrassing and Samen’s sly grin wasn’t helping.

“No, I reckon you’re not.” He nodded. “You’ve something of your Da in you.”

She looked back at him then. “You know my father?”

“No.” Jarik shook his head. “I knew him by sight. I saw him though, at the end. He took down twenty or more of those bastards with a hammer trying get through to two of Sarenson’s men. Most men would have left them, turned an' run. Not your da. He got himself right in there, monsters or no. When they took him down, that was the end of it, I reckon. That’s when we started to break.”

She felt her face crumble as the tears started. Dimly she was aware of Samen swearing at the man and bundling him away before putting a clumsy arm around her. It was nothing she hadn’t known already but she’d worked so hard to avoid confirming it, letting that little spark of hope remain. Now Jarik had dashed that away and the cold reality was all that remained.

Chapter Ten

The cart creaked and rattled, every bump seemed to be working hard to rattle Erinn’s teeth from her skull. The roads had been wet from the rains and they’d huddled under cloaks and tarpaulins through the first few days. After that they’d dried out faster than she’d have thought possible and the dust seemed to hang in the air, coating her lips and flying into her mouth with any opportunity.

She arched her back and reached behind her to knuckle the aching muscles. Lords and Ladies but she was tired. Who would ever have thought simply sitting on a cart could be so tiring? The nights were no better. They clustered tight together around a fire they were too cold to be without and too frightened of to take any comfort from. The darkness was almost total out here. The clouds stole the light of the moon and stars and kept them for their own. Every noise had one of them jumping or reaching for a bow. After three days of this she almost wished she’d never crawled under the bunkhouse.

Kel snored loudly behind her, curled up in amongst the sacks of supplies and Erinn found herself giving the girl envious glances, not that she could have slept with the rattling anyway.

She pulled back gently on the reins as the first of the buildings came into sight. It wasn’t much of a village. It would probably be exaggerating to call it a hamlet. A farmstead with a handful of other cottages keeping it company beside the road was all it really was. Still, it would give her someone else to talk to. Kel slept a lot of the time, and when she wasn’t sleeping she barely spoke. It was the girl’s way of coping, Erinn supposed.

Samen was just as quiet. His mood had soured further by the day and he barely spoke to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary, riding alone on a cart just behind her own. Jarik and Fornn were both friendly enough but kept to themselves unless she made the effort to approach them. There are some things that will always taint a relationship. Threats of rape or murder sit fairly high on the list.

She eased the cart around the turn in the road and pulled the horse to a halt as she looked at the farmstead. It was a tidy place, with a small, but orderly, vegetable plot and what appeared be a herb garden growing close to the house.

The stillness hit her and she sank down with a heavy sigh. A place like this should never be still, not at this time of the day. She listened carefully for any sign she might be wrong as her eyes swept over the covered walkway surrounding the farmstead but all she could hear was the hushed conversation of Jarik and his friend on the rear-most cart.

With a look behind her at Samen she eased herself down from the wagon and made her way towards the farmstead. “Hello?” she called. The silence took the sound and swallowed it down, savouring the taste.

Slow steps took her to the wooden steps leading up to the deck. She was about to call out again when she saw the door hanging from a single hinge. A stain on the wood of the deck was fading to a greyish colour but enough of the red-rust remained to leave little doubt what it was. It trailed towards the door and the hand-print removed any doubts that remained.

“What is it?” Samen called out.

She stood from where she’d crouched to look. “Blood.” Her face must have said more than her voice because he climbed down quickly and made to join her.

“Go on back to the cart, I’ll have a look,” he told her, his sour face softening just a fraction. She nodded and gave him a weak smile of thanks.

Kel hadn’t roused herself. A small blessing, Erinn told herself. If what she suspected was true then the last thing the girl needed was to hear about this. The door swung closed with a bang and Samen stumped down the three steps to the dirt. His face said all there needed to be said.

“Bjornmen?” she asked, though she knew the answer before he spoke.

“I don’t think so.” He shook his head and glanced back at the deck. “They’d have looted or burnt this place. They wouldn’t have done…” he paused and spat into the dirt. “Done that.”

A brief inspection of the other cottages revealed nothing that Erinn wanted to see and she waited on the cart while Jarik and Fornn checked the last of the cottages. Kel had stirred herself and watched the search with a dull curiosity.

“Nothing,” Jarik reported. “Nothing moving anyway.” He snorted a laugh but his smile faded as the joke fell flat.

“There’s a well around the back of the farm. We may as well fill the skins and water the horses while we’re here,” Samen suggested, ignoring Jarik.

Erinn nodded, not really listening. She wandered away, heading for the other end of the small hamlet. The breeze stroked the heads of the wild-flowers growing in the long grass to the south of the road. This must have been a pleasant place to live. The ground looked to be good and fertile if the grasses and wild-flowers were anything to judge by. A hill, dotted with sheep, rose up beyond the fields behind the farm and the sun caught and glinted on a small stream than ran down and passed into the woods.

She was suddenly struck by a wave of homesickness as she looked around at the tiny hamlet. Widdengate wasn’t just a place she missed, it was a home that had been taken from her. It was somewhere she would never be able to return to no matter what happened with the Bjornmen or the fae. Even if some returned to rebuild the village could never be the same place she'd been forced from.

A scuffing made her turn towards the closest cottage. It was the last one on the row and set slightly apart from the others. She looked over the building trying to see the source of the noise. Thinking back, it had been more of a grating than a scuff. There had been a definite grinding quality to it.

The cottage was a low affair with a dark, thatched roof. Small windows stared blankly out at the daylight, hinting at the dark interior. Erinn circled the cottage. The door was torn free and had been propped up against the wall by Jarik or Fornn, whichever one it was that had searched this home. An outbuilding, little more than a cupboard built up against the side of the house, stood on one corner. Erinn pulled gently on the door, wondering if the wind had blown it. It caught after an inch or two, grinding on small stones in the dirt.

That was it. Excited, she pushed the door shut again and yanked, forcing it over the pebbles that had caught it the first time. Cobwebs hung from the roof, straining as they reached down for hoes and garden forks.

Confused, she took a turn around the cottage again. She hadn’t imagined it, there had definitely been a noise. “Hello?” she called, low enough for her voice not to carry past the cottage.

She turned again and she saw it. A window, peering out of a bush that had grown up against the wall. Once it had probably provided light to a cellar room but the bush had spread and almost covered it now. She’d passed it three times without even seeing it.

The scrape in the dirt and slight scratching on the flat stones were visible before she even really got close. Erinn knelt down to peer through the dusty pane and a flash of movement fled backwards into the gloom. A pale face seeking to hide in the darkness.

Erinn screamed and fell back into the dirt. Samen, despite his age, was the first to reach her. She stood dusting her dress off, caught halfway between cursing and laughing at herself.

Samen stopped with the question on his lips and looked around. “What are you squawking for, girl?” He scowled.

She pointed to the half-concealed window. “There’s someone in there.”

“Looks like root cellar or something,” Fornn suggested, overhearing. “There’ll be a trap in the cottage someplace.”

Samen scowled at him, seemingly for no reason other than his suggestion.

The trap door was easy to find, laying under a rug at one end of the cottage. “Just lift it a crack,” Erinn instructed Fornn as he held onto the iron ring. He nodded as she knelt down close to the edge.

“Hello,” she called down as Fornn pulled up the trap. “It’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you. It’s safe now.”

Urgent whispers argued at the limits of her hearing before a voice hissed. “No, don’t!”

Another voice. It sounded younger. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“We’re from Carik’s Fort,” Erinn called through the crack. “It was attacked too. We…” She sat up. “I’ve had enough of this,” she announced and reached out to pull the trap the rest of the way open. A boy, not more than twelve, blinked in the sudden light as he looked up at her.

“Come on up,” Erinn told him. “This is silly and we can talk much more easily up here.”

He turned to look behind him. “She’s right, Marjoie. Let’s just go up.”

Erinn couldn’t hear the response but the tone was clear enough and she glanced at Samen with a wry smile.

“What?” he snapped.

“Oh, nothing.”

The boy was followed by a younger girl. They clambered up the wooden steps and hovered close to the cellar entrance as an old woman stood at the bottom of the steps.

She scowled up into the light as she tried to grip both railing and stick at the same time. “Have all you men lost your manners then? Or did your mothers never teach you to offer a hand?”

Fornn moved first, reaching down to offer his help. The woman grabbed at him and clung to his arm awkwardly, fingers gripping tight as she made her way up the steps. From the look on Fornn’s face either she was heavier than she looked or her fingers were digging into his flesh.

“Move back out of the way,” she snapped, waving her arms to shoo them faster. “Well then,” she said, planting the stick in front of her and folding her hands over the end. “Now that you’ve pulled us from safety, what do you want with us?”

Erinn blinked. “With you? We don’t want anything with you. We’re trying to help.”

“The Lord helps those as helps themselves,” the old woman told her, jabbing a finger towards her with each word.

Samen gave a snort that hadn’t quite decided whether to be a laugh or a sound of derision. “The lord? What lord is that then?”

“The Lord of New Days, old man,” she told him.

Samen scowled, though whether it was from her tone or being spoken to like a child Erinn couldn’t tell. “I doubt your lord did you much good when the fae came screaming through,” he muttered.

“Fae?” She curled her lip at the notion. “We’re all here too old for that nonsense. It was a scourge that passed through this town. A scourge sent by the Lord to punish those who would not heed his message!”

Lords and Ladies,” Samen muttered. “Put her back in the hole, Erinn.” He ignored the look he received and turned away in disgust.

“Fae or scourge it doesn’t matter, they’re gone for now,” Erinn said, trying to salvage the situation.

“They will return.” The woman stated it as a matter of fact. She seemed oddly satisfied in her certainty.

“Perhaps.” Erinn nodded, then sighed. This was not the way she’d thought this would go. “Look, let’s start again. My name is Erinn. This is Fornn and Jerrik, the girl is Kel, and my old friend over there is Samen.”

The woman pinched her lips together as if she were trying to find something wrong with the statement. “Marjoie,” she said, the word clipped and harsh. “This here’s Tern and the pretty one is Silla.” The girl pulled her face from the old woman’s skirt long enough for a smile to flash over her face, then she met Erinn’s eyes and turned her head away again.

“Shhh girl,” Marjoie said, stroking Silla’s hair. “They don’t mean you no harm. You’re safe with Old Marjoie.”

“That’s one of the reasons we’re going to Druel,” Erinn said in a softer voice. “We’ll be safe there,” she explained.

“To Druel?” the boy burst in. “What’s Druel?”

“It’s the home of the Duke. It’s miles away,” Marjoie replied, though she looked at Erinn as she spoke. “Too far for old bones, or young ones.”

“We have wagons and supplies,” Erinn said. Why was she being forced to sell this idea?

“Hmmph.” Clearly it would take more than supplies and carts to convince the woman.

“Can we, Marjoie?” Tern asked, eyes eager as he looked up at her. “I bet it has a castle and soldiers too!”

“Foolish boy,” she muttered but there was no force to the words and her eyes had narrowed in thought. “We’re not traipsing across hill and dale just so you can see a pile of stones. We’re perfectly fine as we are.”

Erinn pinched at the bridge of her nose and held in a sigh. The woman was making her wish she’d listened to Samen. “I wish you would come along,” she said, struck by inspiration. “I’d feel better with another woman around. Samen looks over me but it’s not right, two young girls alone with just these men.”

Marjoie looked at Jerrik and Fornn like they’d just confessed to murder. “I see,” she muttered.

It took an hour to get the three of them onto the carts. Finding clothes for the children and settling them in was accomplished in minutes but the old woman was another matter. She spent the best part of half an hour directing the men to fetch this and that, and then another half hour going from cart to cart until she found a suitable place.

As they set off Erinn found herself wondering if Samen hadn’t been right.

***

Tern and Silla took to Kel almost immediately. Though Samen shot them looks when they giggled and spoke too loudly, even from where Erinn was she could see he was pleased at the change in Kel. Despite all the effort Erinn had made trying to bring the girl back to herself five minutes with the children had done more than she’d ever achieved.

The carts moved slowly under the weight of the supplies and, with the extra people, they took to taking turns walking beside them as the carts creaked along. Even with dry roads and easy terrain they would be lucky to make more than thirty miles a day. Marjoie decided her cart was the most comfortable and had hollowed out a space in the sacks and crates of supplies for herself.

“Had you lived there long?” Erinn asked, shifting so she was sat almost sideways to be able see the woman.

“Where, Lunsford?” Marjoie replied. “All my life, girl. I pulled babes from birthing women and put some of them in the ground, too, when the pox hit us.” There was a quiet dignity in her words. The thorns and rough bark had slipped aside for the moment, letting the person hiding beneath show her face.

“You’re a healer then?” Erinn asked, trying to hide her pleasure at their good fortune.

“No,” Marjoie laughed. “Nothing so grand. I know a trick or two is all. That’s all healing is really. The right herbs and a bit of common sense.” She rummaged around underneath her and produced a long-stemmed pipe and a small pouch, speaking as she thumbed stourweed into the bowl and scratched sparks into the tiny square of charcloth she set on top. “Hedge-witch is what they called the one who taught me.”

“They call them hedge doctors where I’m from,” Erinn said, catching the growl in the old woman's voice.

Marjoie grunted around the pipe as she puffed it into life. “No one was going to call me a witch, stuff and nonsense. Not that there wasn’t a fair amount of nonsense in what Liska taught me anyway. Putting herbs out in the moonlight and using only fresh rainwater in her remedies. Foolishness!”

“So you looked after everyone in Lunsford?” Erinn asked, trying to move on.

“And Roarke’s farm,” Marjoie told her, nodding. “And all the little places on the way down to Erisbrook. It’s not been the easiest life, but once old Liska was gone someone had to do it. I never found a man I wanted, not that I didn’t have a few offers.” She flashed a wistful smile. “I never had my own babes, Lunsford and all the farms around here were my children. Every man, woman, and child in them. Like most children they didn’t listen when I warned them. I told them the Lord would punish them if they kept on with their foolish midwinter festivals and spring-turn dances. They laughed at me, told me the Lord of New Days was just stuffy priests spoiling their fun.”

“And then the fae came,” Erinn said quietly.

“Then the scourge came,” Marjoie corrected. “Fae are just a silly superstition. That’s the type of talk that brought down the Lord’s wrath in the first place.”

Erinn bit her lip and let the conversation die where it lay. Marjoie was like Trallen had been in many ways. The unquestioning faith, the certainty of being right. Many in Widdengate had accepted the faith wholesale but it never really taken hold with Erinn. There was something about it that was a little too convenient, and a faith built on stamping out old traditions didn’t seem to offer much. Religion aside, Marjoie was wrong about the fae.

The days passed slowly. The way the carts were loaded down meant they couldn’t go much faster than a walking pace unless they really pushed the horses. Survivors had begun to find them within five days of leaving Lunsford. Most were refugees from the scattered farmsteads. Some hid until the caravan of wagons had almost passed them. Others simply waited for the carts to catch up with them, and then joined those walking behind.

Erinn looked back. The line of carts and people stretched back until a curve in the road took it from her sight. The survivors of two more villages had joined them in the past few days. Any cart moving with supplies was a beacon of hope to these people. The fae had struck here like a winter storm, pushing past their defences and killing all they could find. Those that survived had fled, running from the mere possibility that the fae might return.

The first two villages they’d passed through had held only a handful of survivors. They’d still been huddled close to the forge, clutching horseshoes in their fists. The third had fared better and Erinn’s group had swelled past fifty. More carts and wagons had come with them but the walkers far outnumbered those who rode.

Marjoie, naturally, did not walk, and her blunt refusal seemed to spur Samen into always being one of the first to volunteer to take a turn. There was something about her that seemed to grate at the man. Erinn would be the first to admit Marjoie could be hard work but to Samen she seemed to be an endless source of annoyance. She was the itch he couldn’t reach, the mosquito he couldn’t swat. Yet he never seemed to be able to resist trying.

They’d been bickering since the first day. It usually began over some minor slight and escalated until either Samen stalked away or Erinn was forced to step in. It was like dealing with small children and Erinn was growing tired of it.

They stopped early each night, making sure there was plenty of time to set up the camp. Though full moon was over a week away she found herself watching every time it rose and grew that little bit fuller.

She shook her head at the sound of a squealing pig and turned around in her seat to face the road ahead. “I’m sick of trees.” She sighed.

“How’s that?” Samen cocked an eyebrow at her.

I don’t know.” She gave a lopsided shrug. “I feel penned in, trapped. Is it too much to be able to see for more than half a mile at a time?”

“Maybe not,” he replied. “Right now though, these trees and the hunting we get from them are just about all that’s feeding your collection of needy mouths. Our supplies are all but gone and we’d get through that little piggy back there in short order.”

She frowned at him, trying to look disapproving but the smile slipped through anyway. He’d been complaining about the squeals of the piglet for two weeks now, ever since it had joined them in the arms of the young girl who refused to leave it. He was exaggerating though. The supplies were dwindling but at a manageable rate. The fae had no interest in the contents of the villages they devastated and they’d been able to replenish their stocks at each village they’d passed.

Most of the men carried bows now, though some would be more likely to sink the iron-headed arrow into a tree than anything else. She’d insisted on taking the iron weapons when they left Carik's Fort. It was more on a whim than anything else and Samen had argued against the weight, but in the end he agreed they were too valuable to leave behind. She glanced at the old man as the thought occurred to her and so didn’t see the figures as they stepped out from the trees.

Samen reined in gently, raising his arm to warn those behind. She followed his gaze to the small group of men that stepped out onto the road. They were dressed as hunters. Perhaps they were something more than that, she thought as she caught sight of the short sword belted at the lead man’s waist.

He raised a hand in greeting as he approached. “What is this? Where have you all come from?”

“Carik’s Fort,” Erinn called back.

He paused, digesting that as his gaze passed back along the line of carts and wagons drawing to a halt behind them. “You’ve quite a collection of folk with you, what is this? What's happened?”

Samen put a hand on her arm, stopping her as she started to speak. “You ask a lot of questions for a stranger.”

The man smiled then, an easy smile that bled the tension from the situation. “You’ve good sense, old man. My name’s Riddal, I’m a scout attached to Major Rhenkin’s men out of Druel. Now, what’s happened to the fort? Bjornmen?”

Erinn shook her head, trying to think how to handle this, but Samen didn’t wait. “No, not Bjornmen. We could have handled them better, I think. This was something different. The fae.”

The reaction wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d braced herself for the scoffing and ridicule but the man nodded with a grimace before he spoke again.

“How bad?”

“It’s gone, lad,” Samen told him.

That shocked him. “The entire fort?” the scout breathed.

“Oh, the buildings are all still there,” Samen said with a bitter twist to his mouth. “They didn’t hardly touch those, unless it was to force their way through. No, the folks that were there is what I meant. They killed `em all. Us two, an' three others, are all I know managed to make it to morning.”

“Blood-swilling Droos,” Riddal whispered. “What about these others?” He nodded at the line of carts behind them.

“There’s a dozen small farms and a handful of villages between here and the fort,” Samen told the scout. “These are all that’s left of `em.” He seemed to be taking a perverse pleasure in the impact of the news, Erinn noticed.

“We were heading back to the fort with dispatches,” Riddal told them. “I suppose there’s not much point now. You’ll travel back with us to Druel. The major will want a first-hand report.”

“Now just a minute!” Samen bristled, sitting up in the seat. “What makes you think we were heading for Rhenkin? His record stands for itself when it comes to keeping folks safe.”

“Samen,” Erinn touched his arm. “Let me handle this.” She turned back to Riddal. “Don’t you think these people have been through enough without being dragged across the country?”

If her tone bothered him he didn’t show it. “Druel’s the only place close enough that’s of any real size, outside of Kavtrin anyway. What were you planning on doing with this lot?”

That silenced her. She’d been running mostly on instinct since Carik’s Fort and hadn’t made a plan beyond reaching the closest town. She glanced back at the line of carts and people.

“Fine,” she gave in. “We’ll head for Druel.”

He gave her a look that was wandering somewhere between him being slightly amused and downright patronising. “Why don’t you let me and this fellow sort this out, all right, darling?” He ignored her expression, nodding at Samen. “I’m guessing you’re leading this group?”

Samen shook his head with a smile and pointed at Erinn.

“You can’t be serious?” Riddal scoffed as the men behind him grinned.

Erinn bristled for a moment. She wouldn’t rise to it, that would just play into what they were already painting her as, an indulged child.

“We’ve managed well enough so far,” she replied. “You and your men are welcome to join us. We could use both the extra bows and men who are skilled at hunting. We’ve supplies but they’ll only go so far.”

Riddal smirked as he gave a mocking bow. “At your service, my lady.” His words were almost lost in the poorly muffled snickers from behind him.

***

“You can’t be stopping again!” Riddal didn’t bother to speak softly or hide his frustration.

Erinn closed her eyes as she turned her head away with a sigh. “Look, Riddal, we’ve been through this. The children can only walk for so long before they need a break. The horses too.”

He glanced at the horse leading the cart behind her. “They look fine to me. It’s going to take all month to get to Druel if you keep stopping every five minutes.”

“It’ll take even longer if we have animals go down lame because we’re pushing them too hard,” she replied just as loudly but he was already turning away. He did this. It was infuriating. He wasn’t a stupid man, not by any means, but he couldn’t see past the fact she was a woman. As if her not having something swinging between her legs made her incapable of making decisions.

They’d been butting heads since the day he and his scouts had joined them. Little things and nothing that was of any consequence. He’d made it clear he wasn’t about to take command himself yet he managed to find fault with her at least twice a day.

Erinn shook her head and glanced up at the sky, the light was already fading. She’d have pushed on for another couple of hours normally but the full moon had come around quicker than she’d have liked.

“Get them watered quickly,” she told Samen. “I want to find somewhere better than this to stop for the night.”

His face soured. “You want me to hold the buckets for them myself, your worship?” it was more a bad habit than anything else, she knew, but he couldn’t resist being difficult.

“Just do what you can to speed things along, Samen.” Her voice was weary and she knew it. His face softened and he nodded before stumping away.

She went ahead of the line, passing the first wagon and walking until the voices began to fade. The woods seemed endless, though she knew they’d soon pass out onto the plains. Would that be any better than here? If they had to face the fae it would be better to be able to see farther than the closest trees, that was something. It would mean they’d be unable to hide though. The campfires would be seen for miles. There were just too many little things that could make all the difference and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing at least some of them. She turned back to the carts. It was time to get people moving again.

The campsite wasn’t much but it was the best she’d seen. The treeline had moved back away from the edges of the road until it seemed they were passing through a clearing. Riddal had rolled his eyes as she called a stop for the night but moved fast enough when she started giving directions.

Four large fires were set, two in what would become the camp, and then two more, further down the road to either side of them. If the fae were to come at them there would be little chance of hiding her people anyway. Better that they could see them coming.

The carts and wagons formed a rough circle around them. It would provide no protection from the fae but it would create the illusion of safety, and the longer she could keep people from panic the better.

She set them to getting the camp ready before she went to find Riddal. He sat on a wagon, looking out at the trees as he puffed on a pipe.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

He looked her way and shrugged before patting the wooden bed of the cart beside him. She chose to stand instead and thought how to begin as she pulled the shawl tighter around her. “You saw the fae at Widdengate?”

He nodded, meeting her eyes for a moment before looking away again. That was fine by her. She’d rather not see his eyes when she said this.

“You know what we’ll face if they come then.” She spoke to the ground, voice low for fear of it carrying. “If they’re like the few that attacked Widdengate they’ll cut through us before we really even know they’re there. Unless it’s a smaller group. We have a slight advantage there.”

He looked at her then, appraising, weighing. “How so?”

“Well we don’t have so much area to defend for one,” she said, waving an arm at the camp. “There’s far less chance of them getting close before we see them.”

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But when they get close…”

“When they get close,” she agreed. “Come with me, I want to show you something.”

She led him across the camp and climbed up into the back of a wagon, pulling aside a well-oiled tarpaulin. “I haven’t let anyone use these until now, we don’t have enough to waste on pigeons or rabbits.”

Curiosity won and he climbed up beside her.

“I couldn’t just leave them there,” she said, waving a hand vaguely at the crates of swords and arrows.

“Where?” Riddal breathed, still taking in the sight.

“Carik’s Fort. Rhenkin set my father to making them.” She spat over the side of the cart. “Sarenson never even sent a man to collect them. I think he thought Rhenkin cracked or something.”

Riddal took an arrow and examined the fletching. “It’s not as clean as I’d like but it’ll fly.”

“I’m out of practice,” Erinn admitted.

“You made these?” Riddal said.

“The fletching’s mine on most of them,” she told him. “It gave me something to do in the evenings.” Erinn shrugged. “I’ve heard all of Samen’s stories before.”

“How many?” he asked, eyes on the barrels.

Erinn followed his gaze. “Arrows? I’ve not really kept a count. Not enough to waste anyway.”

“What’s in here?” he asked, looking at a sealed barrel.

She smiled, an expression that was cold and vengeful. “An idea, something I'd like to try out if the opportunity presents itself. For now I’d like you hand out these weapons to those you think will get the most use from them.”

***

The first night passed uncomfortably. Though the fires were warm and everyone ate the waiting dragged on. As the moon rose men fingered their weapons, hefting the unfamiliar weight of the iron swords or setting arrows to strings.

And the wait went on. The fires still burned high but none took comfort from their warmth now. Eyes swept the darkness between the trees, or searched the skies, watching for any movement or sign. The anticipation built, growing until an attack by the fae would actually have been preferable to the tension.

Erinn walked, picking her way through the camp and the legs that threatened to trip her from those seeking sleep. Whenever she passed someone awake she stopped, handing over a small pouch from the sack she carried.

“What’s this?” Marjoie asked. Erinn hadn’t even registered who she was when she’d pressed the pouch into her hands.

“Something to protect you if they come,” Erinn told her.

“If who come? The scourge?” Marjoie curled her lip. “If the Lord seeks to send me from his world for the sins of my past there’s nothing you can put in a pouch that will help me.”

“Unless it isn’t a scourge,” Erinn said. “What if it is the fae and nothing to do with the Lord? For that matter, what if the fae are the scourge?”

Marjoie pulled herself upright, face tight as he lips pressed thin together. “I told you, girl. The fae are nothing but superstition.”

Erinn thought, brushing her hair out of her face with one hand. “But if they are the Lord’s scourge, well, wasn’t it you who told me that the Lord helps those who help themselves?”

A faint smile of satisfaction hovered around her lips. “That’s right. The Lord holds no truck with those that sit around wallowing in their own misfortune.”

Erinn smiled then. “Well then, isn’t this just helping ourselves?”

Marjoie grunted, a noncommittal sound that made it clear that even though she might agree with Erinn she’d never admit to it. As she walked away Erinn saw her working the drawstrings back. “Huh,” the old woman muttered as she peered inside, poking at the contents with a gnarled finger. “Clever.”

Erinn paced. She worked a path into the dirt as she made her way past the children and those who managed to snatch moments of sleep. Pacing worked so long as she kept moving. Twice, when she’d stopped, people had tried to draw her into frightened conversations. She didn’t want to talk. Talking led to dwelling and speculation. It just fed the fear she’d worked hard to ignore. And so she walked, back and forth through the cramped camp, picking her way through the legs of those laying on the ground until they took the hint and shuffled back out of her way.

A single weary cheer rose to meet the first light of the sun. Weak and lonely it stopped as quickly as it had begun. Cheers meant a victory. This battle hadn’t begun yet.

The second night was better but for all the wrong reasons. They’d made poor progress, with a late start, and too many took turns at snatching an hour or two of sleep on the carts. It didn't seem to help much and most of the refugees looked exhausted by the time night fell. She set them in watches, at Riddal’s insistence, and the camp slept in shifts hoping for the dawn.

Erinn sat, curled into a corner of the camp up against a cart's wheel. The fires and the rough blanket were warm enough but sleep would not come. She stared into the coals of the closest fire worrying. If the fae came now most of these people would be too tired to be of any use.

She flashed Samen a tired smile as he sank down beside her. “You should be sleeping,” she told him.

“I could say the same of you, girl,” he replied with a scowl.

“I’m hardly a girl at this point, Samen,” she scoffed. “I’ve known mothers younger than I am.”

He shrugged, indifferent. “In my head you’re still that little red haired girl pestering me for stories.”

“I haven’t been that girl for a long time.” She hadn’t meant it to sound miserable but as the words left her lips she realised it was probably true and her mood fell still further. “Do you think they’ll come tonight?”

“The fae?” He scratched at an armpit, ignoring her pointed look. “What makes you think they’ll come at all?”

“The old man at Widdengate, Obair. He said the Hunt comes on the third night after full moon.”

“You should know better than to believe every tale an old man tells you,” Samen said. He managed to keep his face straight for two or three heartbeats, and then snorted at himself.

Erinn felt her face relax as the smile faded. “Seriously, do you think they will?”

“If they do, then they do. One thing I know, this is no way to live.” His look was serious, his customary dour expression suddenly stripped from him. “I’m not a young man, Erinn. I’ve not many years left to me but I’d rather be meat for the droos before I choose to live like this. These creatures, whether they’re fae or the scourge that mad old hag, Marjoie, keeps harping on about. Whatever you call them, they’ve beaten us without even a fight. We’re worse than mice, cowering in the night from the hoot of an owl. I’m done with it.”

She pushed herself upright from where she’d been slouched against the wheel. “We were defeated, Samen. You were there at Carik’s Fort, the same as me. You know what they did.”

“Yes I was. And yes, they ran the streets red with our blood.” His face grew fierce as he spoke, irritation growing before giving way to something with more heat. “They came and cut us down like they were reaping wheat. I’ll tell you this for free though, girl, I’m not dead yet. If I’m still breathing I mean to live and piss on anyone who does less!”

He stopped then, chest heaving, and she knew from his expression that he’d had no idea he’d stood and been shouting at the last. A clap was joined by others and Samen flushed at the applause at first before he recovered himself and turned to give a florid bow.

“You’ve got the right of it, old man,” Marjoie said as she picked her way through the sudden press of people. “Those as live like they’re already dead, they get their wish soon enough.”

His face darkened but she spoke again before he could get a word in edgeways. “Life is for living, an’ I say enough hidin’ in the dark. Do you think you could saw out a tune on that fiddle I see you lugging about? A bit of music might remind these folks they’re not dead just yet.”

A smile climbed out of the shock on his face. “I just might at that.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I may be a mad old hag but I still know how to live.” She winked at him, laughing again at the look on his face.

The change as Samen’s first notes drifted through the camp was pronounced. While musicians were nothing out of the ordinary it was a sad home that didn’t own a pipe or flute. A fiddle though? Well, a fiddle was a rare and wondrous thing.

He started out slow, coaxing out a soothing melody as faces turned towards him from around the camp. Soon though, he shifted to a livelier tune, moving around the fire and unconsciously falling into a hopping, bouncing gait that was a lot closer to a dance than he would probably have ever admitted.

Soon the children were following him around, giggling and clapping along to the beat as the night breezes tossed leaves through the camp. A wineskin appeared from somewhere and was joined by others that were passed around in the light of the fires. Though Erinn would have sworn there was no drink to be had in the camp she was glad of it. There was barely enough for a mouthful each but the impact it had was priceless. All around her, people who’d been ready to give up, to roll over and die as soon as the fae appeared, were getting up to dance with a new life shining in their eyes.

She laughed as a farmhand took her hands and pulled her to her feet, brushing away her half-hearted protests. Soon she was spinning and whirling in a dance she’d known long before any boy had ever been permitted to lead her out onto the floor.

The moon was high and full in the sky but for the first time in months she ignored it, allowing herself a moment of pleasure. The music swelled around her, lifting her, filling her senses as it took her away from the horrors of the past days and weeks. Pipes had joined with the music from Samen’s fiddle and the song soared, roaring in her ears as her heart raced to keep up with her spirit. The farmhand passed her off to another, and then yet another until the faces were a blur. The numbers in the camp seemed larger, or maybe it was just the enclosed space. Her mind drifted as her feet moved without her really thinking about it and, with a shock of pleasure, she realised the man who held her was Devin.

He’d grown since the last time she saw him, becoming thicker of body and more muscular in the arms and shoulders, but there was no doubting it was him. The music made it too loud to talk and words would have been wasted now anyway. He moved her expertly around the floor, strong hands roaming unchecked over her back and hips. She laughed wickedly as he pulled her in close, chancing a kiss that she stole away from him at the last second, presenting her cheek.

Her laugh turned into a gasp, and then a moan as he ignored the offered cheek and kissed at her throat instead. Dimly she heard a sound that might have been screams, but none of that mattered now. Her heart was pounding as Devin took her by the hand, leading her between two wagons and out away from the dance and into the darkness.

The arrow took him in the throat and as he clutched at the shaft, blue fire erupted from the wound. The glamour shattered and her vision swam as her ears were filled with screams and the crash of weapons. The satyr dropped to the dirt, dark blood hissing as blue fire spurted from the wound.

Erinn swallowed down the scream that threatened to come out. There was no time for that. The camp was in chaos. Men who’d never held a sword swung at satyrs who danced lightly away from their clumsy strokes. The air above them was thick with tiny purple-skinned creatures, darting about on gossamer wings and looking like the faeries of legend. She grabbed at the pouch around her neck, tearing it free and pouring half the contents out into one hand as she ran towards the closest satyr.

The filings were fine, the dust from fifty or more swords sharpened on the grinding wheel and gathered up from the floor. Erinn put a hand on the farmer’s shoulder, hurling the dust past him and full into the satyr’s face. The creature blinked, gasping and breathing the dust in even as it reached to wipe it from its eyes. It stood frozen for a heartbeat, and then it screamed. It was a shockingly human sound as tiny blue sparks burst into life on the surface of its skin and eyes. The sparks grew, fanned into flames that seared the skin and burned it blind. Fire gouted from its mouth and nose and, within seconds, the monster was wreathed in flames.

Erinn staggered back, amazed at the effect, and glanced about the camp. Riddal and his scouts were stood atop a wagon, sending shaft after shaft into the mess. Despite their efforts though, Erinn’s numbers were dropping. In moments they would be overwhelmed.

“Pouches,” Erinn shouted, her voice almost lost in the noise. “Throw the dust!”

Enough people heard and hands were soon tossing the iron filings into the air. When the cloud of filings touched the satyrs they were wreathed in a thousand tiny sparks. It seemed to have little effect unless they breathed it in or it blew into their eyes. It was enough though, enough to freeze them for a moment, and Harlen’s iron blades thrust deep.

Where the dust hit the faeries however, the effect was profound. They crashed to the ground with wings burning in hot, blue flames. The dust was light enough to carry a short distance and clouds of it caught in the night wind, drifting through the camp. Erinn grabbed up a fallen sword, wielding it with two hands as she stabbed at a satyr stood rooted to the spot as it clawed at its eyes.

“Come on!” she screamed at the men around her. She drove them through the camp, dealing death and flame to the fae that, moments ago, had been close to killing them all.

It was over in a shockingly short time and she let the sword’s tip drop to the ground, her chest heaving as she looked around to see if it was really over. Bodies lay everywhere, villagers mixed in with the fae that still burned fitfully. She caught sight of Riddal, staring at her in shock, and then she sank to her knees, triumph shrouded by exhaustion.

Chapter Eleven

Selena sipped at the spoon and pulled face at the soup. Cold…again. It would have been easy enough to have it warmed but she’d had that done once already and twice would seem foolish. “It’s you that left it to go cold again, foolish woman,” she chided herself. She glanced at the bread roll sat on its small plate beside the soup and grimaced. Fresh bread had always been her favourite food. Warm from the oven and still hot enough to steam as you tore it open. Slathered in butter there was nothing better. Of course that was before she’d fallen pregnant. Now a single taste would have had her stomach churning and her racing for a pot to retch into.

A gentle tap on the door preceded the servant with a letter resting on a silver tray. Heavens forbid it was simply carried, she thought.

“A letter, your grace.” The servant somehow managed to offer her the tray whilst bowing and yet not look ridiculous. Where did they learn these things?

“So it is, and isn’t it so pretty on its shiny tray too?” She kept her face straight. It was much more fun when they couldn’t tell you were poking fun at them. “Who is it from?”

“I would never presume to read your grace’s correspondence, your grace,” he replied.

She looked at the ceiling as she pondered aloud. “Did the letter fly here? Or perhaps it appeared in a puff of smoke?”

“I believe it was delivered by a messenger from Druel, your grace,” he admitted. “Though I am given to understand it originated from the Browntree estates.”

“Aunt Evelyn!” Selena snatched the letter from the tray. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

She waved him to silence as she cracked the seal and started to read. Dimly she was aware he’d bowed and made his way out, but by then the words had taken hold and her vision was already blurred.

“Your grace?” an older voice, motherly.

“Hmm?”

“Are you all right, your grace?”

Selena looked past the letter and into the gloom. How had it grown so dark in here already? “I’m fine, Catherine. Why?”

The woman raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re sitting in the dark.” She stepped out to the hallway and returned with a taper, moving around the room and lighting the lamps.

“You didn’t eat again, your grace,” the woman chided her.

Selena glanced at the bowl. “It went cold. We’re alone, Catherine, you can drop the grace.”

Catherine peered at the tray. “Even the bread? Went cold, I mean?”

Selena pulled a face. “I can’t eat bread. It makes the morning sickness worse.”

Catherine tutted. “Then why don’t you tell the kitchens not to send any up?”

“I can’t afford to show any weakness, Catherine,” Selena said, ignoring the disbelieving expression. “I’m a woman, holding power in a world that men believe they have a right to rule. Half the men in this very villa think I ought to be doing needlepoint or cleaning something. The fact I’m pregnant only makes it worse. The very notion that a woman is capable of doing more than producing squalling brats has never occurred to most men. If I start sending food back because it makes me feel ill I might as well start swooning and waiting for someone to catch me.”

The servant gave her a faintly amused expression. “Is it still really that bad?”

“Oh, don’t!” Selena sighed. “I’ve had a good twelve people tell me that the sickness has usually passed for most women by now. Yes, it’s still that bad. Pass me the bread and I’ll demonstrate.” She cracked a smile at herself and cocked her head as a thought occurred to her. “It can’t be that different for you. Practically nobody here even knows your name. They speak in whispers about the ‘Mistress of the House.’ If you threw up every time you smelled baking bread they’d soon stop worrying about working fast enough and be snickering up their sleeves as you passed.”

“You may be right,” Catherine conceded. “Why were the lamps unlit?”

“I lost track of time. I was thinking.” Selena waved the message. “A death in the family, my Aunt Evelyn.”

“The Lady Browntree?” The servant allowed a note of dismay into her voice. “Oh, that is terrible news.”

“I haven’t seen her in too long, now it’s too late.” Selena shook herself and cleared her throat, pulling herself erect in the chair. “What did you want, Catherine? I’m sure you didn’t come in here just to light the lamps.”

“No, your grace.” She shook her head. “Sanderson has an…individual with him that you had requested a meeting with. I thought it might be best to advise you myself.”

“An individual?” Selena asked, perplexed.

“You had requested he located a personage of somewhat less than savoury character?” Catherine reminded her with a pained expression.

Selena laughed. “Oh, you mean the thief!”

“Yes, your grace.” Catherine nodded.

Selena let the grace pass. It was probably the woman’s coping mechanism. She’d invited a thief into what she probably thought of as her own home, after all. It must be a little like asking a shepherd to find a wolf to bring back to the paddock. “Why don’t you ask Sanderson to bring him… I’m assuming it’s a man?” Catherine nodded. “Very well, have him bring him in.”

“Very good, your grace.” Catherine bobbed a curtsy and left.

The man Sanderson escorted in was nondescript. He was average in every sense of the word. So normal that the eyes slipped off him in search of something more interesting. He stood still as Sanderson introduced him but his gaze darted around the room like a minnow startled from the shallows and seeking a place to hide.

“Sturgeon?” Selena asked. “That's an odd name. Isn’t that a kind of fish?”

Sturgeon’s eyes flashed back to her. “Might be.” He shrugged. “What’s a Freyton?”

“A drunk,” Selena said with a twitch of her lips.

The man grunted, eyes narrowing as he looked for the joke and apparently decided it wasn’t worth finding. “Your boy said you have a job you want doing?” he said, jerking his head towards Sanderson.

“Would you like a drink before we get started?” Selena asked. “Perhaps some tea?”

“No,” the man said flatly. “Let’s not pretend we’re friends or that we're making friends. This is business.”

“Indeed.” She glanced at the servant who fought to conceal a mildly outraged expression. “I believe that will be all for now, Sanderson.”

He bowed and looked back and forth between the two of them, discomfort clear on his face.

“It’s fine, Sanderson,” Selena told the man. “I’m sure Sturgeon will be a perfect gentleman and, let’s face it, I’m far too heavy to steal.” She looked down at her swelling waist.

“Very good, your grace.” Sanderson’s bow was ignored as she turned back to the thief.

“I have a somewhat delicate problem, Sturgeon,” Selena began. “Something I value rather highly has gone missing and I’d like you to locate it and return it to me.

Sturgeon made his way over to a divan and fell into it. “Why me? Why not just send some of your men to get it back?”

She paused, re-evaluating the man. He’d not bothered wasting time asking if she knew where the item was. He knew he wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.

“I could do that,” she admitted, “but that would create some complications I'd rather not deal with right now. I was rather hoping for something a little more discrete.”

Sturgeon sat up, clasping his hands between his knees as he leant towards her. “Tell you what? Why don’t we stop dancing around it and you just tell me what you want done?”

“Direct, aren’t you?” Selena murmured.

“I’ve not often found much benefit in beating around the bush.” Sturgeon grinned.

She leant forward, unconsciously mimicking his posture. “Fine then. The king has abducted a friend of mine. A man named Raysh. I want you to locate him and return him to me.”

That caught him. She suppressed a smile as he sat back and gave a low whistle. “When you say…abducted?” he said.

“I mean taken by force from his home in the middle of the night. Do you have another definition I’m not aware of?” Selena asked, raising her eyebrows to give him a pointed look.

He shook his head. “I just wanted to be clear. And you want me to get him out of the palace for you?”

“No.” She stood, kneading the small of her back. “No I don’t think he’s in the palace or any official cell. The king would never be so foolish as to try and arrest a lord like that. No, I think he’s being held somewhere in the Warrens.”

He glanced up at her at the last word, his own eyes narrowing as he adjusted his own assessment of her. “There’s not many gentry use that word for the slums.”

“I make it a habit to know something of what I am speaking, Sturgeon. Now do you think you can find him?”

“Find him, yes. Get him out alive and back to you…” he left it hanging.

“Well that’s the trick isn’t it?” She said as she smiled. “Now, shall we discuss your fee?”

***

Raysh sat in the darkness of the cellar. His arms hung limp, bound in manacles that stretched up above his head to where the chains were fixed to the walls. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, but at least they hadn’t had his whole body hanging. He shifted, kicking feet out spasmodically into the damp straw as he tried to scratch his back on the stones of the wall behind him. It was a futile effort. The stone was slick with moisture and covered with a slimy mould that robbed him of any rough surface to grind against.

He coughed into the blackness. A tearing, hacking cough that brought up something vile. He shuddered at the feel of it on his tongue and spat it out into the unseen straw.

They didn’t need to bother killing him. Leaving him here would do the job soon enough. The air was thick with the smell of rotting straw and mould. Who could say how much of it he’d already breathed in. He could feel the fluid rattling in his chest with every breath he took.

A muffled creak was followed by the clump of boots on stone steps. It would be the bald one. The one with the smiles had a lighter step. The bald one was mean but his cruelty lay on the surface. It was as wide and deep as a street puddle, easy to spot and not so terrible to endure. His was a cruelty that grew out of a love of holding power over others. He was simply a bully in the perfect job.

The Smiler was something else entirely. His cruelty lay concealed, hidden beneath a gentile manner and a veneer of regret at what he must do. His smile told another story however, the truth gleamed between the cracks, a horror that was glimpsed before it was felt. It was like the frigid depths that lay beneath the thin surface of an icy lake. At any moment his smiles might crack, the veneer shatter, and then there was nothing but the fall, down into the cold darkness. His was a cruelty that had yet to find its limits and he terrified Raysh beyond all measure.

The flicker of lantern light reached underneath the wooden door and metal scraped in the lock before they entered.

“And how are we this morning, my lord?” The thin-faced man asked with a sad smile as Baldy stumped into the cell and fiddled with the chains behind him. Raysh had been wrong, it had been both of them. Baldy’s heavy feet had covered the sound of the other’s passage.

Raysh whispered and croaked something in response but the sound barely made it past his lips.

“He asked you a fuckin’ question!” Baldy snapped, planting a boot into Raysh’s side that threw him sideways. The chains snapped taught, manacles biting into his wrists as they stopped him short of pitching into the straw.

“Now, now!” the Smiler chided gently. “There’s really no need for anyone to get uncivil, now is there?”

Baldy glowered, though he was careful to keep it fleeting and with his face turned away from the Smiler.

“Now then, my lord, shall we continue the little chat we began yesterday?” The smile was the same as always: small, sad, and self-mocking beneath the icy eyes. Pale blue, as untouched by warmth as the harshest winter frost.

“I’ve told you, I don’t know anything!” Raysh managed to croak. His voice gave at the end, breaking into something like the pitiful sound of a beaten child.

“Now that’s simply not true, is it?” the Smiler said, pursing his lips in reproach. “You’ve told us so much already. You know so many things. Surely you can think of some more, hmm?”

“I don’t!” Raysh shouted, and then in a softer voice wearing tears on the edges. “I don’t.”

“That is a great pity, my lord.” That same sad smile again.

Raysh’s anger fought through, burning past the threat of tears. “Why? You’re never going to let me go anyway. Pieter can go and fuck himself!”

“Now that’s just rude.” The Smiler tutted and shook his head in disapproval. Baldy just looked on, silent and grinning. “You are probably correct, however. You’re an intelligent man, Lord Raysh, I won’t insult you by telling you we’re going to let you go. I don’t know for certain, of course. That decision will be made by someone else so there is always the chance, I suppose, if you prove useful.” He shrugged, indifferent. “Otherwise, as I expect you realise, there are only two ways out of here and both of them involve a blade. It could be my good friend here,” he gestured and Baldy pulled out his rusted dagger. “Or it could be my little toys.” That smile again. “There are so many that I’ve never even had opportunity to try.”

He nodded to Baldy. “Bring him.”

The thick-set man moved forward and grabbed his arm, working the key in the manacle until it came free of Raysh’s wrist, and then rattled the chain through the iron ring set in the wall. Raysh struggled but it was a weak flailing, the final struggles of a landed fish.

Baldy bundled him through the door and down a short corridor to the other room. The one with the chair. Raysh screamed as they drew closer, struggling more violently but he might as well have been raging against the wind for all the good it did him.

He was shoved down into the chair and held down whilst the wide leather straps were made fast around his chest and legs. Through it all the Smiler looked on, pacing idly around the room. “It’s a strange thing this art of persuasion,” he remarked. “In many ways it’s so much more about what you think than what you feel. Now,” he rubbed his hands together, “where were we up to? Let’s have that left boot off shall we?”

Raysh screamed as it came off, leather pulling against half-healed wounds. The Smiler went to the table in the corner, selecting something that shone brightly from his velvet-lined case before coming over to crouch by Raysh’s bare feet.

“They’ve healed quite nicely, all things considered.” His fingertips brushed against the cauterised and blackened flesh in a sick parody of a lover’s caress and Raysh jerked away spasmodically.

The Smiler crouched down, holding Raysh’s ankle lightly as he stroked the healthy skin on the top of his foot. “As I was saying, My Lord. This art is so much more about you than it is me. It’s about expectation. It’s about hope. Deep down you hold a secret hope that you will be freed. It doesn’t matter that you’re far too intelligent a man to really believe that to be true, the hope remains.” He stood with a shrug and tapped the flat of the blade against his lips. “If I’m honest I don’t know if you will ever be freed. The order could come to kill you tomorrow, or not. It is hope that this art deals in. Hope that you might know enough to make me stop, or at least give me pause. Hope is stronger than faith, more powerful than love. Hope is the lever that can move worlds.”

He’d begun pacing again as he spoke and he turned to meet Raysh’s eyes as his head lolled back against the chair.

“Your toes, whilst they proved educational for you, can always be covered, can they not? I could remove two, three, perhaps all of them, and it would affect you little.” He allowed a small smile at his captive’s blank expression. “The right pair of boots, perhaps with something wadded into the toes, and none would be the wiser would they, hmm? Fingers though, that’s something different entirely.”

The knife was small, closer to a surgeon's implement than a knife really. A tiny sliver of blade held fast in a curving ivory handle. It was closer to a pen than a weapon but still Raysh began to scream as the Smiler drew closer.

“Now that won’t do at all,” the man said, almost to himself. “Let’s do something about the noise, shall we?”

“I’ll stop, I promise,” Raysh blurted. “Let me talk, please?”

Baldy grunted and worked a knotted cloth into Raysh’s mouth. Dragging it roughly back and forth over his lips until he forced it in.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” the Smiler said, for once his face looking genuinely sad. “This isn’t about you talking right now, this is about education. The talking, if there is anything you know which might interest me, that will come later.” He nodded at Baldy who took Raysh’s hand, forcing the fingers out of the protection of their fist as he held the hand down on the arm of the chair. It was wider and longer than on a normal chair, providing a small table on which to work.

“Let’s start with the smallest one. I don’t think it really works with the rhyme, I'm afraid. For some reason I've always imagined it starting with the thumb,” he admitted. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me if we work backwards though, won’t you?” The smile was encouraging, the look you’d give a small child. He looked down at the outstretched hand, held palm-up by Baldy, and began to slice into the pad of the finger. “This little piggy went to market…”

***

It was barely a scuff, lighter than the sound of cloth brushing stone, but Raysh had come to fear sound. Sound meant smiles, and smiles led to pain. He leant forward against the reach of the chains, straining his ears to catch the sound again. Pain uncurled from the corner he had forced it into and throbbed through his fingers and hands in time with his pulse.

A whisper came at the door. A breath of something metallic and wet that grew into clicks followed by a gentle grinding. The door was silent as it swung open. Raysh knew the creaks of the doors and grates as well as he knew his own voice and the silent movement was enough to make him wonder if he was dreaming again.

A spot of light bloomed on the straw and shifted around the cell to find his face. Raysh blinked against the sudden brightness, pressing his face into his shoulder and squinting away from the light. “Go away.” The whisper was more plea than order.

The light vanished and a hand found his mouth in the darkness. “Stay quiet and I might be able to help you. Is your name Jonas?”

Raysh froze, wondering if he could get away with lying.

“Is it Raysh?”

He nodded against the hand, glad he hadn’t bitten down when the urge came to him.

“You’ve some interesting friends who seem to think you’ve wandered astray long enough. My name’s Sturgeon. I’ve been sent to retrieve you.”

The voice fell silent as its owner busied himself with the locks on Raysh’s manacles, laying them gently in the straw as they came loose.

“How many guards have you seen?” it asked.

Raysh looked at the man’s face in the dim light. “No guards. There are two men that…” his voice faltered. “…That question me but no, no guards.”

“Can you stand?” the man breathed, close enough for Raysh to feel the words on his cheek.

“I think I kind of have to.” Raysh whispered. “Just don’t expect me to run.” He accepted the hand gratefully and without thinking. Pain flooded through him as the man heaved him upwards. He made it halfway to his feet before his knee buckled, pitching him sideways and pulling them both down to the filthy straw.

The darkness hid the expression but Raysh could feel the anger in the look anyway. “Don’t feed me shit. If you can’t stand then say so. Lying will only get us both killed.”

“I’ll be fine,” Raysh gasped. “It’s my hands and feet, not my legs. Just help me up.”

Strong hands pulled him to his feet and a head ducked under his arm, supporting him as they headed for the door. A sliding grate on the side of the lantern allowed for a tiny beam of light to shine out onto the stone floor, transforming the utter blackness into mere gloom as they followed a narrow stone passage.

The ladder was iron and rusted. Raysh glanced back at the shadowy figure behind him but said nothing. His feet were less of a problem than his hands, he could set his feet with the rungs far back, close to his heel. Gripping the rungs, however, was an excursion through pain. He gave up on his right hand almost immediately, reaching through the rungs awkwardly with his arm and using the inside of his elbow to pull himself upwards. His left hand was little better, with only a three fingered loose grip to draw on. The result was a slow, lurching climb and, though he couldn’t hear the sighs behind him, he knew they were there.

A wooden trapdoor gave way to a darkness that smelled familiar though Raysh couldn’t place it. He slumped onto the floor, rolling to the side to make room for Sturgeon. The thin shaft of light exposed tall wooden shelves lined with curved wooden slots.

“A wine cellar?” Raysh wondered. “Where in the hells are we?”

“A rundown villa on the edge of the Warrens, near the river,” the figure whispered. “And keep your voice down.” He pushed past Raysh, taking the lead.

Sturgeon moved slowly, walking in an odd half-crouched position and never really letting his heels touch the floor. For the first time Raysh allowed himself to wonder just who this man was and where he was taking him. It didn’t matter, he supposed. Anywhere that was not here would be just fine.

Stone steps led up to a simple wooden door. Raysh watched as Sturgeon pressed an ear to the panels for the length of five ragged breaths, and then eased the door open. Pain was making his heart pound. When he was in his cell he could curl up as much as the chains would allow and hide away from it. Now though, pain had found him and the claws of it raked through him every time he stubbed his boot on the uneven floor or had to use his arms.

Misery fought with reason as he shied away from the thoughts of what kind of ruin his body might be. Darkness had denied him the ability to tell with any certainty, and as they moved closer to the street a small part of him clung to the shadows. There was a comfort in ignorance.

The door led through to kitchens, with just one small corner showing any signs of recent use, and out into once-grand hallways. Footprints had carved a channel through the dust, forcing it to the sides where it mingled with walked-in leaves and the ruins of long-dead spider civilizations.

A lantern sat burning in the middle of what had once probably been a lavish parlour. Its owner lay on the floor beside it, blood pooled out from the savage cut to his neck.

“Baldy,” Raysh breathed as he looked in through the doorway. The man looked smaller now, somehow less than he had been. He looked to Sturgeon, “Did you find the other one?”

A small shake of the head. “No, this one was the only person here. I kept expecting to find more but…” he shrugged. “I suppose it’s easier to hide with a small operation.”

“Who are you?” Raysh asked.

“Later,” Sturgeon told him with another shake of the head. “We’re not out yet.”

A small window led them into an alleyway leading to the street and, despite what Sturgeon had told him, Raysh began to relax. He was out. They might be in a part of Celstwin he’d never seen but he was free. He could feel it bubbling up inside him and, despite the pain, a grin found its way to his lips.

The skies were dark and overcast, giving no real hint of what the time might be and the streets Sturgeon led him through were almost as dark as the cell had been. After a moment he realised the man was still moving in the same fashion as he had in the cellar, slow and silent, pausing often to listen.

The grin left Raysh’s lips as he looked around himself properly. This really was a part of Celstwin he’d never seen. The buildings were rough and closer to wattle and daub than to the marble-clad mansions and villas he was used to. The streets were in dire need of repair and filth lined the gutters.

What really struck him was the darkness. Celstwin, as he knew it, never really grew dark. Torches and lamps were always hung outside of the taverns and hostelries and the broader avenues were lit with large lanterns at regular intervals. Here though, the streets were dark and shadowed.

It was quiet too. Celstwin was a lively city full of taverns and dining houses for the rich, and louder, more brash places for the rest. Some of the brothels and gambling clubs had been known to carry on until the first blush of dawn. Here though, the silence lay heavy and oppressive. A silence that carried knives and lurked in dark corners.

He hurried close behind Sturgeon and looked about them as they walked. They stayed in the back alleys most of the time, crossing broader streets only to step back into the network of rubbish-strewn passages. As time went on the silence of the slums gave way to faint sounds of life, the darkness split by raucous laughter and the distant shouts of a drunken argument.

Once, a man’s scream, filled with pain and outrage, erupted from an alley as they passed. Raysh, jumped and looked to Sturgeon. “Shouldn’t we?” he let the question hang in the air between them. The cloaked man shrugged and shook his head. “Not my business,” he said simply.

Another filthy passageway led them out onto a broad avenue and, just like that, Celstwin was revealed. Lamplight shone on the surface of the river and the marble buildings had never looked so grand. Raysh sighed and smiled his thanks at Sturgeon but the man ignored him, frowning as he looked at the bridge closest to them.

Raysh followed his gaze, noting the men clustered in the shadows.

“Come on,” Sturgeon said. “We’ll find another way.” He reached for Raysh’s shoulder as he turned, urging more speed as more figures stepped out into the street, watching them.

“Can you run?” Sturgeon asked in a low voice.

“I can hobble faster,” Raysh managed between clenched teeth.

“Then let’s do that.” Sturgeon told him, looking behind them. “Follow me and tell me if you can’t keep up.”

The streets vanished again as Sturgeon led them back into alleys and the even smaller passages that ran between buildings. Raysh gave up on being quiet and put his energies into speed as he shifted into a lurching hobble that would have looked comical at any other time.

Dark doorways flashed past them until he gasped out for help. Sturgeon was there in moments, ducking his head under Raysh’s arm and urging him out into the small courtyard.

“Master Sturgeon.” The voice caught them both in surprise and their heads whipped toward the dark doorway on their left, and the figure that lounged in the shadows. Man-shapes peeled out of the darkness, edging towards them.

Sturgeon lowered Raysh down, hands flashing under his cloak and returning with daggers before he looked back at the speaker. “Who’s asking?”

“I wasn’t asking.” The voice was faintly amused. “It wasn’t a question. I was telling you that you I know who you are.”

Sturgeon shrugged. “Didn’t answer my question though. Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” the figure said as he stepped out of the doorway. “The question you should be asking is who sent me? Who would know that you’d be here, on this night, with Lord Raysh?”

“I can think of at least three people,” Sturgeon said, tossing the words aside.

“You’ve never been a stupid man, Sturgeon,” the man told him. “Don’t start now. Tenebris Gatun has taken an interest in this man, and in your employer. He is most eager to speak with her. I suggest you let her know of his invitation and that Lord Raysh will be our guest for a time.”

“What’s going on?” Raysh hissed.

“I can’t help you,” Sturgeon said, stepping to one side and sheathing his knives. “I'm sorry, Raysh, these men will take you from here. You belong to the Hidden King now.”

Chapter Twelve

The square smelled. It wasn’t quite a strong enough an odour to say it stank, Selena decided, but there was a definite aroma about the place. She wrinkled her nose again and shifted on the carriage seat.

“Fragrant, isn’t it, your grace?” Hanris said with a small smile.

Selena nodded. “It puts me in mind of cats. Auntie Evelyn kept cats. Old, incontinent things that were more cushions than pets. Some are just dog people, Hanris. I’ve never been able to abide cats.”

He smiled a servant's smile and looked out of the carriage window as a movement caught his eye. She caught the motion and leaned forward to follow his gaze. A small group of men had entered the square, Sturgeon among them.

“It looks as though this is their delegation,” Hanris said as he reached for the door.

“Your grace,” Sturgeon called as she and Hanris climbed out to meet them.

“Sturgeon,” she nodded at him, then looked around at the men with him. “And is this all of you? Where is this Tenebris Gatun of yours?”

“This is Crabber,” Sturgeon said, gesturing to the man next to him.

“Master Crabber.” Selena inclined her head politely.

“Your Ladyship,” Crabber rumbled. It would have been a deep, rich voice had it not been lost in a rasp born from years of harsh spirits and stourweed smoke.

“The man you’re wanting to meet is waiting in there.” He jerked his head towards the low building on the far side of the square.

Selena raised an eyebrow. “And I’m expected to go to him, I assume?”

Crabber spread his hands. “Gatun values his privacy. We’re all to wait out here. He’ll meet you alone.”

“If I may, your grace” Hanris said before looking at the old thief. “How are we to know her grace’s safety is assured?”

Crabber gave a nasty grin. “She goes in alone to see ‘im. If she don’t come out then we can all cut each other to bits. Sound fair?”

Selena touched reached for Hanris’ arm and gave him a small smile. “I’m sure it will be fine, Hanris. As Sturgeon said, if the man wanted to do me harm he could have done so already.”

“Indeed, your grace.” Hanris did not look convinced.

She walked across the courtyard, picking her way through puddles and inexplicable piles of mud. The door hung slightly open and she took a deep breath as she reached for it. “Don’t look back at them, Selena,” she told herself. “A duchess does not lean on the staff.”

It was dark inside. A darkness that was somehow intensified by the shafts of light that shone through the gaps and cracks in the wooden walls. Dust hung heavy in the air and the light picked out the floating motes, giving her eyes no chance to adjust to the darkness in the shadows. She moved forward, trailing her hand on the wall as she looked for any sign of life.

Enough of this, she thought. Floundering along in the darkness only serves to reinforce their position. “All right, I’m here,” she called out. “Now what.”

“We talk.” The voice was shockingly close and she spun before she could stop herself.

“You’re an interesting woman, Selena Freyton. Or do you prefer Browntree these days?”

“I prefer, your grace,” she replied, perhaps a bit too tartly.

The man gave a dry chuckle at that. “No you don’t. Titles are irritating, cumbersome things. They’re like being stuck with a heavy cloak,  nice when it’s cold but suffocating if it’s not.”

Selena said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

The voice came again but from further around to her left. He’d moved and she hadn’t heard a step. “You’ve made quite an impact in the short time you’ve been here. Enough that even I’ve heard about it.”

“Interesting,” she replied. “Do you suppose we could stop this production though? This dramatic little scene here, with you prowling around me in the dark? It’s worse than a cheap mummers play.”

He chuckled again. It was an easy, well-practised laugh, and Selena knew just by listening that it was not even a nodding acquaintance of genuine humour. “A touch abrupt, don’t you think?”

“What I think, sir, is that I have better things to do with my time than loiter in abandoned warehouses,” Selena replied. She’d given up trying to locate him but her eyes were finally beginning to adjust and, as he shifted again, she caught the edges of his movement, turning so she’d be facing him when he spoke again.

“To business then,” he said, “You are aware, through Sturgeon I don’t doubt, that I have a certain position in our fair city.”

Was that a faint note of disappointment in his voice? Irritation? Had she spoilt his little game? “I am,” she replied.

“You’ve not been here long enough to understand how Celstwin really works. There are two cities within Celstwin’s walls, not one. Our illustrious King Pieter rules over his gleaming marble. I rule something far more real.”

Selena sighed. “I fail to see what this has to do with me, and frankly this is growing tiresome. I’m given to understand you hold Raysh captive. What is it you want with him?”

Flint struck steel and a burst of sparks resulted in a glowing wisp of rope, and then a lamp’s gentle light. The man stood only twenty feet from her, beside a table set with two chairs.

“Come. Sit with me.” The lamplight and his voluminous hooded cloak served to hide his face as effectively as the darkness had.

Selena sighed “A hooded cloak? Really?”

“I have my reasons for remaining anonymous, lady,” he replied stiffly.

“Anonymity has its uses, I suppose, though it does make it rather difficult to have a real conversation. What am I to call you? Tenebris Gatun? I think we both know that’s not actually your name. The Hidden King?” She shook her head and gave a mock shudder.

He studied her in silence for a moment, and then barked a rough laugh. “You’re an interesting one, Freyton. Call me Gatun for now. You’re right, it’s not my real name, of course, but it’ll serve.”

“Master Gatun then.” She nodded in greeting and moved to sit in the closest chair, toying with the wooden cup as she watched him in silence.

“Captive isn’t really the right word anyway. About Raysh, I mean.” The man picked up a bottle. “Wine?” Selena shook her head. “I hope you don’t mind if I do then.” He carried on speaking as he worked the cork loose. “Raysh is more along the lines of an unwilling guest, though I realise that’s more or less the same thing. Aside from anything else he’s been treated far too well to have been a captive. As for what I want with him? Nothing. He was simply a means of arranging this meeting. In fact he’s already on the way back to your villa.”

She picked at the tips of her glove, pulling the fabric loose around her fingers as he sat and sipped at the cup. “I see, so then what is it you want with me?”

“Pieter is a simple enough man to understand,” he said, turning the cup slowly on the table. “He wants power and is jealous of the power he already holds. I understand that. It’s a sensible enough thing. In his own way, he’s not a stupid man either. He recognises things for what they are, recognises Celstwin for what it is and, for the most part, we’ve been able to work around each other. There have been occasions when he’s crossed the line and I’ve dealt with that. By the same token there have been times when I’ve probably gone a bit too far and he’s been quick to let me know that too.”

“So you have an accord then?”

“No,” he said dismissing it quickly. “Nothing so formal. He is aware that there is an organisation controlling the Warrens and that there are forces that work to maintain a level of order and restraint here and throughout Celstwin. That’s about as far as it goes.”

Selena tugged the glove off and made a circle of her finger and thumb around it, pulling it through with the other hand. “A gentlemen’s agreement then. He leaves you alone, in return you leave him alone.”

Gatun snorted a laugh at that, genuine this time and as different from the earlier chuckle as a laugh could be. “A gentlemen’s agreement. I like that. I suppose it could be, though I don’t think I could be described as a gentleman.”

“I don’t know, the standard seems to have been slipping of late,” Selena replied with a wry smile.

He took a deep drink and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that held the cup. “There are a lot of rumours about you, Freyton. You’ve stirred up a remarkable amount of trouble in a very short space of time. Now don’t get me wrong, turmoil can be good for business but that all depends on how far it goes.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

He ignored that. “You’re going to topple Pieter, that’s clear enough. What I want to know is what happens next.”

Selena drew in a breath before she could stop herself. “I didn’t come here to dethrone a king.”

“That’s a wonderful attempt to dodge the question, girl.” Gatun growled. “I thought we were done with playing games?”

She frowned at that. This wasn’t going the way she’d intended. “I came to petition the king for aid—”

“I know what you’ve asked Pieter for,” he interrupted. “I also know he told you to run along and make needlepoint or croquet or whatever it is you highborn ladies do.”

“I suspect you mean crochet,” Selena murmured through a smile.

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “I also know about your plan for this council of nobles or whatever it is you’re calling it. This plan of yours may amount to nothing more than a big mess next to the headsman’s block for someone to clean up, or it might go much further. This puts me in an interesting position. From my perspective Pieter isn’t a bad man to have on the throne. He’s easily distracted and not overly concerned with the lives of the common folk. This makes him good for business. A few well-placed words would put an end to your plans.”

Selena nodded and motioned for him to continue.

“On the other hand,” Gatun said, “I have interests in Kavtrin as well as Celstwin. Bjornmen burning down the harbour is not going make for reasonable profits.”

He drained his cup and tilted the neck of the bottle at her again. Selena started to shake her head, then thought better of it. “Why not?” she muttered.

“You’re remarkably well informed,” Selena said taking the cup from him. “The truth of the matter is I’m not entirely sure what happens next. You want to know what happens if Pieter falls? What happens to you and the status quo? I suppose that would rather depend on who takes the throne, though I don’t imagine there would be too much upheaval. If it were me, which of course it won’t be, I would leave things largely as they are.”

“Largely?” Gatun scoffed. “There’s enough scope in there for just about anything.”

Selena smiled over the rim of her cup. The wine really was rather good. “Well, you seem to be administering a significant portion section of this city, and doing it rather well. I see no reason for that to change. There is the issue of contribution of course.”

“Contribution?” he blurted with a laugh.

Selena ignored that. “You’ve also just hinted rather loudly about business interests stretching as far as Kavtrin and I don’t doubt you have fingers in pies in Savarel as well. Even if we just look at your operation here in Celstwin the Warrens still use the sewers, the waterways. One thief can be a parasite and have little impact, entire districts of three cities cannot.”

“Taxation then,” Gatun said. “You want to tax the thieves and whores?”

She shrugged. “Why not? I’m pragmatic enough to recognise that stopping thievery in any city this size is next to impossible, not to mention expensive. I’d suggest we simply look the other way provided the activities remain within acceptable limits.”

“You’ve a lot to learn about bargaining, your grace.” The smirk was clear despite the shadows from his hood hiding his face. “You’ve just told me it would be impossible to stop the thieves and now you want to charge them a tax? Why should I pay?”

“I said next to impossible,” Selena said with a grim smile. “That doesn’t mean things couldn’t be made uncomfortable for you. A city-wide surplus tax dedicated to funding a larger constabulary would make things rather difficult for you I'd imagine? How would your profits fare if every street were patrolled every hour? If every brothel without a licence were shut down? And what if this were expanded out to Kavtrin and Savarel as well?”

“You’re threatening me?” Gatun growled, incredulous.

“Weren’t you just threatening me?” Selena asked lightly. “No. It’s not a threat, this is all conjecture after all. If I had my way I’d leave you in place. There are sections of society that the crown never touches. Much better to have it administered by someone the crown chooses to work with and keep it centralised than the alternative. It’s just so much easier to deal with one person than a hundred little ambitions with legs.

“Besides, as I already said, it would never be me on the throne. That said, I think it could be agreed that if the outcome of the Council of Lords results in Pieter being removed your position would remain unchanged.”

“Results in him being removed.” Gatun laughed. “You high-born folk are too delicate. In the Warrens a man in the way just gets a length of steel in his belly.”

“Unfortunately for us Pieter doesn’t live in the Warrens.” Selena smiled.

“No, he doesn’t,” Gatun agreed. “You’re ten times a fool if you think he’s just going to sit back and watch you decide his fate though.”

“I don’t see that he really has much choice,” Selena retorted. “Not if the Council decides otherwise.”

“Now, don’t go ruining the good impression you’ve made by talking shit,” Gatun warned her. “Pieter has his own reasons for letting things get this far but he’s not going to sit back and let you depose him. At some point you’re going to have to get some steel involved.”

Selena winced. “If I’d wanted open insurrection I’d never have called for a Council. We can’t afford to get bogged down in a pointless civil war right now.”

Gatun sat back and, for a moment, Selena caught a glimpse of his mouth. He was younger than she would have guessed. “Pieter might disagree with you. If his plans go badly then he’ll send men to fix them. I assume you have the men to deal with it when he send the troops out?”

“We’re not unprotected, no,” Selena admitted. “But then that just takes us back to civil war. We can’t afford to have our men fighting Pieter’s.”

Gatun emptied his cup and reached for the wine to refill it. “Then it seems to me you need to remove the threat.”

“An interesting notion. What do you suggest?” Selena asked.

“I have a few knives at my disposal,” Gatun shrugged. “They could be made available, for a price.”

“You can’t simply cut their throats, Gatun.” Selena gasped. “We’re not talking about twenty men here. Pieter probably has a good few thousand men garrisoned here in Celstwin. And even if you could we’re going to need those men.”

“Six thousand,” Gatun told her flatly. “He has six thousand men, plus another ten in forts around the city that could be called in. That’s enough to quash your little rebellion in about five minutes I’d say.”

She sat back, eyes narrowing, and then leaned again, resting her arms on the table. “So what do you suggest?”

“You don’t want those men dead,” Gatun told her. “Even if it was possible it’s not a good idea with the Bjornmen marching towards Kavtrin. What you need is for them to be neutralised for a time.”

“True,” Selena agreed. “And how exactly does one achieve this?”

“Soldiers are a pretty predictable lot. Not a lot of initiative, by and large.” Gatun swirled the wine in his cup, and then drank, sighing appreciatively. “Take away their orders and they tend to do a lot of milling about. The trick,” he said, raising a finger as he held his cup, “would be to make sure those orders never arrive. A few knives on the right necks, a few whispered conversations, and I think you’ll find a whole host of captains and the like completely forget how to do their jobs.”

Selena shook her head. “These are soldiers, Gatun. They’re not going to be cowed by threats or a few rusty knives. I expect they’re more than capable of looking after themselves. All you’d achieve would be getting your own men killed.”

Gatun nodded. “You’re probably right. But then I didn’t say which necks I was talking about. Wives and children can make much more compelling arguments.”

“That’s…a bit contemptible isn’t it?” she asked him.

He pointed a finger at her. “No, it’s getting things done. It’s not as if anyone is going to come to any real harm provided they do as they’re told.”

She frowned. “What about those officers who don’t have children or wives, or those who just ignore you?”

“There won’t be many,” he told her. “Besides their response will be uncoordinated and confused.”

Selena pondered this and looked at him, narrowing her eyes. “And you’re willing to do this out of the goodness of your heart are you?”

Gatun laughed. “I like you, Freyton, but not that much. Me and mine will provide this service for the sum of twenty thousand crowns.”

Selena blinked. It was a ridiculous figure. “Out of the question. That number is outrageous.”

The hooded figure nodded. “I thought you might say that. I would, however, be willing to waive that fee if you were to agree not to implement the taxes you mentioned for five years.”

“I’m not sure that twenty thousand would cover the taxes, Gatun,” Selena said with a smile.

Gatun laughed and raised his cup in salute. “But then, without my help, I doubt you’ll be in a position to collect those taxes anyway.”

Selena had to laugh at that. “You may have a point. Agreed then, Master Gatun.”

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, your grace,” he said as he raised his cup in salute.

***

“This really is rather good, Salisbourne,” Jantson said, raising the crystal tumbler of whiskey.

“I’m surprised you can still tell.” Selena cast a downwards look at the man over one shoulder. “You’ve been swilling it down since we arrived.”

“I’m nervous,” Jantson began. “No, scrap that. I’m damned well scared, as well you should be! Pieter simply pulled Raysh out of his house and had him tortured for days. The man has no limits. We could all be next.”

“Oh, pull yourself together, man,” Selena snapped. “Raysh has been back for a week now. If Pieter was going to have a knee-jerk reaction he’d have done it already. Besides, he has no idea where Raysh is. Only that he’s gone.” She looked over at the older man at the sideboard as he poured another drink. “Uncle Thomas, has there been any word?”

“Word, my dear?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the drink he was pouring.

“About the Council, Uncle.” Honestly, was there no help to be had here?

“Oh, that.” Salisbourne sipped at the tumbler. “Yes, a number have arrived already. Curiosity if nothing else, I suppose. Another day or so and I expect we’ll have enough to get started.”

“Enough?” Jantson raised an eyebrow.

“The numbers are a bit fuzzy on this,” Selena admitted. “With the expansion east there have been a number of lordships created. Not only that, but the duchies, earldoms, and what-have-you that existed in Abaram’s time have all but vanished. They’ve been merged, split, and then pushed back together again so many times that the original notion of the Council just wouldn’t work. There are far more than the original twelve duchies now and who know how many baronies they are now.”

“A hundred and thirty-eight,” Jantson said, and then flushed as the eyes fell on him. “It’s always good to keep up, you know?” He shrugged.

“Regardless,” Selena said. “We’re going to have to work on a two thirds majority. The Pact worked on the same basis anyway, it just dressed it up differently.”

“And you think this can be achieved, do you?” Jantson asked.

Selena raised an eyebrow. What was going on here? The man was suddenly very formal. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Jantson sighed and sank down into a chair. “You know, Selena, there’s something about this whole process that unsettles me. Voting. Numbers and scraps of paper. That’s no way to remove a king or to choose a new one. Whatever happened to divine right?”

Selena swallowed hard to keep from spitting the water out. “Divine right? Don’t be absurd, Janton. Before this New Days nonsense there hadn’t been a religion in Anlan since before Caltus. Nodding at the Lord of Midwinter hardly counts either. It’s closer to wishing winter would hurry along and finish than anything else.

As for choosing a new king I’d much rather use scraps of paper than the traditional method. We’ve Bjornmen settling whole counties of Anlan. We can’t really afford a civil war at the moment.”

Jantson tilted his head in a motion that was probably an approximation of a shrug and took another drink. “What is keeping them anyway?”

“Rentrew’s with him,” Salisbourne told him. “He can’t move very fast at the moment, that’s all. He probably shouldn’t be moving at all, to my mind. From what you told me, Selena, Pieter’s butcher fairly did him in.”

“And you say we’ve no reason to be nervous,” Jantson said from the bottom of his glass.

Selena gave him a look and then rose to her feet, knuckling the small of her back with a sigh. “Where’s Agatha? I thought you said she’d be back?”

Salisbourne grimaced. “I was rather hoping you wouldn’t ask that.”

Selena cocked her head with a frown, the question unspoken.

“She’s at some function at the palace,” Salisbourne admitted. “A garden party or some nonsense.”

She blinked, thrown for a second. “At the palace? Are you sure that’s entirely wise?”

“I don’t govern her affairs, Selena,” Salisbourne snapped.

“Don’t be so peevish, Uncle,” she chided with a smile. “I’m the one supposed to be prone to mood swings remember?”

Salisbourne nodded with a pained expression. “You’re right, and I apologise. She downright refused not to go actually. Told me to mind my own bloody business, as I recall.”

Jantson snorted into the bottom of his glass. He was well on the way to being drunk, Selena decided. She opened her mouth to speak, but then glanced at the door at the sound of distant voices, raised in anger and protest.

“Uncle?” she asked, looking to Salisbourne.

He frowned, setting his glass down and heading towards the door as the commotion grew louder.

“Just what is going on here?” he demanded as he wrenched the door open. Selena followed to find men in golden armour and crimson uniforms stood holding back a cluster of servants as another man, an officer by the looks of things, addressed Salisbourne.

“I tried to stop them, my lord—” a servant began but fell silent at a raised hand as the officer gave a curt bow and spoke.

“Lord Salisbourne, I apologise that I must do this in your home. I am charged by his majesty to take you into custody under charges of treason and sedition.”

Selena ignored the gasps and whispers of the servants. “The Kingsworn does not normally conduct arrests. I assume you have a King’s Warrant and this has been signed by the Lords High Justice and the Lord Chancery, Major…?” she asked with a glance at the braiding on the man’s shoulder.

“Gomen,” he replied. “I am charged by the word of the king himself, madam, and I know of no such people.”

“Your grace,” Selena grated.

That stopped him and his eyes passed over her, taking in her gown and finery. “My apologies, your grace. Would I be correct in assuming you are the Duchess Freyton?”

She inclined her head. “You would.”

He nodded. “Then I am afraid to inform you, your grace, that I am under orders to detain you also.”

“You are aware that the arrest of a duke or duchess on charges of treason cannot be ordered simply on the king’s whim?” Selena told him, icy calm in the face of it all. “The Pact itself lays down this limitation on the king’s power.”

“I am oath-bound to fulfil the king’s wishes, your grace,” Gomen said with a small shrug. “I have no great knowledge of law, or of ancient pacts, but I would carry out the king’s wishes regardless.”

“Your oath is to the office, Major, not to Pieter. Don’t lose sight of that.” She paused then, peering past him as if confused. “This isn’t really all the men you’ve brought with you is it?”

The glance was involuntary but it told her everything she needed to know. “Really? You came to charge us with treason and sedition and brought only, what? Ten men with you?”

“The remainder of my company waits in the courtyard, your grace,” Gomen replied stiffly as he drew himself up.

“Isn’t that where your guard's barracks are, Uncle?” Selena asked, throwing the words over one shoulder.

Gomen’s eyes narrowed and Selena felt the warning touch of Salisbourne’s hand on her arm. “I do not accept your charges, Major Gomen,” she told him. “Or the authority of Pieter to levy them. I will, however, accept you as our escort to the palace where I shall speak to the king.”

“My orders were to escort you to Chaldragne, your grace.” Gomen almost managed to hide the wince as he spoke.

“The prisons? With the rapists and murderers? I hardly think so,” Selena replied, her voice thick with indignation and disdain. “No, you will escort myself and Earl Salisbourne to the palace to speak with the king. I will accept nothing less. We really don’t want to get the household guard involved in this now do we? I’m sure your Kingsworn are far superior troops but how many do you really have with you?”

“I can easily return with a superior force, your grace,” Gomen warned her quietly.

“Only if we let you leave, my dear,” she said as she smiled sweetly. “Now, isn’t it going to be much better if you to take us to the palace to speak to Pieter than if we to take you to the palace to speak to Pieter?”

His eyes met hers for the space of three breaths before they fell.

“Shall we then?” she reached for Salisbourne’s arm and met Jantson’s eyes where he stood grey-faced in the doorway. “Council,” she mouthed. “Now.”

Chapter Thirteen

The carriage was cramped with Gomen and the soldier he’d insisted cram in with them. Selena sat in silence, looking out of the window as it wound its way through the streets. Gomen’s Kingsworn rode proud on their chargers to either side of the carriage, forcing the crowds back out of the way. It was largely a futile effort and the throng pressed close, moving out of the way only when it became clear it was a case of move or be trampled. A full troop of Kingsworn was a rare and impressive sight and the gawkers slowed their progress to a slow walking pace.

Salisbourne’s own guards followed behind the carriage in a column with almost double the numbers of Gomen’s men. It was obvious to all of them that they were there mostly for show. Her threats had been empty and it had shocked her that they hadn’t rung hollow as she’d uttered them. Regardless of the numbers, Gomen’s Kingsworn would have cut through the household guard like a knife through wet paper.

Salisbourne’s estate was on the outskirts of the city and they’d wound through the narrow streets at a crawl, impeded by the press of people. It had been so fast she’d almost missed it. A glimpse of a face in a passing carriage as they’d pushed out towards the centre of Celstwin. The face wore a look of surprise and frustration, and was gone in an instant, but she was sure it had been Raysh.

Now though, they’d reached the broader avenues and the carriage clattered over the cobbles towards the palace. Salisbourne had tried to catch her eyes more than once, a worried frown on his face, but she’d ignored him.

Despite the delays the trip to the palace was over too soon. It was too short a time to think things through and just long enough to allow for worry. The wheels crunched over the fine gravel as they passed through the gates and came to stop.

“Your grace?” Gomen said from the doorway, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Hmm?” She glanced down at him from where she’d been making a show of examining her fingernails.

“I’m going to have to ask you to step down from the carriage, your grace,” he told her, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Of course,” she said as she smiled at him. “Mustn’t keep the king waiting now must we?”

She made her own way inside, moving just slightly faster than Gomen and his men to make sure it was they who followed her and not the other way around. She glanced back once and noted that Salisbourne’s guards had been smoothly diverted. They were on their own from this point.

Pieter leaned to one side on the throne as they entered, listening as a red-robed attendant read from a sheaf of papers. He glanced up at the doorway as they paused inside the doorway and his eyes widened. One hand waved the attendant away as he leaned forward on the throne, eyes glittering in the light.

“Gomen, I’m assuming you have an explanation for this?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“My apologies, your majesty,” Gomen replied from the depths of a bow. “The duchess insisted on being taken to the palace.”

Pieter shook his head slightly and curled his lip. “And are you in the habit of taking orders from women, Gomen?”

“She threatened her household guard, your majesty,” Gomen explained.

“Then you should have died, Gomen,” Pieter snapped. “Fulfilled your oath.” He turned his gaze away from the major. “You, woman. What have you to say for yourself?”

Selena glanced at Salisbourne, and then met the king’s eyes coolly. “Your majesty?”

“Don’t play games with me, woman. You haven’t the wit for it.” He fairly threw the words at her, contempt heavy in every one. “You plot treason and sedition in my own city, setting my own nobles against me? Explain yourself or you’ll swing this very hour!”

Anger flared within her, unexpected and as dangerous as lightning in dry grass. “What do I have to say for myself, my king? What do you have to say for yourself? You have ignored calls for aid against the Bjornmen incursion from myself, Rentrew, and who knows how many other lords and nobles. You ignore the plight of the peasants as entire villages are burnt to the ground. You dare send men to arrest your nobles with no thought to form or process, violating the most central tenants of the Pact. You, sir, are no king. I declare you unfit to rule and call for a Council of Lords to fill the throne you squat in. By law and tradition I can commit no treason until the Council is complete.”

Pieter pulled himself up out of the throne, visibly shaking in his anger. “Pact!” he spat, flecks of spittle flying from his lips as he stalked down the three steps from the dais. “What pact holds power over me? I rule here, I am king. Abaram’s Pact is nothing more than the dusty memory of a bygone age. It holds no sway with me.”

“With no Pact then there is no crown,” Selena stated flatly.

“Bah, empty words.” Pieter waved a disgusted hand to sweep away her statement. “Who are you to dictate to me? Your only claim to your lands is the child in your belly. Your family sold you to Freyton, hoping the title would rub off on you. Women should never be nobles, they lack the intelligence for statecraft and the only thing you did to become a duchess was to promise to open your legs. You stupid woman! I declare the Pact abolished, now where does that leave you?”

The chamber fell quiet for a moment with nothing but the furious scratchings of the pens at work behind Pieter to break the silence.

Pieter let his words sink in for a few breaths, smiling down at Selena. “Gomen,” he snapped. “Take these traitors to Chaldragne. Let them sit in the darkness and listen to the howls of the lost for a time.”

Gomen snapped his heels together and gave a curt bow before turning to Selena and Salisbourne and his men. “Take them.”

Salisbourne shook off the kingsworn that grasped his arm. “Take your hands off me, man,” he snapped, outraged.

Selena stood cold and silent, reality sitting bitter in her mouth as the men surrounded them. The double doors swung open at their approach and then Gomen froze. Troops in an array of colours flooded into the throne room. Reds, greens and greys, mixed in with Salisbourne’s blues, and her own blue and green. Behind them Jantson and Rhenkin stood with others she couldn’t name.

Protect the king!” Gomen shouted out as he drew his sword and rushed back towards the throne. Papers flew as the scribes rushed from their long benches and fled towards the doors at the other end of the chamber. It hung there as both groups watched each other warily, then a sword lashed out and the room descended into chaos.

Selena found herself bundled across the room and behind the lines as swords crashed through steel and flesh and the floor ran with blood.

She wrestled free of Salisbourne’s grip. “No!” she cried out, spotting Captain Coulson amongst the men. “Coulson, stand your men down.” She looked about wildly and forced her way through to Jantson and Rhenkin, “Stop this. Stop it now.” They looked at her blankly. “This is the moment, right now, don’t you see? We can either do this according to law and the Pact and hold this country together or we can sink into years of civil war and the Bjornmen will sit back and watch as we destroy ourselves. Call your men back!”

The doors the scribes had fled through at the far end of the throne room crashed open and more kingsworn flooded in, surrounding the king and forming a line of gold and steel that stretched across the room.

“Major Gomen,” Selena called out into the silence that hung between them. “King Pieter has violated Abaram’s Pact by ignoring calls for aid against the Bjornmen invasion. I have called a Council of Lords, the first in centuries, to hold him to account for his actions. It was knowing this that he ordered you to arrest us. Our men will stand down. I call upon you to honour your oath. Protect Anlan. Protect the crown as I call the king to account.”

Gomen glanced at Pieter, and then back to Selena.

“Bjornmen.” Pieter’s mouth twisted in disdain. “There are no Bjornmen. Your attempts to have me send forces east, to leave lands here defenceless against your treason, they end here.” He looked left and right along the line of household guards facing his kingsworn. “You are all good men. Loyalty is a fine thing but you have been taken in by these traitors. A pardon to any man who lays down his sword, the gallows for those who do not.”

The first sword clattered loud upon the stones and with it Selena’s hopes died.

“Get her out of here,” she heard someone saying, Salisbourne perhaps? It didn’t matter. She stumbled along as her own men bundled her through the palace, forming up tight around her and Salisbourne. Dimly she was aware of Jantson further behind her and the crash of fighting. Not all of their men had laid down their weapons apparently. It didn’t matter though, they were outmatched. They were done.

The steps to the palace bristled with spears and swords held ready as she passed through. The bulk of their forces had yet to enter the palace and as Raysh passed through the grand entrance she frowned. The kingsworn were an elite force, even outnumbered they should have torn through her men. How was it they had managed to escape, much less form up on the steps? Why weren’t they pursuing? For that matter where were Pieter's regular troops. The order should have been given by now.

She pulled free of Salisbourne’s hand, standing taller and looking around them.

“Selena, really, my dear, we must move,” Salisbourne told her but she shook her head. Something was wrong here. Either that or something was terribly right. She looked towards the entrance to the palace, and then behind her to the palace gates. Kingsworn and regular troops should have been flooding through both by now.

A flutter of movement caught her eye as she backed away from the steps and she looked up to the roof of the palace. The king's standard twisted in the breeze as it fell, cut free from the flagpole that now stood empty. A section of ragged black cloth was hoisted up the pole as she watched, unfurling as the wind tugged at it and set it to flapping in the wind. The cloth would have been almost impossible to see in the darkness of night. The answer came to her unbidden. It was the flag of the Hidden King.

She closed her eyes tight against the sight, and then the sound of a horn rang. It was deep, so deep as to rumble rather than sound brassy, and the sound spread across Celstwin, leaving a shocked silence in its wake. The horn had not sounded in a hundred years. Celstwin was under attack.

***

The ships pushed their way through the early morning fog, the slow steady strokes of the oars driving them onward as they followed the wake of the smaller boats running ahead of them and sounding the channel.

Fires from the ruined forts lit the skies behind them, the flames lending an orange glow to the fog. Keiron pressed his knuckles to the wooden rail and looked to his left at the water as it was split by the prow of the galley reaver. The channel had been plotted three times already but it never hurt to be sure. Even knowing this he chafed at the delay.

A quiet voice came from behind him. “We should be coming up on the last of their forts in another few minutes, Shipmaster.”

He grunted and then spoke without turning. “Good, make sure the weaponsmaster knows and is standing ready. I want them dealt with as quickly as possible. We’re too bunched up here for my liking.” He listened to the receding footsteps before shaking his head. “Damn you, Klöss. This should be your expedition. I’m too old for this.”

“Set them to burn, Keiron. Make them pay,” the sealord had told him. It sounded easy enough at the time, made sense, too, in a vengeful way. War is all about perception. The Anlish needed to know that they weren’t going to let them come in and wipe out their villages without some kind of payback.

“There’s names for those that talk to themselves,” came the voice from behind him.

Keiron glanced back at the oarsmaster with a smile. “I’ve been called lots of things in my time, Harald.”

The old man joined him at the rail. “I don’t doubt it. You’ve earned most of those names twice over too.”

“You’re no innocent virgin yourself,” Keiron grunted. He pulled his helm free and scratched at his scalp through the thick grey hair.

Harald gave him a sidelong glance and stared back down at the water before turning to face him. “What are you thinking?”

Keiron snorted a laugh. “That I’m too old for this. This whole plan of Frostbeard’s, it’s a young man’s game.”

Harald smiled. “You’re probably right but we’re here now. The last gasp of old men and you’re younger than me. I can’t let you feel your age, not while I still have oarsmen to shout at.”

The grizzled old man grunted at that and looked around at the sky behind them. “Sun’s thinking about coming up. We’re going to be backlit.”

“By the time they see us it’ll be too late.” Harald said, undecided whether he was reassuring the oarsmaster or himself. “I still can’t believe these little forts are all they’ve got defending the river.”

“You heard the sealord the same as I did,” Keiron grunted. “These people, they don’t ride the waves. If it doesn’t come over land they don’t worry about it.”

Harald shook his head. “It’s a strange thing.”

Keiron looked to the catapult perched high in the prow, and then to the others on their platforms either side of the deck. Everything seemed to be in order. The weaponsmaster knew his craft, but then Keiron would never have made shipmaster if he’d left everyone to do their jobs.

“You’re right,” he admitted, looking back to Harald. “It’s a strange thing but no stranger than turning horses into beasts of war. You might as well use a bull or a cow.”

Harald nodded, missing the humour. “I’d better get back. Relgan will have them all rowing backwards if I leave him too long.”

Kieron nodded and grasped the man's wrist tight. He didn’t say the word, wishing luck before a battle was as good as calling for your own death. He turned without a word and made his way forward to the prow.

The fort was just becoming visible as he arrived, emerging from the bend on the river with torches burning bright against the remaining tendrils of fog.

“Take them as soon as you’re ready,” he told the weaponsmaster who stood bent low and speaking to the men at the carefully tended fire. “The others will follow us.”

“As you say, Shipmaster.” The old man nodded up at him.

Another old one, Keiron thought. I’ve filled this boat with grandfathers who’ve never sired sons. He stepped to the side, giving the men room to do their work, and watched as the long pole bearing the red flag was raised high. Moments later the catapult lurched, throwing itself forward against the thick ropes holding it in position. A trail of smoke streaked across the sky, joined by two others as the crews on the weapons platforms joined in. Two missed, one into the river itself and another exploding on the bank, spreading a pool of fire that belched black smoke high. The last firepot flew true and exploded at the entrance to the stone fort. Even from this distance Kieron could hear the screams, and as the reavers behind and to either side of his vessel began their own attack he knew the fort was doomed. A single horseman managed to escape, dragging the terrified creature from its stable and somehow calming it enough to let him mount before he galloped away from the fleet. The warning wouldn’t help them. These people were like baby birds fallen from the nest. Against the galley reavers they were helpless and exposed. He nodded once at the weaponsmaster, thanks for a job well done, and quickly.

The fleet had been split into three parties long ago, with the other two raiding towns on the coast to both the north and south of this river. Keiron’s own fleet now numbered sixty vessels, spread out behind him and arranged into groups of three that sailed in a V formation.

The muffled drumbeat drove the oarsmen onwards. Spray flew up from the prow as the wind picked up, driving the waves of the river against them. Keiron climbed up onto the catapult platform, grabbing a line that led up to the mast and the furled sails as he planted a foot on the rail itself and leant forward, eyeing the horizon hungrily.

The city was huge. He’d been told by the men from the scout boats who’d sounded the channel that it was massive but it was one thing to hear and another thing to see it. It filled the valley in a way that Hesk never could. Where Hesk was cramped and clung to every available surface this city sprawled, stretching out with languorous abandon away from the river.

Bridges spanned the river that ran through the centre of the city. Some were high, arched affairs, resting on thick stone supports that thrust down through the water. Others were low, simple stone structures. He’d been warned but, again, it was another thing to see it. They’d never penetrate to the city centre unless they destroyed the low bridges that blocked their path.

“Signal the fleet,” he said to the man behind him. He nodded to the weaponsmaster. From this point on the man would be largely in control of the reaver.

The fleet spread out, the gaps between the groupings growing larger still. As the first buildings inside the walls came within range the catapults lurched, hurling the smoking pots into the buildings close to the banks. Flames were already belching high from some of them by the time the second group of ships came into range and began their own barrage.

The fleet pushed deeper into the city, bringing destruction with it. As they passed under the first high bridge a deep, brassy horn sounded again and again, the sound mixing with the screams of panic and the Bjornmen set the place to burn.

Keiron hunched low behind the wall of shields clustered around the prow as they approached the first bridge. The defenders had been slow to gather themselves and the river was too wide for arrows to reach them from the banks with any accuracy unless the ships came close to the shore. The high bridge was a perfect platform for them and the arrows were flying in volleys, arcing high into the air before falling in a deadly hail. He swore to himself and shouted over to the weaponsmaster. “Give them something to worry about.”

The bridge was an easy target and the three firepots exploded within seconds of each other, engulfing the stone bridge in flames. The archers had scattered as soon as they saw them launch but the screams were enough to tell Keiron it had worked well enough.

Warehouses and docks waited beyond the bridge and the fleet rushed in like wolves among sheep. The air was thick with smoke and the almost constant sound of the catapult’s barrage.

A number of small boats, filled with Anlish archers firing flaming arrows, had been launched but they were quickly destroyed or driven off. As they came within range of the next bridge Keiron called for the catapults to be loaded with stone. Where the last bridge had been tall and graceful, this was a low, squat structure.

Flaming arrows arced high from the bridge and the bank as the reaver drifted too close to the shore and Keiron swore as he watched them come, crouching low behind the shields. A shout, too late to be any use, was the only warning Keiron had as a catapult on the bank hurled a hail of rocks from the edge of the bridge. The stones, none larger than a man’s fist, churned the water to foam beside the reaver. They’d missed but the next shot would have them, Keiron knew. The speed with which the catapult had been moved into position and the shot calculated told him enough. These men were not without skill.

A shout back at the oarsmaster had the galley reaver moving backwards sluggishly as the men struggled with the awkward stroke. If not for the current of the river helping them it would have been a futile effort. The galley reaver was simply too large to be moved on a simple stern stroke. The massive stone crashed into the water, sending it skyward only to patter down onto the deck. Keiron opened his mouth to give the order but the weapons crews were already moving, turning the catapults on their platforms to line up the shot. Fire exploded on the bank, too far away to cause the enemy weapon any damage but close enough to force the men to abandon their shot and try and move the engine.

Screams and a crash turned his head and Keiron saw the reaver on their left engulfed in flames. Another barrage of rocks smashed into it as he watched, and tore through wood and flesh alike. The boat was doomed and Keiron silently praised their steersman for edging it to the side of the river, as much as he fought the guilty relief it had been them and not his reaver.

He glanced behind them at the galley reavers drawing closer and swore. If they bunched up here they were as good as dead.

“Weaponsmaster, get that bridge down,” he roared and within minutes the first barrage of stone began. The rocks had been gathered from the mouth of the river and carefully hoarded. The barrage increased as other reavers came within range and the bridge began to crumble under the onslaught.

A section of the bridge crashed down, sending spray skyward but Keiron already knew this was no good. The gap was nowhere near wide enough and who knew how the stones now lay beneath the waterline.

A trail of smoke from the firepot coursed across the sky, joined by others, and all going the wrong direction. Screams from the reavers behind him told him all he needed to know and, as he looked around at the flames belching from the city on both sides of the river, he nodded. “Enough,” he said to himself.

“Oarsmaster, get the men ready.” He called, turning to the flagman before the oarsmaster started bellowing orders. “Signal the withdrawal, get those reavers moving.”

The signal passed down from ship to ship and the ungainly vessels began to turn, moving sluggishly in the close quarters. The Anlish catapults hurled flagstones, that had been lifted from the streets, out at the turning ships as their archers raked those close enough with flaming arrows. Keiron saw first one reaver, then two more, slow and drift aimlessly as the onslaught took its toll.

There was little he could do but huddle behind the shields and watch as the oarsmen bent to their task. The steersman knew his business and picked a delicate path between the burning wrecks. Injured men, too badly wounded to reach the water, still writhed in the embrace of the flames on the decks and the howls of agony cut deeper than any blade.

***

“The price was rather high but I dare say his Majesty will be forced to change his tune about the Bjornmen now, eh?” Rentrew smiled at Selena but the grin faded in the face of her icy stare.

“Rather high?” she said. “Look around you,. Look at the smoke and ashes. If you listen closely you can still hear them clearing the wreckage! Celstwin was in flames, Rentrew. Oh, not the marble clad villas, or not many of them anyway. No, the only people in Celstwin who live in wooden homes are those in the warrens. The poor, the unsightly. The price of changing his majesty’s tune has been paid in blood. Again.”

“Now, Selena,” Salisbourne began gently. “I’m sure Rentrew didn’t mean it like that.”

“I’m sure he didn’t.” She sighed. “I’m sure it didn’t even occur to him that the wood behind that smoke was somebody’s home or the body smouldering in the ashes was somebody’s mother.” She looked up at both of them but the concern in their eyes reached no further than her.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, my dear?” Salisbourne asked. It was funny how she’d never noticed how fatherly he acted around her until now.

She smiled grimly. “I rather think I have to be, Uncle.”

“Shall we then?” He extended an arm for her.

The palace had a different feel to it. Nothing substantial had changed but the oppressive air had left. They were met by footmen who took up a position flanking them, with one more ahead and another behind them. Take away a servant’s pomp and they would be forced to admit that they were one step above the cleaning staff, she thought wryly. No matter that there hadn’t been a Council of Lords for well over two centuries, somebody somewhere had thrown together enough pomp to make it seem ceremonious. She smirked at the thought, and then quickly set her lips. It wouldn’t do to seem smug, now of all times.

The amused surprise she’d felt at the pomp of the footmen was nothing to the shock she felt as they passed the men guarding the doors and stepping into the throne room. The room was packed with the lords of Anlan and their attendants and was almost unrecognisable. Sections had been marked out with each noble sat surrounded by their servants and staff. All wore their traditional scarlet cloaks and robes of office, trimmed in white fur, and more than one chain glittered around their necks. A broad path had been left leading to the throne itself, which sat silent and empty on its dais. Selena looked to Salisbourne and then pointedly down at their clothes, plain by comparison. “I think we’re a little under-dressed.”

“It’s been taken care of.” He smiled with a wink. “Hanris, I'm afraid.” He shook his head in mock despair and led her to the waiting herald.

“Lord Salisbourne, the Earl of Westermark,” the herald boomed from slightly behind them. Selena winced and forced a small smile onto her lips as Salisbourne was escorted inside by a footman. The crowd of nobles, for the most part, paid no attention. Even pomp grows commonplace eventually, Selena decided.

“Her Grace, the Duchess Freyton of Druel, the Wash and the Eastern Reaches!” the herald boomed again and her smile turned slightly pained. Heads turned at the announcement and the low rumble of quiet conversation ceased as they turned to look at her. For a moment she felt exposed under the scrutiny. What must they think? An old family forced to sell its daughter into eastern nobility. She must be everything they despised. No wonder they gawked.

She raised her chin, refusing to crawl down inside of herself, and followed the footman to her seat. Hanris stood waiting and smiled as she approached. Another fatherly smile, she noted.

“Your grace.” He greeted her with a deep and formal bow.

“Hanris.”

She stood still so he could drape the formal cloak around her, fastening the ornate brooch at her neck. He stepped back, allowing her to take her seat before sitting in his own, far plainer chair behind.

The procession dragged on with noble after noble entering the chamber. Though some turned heads the majority were ignored. The heavy robes and the heat of the chamber from so many bodies combined to make the place impossibly stuffy and Selena found herself almost dozing by the end of the procession.

A brassy fanfare preceded the herald, though how the man could still manage to shout was beyond Selena. “His Majesty, King Pieter the Seventh. King of Anlan and Liege of the realm.”

The assemblage stood and Selena buried a sigh as she hauled herself to her feet. Standing was becoming more difficult. In fact everything was becoming more difficult. Frankly, the birds had the right idea with eggs and nests, as far as she was concerned.

Pieter made his way to the throne at a slow pace that was probably intended to be stately. As it was it looked awkward and, rather than giving the assembled nobles the chance to be cowed by his majesty and presence, it made him look petulant. He glared at those that met his gaze, dark eyes bright with anger as he looked from side to side. Here and there a noble gave their respects, which were met with a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement.

Pieter climbed up on the dais and sat in the throne, arranging his robes and cloak around himself. Movement from the side of the chamber caught her eye and she raised her eyebrows as Salisbourne came to take up a position facing the assembled nobles with his back to the king.

“My lords,” he began. “Allow me to be the first to formally welcome you to this, the first Council of Lords in over two centuries.” A round of applause drowned his next statement and he stood in silence as he waited for the noise to subside. As he began again Selena realised with dismay that he was actually going to make a formal speech. She groaned to herself and bit the inside of her lip, using the pain to keep herself alert.

She dimly became aware that he was gesturing in her direction as he spoke. “…call our esteemed monarch to account. To that end I will surrender the floor to her grace, the Duchess Selena Freyton.”

She stood, answering Salisbourne’s bow with a polite nod of her own and made her way to meet him. “The floor is yours, Selena. Now is the hour,” he whispered as they met.

“My Lords,” she said, lifting her voice to fill the chamber. It wasn’t as hard as she’d imagined, acoustics did a lot of the work for her. “I come to Celstwin fresh from the Bjornmen invasion of our land, of my duchy. The Bjornmen have plagued the coasts of the Eastern Reaches and its neighbours for decades, raiding villages and pillaging what they can. This time, my lords, they have come not to raid but to conquer. Their forces have pushed past defences designed to repel raiders not hold back an army, and they have set entire villages to the flame, driving the peasants west out of their districts and their homes.”

She had them now, she knew. A whisper could have been heard in the chamber whenever she paused to draw breath. She turned and waved at the king. “This man, your king, has ignored all of our requests, all of our pleas for aid. Our forces are outmatched. Only the king’s armies could hope to repel these invaders yet not one man has been sent. Our king denies the very existence of this invasion even as the Bjornmen push westwards, establishing their own farms and villages upon Anlish soil.”

She allowed a hint of anger to enter into her voice, just enough to flavour the performance. “You sit upon your throne, your majesty, passing down decrees and lapping up the adoration of your sycophants. Yet it seems you forget that the throne has an obligation to the lords of Anlan, to the people of Anlan. An obligation enshrined by Abaram’s Pact itself, one that you have so casually ignored. You go so far as to claim that the Bjornmen threat was nothing more than my own imaginings. Celstwin lies in ashes, my king. Tell me now that this is the result of my imaginings.”

She’d probably gone further than she ought to have and the gasps she’d heard from behind her as she spoke had highlighted this, but the result was clear on his face. Pieter seethed as he glared down at her and, as he stormed to her feet, she thought for just one moment that he might strike her. That he might rage down the steps that led to his throne and grab her by the throat.

“Damn you for your impudence, Freyton,” he said in a voice made all the more powerful for its quiet. The next words, however, he bellowed out in a voice that rivalled the herald’s. “I am king here, in a line that traces back to Caltus and beyond. I do not recognise the authority of this council. Abaram’s Pact is ancient history. It is no more valid than the laws against harbouring droos!”

He paused long enough to sit back down and leant forward, resting an arm on one knee. “I have permitted this little performance so far. It benefits the crown to demonstrate how traitors like yourself will be dealt with. Your mummery is at an end, Freyton. Know that an accounting awaits you.”

“Threats, My Lord King?” Selena gave in to the drama of the moment. “Will you punish me? Do you intend to torture me as you did Lord Raysh?” She smiled sweetly at him as she saw the words hit home. “Did you think him vanished into thin air, your majesty?”

Selena turned to the lords once more. “Lord Raysh, would you come forward please?” She didn’t need to turn to sense Pieter shift uncomfortably behind her as Raysh stood from a position almost lost in the shadows of the corner. He made his way slowly, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Thank you for doing this, Raysh,” she murmured into his ear as he drew closer.

“I came to Celstwin seeking aid against the Bjornmen,” she said, lifting her voice again for the chamber. “Baron Rentrew borders my lands and had travelled here for the same reasons. I’m sure Lord Raysh here is known to many of you. He was a stranger to me when I arrived but a close friend of Rentrew. When our king discovered he was privy to our discussions on how we might best convince him of the dangers our nation faces he took him.”

She paused long enough to let the words sink in. “Raysh was abducted from his home, taken at knife point in the middle of the night. He was taken to a house in the poorest quarter of the slums, and there he was tortured. Our king, charged with the safety of the realm, kidnapped one of his own lords and did this.”

Raysh ripped free the white cotton glove with his teeth, holding his hand high for all to see. The fingers were more like claws now, the flesh pared away from where the pad of each finger should have been and blackened from the coals that had seared the wounds closed.

Selena let the gasps and cries of revulsion die down before she spoke. “Was Raysh plotting treason he could have been arrested like any other traitor. Instead Raysh, like Rentrew and I, was simply asking what we could do to try and persuade the king to take action. Bjornmen have taken half of my duchy or more. They push through Baron Rentrew’s lands and now, now they have set Celstwin herself to the flame. When would it have been enough for our king? He claims Abaram’s Pact is dead and gone yet he claims the throne on the basis of an ages old bloodline. He demands we honour the tithe and yet refuses to defend the realm.

“This man,” she said, turning to stab a finger at Pieter, “has proven himself unworthy of the throne on which he squats, toad-like in his inaction. I call upon this council to do its duty. Remove this man’s crown and protect Anlan.”

She fell silent as roars of outrage fought with cheers in the chamber. Pieter glared at her, hatred burning in his eyes. Though the chamber was in uproar he looked nowhere else and his fury shone.

Chapter Fourteen

“On the whole I'd say that went rather well,” Salisbourne said, pouring whiskey into the crystal glasses.

Raysh shook his head. “We’ve torn a nation apart rather successfully, yes. I suppose you could say that.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Raysh,” Jantson told him, reaching for the glass Salisbourne offered. “We all knew this was never going to be an instant fix. The important thing is that Pieter is deposed.”

“And so now we are a snake without a head, fighting the wolves.” Raysh sneered. He glared at Salisbourne as the man made to bring the whiskey glass to him and stood with a grunt, leaning heavily on his cane.

Salisbourne frowned and sipped at the whiskey. “What would you rather, old man? That we left Pieter in place?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Raysh snorted. “I just feel that events have taken on a life of their own. We should never have entered into the Council without a clear plan for what happens next.”

“You know what happens next,” Jantson told him. “The Council will deliberate and a line invited to take the throne.”

“And you plan to let just anyone take the throne do you?” Raysh asked. “If we’d planned for pure chance to rule we may as well have left Pieter on the throne. You know as well as I do that some of the noble houses are filled to the rafters with gibbering idiots. Take the Moorcroft’s for example? They have a line going back past Caltus and not a one them could match the intellect of an inbred sheep. Do you want one them on the throne? We may as well hand the kingdom to the Bjornmen now and have done with it!”

“Raysh, calm down,” Salisbourne told him. “I never had any intention of leaving this to blind chance. The choice is an obvious one. I just wanted to discuss it with you first. That’s why she isn’t here yet.”

“You can’t mean?” Jantson blurted, bolting upright in his seat and slopping whiskey over his hand.

“Selena? A woman?” Raysh finished for him. “You can’t be serious. I’ll be the first to admit she is a rare specimen but come now, the nobles will never accept her.”

Salisbourne smiled as he waited for them, sipping calmly at his drink. “Don’t be so quick to judge, Raysh. The nobles are not as closed minded as all that. In any event, it doesn’t matter what they think, it only matters what our syndicate thinks.” He stepped away from the drinks cabinet and began to pace as he spoke. “Consider it, a woman on the throne. She is a remarkable woman, but still only a woman. She’d never manage without support. The southern duchies in particular will throw a merry fit. If, however, the syndicate stands with her, then we, ourselves, have the throne. Selena is just a figurehead. In one stroke we prevent the same sort of centralised idiocy that Pieter’s reign embodied. The threat of empire is gone and the power of the throne dependent upon our cooperation.”

Jantson nodded slowly. “So, in essence then, it takes us five steps closer to what Abaram had in mind with his pact.”

“Exactly!” Salisbourne spun in place to point at him. “And without all that nonsense about a pact or written agreement. It was all stuff and nonsense if we’re honest, anyway.”

“I think this could be workable,” Raysh muttered, easing himself back into the fine leather armchair. “This isn’t something you’ve just cooked up though, is it? Admit it?”

Salisbourne gave a sly smile. “It’s something I’ve had in mind for a time. If I’m honest I really had no idea who could fulfil the role until little Selena came along, but she does fit rather nicely.”

“And the child?” Jantson queried. “What about that?”

Salisbourne shrugged. “The child is almost a boon. It’s fatherless. Freyton is long dead. Succession is assured without any meddling consort seeking to syphon off his own power and authority. Not only that but we can mould and shape the boy as he grows. Assuming it is a boy, of course.”

“You cunning old bastard.” Raysh laughed.

Salisbourne raised his glass in mock salute. “You’ll go along then?”

“I will.” Raysh nodded. “There’ll be time before any coronation to work out the finer details and get any reluctant members of the syndicate on side, but, yes, I think it’s a workable plan.”

“Jantson?” Salisbourne cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s as good a plan as any I’ve heard,” the Earl nodded. “I suspect Selena may prove to be more of a handful than you take her for though.”

“You let me take care of Selena,” Salisbourne said as he smiled. “She’ll have the child to busy her mind before too long anyway.”

Jantson pulled a pipe from his waistcoat and thumbed some stourweed into the bowl. “When do you propose we broach the subject with her?”

“She should be along any time now actually,” Salisbourne said with a wink.

“You cut that a bit fine!” Raysh laughed.

“I had it all in hand, old friend.” Salisbourne smiled. Conversation turned to other things as they waited, each casting frequent glances at the door until the servant finally knocked.

“The Duchess Freyton,” the man announced.

“Hello, boys,” Selena smiled. “Noses in whiskey? What a surprise!”

Salisbourne raised his eyebrows as he lowered his glass. “I’d say after the day we had yesterday that we’d earned it, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d say that you’ll always find an excuse, Uncle.” Selena laughed.

“Can I tempt you?” Salisbourne cocked the decanter at her.

“Be serious, Uncle. It’s barely past noon.”

He shrugged. “Something lighter then? A wine, or perhaps a sherry?”

“Really, I’m fine.” She sank down into an armchair close to the fire. “Now what’s this all about?” She looked around at the three men. “You all have that conspiratorial look about you.”

“I thought it was time we discussed our next steps,” Salisbourne told her, settling into a chair.

“I would have thought that was rather obvious,” Selena replied, giving him an odd look. “As soon as a new king has taken the throne, and order restored, I would expect our armies will march north. Even aside from their depredations in the Eastern Reaches we simply cannot allow for the attack on Celstwin to go unanswered.”

“Yes, yes…” Salisbourne brushed that aside. “First, however, we need to decide who to place on the throne. This whole exercise becomes rather futile if we end up with another idiot like Pieter.”

“Why do I get the feeling that I’ve rather blundered into something here?” Selena looked around at them.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Jantson chuckled, resting the crystal tumbler on his paunch. “We’re not going to insult your intelligence though, my dear. You know as well as anyone that whoever takes the throne is going to need the support of all the lords, with what’s coming. We simply can’t take the risk that some idiot will strike out on his own like Pieter did. You said it yourself. The invasion, the attack on Celstwin? They must be responded to.”

“And so who did you have in mind?” She looked from Jantson to Raysh and settled on Salisbourne.

Salisbourne drained his glass, twisting to set it on the side table. “We were rather hoping you might take a crack at it, my dear.”

“Please don’t call me that, Uncle. It makes me sound about five years old.” Selena pursed her lips, looking up at the ceiling. “Why me?” she asked finally. “There must be others more suitable? For that matter Pieter must have relatives, someone else in the line?”

“Second and third cousins.” Salisbourne waved a hand. “Their claim would be weak at the best of times and, after what’s happened, no one would bat an eye if we went another way.”

“True enough.” Selena nodded. “But you haven’t really answered the question. Why me?”

“Forgotten Gods, Selena! Anyone would think you don’t want the crown,” Salisbourne burst out. He sighed, deflating as Selena levelled a look at him. “Stability, if nothing else. Our little consortium can almost guarantee you the throne. I think we need to put an end to the petty infighting before it really has a chance to take hold. We don’t have time to squabble over the throne, we have a war to end.”

“Yes, yes…” she said impatiently. “But why me? Anyone could do those things.”

“Because you’re a woman, Selena.” Raysh told her, ignoring the sharp looks that Salisbourne and Jantson gave him. “We can sell the idea of you being the next best thing to a puppet to the consortium. At the very least you’d be considered a very friendly ear. Pieter came closer than anyone could have imagined to becoming an imperial power. It wasn’t until you called the Council of Lords that most of us realised just how much power we’d lost. That thought terrifies most of the lords in Anlan, and I expect most would jump at the chance to have, what they would consider to be, a pliable monarch on the throne.”

“I see.” She sat back into the chair. “Do you know, Uncle? I think I will try a small glass of wine.”

“Of course, my dear.” He stood and went back to the drinks cabinet as Jantson stood.

“I think I might take my leave here, if that’s all the same to you, your grace?” he nodded a small bow at Selena. “Someone has to bring Rentrew up to speed and I have other appointments.”

“I’ll come with you,” Raysh said, levering himself up with the cane. “I have business of my own.”

Selena sipped at the wine Salisbourne handed her, seeming not even to notice as the others left. “Well, that was interesting,” she said as she sat up straight again, setting the wine down on the table. “Exactly what game are you playing, Uncle?”

His lips twitched as he winked at her. “It did go rather well didn’t it?”

“I’m really not built to be anybody’s puppet, Uncle,” she told him with a grimace.

Salisbourne laughed. “I never imagined you would be.”

“So this entire thing is a sham then?” she asked as she raised an eyebrow.

“Not entirely,” he told her. “We do need stability, and I do think you’re the best person to provide that. If the members of the consortium are foolish enough to think you’ll be some weak little woman, unable to blow her nose without direction, then so be it.”

“And Raysh?”

“He was the best,” Salisbourne laughed, waving a hand at her as he grew red in the face. “The things he said to you, trying to convince you this will all be a front. He’s terribly set in his ways sometimes. It’ll take a good few months for him to realise that everything he said to you, thinking he was persuading you, were actually true.”

“You’re convinced then?” she asked. “That you have enough support in the Council to accomplish this?”

“I am,” he said, suddenly all business. “Though I expect the notion will bring its own genuine supporters. You’ve impressed a number of people with the way you called for the Council.”

Selena nodded, absorbing this. “So let me ask you again, Uncle, Why me? You’ve orchestrated this, why not take the throne yourself?”

“Honestly, my dear?” Salisbourne told her, leaning forward in his seat and meeting her gaze. “I’m too old for politics. Whoever takes the throne is going to have a rough ride of it and, frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s as good a player as you.”

A thought occurred to her and she narrowed her eyes as she spoke. “Just how long have you been planning all this, Uncle?”

“Well now, that would be telling wouldn’t it, your majesty?”

“I’m not queen yet, Uncle. Let’s get through the coronation first shall we?”

Salisbourne shook his head with an indelicate noise. “Coronations are for the commoners. You don’t make a king or a queen with a coronation. Politics is a game played in the back rooms, everything else is just for show.”

Selena didn't smile at the joke. “And Pieter?”

“Pieter.” Salisbourne scratched at his cheek. “Yes, we do need to do something there I suppose. The Chaldragne springs to mind. I seem to recall he had plans to toss you in there.”

“He did,” Selena agreed. “I don't think so though. Putting the king in a prison for rapists and murderers rather sends the wrong message, I feel. Besides, there's always the slim chance he might get out. I was thinking something a little more public, and final.”

Salisbourne's smile slipped. “Really? Do you really think that's necessary?”

“I don't like loose ends, Uncle.”

“But executing him?” Salisbourne shook his head, looking uncomfortable. “You risk making him a martyr, you realise?”

Selena raised an eyebrow at him. “The thing with martyr's, my dear Earl Salisbourne, is that they tend never to be bothersome again.”

“Forgotten gods, Selena! You're making me second guess myself here. I can't decide if you're going to be the greatest monarch Anlan has ever seen or a bloody tyrant.”

“Isn't that the point, Uncle?” Selena purred. “Politics is a game and I never reveal my hand.”

“People died, Selena,” Salisbourne told her with a hint of reproach.

“I'm aware of that, Uncle,” she answered. “Blood has always been the currency of politics. Gamblers play with coins but the game of power is played with lives.”

PART THREE

Chapter Fifteen

“I would ask that you stay here,” Aervern said, pointing to the grassy hillside behind them. “There is little point in placing you in danger and you would not find this that we do pleasant.”

Miriam’s head barely moved with the nod but Aervern seemed satisfied with that. Miriam turned her eyes from the distance city and gazed over the fae host. The gibbous moon was bright and the light made it easy to see even to the farthest edges of the force. Or it would have for someone with younger eyes than hers. It was both impressive and terrifying. Thousands of satyr mingled with hundreds of fae and faeborn, the latter’s cyan eyes a brilliant contrast to the sea of amber. Above them all the Swarm spun lazy circles in the night sky, moonlight dancing on the wings of the fae’reeth and making the sight even more otherworldly.

Miriam stifled a laugh that was born of both humour and hysteria at the thought and Aervern glanced back at her. “Something amuses?”

Miriam shook her head and looked out over the sea of fae. The silver banners were pure glamour, the silver and blue standards glowing brighter than the eyes around them.

“Don’t they worry about being seen?” she spoke without thinking. Aervern’s eyes were a mystery as she regarded her before speaking. “This host you can see because you are afforded that luxury. The manlings behind their wall of stones? They see only the grass for now.”

Miriam looked over the host again before looking back to the fae that waited with her. “So this is all glamour then? The banners, the armour?”

“Most is glamour. The armour? Perhaps not all of it. We, Wildfae,” Aervern said the word with a twist to her lips, “have long lost the knowledge of this art of fashioning, of creating armour like this. Those that endured in the Outside may have retained some. Still, more knowledge, I would expect, has been lost over the ages in that place. Most of these fae you see are wearing little more than pure glamour.”

“So they’re naked?” Miriam laughed but bit it back at a look from Aervern.

“Perhaps,” she shrugged, unconcerned. “Though not all. We do not place such an emphasis on raiments as you humans might. We fae are not so affected by heat and cold as you. Ours is a warm world anyway and clothing is not truly necessary unless we wish it. Even so, Shaping is more strenuous than Seeming. There must be few with the patience to hoard enough of the Lady’s Gift to create, even if they had the knowledge. Not when a simple spin of light has much the same result.”

Miriam looked out over the fae again. The thought that most of them were naked didn’t seem as funny as it ought to have. The breeze was light, but chill, and she pulled her robe tighter around her. Autumn was coming with winter fast on its heels.

“You almost sound like you feel sorry for them,” she said softly.

Aervern sighed, sounding almost human for the moment. “It is a hard thing. These fae are thousands of your years older than I. Time is a strange creature and she runs at faster pace in the Outside, or so I am told. In this world, your world, time is a gentle brook idling along. My own realm is a merry stream, rushing over the pebbles and rocks. The Outside is a raging torrent. Thousands of your years must have passed whilst the highfae,” again her lips turned in a minute grimace as she spoke and Miriam wondered if she realised she was doing it, “whilst they endured in that prison. I am no lover of this new order but I would not wish that torment on anyone.” She paused as if realising something. “But then this is not new knowledge to you, is it, Miriam? You yourself endured the Outside. You know well the horrors of that place.”

Miriam didn’t speak but her expression must have said words her lips didn’t shape and Aervern nodded once in response, looking out to the distant city.

“Why am I here?” Miriam asked.

Aervern didn’t look at her as she spoke. “There are things I would have you see.”

“There are always things you would have me see,” Miriam muttered, though she knew the fae would hear her. The breeze was cutting through the thin fabric of her robe and her hips ached. She hunched down against the cold, trying to push the pain out of her mind.

Aervern’s lips curled at the corners in a fleeting smile. “So it would seem.” Her smile faded as something in the middle of the host caught her attention and she closed her eyes in concentration. A ripple passed over her form as she worked the glamour. The armour flowed down over her skin, flowing like water that shaped itself into breastplate and greaves. The plate was intricate, with delicate lines, and a shine brighter than any steel could hope to match.

“It will soon be time,” she said, stepping close to Miriam. “Do not move.” Aervern’s hands began to glow gently as she held them over her eyes for a moment. She reached out repeating the motion but holding her hands over Miriam’s eyes instead. She stepped back with a sigh and a satisfied nod. “It is done.”

Miriam blinked and gave the fae an odd look. Her eyes felt strange, as if she were struggling to focus. “What is done? What have you done to me?”

Aervern gave her a confused look. “Did I not say, there are things I would have you see?”

Miriam shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she admitted.

“How could you see what I wish if you looked only through your own eyes?” Aervern asked her, frowning.

Miriam didn’t answer that at all. Talking to the fae was confusing at the best of times and she’d found that, sometimes, the best strategy was just to remain silent and let the explanation come to her.

“You are not young, Miriam.” Aervern told her. “You are untrained with blade and bow. I could not take you into battle without risk of injury to you. So I bring the sights of what I will do to your eyes myself. You will see what I see.”

She felt herself gasp. “You can do that?”

Aervern shrugged Miriam’s wonder aside. “It is a simple thing. No harder for any fae than it would be for you to jump into the air.” She waved vaguely at the grassy rise behind them. “Remain here. The sight will come to you unbidden. I will return in time.”

Miriam nodded but the fae had already turned and headed for the host. Army might have been a better word. The fae stretched farther than she could easily see, though she could easily make out Aelthen standing at the forefront. A sensation swept over her, as if a breeze had touched her for just a moment, and the army fell silent as all eyes looked to Aelthen. He raised one arm high and pointed at the distant city, and then the host surged forward.

Miriam watched as the fae rushed towards the city. There seemed no order to the host. Some raced towards the city with a speed that she still found shocking while others moved slowly, clearly in no hurry.

The strange sensation in her eyes increased as Aervern grew further away. It was painful pressure, almost like the beginnings of a headache. She eased herself down to the grass, rubbing at her eyes gently with the heels of her hands. A flash of colour in the darkness shocked her and she opened her eyes with a start, and then stiffened. The world around her was a welter of confusing images. It was as if two scenes had been laid over each other and she held her hand out before her, watching as the ghostly images of fae pushing past her ran through her flesh. Her stomach churned as the sensation of movement, and the certain knowledge she sat still on the grass warred with each other. With a lurch she fell forward onto her hands and knees and vomited into the grass.

She closed her eyes as her stomach heaved, and then her vision suddenly fell into focus. With the sight of the world around her gone, the vision she received from Aervern’s magic became clear.

The fae’s vision was like nothing Miriam had ever experienced. Aervern could see as well in the poor light shed by the moon and stars that peered between the clouds as Miriam could in the daytime. Not just that, but her sight was impossibly sharp. With little effort Miriam could pick out the texture of the moss growing on the stones at the base of the city wall.

It wasn’t as simple as just seeing what Aervern saw, she noticed. She was restricted to the fae’s field of vision but she could focus on whatever she wished. She shifted to the side, away from the stink of the mess on the grass and lay back, surrendering herself to the vision.

***

Miriam could pinpoint the precise moment that the glamour fell. The look of shock was clear on the Bjornman’s face as he stood sentry on the wall. The glamour must have fallen in an instant, revealing the fae host that stretched out before the walls. The blood drained from his face as he stiffened, and then shook his head at the sight before him. His shouts were too far away for Miriam to hear on their own but they were joined by others, and within moments the alarm was raised. Men charged onto the walls in rushed, frantic movements, keeping low as they took up positions behind the battlements. Orders were screamed out and the confusion was obvious as men ran back and forth. Through it all the fae army stood in silence, a rock standing still in stormy seas whilst all around them the waves dashed themselves to frothy madness.

Arrows came then. Arcing high over the walls and hissing down into the host in great sheets, but they had little or no effect that Miriam could see. The fae shrugged them away like bothersome flies or simply ignored them as they bounced from their flesh.

The fae’reeth ceased their endless circling and rose high over the walls, the Swarm descending into the city beyond in a murderous cloud. The screams that followed were testament to the chaos and horror that they brought with them.

Aervern’s vision shifted then as she turned her head, carrying Miriam with it while she focused on the stones beside the massive gates to the fortress. Small shoots were erupting from the earth and grasping the wall as the ivy snaked up out of the ground, heeding Aelthen’s call. The horned creature stood at the forefront of the host, ignoring the arrows that shattered against him as he held his arms out to the gates, hands glowing softly as he worked his art.

The ivy grew, growing taller and thicker than any ivy vine had a right to. Tendrils burrowed themselves deep into the tiny cracks between the stones, forcing the stone itself apart as they wedged the cracks wider. A violent crack rang out as first one, and then another, jagged fissure appeared in the surface of the wall, extending out around the thick covering of ivy. A grim smile grew on Aelthen's face as the ivy grew thicker still, broader at the base than a strong man’s thigh as it reached deeper into the fissure, tearing the wall apart.

Miriam found her gaze caught by a flurry of activity above the gatehouse. An old man in armour inlaid with gold was screaming orders at the men surrounding him, his white hair whipping in the wind. Large cauldrons of boiling oil and pitch were poured down to splash over the walls and ground where the ivy sprouted. Flaming torches and arrows followed and a thick oily smoke rose high as the flames shot skyward.

The damage was already done though and, as the flames subsided, Aelthen turned his attention from the cracked and soot-stained walls and looked to the gates themselves.

A green mist rose from the massed fae behind him as Aelthen raised an arm, pulling the power to him. His eyes glowed to rival the morning sun as the power flooded into him and his smile was broad as he reached for the gates. Where the ivy had grown slowly, making itself known over several minutes, the gates transformed immediately. The dark treated wood thrust roots down into the earth as the gates twisted and warped. A tortured groan came from the iron portcullis as the gates transformed, ripping the iron gate from its mountings. In moments the gateway stood empty, with only the strange tree-like remnants of the massive gates squatting low in the gap that was left. The thick branches thrust and heaved at the stone walls surrounding them and, with a tortured screech, the stone itself tore and collapsed, taking the gatehouse and much of the surrounding wall with it. Men tumbled with the stones and Miriam could easily pick out the old man as he fell, only to be crushed by the walls of the gatehouse as it collapsed over him.

There was a moment of stunned silence, replaced with the screams of those that had been caught in the collapse. The fae stood motionless as Aelthen turned to face the host. He held a broad-bladed spear in one hand and lifted it to point at the city and the defenders within. “Ciarlis’sur.” He spoke the word softly but it carried to the farthest reaches of the host and Miriam shuddered at the cold despite in his voice. “Ciarlis’sur,” she whispered to herself. “Cleanse them.”

A great cry rose up in response and the fae rushed towards the ruined gate, surging through to crash against the line of defenders. They twisted past the swords and spears that thrust at them, reaching out to tear lives from flesh with spears or bone-bladed knives. The fae and satyr moved with the same deadly grace they always did, and few humans managed to land a strike on them. This was no battle, it was a slaughter. The Bjornmen reached and passed the point of panic, stumbling over each other in an effort to run from the carnage but the fae and satyr simply cut them down as they ran. Miriam found herself retching again at the sights Aervern sent her as she wished she could close her eyes against the vision.

Aervern’s eyes carried Miriam along the streets, past bodies and screaming wounded that writhed in the light of the guttering torches. The fae didn’t seem to be taking part in the fighting. It was almost as if she just wanted to show Miriam the worst of it. At least she hoped it was the worst of it.

A fae exploded into fire as an iron bolt slammed through its chest. Three satyr standing close to the fae’s burning corpse fell in moments as more bolts followed, but then the fae were upon the hapless Bjornmen, tearing them to pieces as they fought to reload the massive crossbows they carried.

Her view lifted as Aervern looked up to the fae’reeth. The tiny creatures were no larger than the hummingbirds Miriam had fed sugar-water as a child but she knew each one was as deadly as they were beautiful. She watched as they swooped down, surrounding Bjornmen in a spinning maelstrom of knives and blood as their victims flailed at them in vain. Where they passed only torn and shredded bodies remained.

The Bjornmen city was more than just a fort, Miriam realised. Aervern had passed what were clearly shops and homes as she headed for the keep that thrust skyward at the centre of the city. Whilst the men outnumbered the women, Miriam saw more than one woman fighting beside the men and still more besides laying in the dirt.

A scream pulled at her and Aervern both and Miriam grimaced at the sound. She knew what she would see before it even came into sight. The Bjornman city was a fort first, but it still had homes and families. She felt the tears run from her eyes and down the sides of her face into the grass. People had homes here. They had lives. They had children.

The bodies were tiny broken things and Aervern seemed to stare down at them forever. Miriam was normally able to focus on other things within the fae’s field of vision but Aervern moved to stand directly over the bodies, giving Miriam no choice but to look. Blood matted their hair and pooled under the small bodies. The boy could have been Devin’s brother. He had the same hair, the same shape to his chin and nose. Even though death had taken the fear from their faces the sight tore at her heart and Miriam lay screaming in the grass until, finally, the fae moved on. Her screams may have ended but the tears lasted longer still.

Aervern came for her much later, placing a cool hand over her eyes and removing the magic she’d wrought. “You understand why this was done? Why I have shown these things to you?”

“No!” Miriam spat, anger robbing her of the caution she usually had around the fae. She no longer cared. Let the fae torture her, let her kill her. None of it mattered now. “I understand nothing, fae! For your cruel amusement? To see me broken? Why do you even keep me alive, Aervern? You treat me as an equal one minute, and then as a pet the next. What do you want with me? I’m of no use to you, you can’t even breed me. Is it just my misery that you want?”

Aervern stood impassive as stone as Miriam screamed at her. The angry words were thick with her tears, and even in the depths of it she felt a thrill at having an emotion this strong. Living under the pressure of Ileriel’s mind had left her numb for too long. Eventually she ran out of harsh words to hurl at the fae and sank down to the grass, hollow and spent.

Aervern glanced around her and crouched down beside Miriam, speaking in a voice little louder than a whisper. “Now you are ready. Now you have seen. Come, we should not speak here.” She extended a hand to the old woman and lifted her to her feet with no visible effort. The moon was bright and the sparks of the Lady’s Gift were clear under her skin as she closed her eyes. The glamour shrouded them slowly, making them part of the darkness that surrounded them.

Aervern moved smoothly, slow enough for Miriam to follow without taxing her, but fast enough to cover the ground with haste.

Shrouded in shadow they fled, away from the city and towards the darkness of the distant trees. Behind them Rimeheld crumbled. Thick vines worked to tear down the work of thousands as the city fell but no human eyes remained to see it. The laughter of the satyr filled the air as the fae’reeth turned lazy circles above the city and the first strains of the flute lifted in celebration above the ruin the city had become.

***

The darkness under the trees was almost complete, with only faint shafts of moonlight breaking through the gaps in the leaves. Miriam sat against the tree, as Aervern instructed her, and waited.

The fae seemed almost nervous, pacing back and forth in front of her. “You were the first,” she began, stopping her pacing to look at her as she spoke. “I am told it was the taking of you that allowed Ileriel to pass through the Wyrde into the Land of Our Lady. You have spent more time in the Realm of Twilight than any other of your kind. What have you learned?”

Miriam frowned. It was an odd question, broad and unfocused. “I’m not sure—” she began but Aervern waved her to silence.

“I did not truly expect an answer,” she told her. She squatted down in front of Miriam, fixing her with eyes that seemed to glow brighter with the intensity of the gaze. “You were the first. You alone have seen the changes in both this world and mine. You have seen what those at Tir Rhu’thin do, how they have taken your kind and used them.”

“I have,” Miriam said, fighting to keep her own voice level.

If Aervern caught the tone she didn’t show it. “You have seen how they use your kind to breed from, keeping them like beasts in pens wrought of craft and glamour. That is as it is.” She shrugged. “But now you have also seen of my home, my city, of Tira Scyon and what they have wrought there.” She extended a long finger that shone in the light from her eyes, stabbing it at Miriam. “You witnessed how Aelthen and his Highfae,” she spat the word with all the venom she had hinted at the last time she’d uttered it. “How they have enslaved my people with the promise of glyphlore and power. How they have broken tradition and peace by ending the gelding and returned the Great Revel to my home? How they ended Tauntha, a life that stretched back to the sundering.”

“You want my pity?” Miriam asked, her words cold and hard. “You feel I should pity your lot when you fae have stolen my life? When I was taken? I was ripped from my own world and away from my son. My life has been an unceasing nightmare. I have been raped and used for years and had each child taken from me. I have laboured under an influence so heavy it sought to crush my very self until I barely knew who I was or what was happening around me. After all of that you expect me to feel pity for you? When all you have done is force me to see the things you insist I watch. The feast, your mother’s death, the butchery of tonight?”

“I do not ask for your pity, human,” Aervern spat back, matching her tone. “I ask you to see! All this time I have had you watching and still you have not seen.”

“What are you talking about?” Miriam demanded.

“Think!” Aervern urged her. “Think back on what you have seen, what I have shown you. Your manling mind is as agile as any fae’s. Since you passed into my care I have shown you what these ancient fae have done to my world. Now I show you what they do to your own.”

Miriam narrowed her eyes and studied Aervern’s face. It gave as many clues as rough-hewn stone. “Why?” she asked, finally.

The stone crumbled and revealed a flurry of emotion too complex for her to hope to understand. “Because the return of those from the Outside has brought nothing that is wanted,” Aervern said softly. “Nothing that should remain. Even now I feel the touch of Our Lady. I feel the power that flows into me. This realm…” She shuddered, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “This realm is too much for any fae. The Lady’s Gift is endless here. It must be locked away. Aelthen must be locked away.”

Miriam gaped, and then shook herself. “How?”

“How were they forced to the Outside before?” Aervern shrugged. “The barrier your kind named the Wyrde. How is it that it fell?”

“How would I know?” Miriam sputtered.

“It is no matter,” Aervern shrugged. “That which is broken can be remade.”

“But how?”

“You wish this then? You will assist me in this?” The fae’s eyes were intent and she placed a peculiar emphasis on the question.

Miriam shuddered, struggling free from the grip of the memory Aervern’s words had brought with them. “Free me,” she said.

The fae cocked her head, considering. “There will be no need. The Wyrde will set you free.”

Miriam stood, pulling herself up on the rough bark of the tree. “How do you need me to help?”

“The Wyrde has fallen,” Aervern repeated simply. “Who held it before it fell? Even knowing what little I do of the Wyrde I can remember the feel of its touch, of those that held it and worked it anew. Where are these Wyrdeweavers now? What befell them?”

“How would I know?” Miriam laughed at that, trying to stop herself as she heard the hysteria turning it into a cackle.

Aervern stared through the laugh until it faltered and died. “You will seek out these Wyrdeweavers, then we shall see what shall be done.”

“Even if I could find them, even if I had any idea where to start, how would I find you?” Miriam protested.

“I will find you, Miriam,” Aervern told her. “The power that carried us through the Worldtrails was mine, not Aelthen’s. You carry the touch of it still. I could find you across field and seas. Have no fear of that.”

Miriam paused at that. The notion of simply running away once Aervern had set her upon this task had only really half-formed in her mind but this put paid to that. She sighed and caught herself. A glance at Aervern, and the fae’s small smile, told her that she had known exactly what Miriam had been thinking.

To find these wyrdeweavers though, to find one or two people in all the world. The notion was almost farcical. “Where would I even begin?”

Aervern nodded and began to lower herself to sit, inviting Miriam to follow suit. Miriam smiled and shook her head. “These old bones are too stiff for all this up and down. I’ll stand.” She bent and picked up a fallen branch, leaning on it with one hand as she propped herself back against the tree.”

“I do not see this realm as you, Miriam,” Aervern began. “To my eyes it is a place of wonder yet the scent of you manlings is heavy in the air. I smell foul fehru wherever I step, the manling city was rife with it. The power is thick here, and even with the Wyrde fallen I can still sense the echoes of it. The stains of it lay thick on the earth and there are places so thick with it that the very soil reeks. One such place we have both visited already, where Aelthen leads his hunt is where your search must begin, at the Withengate.”

Miriam shook her head. “I’m an old woman, Aervern. I can’t wander the world looking for people who might be dead for all we know. Even if they’re alive somewhere how would I know who they are? Do you expect me to wander the world accosting strangers?” She laughed at the thought.

“You are not the withered crone you pretend, Miriam,” Aervern said, ignoring the old woman’s laughter. “I will take you as far as the Withengate. Your hunt can begin there.” She paused with a small smile, as if she had told a clever joke and was waiting for the laughter. The smile faded and she frowned slightly. “You are right in what you say, however, even the satyr need some sign of their quarry. I could follow the stench of the Wyrde myself but the Lady will call me to my own realm soon enough. However, even were she not to, I somehow doubt these Wyrdeweavers would welcome my company.”

She blinked in shock as Miriam burst into laughter, looking at her as if she’d gone mad, and then venturing a small, uncertain, smile before she went on. “Had I the knowledge of these glyphs I feel something could be fashioned. As it is I will simply have to place my sight upon you.”

Miriam shook her head. “I can’t walk around with your sight, Aervern, it’s too much. It was all I could do to lay on the grass with it and not throw up.”

“This would not be the same as giving you my vision, Miriam,” Aervern explained. “I would merely allow your manling eyes to see that which stands in plain sight.”

“I don’t understand.”

Aervern shook her head with a sigh. “It will be simpler to show you.” She stepped out of the trees into the moonlight again, drinking in the power before beckoning to Miriam. “Stand close, I wish to move with haste. I do not believe Aelthen is taking note of us but Ileriel? That is one I do not trust.”

She stared up at the moon as the sparkling swirls of light grew under her skin. “None should have power like this,” she muttered and closed her eyes. “It is like the wind. With no limits or end.”

When she opened her eyes again they blazed like twin suns and Miriam shrank back from her as the fae looked down to the ground beneath them, extending a hand and muttering as her brow creased in concentration.

The mist that came from her outstretched hand pooled down by their feet. It was a far smaller work than Aelthen had produced, barely wide enough for the two of them to stand upon, but it was enough. Miriam gaped in wonder as Aervern pulled her up onto the mist and it lifted them up into the air. Aervern made no pretence at running as Aelthen and the fae on the hunt had. Instead, she crouched low as the two of them rose, scarcely more than the height of a tall man above the grass that whipped flat in the wind of their passage.

Miriam leaned forward, bracing herself against the motion. Somehow flying so low to the ground was worse than being high in the sky. She gripped hard, sinking her fingers into Aervern’s arm before she realised she’d even reached out to her. The fae seemed oblivious to it. Her face was a blank mask as she concentrated on whatever it was she did to maintain the mist underneath them.

They began to climb to crest the trees and Miriam hunched low against the wind that tore at them. The air was thick with moisture and it leeched the warmth from her flesh as bad as a winter rainstorm. She closed her eyes against the wind and the sight of the trees rushing underneath them in a moonlit green torrent. The journey seemed to go on and on, and when they finally sank down to the earth Miriam had to work to pull her hands out of the fists she’d clenched them into.

The Withengate was a trampled mess. A stone circle stood around a fallen arch with one stone still standing at the centre. The ground was churned from the passage of untold number of cloven hooves. Aervern flinched as she stepped into it, glaring at the oozing mud that sucked at their feet and hissing at it, cat-like, before she looked up at Miriam.

“Fehru.” She spat. “In the earth here the whole of the Withengate reeks of it. It is rare to come across it in the Realm of Twilight, save for the relics and ancient craftings. The Land of Our Lady seems riddled with it.” She ignored Miriam’s questioning look, crouching low and sniffing at the air with eyes half-closed. She took a step, and then another, moving towards the stones of the circle as Miriam watched on.

“Yes, here,” the fae muttered. “I can sense it even without Our Lady’s Grace.” She straightened and beckoned Miriam. “Come, let us see what can be done with you.”

Aervern’s hand was cool as she laid it over Miriam’s eyes again. There was a moment of intense heat and she would have pulled away had the fae not held her so tightly.

“There,” Aervern said. “Now, look. See.”

Miriam squinted. The world was suddenly too bright. Every image seemed too sharp, too focused. She followed Aervern’s pointing finger and frowned at the spectacle, trying to make sense of what she saw. The circle was filled with traces of light, leading in odd patterns around the stones and the space between them.

“What is this—?”

“No,” Aervern cut her off. “There is no time to speak of this. Now, close your eyes. Feel it too.”

Miriam closed her eyes, feeling more than a bit foolish as she stood there in the darkness as she felt about for…something. She could almost feel the expectant stare of the fae boring into her but nothing more. She sighed and drew breath to speak and protest when she felt it. A vibration, an echo. There were no words to describe it. It was the sound of a bell as it fades to silence, the ringing so slight it hard to tell where the sound ended and the imagination began. It was more than a sound though, there was a vibration. A shimmer in the air that was more felt than heard.

“You feel it, do you not?” Aervern whispered, her breath hot on Miriam's ear.

She nodded.

“Now then, draw this sense back within you. Contain it, bury it deep down inside yourself.” Aervern instructed and, without really pausing to consider what she meant, Miriam had done it. Coiling the power within herself, locking it away from the night.

Aervern leaned in close and looked into her eyes. She stood motionless and stared long enough that Miriam stifled an uncomfortable laugh.

“Good,” she said, finally. “This gift will not remain long within you, Miriam. You manlings were never meant for the Lady’s Grace and it will seek to leave you. Use it sparingly. I do not know how often I will be able to locate you to replenish it.”

“What was it?” Miriam managed. “What was I seeing?”

“A remnant,” Aervern told her. “Call it an echo if it makes it easier for you to grasp. This is the footprint of the Wyrde and the Weaver that worked it. Did you feel the path the Weaver has taken from here?”

Miriam closed her eyes and reached for the power, searching inside herself for it.

“No!” Aervern snapped, grabbing at her wrist. “You must use what you remember. The Grace will pass from you swiftly. It is not to be squandered.

Miriam nodded and concentrated, thinking back to the sensations that had rushed through her. The stones had been surrounded by the shimmering vibration, so strong it had almost smothered anything else. She turned to the south where she’d felt another, equally strong vibration. She frowned through the darkness at the confusing mass of shadows against the trees, the lines were too regular. She stepped closer and the images came together to reveal the ruin of what must have once been a cottage and outbuildings. They were torn apart now, threaded through with thick vines, with just the smallest section of wall still standing.

She glanced over at Aervern who watched her with an expectant expression. The vibration had stretched away from the circle and curious footsteps led her from the ruined cottage towards the other side of the clearing. The small path leading from the clearing was hard to see in the darkness but somehow she knew it was there. The faint echoes of the Wyrde led her on.

“Good,” Aervern said, standing at her shoulder, though Miriam hadn’t heard her take a step. “This is the path the Weavers took. Follow the trail and you shall find them.”

“Aervern, it’s not that simple,” Miriam protested. The fae couldn’t be that oblivious to her needs, surely? “What about supplies? I have no food, no tent or anything to shelter in at night…” She broke off and looked as the fae took a step back, glancing down at her swollen belly before looking at her, perplexed. “Are you creatures truly so frail?” She shook her head as Miriam started to speak. “It is no matter. I shall provide for you. I shall leave your supplies upon the path you travel.”

Miriam gave a resigned nod but the fae still watched her with an expectant look. “Surely you don’t mean for me to start now?”

Aervern looked at her in silence and smiled.

Chapter Sixteen

The air felt wet. The downpour had been finished for hours but the air was still filled with the smell that follows rain. The sun was doing little more warm the rain-soaked robe she wore and Miriam trudged along the road, feeling more like she was wading through a humid soup than anything else.

It had been three days since she’d left Aervern and she was lucid enough to know she wasn’t doing well. The simple fact of being back in her own world, and free to do as she wished, was almost overwhelming. She found it hard to stay on task. Several times she’d caught herself simply standing in the road, awed by the way the sun stayed in the sky for so long. Another time it had been the birdsong that had caught her attention and she’d stood for long moments before bursting into tears that grew to deep wracking sobs that hurt her chest and throat.

Her mind was flitting, drifting from place to place with nothing to hold it for long. She’d wondered for a time if it was being away from the fae that caused it or if she were simply going mad. Had Aervern’s mind had still held her under some pressure, in spite of her efforts not to dominate her as Ileriel had?

Despite everything she had managed to keep moving, to take note of where she was and where she should be going. The that fact she hadn’t passed a single person, or even caught sight of anyone, hadn’t escaped her notice and the isolation was beginning to take its own toll. She talked to herself for a while but found herself drifting from Anlish, to Islik, to Fae, and the sound of her own words stilled her to silence.

She reached for the small wineskin hanging at her belt and took a sip, grimacing at temperature and taste. Aervern had been leaving supplies for her. They were hidden in small caches just off the road, marked by small piles of pebbles like miniature cairns. How the fae knew how far she’d travel each day, was beyond her but she hadn’t failed Miriam yet.

In a way it made a lot more sense for her to travel without carrying a full pack on her back. She was struggling enough as it was, and a heavy pack would only slow her further. She carried the wineskin though, and a few blankets rolled into the travel-pack. Aervern had left water for her with the supplies each night but still she worried that if she left the skin the next day would be the day there wasn’t one there. Besides, it let her drink during the day without having to search for streams and that alone was worth the extra weight.

The nights were the worst. Aervern’s caches were always next to a place for her to sleep. A bivouac formed of living saplings and bushes with the branches woven so tightly together that not a drop of rain had made it through. Despite the comfort Miriam had found it hard to sleep. She lay awake for hours in the darkness, listening to the sounds of animals in the undergrowth and staring at the moon as it shone through the clouds. The tears came then, too, slow and gentle. Not the panicked sobs of a mind broken and fearing to make itself whole but tears of anguish and pain for a lifetime that had stolen from her.

Miriam caught herself. She was staring into space again, eyes locked on a shaft of sunlight slanting down between the leaves in the trees to her left. She shook her head and set off once more. Her foot slipped in the slick mud of the road and she staggered forward, catching herself on the stick she’d gathered up, wrenching her shoulder in the process.

She pulled herself up with a grunt, fighting back harsh words for half a second at the pain in her hand. A glance revealed the raw and torn skin on the webbing of her thumb, and she let loose with a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush. The nubs left behind by the twigs she’d stripped away had bitten into the flesh of her palm. It wasn’t a serious wound by any means but Lords and Ladies it smarted.

A snap pulled her attention away from picking the splinters from her hand and she looked up to see a man emerging from the trees beside the road, some distance ahead of her. He looked more ragged than she did in some ways. His clothing was in a better state, but ill-cared for, and his hair and beard were unkempt. He met her gaze with a smile that sat awkwardly on his face as his spear dragged, unnoticed, in the mud behind him.

“Well then, Mother. What are you doing out here like this?”

She forced her own smile. “Just travelling the road, sir.”

He laughed at that. “You don’t have to ‘sir’ me, Mother. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and they shifted over her in a way that made her pull her cloak tighter around herself. She’d seen eyes like that before, years past when she’d worked the taverns of Kavtrin, and they never led to anything good.

“I’ll just be on my way then.” She nodded a farewell at him.

He moved to block her path before she’d taken two steps, though he still stood some distance from her, and she stopped. Her hands grew tight around the walking staff as he came closer. “What are you doing all alone out here, Mother? The roads aren’t safe to travel alone.”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She laughed, though the sound was forced and held no humour.

He shrugged. “I live here, my brothers and me. It’s a cold life in the woods but there’s ways to get by, if you know what I mean.”

She nodded, not really listening.

He cocked his head to one side as he stared at her for a moment, and then nodded twice. “That’s about enough of this,” he muttered, more to himself than her it seemed. “Let’s have a look at your stuff.”

“What?” she drew back, clutching her cloak to herself.

“Your pack, Mother,” he said, reaching for her.

She skittered back away from his hand. “What do you mean? I don’t have anything.”

He looked at her again, his eyes suddenly seeming oily and unfocused. “Don’t be daft, Woman. No one walks the roads with no food or anything on their backs. Did you hear me coming and stash it?”

He moved forward, a sinuous movement that seemed almost fae-like for its sudden speed, and caught her robe as she shuffled away from him. “Are you holding out on me, Mother?”

Now that he was closer she caught the smell of him. The stink of stale sweat was overpowering and her nose wrinkled before she thought better of it.

“Where is it?” he demanded, oblivious to her expression. The mud-caked spear had appeared and his hand shook as he breathed ragged breaths into her face as he glared down at her.

“I don’t have anything, I swear. Just this water, some blankets, and these.” She held out a handful of crumbled oatcake she’d pulled from a pocket.

He flickered a look at her hand, dashing the food away with a sneer. “Well then let’s see what else you’ve got.” His eyes flicked to meet her gaze and darted away again as his hand slid from her wrist, making its way to her chest in a rough grope.

Miriam froze, locked in place as his hands ran over her body. His breath shuddered out of him in a staccato hiss of excitement, all nervous energy as he licked at his lips.

The anger seemed to come all at once. Fear giving way to indignation, which stepped aside for white hot anger all in the space of a heartbeat. A shove with one hand pushed him back half a step, just far enough for her to bring up the staff with the other, smashing it under his chin.

It wasn’t a strong blow but it caught him unprepared and already off balance and sent him reeling backwards until he sprawled in the mud. An image lanced into her, of an unkempt spear-wielder, a bandit who in many ways had been the cause of everything that had gone wrong since Kavtrin. The man in front of her didn’t look that similar but it was close enough. She screamed as she swept the staff up and drove it down into the man’s head. It was a lucky strike and the tip of the staff smashed into the side of his face beside his eye. She barely noticed the shock of the impact running down the length of wood and she drew back for another blow, and then another.

Something dripped from her face and she reached for it absently as she panted, kneeling down over the dirt of the road. Blood coated her fingertip where she’d wiped at her face and she forced herself to turn her head to the figure laying in the corner of her vision.

“Lord preserve us, Woman. What have you done?” The voice was accusatory and she flinched away from the harsh words even as she looked for the speaker. The man stood at the edge of the trees, close to the road, and he flinched back as she locked eyes with him. In an instant she realised what she must look like. Hunched down low in the road beside the body, back cloak and robes ragged and torn, her white hair and face flecked with the man’s blood. She was the witch from half a dozen children’s tales.

She stood slowly, letting the fear show on her face as she stepped back away from the crumpled form of the man in the road, trying to control the trembling that was shaking her hands and legs.

His face softened immediately and he moved to check on the fallen man. “Frast, you poor stupid bastard.” He looked back up at her. “You didn’t have to kill him.” The accusation was still there but softer now, only half-hearted.

“I didn’t mean to,” she began. “It all happened so fast, and he was grabbing at me…” She trailed off into silence, looking down at her robes and picking at something stuck to the material.

“He din’t deserve this,” he muttered, and then looked at her, taking her appearance in. “Then again, maybe he did. He weren’t right in the head. A dead-fall cracked his head a few years back, must’ve softened his brains or something ‘cause he ain’t been right since.”

She nodded, not sure what to say.

“Any of that yours?” he nodded at her.

Miriam frowned at him.

“The blood,” he explained, pointing. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh,” she said, getting his meaning. “No, I don’t think so.”

He moved towards her, looking her over. It was amazing how two sets of eyes could be so different. Where Frast’s eyes had been nervous and cold these held nothing but genuine concern.

“We’d best get you back to camp anyways,” he told her. “A body needs something hot inside it after something like this. It’s the least we can do.”

She shook her head before he finished speaking. “No, really. I’m fine.”

He grimaced. “You might just be at that but it’s not as simple as all that. Frast was the boss’s brother. I just let you go an it’ll go bad for me.”

She glanced up at the sky for a second. “I don’t want any trouble, sir. I just want to be on my way.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “Look, what’s your name?”

“Miriam.”

“I’m Redan,” he told her. “There’ll not be any trouble for you. Denn should never have let his brother wander like this anyhow. Come an’ get a hot cup of somethin’ inside you, get warm, get cleaned up. It looks like rain again later anyway.”

He took her hesitation for agreement and moved to take her arm gently, leading her into the trees. He led her at an easy pace, supporting her as they climbed down ditches and over a small stream. The path was concealed where it approached the edge of the trees but soon became more obvious and easy to travel. It took no more than half an hour to reach the camp, long enough for the trembling to subside and for her to realise that this was probably a mistake.

The camp bordered on being a hamlet. A circle of shelters that had clearly once been little more than lean-tos had been built upon and worked until they were almost houses. A fire stood in the centre of the ragged circle, with a large boar roasting on a spit beside the crackling flames. Men sat idly beside the fire, tossing bones by the looks of things. Still others worked at various chores around the camp. It seemed a well-ordered place but the lack of women or children didn’t escape her. Women would have made this place a home. Without them it was just a camp and she was in no doubt as to its purpose.

Redan held a hand high and waved at a man she hadn’t seen, perched high in a tree with a bow resting on his knees. He caught her expression. “Can’t be too careful, times bein’ what they are.”

“What’s this? I know it’s been a while for you, Redan, but you’re not that desperate are you?”

Redan smiled weakly at the man who’d stood from his position beside the fire. “That’s Denn,” he managed to tell her in a low voice as the man approached.

“What have we here then?” Denn spoke down at them. He was a giant of a man. Big in height as well as in muscle, and his voice rumbled its way out of a chest it would have taken two women to encircle with their arms.

“It’s awkward, Denn,” Redan told him, keeping his voice low. “Frast found her on the road.” His tone must have told the larger man something as his eyes flicked to Miriam with a guilty wince.

Denn nodded. “Not here then,” he said and waved them into the trees, leading them a short way from the camp.

He looked Miriam over slowly, taking in the blood still staining her hair and flaking from her clothing. “What happened?”

“I found her by the road,” Redan explained. “Looked like Frast had taken a liking to ‘er. You know how he got sometimes?”

The past tense wasn’t lost on Denn and he raised an eyebrow. “What’d she do?”

“Took a stick to him. I din’t see much of it. He was in the mud by the time I got there.”

“This little thing?” Denn didn’t take his eyes from her. “He was my brother you understand?” he said, speaking directly to her for the first time.

Miriam nodded. “I’m sorry he’s dead,” she told him. “Not sorry I did what I did though.”

Denn nodded again, narrowing his eyes as he thought. “I can’t blame you for what you did, Mother. I don’t have to like it though.” He sighed then. “It’s probably for the best. He was good to me when we were young, looked out for me when I needed him. He ain’t been right though,” he said, talking more to Redan than to her. “Not since the tree caught him, an’ it’s gotten worse these last years.” He glanced over her again. “Did he hurt you?”

“Nothing that won’t heal,” Miriam replied, not quite meeting his eyes.

“We can get her cleaned up though,” Redan said, giving Denn a serious look. “A hot meal wouldn’t hurt either.”

The dark haired man nodded. “That we can. Where did you leave Frast?”

Redan nodded back to the road. “I thought Miriam was more important.”

Denn grunted. “We'll see her right. I'll send some men back to the road to take care of my brother.”

They led her back into the camp. Redan pointed her towards a hut. “That one’s mine. Go and get out of those clothes and I’ll set some water outside the door for you when it’s hot.”

Miriam moved without thinking. The need to find the Wyrdeweavers paled in comparison to her need to get the blood out of her hair and off her skin. The hut was cleaner than she would have expected and she stripped out of the bloody robes, tossing them into a corner by the door.

A tap at the door was followed by Redan’s muffled voice announcing the hot water. She eased the door open just wide enough to pull the bucket in, laughing at herself. “Is it still modesty if nobody would want to see you anyway?” she wondered in a whisper.

The water was steaming, fresh from the pot over the fire, but she wasted no time. A cloth, that was well on its way to being a rag, hung over the side of the bucket and she scrubbed at her skin until the water was pink with Frast’s blood.

The camp was quiet as she eased the door open and stepped out of the hut, wrapped in the blankets she’d pulled from the straw-stuffed sacks Redan used as a bed. The reason for the silence became obvious as she glanced at the fire and saw it surrounded by men eating from wooden platters piled high with meat.

“Miriam!” Redan waved her over. “Come, eat.”

She sat awkwardly on a section of log and took the offered plate as Redan took her wet clothes and hung them over a branch to dry. The conversation around the fire was quiet, with small groups of two and three. Miriam ate in silence, wishing she hadn’t bothered washing the robe.

“So where were you heading to, Mother?” Redan asked her, his voice over-loud in the quiet.

She thought quickly. “Towards Druel,” she said. “My brother has an inn over that way.”

“That’s a damned long way to go by foot,” Denn said from the other side of Redan, speaking around a mouthful of meat.

Miriam picked at the boar on her plate, taking a small bite quickly to give herself time to think. She hadn’t been prepared for questions and she felt exposed and off guard. Her eyes widened at the taste of the boar. Whoever had prepared the meat knew what they were about.

Denn laughed at her expression. “Not bad is it?” He nodded at a man sat across the fire. “Trent knows what he’s doing. He was a cook with Rentrew’s men before he came north.”

“Rentrew?” she asked, before she thought better of it.

“Baron Rentrew,” Denn clarified. “Most of us are from Freyton’s men. Trent just ran farther and faster than us is all.”

“Good thing for you I did,” Trent muttered. “You lot can’t cook for shit.”

Rough laughter filled the circle around the fire and the stilted atmosphere was gone.

“So you’re soldiers then?” Miriam asked.

“Well, some of us were. Nothing stops those bastards though, and damned if I was going to get cut to shreds for a handful of coppers.” Redan gave her an odd look. “What did you think we were?”

The question left her flustered and grasping for words as Denn and Redan laughed at her reaction.

“She thought we was all bandits, didn’t you, love?” The big man laughed. “Truth be told we’re not far from it. I don’t expect many here would cry foul at lifting a crown or two from a fat merchant if it came down to it. With the bastard Bjornmen though, there’s nothing on the road but you an’ a handful of stragglers running west.”

The conversation was cut short as a short blonde-haired man emerged from a hut with a wooden bowl and a worried look. “He still won’t take anything,” he told Denn.

Denn shook his head. “It’s been too long. A body needs to eat.”

“Dravit,” Redan explain, speaking to her in a low voice. “He came down with sickness. It looked like he’d licked it but he got worse again. He’s not eaten in three days now.”

“It’s time we did something, Denn,” the short man said in a low voice. “If it’s catchin’ it could take us all.”

“It’s not like that.” Denn scowled down at his plate. “We’d all be sick already.”

“You don’t know that, Denn,” the short man spat. “You’re just guessing. Red fever took half my village when I were a lad. I saw men fine one day, and then pissing blood two days later. It’d cut through here like a new scythe through wheat.”

“It’s not the red fever, Bret,” Denn said again, his voice rising.

“An’ how would you know?” Bret demanded, his own voice rising to match Denn’s.

“What have you given him?” Miriam asked, her calm voice cutting through the argument.

“Nothin’,” Brett said, glaring at her. “He won’t take nothing.”

She looked over at the hut. “I could take a look at him.”

“Do you know what you're doing?” Denn asked. “About tending the sick, I mean.”

Miriam shrugged. “I know some. It won’t hurt to look.”

Denn looked at her for a minute as he chewed. Finally he shrugged. “He’s not going to get worse for you poking at him.”

The hut stank, stale sweat mingled with a musty smell and the faint smell of rot. Miriam sucked air in through her teeth, trying not to breathe through her nose as she knelt beside the low cot. The man lay still, on one side, his face covered in a sheen of sweat that shone in the light from the doorway. The heat poured off him in waves and she could feel it even without reaching to touch his head. She leaned in closer, peering at his face and the exposed skin of his neck before she nodded once and stood to step out.

Redan was waiting for her outside the hut. He peered past her through the doorway. “Is it…?”

“The red fever?” she finished for him. “No.”

“You’re sure? Brett has been on about it for days.”

She snorted. “I doubt Brett has even seen red fever. The clue is in the name. If this man had red fever the skin on his face and neck would be covered in a red rash. Not only that but he’d be screaming the place down. The rash is supposed to feel like your skin is burning. There’s no way he’d be laying quiet like that.” She shook her head. “It’s not red fever.” Her words left no room for doubt.

Redan nodded, peering past her into the hut. “Can you help him?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I can help with the fever at least. Do you know the yarrow plant? Get me some leaves and flower heads. Failing that, bring me some birch or willow bark but I’d rather have the yarrow.”

“I’ll see what I can find.” He paused, frowning at her. “You’re a strange person, Miriam. There aren’t many who’d go out of their way to help a man, especially after what Frast did to you.”

She scowled at him. “You don’t know me, Redan. You don’t know anything about me. But someone who leaves a man suffering when they know how to help they’re not worth knowing.”

He grunted at that and looked like he was about say more.

“Talk to me when you get back, Redan.” She pointed at the trees. “Go and get me that yarrow.”

He smiled at her tone. “Yes, Mother.”

She scowled at his back as he loped into the trees before she turned back to the hut. It was well made but rough. Light came in through the open door and an attempt at a window, which wasn’t much more than a hole in the side of the hut with a piece of fabric tacked over it. She tugged it loose and wedged the door to the hut open, feeling the air stir inside.

“Should help with the stink if nothing else,” she muttered.

Five minutes and a terse conversation with Denn produced a bowl of water and a rag. She knelt beside Dravit, and wiped at his face with the cloth. He grimaced at the first touch and then lay still, apparently unable to muster the energy to care what she did to him.

“Can you hear me, Dravit?” she asked gently. “We need to get this fever down and get some water into you, do you understand?”

If he did he gave no answer.

She sighed and went to the door. “Denn!” she called out. As faces turned towards her she realised it was a barmaid’s shout that she hadn’t used in years.

“Get me someone to help get this shirt off him,” she told him in a no-nonsense tone, as he approached.

He nodded. “I expect I can manage to give you a hand.” Between the two of them they managed to strip the shirt away, tugging it over Dravit’s head. The fabric was thick with his sweat and Miriam tried hard to ignore the greasy texture as she tossed it out through the doorway.

Denn hovered outside the doorway, watching her as she considered what to do next. “I hope you weren’t planning to strip him entirely,” he said with a smile that worked hard to turn the words into a joke.

It didn’t work and her tone was flat as she spoke. “If it comes to it.” She dipped the rag back into the bowl and set about wiping Dravit’s chest and throat down, letting the water leech the heat away from him.

“At least he’s getting a bath,” Denn muttered. “He stinks!”

Miriam knelt up and fixed the big man with a stern gaze. “Don’t you have anything you should be doing?”

He shrugged, unconcerned, and then shook his head. “Not really, no.”

“Well then make yourself useful and put a pot on to boil,” she said, looking back at Dravit and laying the wet cloth over his forehead. He reached weakly for it, trying to wipe it away but she stopped him with no real effort, shushing him absently.

With Denn gone she sat back, watching the man on the cot in silence. What was she doing here? She should be gone already. This man was not her problem. She knew the answer, of course. She’d already told Redan that. She wondered briefly what the reaction from Denn and the others would be if this man were to die whilst she tended him. She’d already killed Denn’s brother.

The enormity of it hit her suddenly, as if she’d kept that truth locked away from herself, and her hands shook in the silence of the hut as she stared at the man laying on the rough cot.

Redan appeared then, rushing across the camp and thrusting a handful of yellow flowers at her. “Is this enough? I can get more if you need me to.”

She picked over the yarrow and nodded approvingly. “It’s more than I need for now.”

“I got willow bark too,” he said, glancing at her already full hands, and laying it down by the doorway.

“We’ll start with the yarrow first,” Miriam told him.

There was nothing like a pestle and mortar to be had so she settled for crushing up the leaves and flowers on a flat stone.

“Fetch me a cup of boiling water,” she told Redan as she scraped the pulpy mess onto a square of sack-cloth and tied it up into a loose bundle.

“This isn’t really ideal,” she told him as he handed her the steaming cup and stirred the bundle around it in with a spoon. “This cloth isn’t especially clean. Dried yarrow might have worked better too but we haven’t time for that.” She stood, arching her aching back as the tea steeped, and looked at him. “We’ll let this cool for a bit, then try and get some into him.”

“Brett hasn’t had any luck getting him to drink,” Redan warned her.

Miriam grunted. “Fetch me a thick stick. We’ll have to force him if need be.”

Brett’s word proved prophetic as Dravit waved the offered spoonful away weakly, turning his head away from her.

“Get in behind him and hold him up, keep his head still,” she told Redan.

Dravit moaned as she pulled him into a seated position, pushing at Redan’s arms.

“Gerroff,” he managed in a hoarse whisper. And then, “piss off!” when Redan wouldn’t let go.

He managed to dash the first spoonful of the tea away, splashing it over the wall as he twisted and spat. The listlessness fell away from him as he fought and he clamped his lips tight when he wasn’t screaming at them.

Miriam cursed under her breath and started as she realised the dim light was caused by the crowd outside the hut blocking the sun.

“You might as well get in here and help hold him then,” she told them. It took three men in the end as she wedged the stick between with teeth and spooned the tea into his mouth.

Dravit screamed and roared at them to start with but the anger was hot and quick to burn out. Tears came as he coughed and choked on the steaming brew. Eventually she judged it enough and the men stepped out as Dravit collapsed down to the cot.

“He’ll be easier to manage the next time,” she told Denn, though she was far from as sure as she sounded. “Most of that was the fever. He should be able to reason with more in an hour or two.”

“Is that it then?” Denn asked her. “Just some boiled leaves?”

“Where do you think healers get their medicines from?” she laughed, though the sound was tired and weak. “No, he’s not out of danger yet. He’s very weak and dry as hay that’s sat out in the field all summer. The yarrow will make him sweat the fever out, so we’ll need to force some water into him. It will help but most of this is down to him, and to luck. You could try some willowbark on him come morning but he’ll need the yarrow probably three more times if it’s to do any good.”

“You’re going then,” Denn asked, prompting a confused look. “You said I could try the willowbark,” he explained.

“I need to get moving, yes,” she told him.

He walked her over to the fire and joined her on a log that had been set in place as a row of seats. “You should stay the night at least.” He nodded at the sun, already touching the tree tops. “Not much point in blundering along in the dark.”

She smiled her thanks. “That makes sense, thank you.”

He snorted. “I should be thanking you! Brett means well but I don’t think Dravit had long left. If you hadn’t come along—”

She waved his words aside. “I didn’t do all that much. After what happened with, well…”

“With Frast?” His gaze fell and he reached for a log to toss into the fire before he looked back at her with a sigh. “It wasn’t the end I’d have chosen for him but,” he sighed again, “he wasn’t well. Anyone could see that. He didn’t used to be this bad. He could look after himself. He’d help with hunting an' logging when we needed it. He was almost like an overgrown child a lot of the time.”

“When…?” she left the rest unsaid.

“…Did it happen?” Denn asked, picking up the sentence. “Almost as soon as we left Freyton’s men. We were posted at Tibbet’s Shore. It’s about as far east as Anlan gets,” he explained in response to her blank look. “There was a watch beacon there. We were sent as a garrison to help defend it and light the beacon if any Bjornmen raiders came. Fat load of good we did.” He spat into the fire. “They went through us like a child kicking at an anthill. Our corporal, useless piece of shit, was all for holding the line. Even after they’d smashed the tower down and were raining burning pitch down on us he wanted a slow retreat back to the tree line.”

He met her eyes as he spoke. “I said, ‘fuck that’. Grabbed Frast an’ we was off.” He paused, waiting for a comment that didn’t come. “We headed west, fast as we could. Frast was a good hunter and that kept us fed. We settled in a few times, making camps a bit like this, but the Bjornmen kept pushing west. I couldn’t tell you how many villages I’ve seem ‘em torch.

“We met up with some others on the road. There’s more men will chance the rope and run rather than face those savage bastard Bjornmen than you’d think.”

“Face the rope?” she frowned.

“I’m a deserter,” Denn said it with a simple honesty. “I know what that means. It’s a hanging if I’m caught. I s’pose that’s why we weren’t bothered about robbing a fat merchant or two if it came down to it. Nothing to lose, see?”

He shifted over, making room for Redan as he knelt beside the fire and started chopping vegetable on a large wooden board. Hacking carrots, which looked like they were a couple of weeks past their best, into rough chunks.

Miriam watched for almost a full minute before she closed her eyes and shook her head. “For the love of all that’s good and right, Redan. What did those carrots ever do to you?”

He glanced back in surprise and frowned. “What?”

“Oh, just shift over. Let me do it.” She took the knife and began slicing the carrots, nodding at Denn who stifled a laugh. “Carry on.”

“Hmm?” he grunted. “Oh, well, there’s not much more to tell really. Frast got caught by the branch about two months before we got here. Damnedest thing really, just a dead tree. That branch could have fallen anytime but seems it just waited there for him. Caught him right on the top of the head too. Dropped him like a sack of wheat. We pulled him out from under it and patched him up as best we could. It didn’t look that bad but he didn’t wake up for three days. When he did he was, well, like how you saw him. Some days were worse than others. There were days when he didn’t know anyone, thought we were all strangers. He went three whole weeks thinking Brett were his dad.” He snorted a laugh at the memory but the smile faded quickly.

“Then there were days when he’d spend the whole time sat close to the road, just watching.” He stood and went to a rain barrel, dipping out a cupful of water and drinking deeply. “He’d get this look on him, like his eyes couldn’t sit still in his head. You’d look at him and he’d never meet your eyes for long, they’d just slip away. Almost like he was guilty about something.” He shrugged and took his seat again. “Anyhow, you weren’t the first woman he took a try with. We had to pull him back from a merchant’s once.” He glanced over at Redan. “Remember that one? They must’ve been running west. Had everything you can imagine packed into five big wagons, an’ enough guards round it that we’d have never thought of going near it. He caught sight of a girl driving the third wagon, an’ he was off. We got to him before he made it out of the trees, took three of us to hold him down though.”

“He’s my brother, an’ I’ll miss him, but I don’t blame you, Mother.” Denn looked up and met her eyes. “He’s not been Frast for a long time now. Like I said, maybe it’s better like this. I’m just sorry you had to get hurt as well.”

Miriam reached up for the bruise on her cheek, without thinking. She brushed her fingertips over it, probing the pain, and let her hand fall. “You’re not like…” she stopped, unsure how to finish.

“Like what you’d expect bandits to be?” Redan offered.

Miriam shrugged and nodded.

“We’re all just people,” Denn told her. “I've never met a bandit that I spoke to. Killed one or two when I was a caravan guard but only if I didn’t have a choice. I suspect there’s always something bad that drives a man to take to the woods. It’s not the easiest of lives but it beats fighting those Bjornmen. I don’t have many regrets.”

Miriam busied herself preparing the meal, letting the conversation die. Denn’s story had given her a lot to think about and she found herself drifting back to the spearman and the bandits who’d attacked Garret’s caravan all those years ago. She’d spent years hating the man. Now, for the first time, she wondered what had driven him to that life.

She worked to fashion a thin stew. The boar was beautifully cooked but there was a limit she could do with the supplies that were on hand. As the sun sank behind the trees, and the smell from the pot drew others to the fire, she sank into a half-doze. Twice she tried to rouse herself to feed more yarrow to Dravit, and twice Redan pushed her gently back to her seat, telling her he’d see to it.

Conversation washed around her. She was the stone to its surf and though it touched her and swept past, she was never caught up in it. More than once she heard her name mentioned but she was too tired to care. Eventually Denn roused her. “You look done in, Mother. Take my hut for the night, there’s a spare tent I can use.” He waved off her protests, and, if the truth be told, she didn’t argue too hard. He guided her through the camp, moving through the murk and shadows that danced in the firelight until he pointed her at his hut. She sank down onto the cot, not even minding the stale odour from the blankets, and slept.

A scream woke her. A cry of fear and pain that cut off with a despairing sob. Miriam rolled out of bed and crouched beside the door until the shouting and the sound of running feet drew her out into the moonlight. The fire was all but gone and the coals and tiny flames cast a ruddy glow over the centre of the camp as shadowy figures raced past with swords drawn. Fire flared as others thrust torches into the embers to light them and rushed past.

The sudden flare of light stabbed at her eyes and she squinted, trying to make sense of the scene.

Far to her right, steel met steel and a man screamed as another cried out. “Shit, Redan! I didn’t mean it! Lord of the New Days, are you all right, man? Redan?”

Miriam followed the voices, not even considering the danger. Men circled a shadowy figure, crouched low with their swords ready. As the torchlight grew stronger Miriam caught the female form and her heart sank.

“Aervern! No!” She tried to shout, but her lungs had no strength and the shout was barely a whisper. The fae twisted, lashing out with impossible speed, and another man fell to the dirt, clutching at the gash that been torn in his thigh.

“Bitch!” a voice, she thought might be Denn, roared, and the swords and axes hacked at the figure. They may as well have been trying to stab the sky for all the good it did them. Aervern stepped past the swords with ease, moving no more than was necessary to avoid the blades, and stepping with the casual grace of a dancer.

Twice, swords found her, crashing away from her skin as if she were made of stone. Her eyes flared then, shining as bright as the torches held by her attackers. She crouched, baring her teeth and hissing like a feral cat as she launched herself at the men closest to her. Her bones knives flashed out twice, three times, and a man fell, unable even to cry out. The second staggered back, hand held high before his face as he gaped in horror at the missing fingers.

She moved like a flame in fury, leaping from one to another, dealing death wherever she touched. In moments it was over and the fae stood still surrounded by the dead and dying as she met Miriam’s eyes calmly.

“Why?” Miriam whispered, feeling each and every one of her years.

Aervern was calm, relaxed as if nothing had happened. “You are bound to my purpose, manling. Mine alone. I will not stand by as others hold you captive or try to turn you from this path.”

“You!” Denn’s voice gasped out from the ground at Aervern's feet, the words thick with pain. “You brought this she-beast, this demon from the black among us? Why?”

Miriam tried to speak but had no words and managed nothing more than a small shake of her head as the tears pricked at her eyes.

“What manner of witch-woman are you?” Denn gasped. “What did we do to you that called for this?”

She had no time to answer as Aervern reached down with an almost tender touch and her knife parted his throat with a delicate motion.

Chapter Seventeen

Gavin sighed as he sat back, leaning his back against a tree. “I could get used to this.”

Tristan paused, his spoon stopping halfway from bowl to mouth. “To sleeping on the ground?”

Gavin grunted in place of a laugh. “To easy food. This place is the best hunting I’ve ever seen.”

Tristan gave the young man a long steady look. “Did you do much hunting, on the backstreets of Hesk?”

“I…err…” Gavin closed his mouth.

“Will you two stop it?” Klöss snapped, sitting up and glaring at them.

“Stop what?” Tristan asked

“This clever banter,” Klöss told him. “It’s like the two of you have to go out of your way to be funnier than each other all the time. This isn’t a night out in a tavern. We’re deserters. We’re going to meet our enemy and betray our own people.”

“We’re going to find a way to fight these keiju, Klöss,” Tristan said, his voice calm in the face of Klöss’s irritation.

Klöss fell back with an explosive sigh. “I know, just lay off with the jokes for a bit, okay?”

Gavin looked back and forth between the two of them. “How far do you think we’ve come?” he asked finally.

“From Rimeheld?” Klöss replied. “It’s hard to judge with all these damned trees. Sixty, seventy miles or more.”

“Is that all? It feels farther.”

Klöss shrugged. “It could be twice that, it could be less, I don’t know.”

“My feet say it is further,” Tristan opined and gave a slow grin as Klöss smiled.

Klöss kicked his way out of the blankets. “Are you two about ready to move?” His only answer was a muttered grumble from Gavin but Tristan stood easily, arching his back to stretch out the kinks.

“These Anlish, I am hoping they do not make us sleep on the ground. Of this I have had enough.” The big man knuckled at the small of his back with a wince.

The camp came down quickly, practice making it into a smooth procedure. Gavin kicked dirt over the remains of the fire and within moments they were on the move.

It was barely minutes to the road but the terrain had all been downhill to where they’d made their camp and, with the trees blocking the view, they’d barely needed to hide the fire.

“It should not be long now I am thinking,” Tristan said, speaking to Klöss’s back.

“Long for what?” Klöss replied, not turning his head.

“Until we meet these Anlish. We are far past our own lines now.”

Klöss tilted his head, considering. “Could be any time now I suppose.”

“So what’s your plan, for when we meet them, I mean?” Gavin asked.

“Plan?”

“Don’t do this to me, Klöss.” Gavin groaned. “You weren’t planning on just walking up to them and being taken prisoner were you?”

“That’s assuming they take prisoners, isn’t it?” Klöss’s response had sounded funny in his own head. A dig meant to shock the thief to silence. Now that it was said though, it didn’t sound so funny. He’d worked under a standing order of not taking prisoners. How many of the Anlish had he butchered? Was it really so far-fetched that they might do the same?

His mood darkened as he considered it and they continued on in silence. The road climbed up out of the trees and by mid-morning they emerged out onto a plain. Grass stretched out on both sides, extending towards rolling hills on their right whilst a blur in the distance on the left gave the promise of distant farms.

“It is not right,” Tristan muttered after a while.

“Hmm?”

“I cannot see the sea,” he explained, waving at the rolling hills. There have not been many times in my life when I could not see the waves, even far in the distance. There have been fewer still when I could not smell it.”

Klöss nodded. It was a strange thing and not one he was enjoying. Idly he wondered just how large this land was. How much farther west it stretched.

They never stopped to eat. It was easier to keep moving and eat on the road. Their pace was light but the condition of the road made up the difference and Klöss had reasoned that, even if they weren’t pressing hard, they should be making fifteen miles a day or more.

“Horsemen.” Gavin nodded at the horizon to the left of their path. They stopped, squinting until at last Klöss shrugged. “I can’t see anything.”

“There, look, on the ridgeline there.” He pointed.

“Maybe,” he conceded, shrugging at Tristan and receiving one in return. “We’re getting closer if nothing else.”

The road stretched on, the rutted surface taking them through the plains and towards the farmland they’d spotted in the distance. It was close to dark when they spotted the figure. A woman by the look of her, though she hunched low and leaned heavily on a thick staff.

“What do you want to do?” Gavin asked.

“We carry on,” Klöss said after a moment. “We just ignore her.”

She turned and stared back at them as they drew closer, stepping to the edge of the road to let them pass. Either she’d aged early or she’d had a long, hard life. Either way she must be stronger than she looked. The pack on her back barely seemed to slow her at all but the dark robe was wrapped around a body that looked to be little more than bones. Her white hair hung out from under her hood and surrounded a face heavily lined and a mouth pinched into a scowl.

Tristan nodded at her as they passed but neither side offered a word. They carried on, feeling her eyes on them as they walked.

“Think she knew?” Gavin asked in an unnecessary whisper as the woman fell further behind them.

“Does it matter if she did?” Klöss asked. “Who is she going to tell?”

They camped by the side of the road again that night, keeping their fire small. The night was clear and the waning moon was little more than sliver in the sky. Klöss leaned against a rock as he looked back at the road they’d travelled. The fire was as small as theirs but, in the black, he could easily pick out the glow of the woman’s camp. Though he couldn’t put a reason to it the sight made him uneasy.

The next day was bright and clear, the sun warm despite the chill air.

“We’re going to have to stop and hunt again soon, we’re getting low on supplies,” Gavin said as he rummaged in his pack.

“We don’t have time,” Klöss told him. “A day or two on dried meat and fruit won’t kill you.”

“I might prefer it if it did,” Gavin muttered.

Tristan grinned at him. “It is nobody’s favourite,” he told him, handing over a strip of dried meat.

Gavin ripped off a piece with his teeth and chewed slowly, grimacing.

“Oh it’s not that bad.” Klöss laughed. “Stop being such a baby.”

Gavin hissed and reached for Klöss’s arm, pointing wordlessly off to one side of them. The troops were easy to see, the horses they rode made it almost impossible for them to hide. They rode across the fields at an angle where they would cross the road slightly ahead of Klöss and the others.

“This is about as far as we go then,” Klöss said, tensing despite himself. “If you two want to head back before they spot us…”

“I think it is too late for that.” Tristan pointed. The horsemen had changed course, headed directly for them.

Klöss eased his sword out, laying it slowly down on the road in an obvious motion as he nodded at the others to follow. The horsemen fanned out, keeping their distance as some of the riders produced bows.

It hung there for a moment and Klöss looked from horse to horse until one rider eased forward.

The words were muffled behind the helm and Klöss looked blankly back at him.

“I don’t speak your tongue,” he said in what he hoped were calm tones.

The rider tried again, barking something unintelligible and stabbing a finger down at the ground.

“I think he wants us to get on our knees.” Gavin hissed.

“Hells with that idea!” Klöss scoffed, glancing back at the thief.

The blow caught him on the helm, not hard enough to do any real damage, but enough to stagger him. Klöss spun in place, glaring up at the rider who’d struck him.

He sat back in his saddle, still holding the mace and stabbed at the ground again, roaring words out in his strange tongue.

“I don’t speak your fucking language!” Klöss yelled back, his temper gone.

The rider edged forward, raising his weapon again.

***

Miriam chewed slowly. The oatcakes were stale and tasteless and, to be fair, she was sick of them. They stuck to her teeth and to the roof of her mouth, sucking all the moisture from her tongue until she was forced to swill water in from the wineskin and use that to her help chew. It was something that Caerl had done, taking a drink when his mouth was already full of food, and she’d always found it disgusting.

She glanced up at the sun. It was too bright to risk bringing Aervern’s sight to check for the trail of the Wyrdeweavers. The fae had warned her about using the sight when the sun was out. She got to her feet, dusting the crumbs from her robe and packed quickly. The oatcakes she packed last, placing them on top of the blankets.

She counted them quickly, though she already knew the number. “It’s make them last, or go hungry,” she muttered to herself, as she hoisted the pack and picked up the staff.

It had been three days since she’d left Denn’s camp. The first time Aervern had appeared, she’d refused to speak to her at all. Ignoring her until the fae had set down the supplies and left.

She’d come again the second night and stared until Miriam had relented. New moon was coming, she’d explained. The fae could not cross until the full moon returned. Until then, Miriam would need make her supplies last or fend for herself.

“It’s a road, Miriam,” she told herself, looking out at the trail that she knew lay ahead of her. “Unless they went out onto the fields then their trail’s right there in front of you.”

She set off. The walking worked slowly to ease the stiffness from sore muscles and she set a light pace until they were warmer. She could feel herself slowly growing stronger, fitter. Ileriel had kept her close, like a prized pet, when she hadn’t shunned her and set her to working with the other women. A life spent picking terris berries and birthing fae-born hadn’t made for legs that were accustomed to long journeys.

The walking wasn’t so bad, it was the thinking that was the problem. The more time she spent in Haven, in her own world, the more her memories surfaced. She’d wondered for a time if it was the fae, or something about their realm, that affected the memories. Perhaps it was both. In any event, the longer she spent in Haven the clearer her mind became.

She’d spent three hours the previous night crying over children she barely remembered having. The fae-born had been taken from her almost as soon as they were born, given to other human women to feed and care for. It was the way of things in the breeding camps and being Ileriel’s trophy had given her no protection.

A shout cut through her thoughts. She stopped dead, cocking her head to listen until she heard a second yell. The road curved ahead of her, blocking her view as it passed around a hill. For long minutes she stood, unsure what to do, before she shrugged and made her way around the corner.

The horses filled the road, spilling over onto the grass. Riders dressed in shining mail and plate armour faced into the centre of a rough circle they had formed. She approached slowly, being careful not to be too quiet. The last thing she wanted to do was spook these men. A rider wheeled his horse to face her.

“What do you want here, old woman?” he demanded in a deep voice.

She blinked at his tone. “Nothing, sir. I’m just following the road.”

He stared at her, narrowing his eyes as if deciding if there was anything wrong with her response before directing her around them and onto the grass.

She went deliberately, taking time to set her feet. Though, if she were honest, it was curiosity slowing her feet far more than the slope of the grass. The men that had passed her on the road stood surrounded by horsemen. She'd paid more attention to their faces when they passed her before and hadn't paid attention to the odd black leather armour and  strangely fashioned helmets they wore. As she watched a rider barked out a question again. “What do you do here, Bjornman? You’re piss-poor spies. Are you deserters or have you come to surrender?”

The man looked back at the rider blankly as Miriam picked her way closer.

“Kneel in surrender, man,” the rider ordered, pointing down at the road. When no movement was forthcoming, a rider behind the Bjornman nudged his horse forward and slammed a mace down, driving the Bjornman to his knees.

Horses shifted, blocking Miriam’s view and drowning out the next words, but the shout of the Bjornman she heard clearly. “I don’t speak your fucking language!”

She was moving before she could stop herself. “Lords love me for a fool,” she muttered as she squeezed between two horses.

“He says he can’t understand you, sir,” she spoke up.

The rider’s head shot round, shocked to see her there but refusing to show it. “What would you know of it, old woman? Do you speak this gibberish language?”

She nodded.

“Come closer, woman. Tell this man he must kneel in surrender or die where he stands.”

“He wants you to surrender,” she said to the men. The Islik felt odd on her tongue, the words rough and unrefined.

If the man was shocked she spoke his language he didn’t show it. “What does he think we’re doing? I thought it was bloody obvious when we put our weapons down.”

“You have to kneel, apparently.” She shrugged.

“Damned if I…” the man said but stopped as his larger companion reached for his arm. “It is easier, Klöss.”

“They surrender,” she told the rider simply as the Bjornmen knelt. She stepped back but stopped at a sharp look.

“Where do you think you’re going, old woman?” the rider asked her.

Miriam cursed herself under her breath. “I’ll just be on my way, sir. I want no trouble.”

He shook his head. “I have questions that need answering, woman, as will Major Rhenkin. You’ll have to come with us.”

“But, sir!” she protested, thinking furiously. “I’m expected at my niece’s. She’s with child and I’m to help her with the birth.”

His face might as well have been etched from stone. “I’m sorry, old woman, this is more important. Your niece will just have to muddle through on her own. You will have to come with us.”

She bit back half a dozen responses before she realised she was angry about a niece that didn’t exist.

“What’s happening?” the Bjornman hissed at her.

“They want me to go with them,” she muttered.

“What are you telling him?” the rider demanded.

“He asked what was going on,,” she told him. “I was merely telling him you wished me to accompany you.”

He bristled at that. “Speak to them only when ordered to do so, do you understand me?”

Miriam nodded. The man was clearly overly impressed with his own authority. He had probably been a bully as a child, she decided.

The Bjornmen were bound with strong ropes and the four of them led to a line of extra horses.

“Tell them to get on,” a horseman instructed her.

The Bjornman shook his head as she translated. “We can’t ride. We don’t use horses where we come from.”

What manner of people didn’t use horses? she wondered to herself. “They don’t ride.”

“They’d best learn quickly then, hadn’t they?” came the uncaring response.

It had been years since Miriam had even seen a horse, and riding double with a man who had no idea what he was doing did not help. She managed to whisper some words of instruction to keep the man on the horse but, even so, she was soon sore from the motion. They fared better than the other Bjornmen though. It was barely five minutes before the first one, a giant of a man, fell crashing to the ground amid a flurry of curses.

He scrambled to his feet, face flushing at the laughter from the soldiers surrounding them.

“Grip with your legs,” she called across to him. She didn’t understand the word he called back at her, the tone was clear enough though.

They stopped in a gully that night, the soldiers setting camp with well-practised precision. She went where directed and perched on the blankets they gave her. She was so tired it took her ten minutes to realise they were her own. The food was bland but hot. After days surviving on oatcakes it was a feast and she devoured it, ignoring the amused looks of the soldiers closest to her.

It was fully dark before she attempted it. She'd never thought to ask if Aervern's Grace could be seen when she used it. The soldiers closest to her were already snoring softly and those on watch stood far enough away from her that, even if Aervern’s sight were visible and showed on her somehow as she used it, they wouldn’t see anything.

It took longer than expected. For one frantic moment she wondered if the power had been leeched from her by the sun and she was close to panic as she cast around within herself for the fae’s power. It came to her in a rush and her head spun as her sight brightened to reveal every part of the camp. The light from the fires stabbed at her eyes and she looked away quickly, searching the darkness for the light she had seen at the Withengate. After minutes she gave up, closing her eyes. She’d taken too long, the power already felt weaker within her. Silently she told herself she’d been stupid to waste it.

The sound caught her by surprise. A shimmering sound so faint she thought she was imagining it until she truly focused on it. The echoes of the Wyrde. Though she couldn’t see it for some reason she could still hear it. She could still sense it. She might be forced to continue with the soldiers for the time being but at least they were still travelling in the same direction as the trail of the Wyrdeweavers.

They rode for four days, riding harder each day as the prisoners grew more able to keep their seats. Though she wasn’t quite treated as a prisoner she may as well have been. She was fed and treated well but largely ignored. The soldiers wouldn’t speak to her and the snatches of conversation she managed to steal with the Bjornmen revealed little more than their names.

She took to eating alone when they stopped for the night, staring up at the growing moon and wondering what would happen when it grew full enough for Aervern to return.

The town came into sight on the morning of the fifth day, emerging from the line of the cliffs they followed as the road turned to the north. It seemed an odd place. It was not really large enough to be called a city but it was larger than a simple town ought to be and was heavily fortified. The buildings within the walls seemed grander than she remembered those of Kavtrin being. Even from this distance she could make out the decorative line of the roofs and what must be fountains and statues in the squares.

“Captain?” she called to the rider who’d forced her to come with him.

He glanced over at her and flushed, the first emotion other than irritation she’d seen from him. “Corporal,” he corrected her.

“Sorry, corporal.” She didn’t quite manage to suppress the smile. “What town is that?”

“Druel,” he said shortly and turned away from her.

Druel, that made sense then. The town was a bit of a contradiction from what she remembered, though she’d never actually been there herself. As the seat of the ducal palace it was the capital of the duchy. Despite this fact it was smaller than Kavtrin by probably half. As they drew closer it became obvious that the fortifications were a recent addition and great wooden scaffolds showed that more work was ongoing.

The corporal rode ahead of the double line of horsemen, dismounting to speak to men near the gates, and then waving them forward as another man mounted a horse and galloped into the town.

The line of riders passed through the gates ahead of them as other men rushed forward to take the bridles of their horses and pull Miriam and the Bjornmen to one side, motioning for them to dismount. A ring of spearmen moved to surround them. The spears were held low but the eyes of the men didn’t waiver. Miriam glanced at the Bjornmen but they stood easily, relaxed and seeming unconcerned. Her eyes darted left and right and with a sigh she settled in to wait.

The figure that emerged from the gates was flanked by guards. He was a tall man, his uniform impeccable with gold braiding on one shoulder, and he watched them as he approached. Other people might look at you but this man examined her. He studied everything from her eyes, to how she stood close to the wall. The intensity of his gaze left her feeling exposed and she reached to pull her robe more tightly around herself, avoiding his eyes until they moved on to the Bjornmen.

He stopped to have a brief, muttered conversation with the corporal and the man who’d met them at the gates, before drawing closer.

“I’m told you can speak their language?” His voice was like his eyes, direct and intense.

“Is that a question, captain?” she paused before the title, making the word itself a question.

He snorted, twisting his lips into a rough approximation of a smile. “Major, actually.” The smile fell away, leaving her wondering if it had been false or if the stern expression that followed was the pretence. “Now answer the question. Can you speak their language?”

There was no point in denying it. “Yes,” she told him simply.

He nodded to himself, looking off to one side for a moment. “I won’t bother asking you how you learnt it. I would like you to stay and translate for me. There are many things we need to ask these men.”

That was unexpected. “You’re giving me a choice?” Miriam asked.

He winced. “I was attempting to be polite. To be honest…” he looked at her expectantly.

“Miriam,” she supplied.

“To be honest, Miriam, this is too important to allow you to go free. For the short-term at least, I am afraid you must remain with us here at Druel.”

***

Klöss shifted in the straw, making the chains on his wrists and legs clink. The chains were probably overkill anyway. There was no way they could have made it through the thick wooden door to escape. A single, barred window, set high on one wall let light slant down into the cell and he closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the distant sound of the wind. “What time do you think it is?”

Tristan grunted. “Early, I think. Not much past dawn. We would hear more noise from above otherwise.”

Klöss nodded. It was a good point. He looked over at the man and the look on his face. “What is it?” he asked.

“Gavin,” Tristan replied. “He has been gone a long time now.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, you know?” Klöss told him. “This is all games. More than likely they finished with him hours ago and just put him in another cell. They want us to worry. It gives them leverage when they speak to us.”

Tristan grunted, falling silent for a while before he spoke again. “Well, we seem to have found the Anlish, Klöss,” he said with a sidelong glance. “What was the rest of the plan?”

Klöss shot him a black look. It was a good question though, despite the joke. “We wait, I suppose. We don’t have a lot of other options.”

Tristan didn’t answer that, shrugging and shifting in the straw as he leaned into the corner. Klöss watched him, envious. Though his hands were manacled they were at least chained in front of him rather than holding them up to the wall. The chain had enough give to allow him to lay down if he really wanted to but the position was awkward. The straw might be cleaner than he’d expected but he still didn’t want it pressed to his face. Whether by design or a happy accident sleep had, so far, been denied him.

He stared at the door, letting his mind drift as Tristan’s low snores rumbled from the corner. Where was Ylsriss now? He’d left it too long. He should have done something as soon as he received the message from his father. The thought brought a pang of guilt with it. He’d thought she’d just taken the child and gone. The child… His son. He’d never even seen him. The thought piled the guilt higher and he shook his head. This was not the stuff to be thinking about right now.

The clank from the door woke him. He must have slept despite everything. He shook himself and glanced at Tristan to be sure the noise had woken him too.

Lantern light spilled into the cell, despite the light from the window, and a guard stepped in to crouch and fumble with his chains. In a smooth motion he removed the chain, leaving Klöss with just his hands manacled together. He stepped back and met Klöss’s eyes, saying something Klöss couldn’t understand but which he took to be an instruction for him not to do anything bloody stupid.

They hauled him to his feet, not ungently, and pulled him out into the hallway. The trip through the stone corridors was short but Klöss took the time to take note of the things he hadn’t noticed on the way in. This was not a dungeon by any means. If he had to guess he’d have said they’d been placed in some manner of a military stockade. The walls looked fresher than he would have expected and part of this complex was new, if he was any judge.

The halls and corridors became a blur, punctuated with three flights of stairs until they stopped at a polished oak door and knocked before being called in.

The room was dominated by a large wooden desk, piled high with papers. Books lined one wall near the window but the majority of the walls were covered in maps and charts. Klöss absorbed the room in a moment and was struck by how much it reminded him of Frostbeard’s study back in Rimeheld. Two men sat at the desk and they stood as the guards brought Klöss in.

The guards left him after a brief discussion and Klöss studied the men as they spoke together. It was an odd language, he thought, nasal but yet somehow flowery.

One of the men was clearly someone of importance. He hadn’t had an opportunity to have a good look at him at the gates. The spearmen had kept them pressed to the wall as if they might overrun the town all on their own. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from missing a night’s sleep but the kind that grows over weeks and months. A fatigue that has been shrugged aside so many times that it becomes almost a comfort, a norm.

He spoke, looking at Klöss, but then shifting his eyes to a corner behind him as he finished.

“He says his name is Major Rhenkin. He’s in command here. He’d like to know your name.” The voice took him by surprise and he looked back to see Miriam sat in a plain wooden chair in the corner. The woman looked small and frail. It was more than just that though, she looked trapped, like a caged animal eager for escape.

He took his lip between his teeth as he thought, then stopped himself. Nerves was not something he wanted to be displaying here. “Major is a name or a title?” he asked.

“A title,” Miriam replied. “A rank in the army.”

“So he would be someone of importance then?” Klöss pressed. “I need to speak to someone with some authority not just the commander of a local fort.”

She nodded. “I would that say he is, yes.”

“And the man with him?”

“His assistant, I think,” Miriam told him. “A man named Kennick.”

“Then tell him my name is Klöss. I am… I was, Shipmaster and Lord of Rimeheld.”

Miriam relayed his words and listened to the response before asking him to sit.

“Your companion, the young man Gavin, has told us some fantastic tales,” Rhenkin said, with Miriam translating.

“He’s a young man,” Klöss shrugged. “They’re easily impressed.”

Rhenkin smiled, a thin smile that was a nod towards politeness but little more. “You people have invaded this land, burned our villages, and driven off our people. You drove my forces back from the coast. Hell, you drove me out of the village of Widdengate myself. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t just have you killed?”

“Because you’re not an idiot,” Klöss said, fighting down a smile at Miriam’s startled reaction. “I hadn’t realised it was you I’d faced. You’re a skilled commander, the defence of that village was masterful.” He shook his head. “I would never have thought of using logs in place of stone for the catapults. You’re a man who can think on his feet and you must know there is more at stake here than a few villages. I didn’t come here to talk about your lands. I came to talk about the keiju.”

Miriam frowned at the last word. “Keiju, I don’t know that word.”

Klöss grimaced. “I don’t know what you call them. The creatures with eyes like torchlight. The goat men.”

She froze then, hissing a breath in between her teeth. “They call them the fae,” she told him, and relayed his sentence.

Rhenkin paused, narrowing his eyes as he met Klöss’s gaze and his assistant whispered into his ear. “And what would you know about this?”

Klöss shrugged. “We thought they were your troops to start with,” he admitted. “Some sort of special unit. They appeared from nowhere, tore through my men like a reaver in calm seas.”

“A reaver?” Miriam queried.

“A fast ship,” Klöss explained, frowning at the interruption. “But then I saw them attack your forces in the middle of a battle. I saw them come down from the sky. I’ve tried lying to myself, pretending it didn’t happen. That it didn’t matter…” he paused, waiting for Miriam to catch up. “In the end I couldn’t ignore it. They came too far through our lines, appearing miles behind our patrols. They emptied whole villages, leaving the bodies on stakes. I’ve seen things…” he fell silent and shook his head, waving at Miriam to pass it on.

Rhenkin and Kennick spoke then. A rushed, whispered conversation, before Rhenkin shook his head, obviously disagreeing with something.

“And you so you came. You three, alone. No messenger, no parlay. The Lord of Rimeheld walked, alone, into Anlish territory and simply handed himself over.” His expression made his meaning clear even if his voice hadn’t been thick with sarcasm. “Why would you do this?”

“Because I have men I report to.” Klöss sighed. “And those men are idiots.”

Rhenkin raised an eyebrow and motioned for Klöss to continue.

Klöss shifted in the chair. “A village was attacked, behind our lines. I’ve told you this already but it wasn’t the last. There is no way these attacks could possibly have been from Anlish troops but yet the sealord wouldn’t accept this. He insisted, despite all the evidence, that this was an Anlish raid. The fact it was so far behind the lines just made him hungrier for revenge.”

“And you disagree? You don’t believe this?” The question was so close to a statement he barely lifted his voice.

“I told you, I’ve seen things…” Klöss said quietly.

Rhenkin absorbed that for a moment before continuing. “What is this ‘sealord’ planning?”

Klöss pursed his lips, considering. “I’m here to talk about the keiju. The fae, as you call them. I’m not here to give away my people.”

“Your people have already butchered half their way across two duchies!” Kennick burst out.

Klöss gave the man a cold look and turned his attention back to Rhenkin. “I will tell you this much and no more. The sealord has taken direct control of this conflict. He has no true interest in taking a small portion of land. He was furious about the attack at Skelf, the first of the villages I mentioned. The last I saw he was sending the fleet south to burn.”

“To burn what?” Kennick demanded.

Klöss shrugged. “Who could say?”

Kennick glowered at that but Klöss ignored him. His attention was fixed on Rhenkin, and the cold blue eyes that bore into him.

Chapter Eighteen

“Grass,” Joran said, barely bothering to glance at the strand Devin held.

“I know it’s grass,” Devin laughed from where he sat beside him on the gentle bank that sloped down to the water’s edge. “That’s an easy one. A what of grass though?”

That brought silence as the older man’s brown creased. “A sword?” he offered finally.

“Close,” Devin said with a smile. “A blade of grass.”

Joran grunted and looked over his shoulder back towards the cottage. “They’ve been at it all day again.”

Devin shrugged, careful not to knock the pole and scare off any fish. “Obair loses track of time. Keep your voice down or we’ll never catch anything.”

Joran looked from the surface of the lake to Devin's face. “You’re sure you can catch fish with a stick like this?”

“Yes.” Devin laughed. “You’ve never fished?”

“I only remember fishing with nets. Even that’s a bit hazy,” Joran said slowly. “Drowning worms seems an odd way to catch fish.”

“The fish try to eat the worms.” Devin laughed again. “That’s how we catch them.”

“Why would fish try and eat worms?” Joran asked. “How would a fish even know what a worm was? It’s not as if there would be worms in the lake is it?”

“I…” Devin stopped, frowning. “You know, I never thought of it like that. I guess fish just aren’t that clever.” He looked at Joran as the man shuddered again. “Are you cold?”

“I’m cold a lot here,” Joran admitted. “I can’t get used to this place. It’s cold, it’s hot. You never know what it’s going to be from one day to the next.”

“You’ll get used to it, I suppose you just have to give it time,” Devin said. “The idea of a place where the sun is only in the sky for an hour a day is as strange to me as this world must be to you.”

Joran nodded in silence and squinted up at the sky.

Devin watched his expression. “You miss it, don’t you?”

Joran smiled, seeming almost embarrassed by the question. “I do. It’s the only home I’ve ever really known. I mean, I know that this was where I was born but I can barely remember any of that.” He shrugged. “Despite the fae, the Touch, despite all of it, it feels like home to me. I don’t know how to act in this place. I don’t know what to do.” He looked down, avoiding Devin’s eyes. “Ylsriss wanted to escape the fae to try and find Effan, her son. In the end though, it was me that pulled her through to this world. Not that we had much choice, you understand. The satyr were all around us. It was flee or die. The thing is, now that we’re here, I realise how little I know this place. Ylsriss has people out there. They’re probably looking for her. No matter how far away they are they’re still out there. I was taken so long ago I don’t even remember who my family is.”

Devin looked at him long enough for Joran to glance up and meet his eyes. “I’m more or less alone too. I can’t pretend to understand what it’s like having been taken but I know what it’s like to lose family. To lose a feeling of belonging somewhere.”

The conversation fell silent for a minute and Devin stood to pull his line out of the water to check the hook before flicking it back in. “What are they really like?” he asked, looking over at Joran.

“Who?”

“The fae.” He lowered himself down to the bank again, leaning his back against the smooth bark of a willow tree. “I just know them as something to fear, as the enemy. You lived with them for years. What are they actually like?”

Joran thought for a moment. “Different,” he said. “Different to what you’d think.” He smiled as Devin started to laugh.

“They are though,” he began again. “And it’s a mistake to think of them as all the same. A deer is a deer is a deer, right? They all look roughly the same and they’ll all act more or less the same. The fae are more like us. They have their own personalities, their own wants. They’re not like mindless animals hating us for hate’s sake. They each have their own thoughts and feelings.”

“You make them sound almost human.”

“They are,” Joran admitted. “And then at the same time they’re not. They look at us like animals, probably because compared to them we’re so small and weak. No human could ever hope to be as fast or strong as a fae. They live longer than us too. I’ve never seen one grow older. For all I know they might live forever. And then, of course, there is the Lady’s Grace.”

Devin blinked. “The what?”

“Their magic, I suppose is the best way to describe it.” Joran forgot about fishing and set the pole down next to him in the grass. “They take power from the moonlight. They call that the Lady’s Gift. Then they can use it to move faster, create glamours, visions of lights. I don’t have the words to describe it.”

“Illusions I think you mean,” Devin said, then motioned for him to go on.

Joran gave a nod of thanks. “They all use it differently. Satyr use it to give them more strength and speed, though Aervern told me they use illusion to seduce as well.”

“Aervern?”

“A…uh, fae that I met,” he said, looking embarrassed.

Devin raised an eyebrow and gave him a sidelong glance. “It sounds like there’s a story there.”

Joran coughed and looked down to his hands, twisting inside each other. “Another time, maybe.”

Devin got the hint. It was hard to miss after all. “Tell me more about the magic.”

“There’s not much more to tell,” Joran said with a shrug. “They take the moonlight and use it to work their magic. Fae can do more with it than Satyr while Fae’reeth barely seem to use it at all. Then there’s Aelthen, he can do things that I’ve never seen any of the others do.”

“Aelthen?”

“Their leader. Well the leader of those at Tir Rhu’thin anyway.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know what he is. He doesn’t really look like any of the others. He’s a little like a satyr, I suppose, though he has antlers not small horns, and he has the body of a stag.”

Devin nodded. “I’ve seen him,” he said. “Twice now.”

Joran went on, missing the grating tone in Devin’s voice and the way he’d clenched his fists tight around the fishing pole. “Then of course there are the glyphs.”

Devin’s hands unclenched as he asked with genuine curiosity. “That’s what Ylsriss and Obair are doing now?”

Joran nodded. “It’s like a kind of writing, I suppose. That’s the easiest way to describe it. A fae can sort of push their power into the inscriptions, and then anyone can use them. They were used for lamps and cooking with in the camps, but then in the city we found there were things there I’ve never seen anywhere else.”

“Like the way you got home?” Devin put in.

“Yes.” Joran nodded, eyes far away. “And those things didn’t need the fae to power them at all. Ylsriss seems to think the people who made them had found a way to work glyphs completely independent of the fae. Even hundreds of years later most of them still worked perfectly, they just needed power.”

“Hold on a minute,” Devin said, eyes widening as he stopped in the middle of a nod and reached out for Joran’s arm. “I thought you told me the city was ancient and abandoned?”

“It was,” Joran said gently easing his arm from Devin’s grip.

“Well then,” Devin shook his head. “I mean, where did all the people go? Where did they come from in the first place?”

“I suppose the fae could have taken them from here. The fae didn’t talk to us slaves much but they made it clear that we’d served them before,” Joran said. “But then Aervern also sort of told me that we humans had come from somewhere else. This place,” he waved an arm around vaguely, “was discovered by man and fae working together.”

“Slow down a minute, this is too much.” Devin pulled his knees up and turned to face Joran, shaking his head. “You’re telling me that we, mankind, we don’t even belong here?”

“No, not that.” He waved his hands as if warding off the words. “Well, okay, maybe that is what I meant. It’s just that we didn’t start here. It might have all be lies for all I know, you can’t tell with the fae, but that’s what I’ve been told.”

“You don’t believe that though,” Devin said, giving the man a serious look. “That it’s lies, I mean.”

Joran shook his head slowly. “No, you’re right. I suppose I don’t. The fae call this world The Land of Our Lady. Probably something to do with the way the moon stays in the sky for longer. The way Aervern spoke about it she made this place sound like the fae’s heaven. They don’t have gods or religion or anything like that but that’s the best way I can think to describe it. Their promised land. As for where the people from that city went? Well, I think they came here.”

Devin welcomed the silence that fell. It was too much to take in all at once. “And you’ve told Obair all this already?” He said eventually, looking back in the direction of the cottage.

“Yes, days ago. Why?” he replied, looking up as Devin scrambled to his feet.

“I just feel like I’m always playing catch up.” Devin muttered as Joran pulled himself up. “I’m tired of being treated like a child, being the last to know things. He looks at me like a puzzle, something he can’t understand. But there are things he’s not telling me either. I can see it in his eyes.” He sighed and glanced back towards the cottage again. “Let’s go and see how they’re getting along. We’re not catching anything here anyway.”

“I’m not that surprised. I wouldn’t want to eat drowned worms either,” Joran said quietly to the surface of the lake as he pulled his line in and set off after Devin.

***

There was something soothing about the sound of the pen scratching. It wasn’t an intrusive noise, nothing so annoying as a branch brushing against a window pane or shutters banging in the wind. It was something she could just let wash over her and Ylsriss took comfort from it. She took the next page in the sequence. Obair had drawn the ritual out over several sheets of paper, laying them flat on the floor so the steps lined up.

“You see here,” she said pointing the spiralling markings. “It’s the first stages of an activation sequence. It couldn’t be clearer.” She waved the paper at Obair and moved closer. “This third glyph series is an odd choice. It seems to be drawing on energy that there is no conduit for but…” she stopped. “You can’t understand a word I’m saying can you?”

Obair looked up from the paper with a blank look and smiled.

She sighed. It was intensely frustrating to be dependent on the one person she’d rather claw her own eyeballs out than talk to. She lowered her eyes to the paper again. It was strangely compelling. The ritual that Obair was sketching out wasn’t immediately clear as glyphs. Obair dragged the pen in an almost constant flow of ink to trace the steps of his ritual. The glyphs, however, were distinct characters and it took time for her to puzzle out where each glyph started and the next began. Not for the first time she wished she still had access to the silvery books left behind in the Realm of Twilight. Transcribing the glyphs was one thing, understanding them would be far more difficult.

Already the complexity of the ritual astounded her. There were glyph series and partnerings that she’d never seen before. Some that seemed to completely contradict what she thought she knew.

“Get it written out first, Ylsriss,” she muttered to herself. “Bang your head against it later.” She picked up her own pen and dipped it into the ink to note down the next glyph in the sequence.

The voices stopped her hand with a sigh. It was so quiet in the cottage, and in the local area for that matter, that the sound of speech carried easily. Joran and Devin were returning from the lake. The spatter of ink drew her eyes to the paper and the spray she’d made as her hand clenched to a fist around the quill pen, snapping the cut tip against the paper.

She swore and reached for something to blot the ink away.

“Good, you’re back,” she said in flat, businesslike tones as the door opened and Joran and Devin came in. “I need you to translate.”

Joran stopped with his hand still on the door he was closing, taken aback for a moment. “How have you been getting on?” he asked finally.

“Well enough, but now I need you to translate,” she replied, allowing a touch of frustration to enter into her voice as Devin and Obair spoke quietly in their odd tongue.

“Fine,” Joran sighed and looked to the old man. “Ylsriss wants me to translate for her. She has some more questions, I suppose.”

“Good, good!” the old druid nodded and pushed his chair back from the desk. “Let’s sit at the table. It’s a bit cramped with us all pushed into this corner. Devin, do you suppose you could put the kettle on to boil? I’m suddenly very dry.”

Ylsriss followed the others to the table, setting down her paper in front of her. “I’m working through the pattern and the individual glyphs are easy enough to find, well, most of the time,” she told Obair. “What I can’t understand is how the sequence draws power. If there were capture plates or something it would make more sense. As it is…” She shrugged as she shook her head. “You say this ritual of yours powered the Wyrde, or whatever you called it? Somehow kept the fae from coming into this world? I can’t see how. The glyphs I might be able to puzzle out but without a fae to give their Gift, or capture plates to imbue this, I’m at a loss.”

Obair nodded as Joran finished relaying the question and looked over Ylsriss as he spoke. “I was never told of any power source, as you call it. The ritual requires precise steps and concentration as it weaves around the stones but nothing like you’ve described when you told us of the way these glyphs function.” He waited for a moment for Joran, before continuing. “That said, the more we’re here the less I feel I know for sure. Lillith hints at things in her diary that I don’t like to think about.” He spoke the last words softly, dropping his gaze to the table.

“That’s another thing,” Ylsriss said, leaning forward to point at the paper. “Why the ritual at all? The glyphs would work no matter where they were inscribed. Moonorbs had the glyphs in the wooden base, runeplates had them carved into the rock. The only reason glyphs are inscribed into something is so they last. Why rely on footsteps? They’re so tenuous they can barely be called a glyph at all.”

Obair bit at his knuckle for a minute. “Safety, I suppose,” he said finally. “The druids were hunted almost to extinction at one point. Having a huge carved stone inscription would make it hard to run. There’s another element to it as well though,” he explained to Joran. “The steps are only half of it. At the same time, as the ritual works around the stones, the steps must also be traced in the mind, forcing the sense of the moon along the path.”

“Hold on, that doesn’t make any sense at all,” Ylsriss objected. “The mental bit, okay fine, I don’t understand that, but why the stones? If the ritual was to replace written glyphs so you could flee then what about the stones? The stones have nothing to do with the glyphs. These series would work if they were written on a wall somewhere, provided you had the power source. Even if you didn’t you could trace these steps in a cellar somewhere and no one would be the wiser. Why complicate things by trying to work the steps of this thing around a collection of stones?”

Hissing prompted Devin to rise and pull the kettle from the fire. “Maybe they have another use?” he called as he set about fetching cups. “You two arrived here at the stone. The fae came through the stones near Widdengate. Are the stones themselves the gateway?”

“I can’t see that,” Joran said, speaking quickly after translating what Devin had said. “If the stones were needed to pass through the Worldtrails then why not just smash them? That would keep the fae away forever.”

“They’re not exactly small,” Devin said, handing steaming cups around. “The ones at Widdengate weren’t as large as these but the ones in the centre were still bigger than any of us. I take your point though.”

“There’s more to this than just the stones,” Obair said in a small voice. The quiet words cut through the conversation and left the tatters hanging as the others stopped to look at him. “Lillith mentioned another ritual, one I knew nothing about.”

Devin was the first to speak. “Another one? What for?”

Obair shook his head in silence and for the first time Ylsriss noticed how haggard the man looked. He wasn’t a young man by any means but it was more than just age that lined his face. It was a weariness etched deep, but overlaid with sorrow and what she fancied might be guilt. “Lillith left a diary, you’ve seen it. She talks about things. Things I could never have guessed at.” He fell silent and the guilt that showed on his face kept company with such bitterness and self-loathing that Ylsriss almost moved away from Joran’s whispered translation to put her arms around the man.

“She talks about a guardian,” Obair explained. “A man tasked to work a ritual apart from the one that maintained the Wyrde and kept mankind safe from the fae. This ritual was so vile that the guardian was always kept ignorant of its true purpose. No one could have been trusted to keep up this task if they knew the truth of its real purpose. Lillith knew though, the knowledge was passed down from master to student until it had reached her. She wrote about it in her diary, a kind of confession, if you will. This ritual held a soul. A captive soul, trapped for eternity within the snare of the Wyrde and, I presume, providing the power for these glyphs that you’ve been seeking, Ylsriss.”

“Lords of Blood, Sea, and Sky!” Ylsriss breathed as Joran fell silent.

Devin spoke slowly, looking slightly sick. “So Lillith was doing this? Keeping this soul trapped?”

“No, Devin,” Obair replied. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “She worked the ritual to maintain the Wyrde.”

“Well if not her…?” He looked confused for a moment, and then blood drained from his face as realisation took hold.

Obair nodded simply. “My whole life has been a lie, Devin. From boyhood I’ve been working a ritual that I thought kept the fae at bay. Instead I’ve been working to keep a soul imprisoned in the worst kind of hell, trapped for all eternity. Every wriggle I felt against my mind’s grip on the Wyrde, every slight struggle I fought past, was a soul seeking release and I denied them all.” He opened his mouth to speak again but words had failed him. It didn’t matter. There were no words to match the horror in his eyes.

***

The stones were silent in the early morning light. Dew still beaded the grass and Devin's soft boots looked like they already soaked. A crunch of leaves turned his head towards the trail and Ylsriss and Joran as they approached.

“You’re up early,” he called in greeting.

“I could say the same of you,” Joran replied with a faint smile.

“Obair?”

“Still sleeping,” Joran replied as he drew close. “We thought we should leave, let him rest.”

“For all the good that will do.” Devin grunted. “What is she doing?”

Joran glanced at Ylsriss who was examining the hubstones closely.

“If you two must speak in that babble at least tell me what he’s saying.” Ylsriss said, without looking back at them.

Joran smiled briefly. “He asked about Obair, and now he’s wondering what you’re doing.”

“These stones, they’re different.” She pointed from the stone arch at the hub of the circle to the stones surrounding them. “Tell him?”

Devin frowned and looked closely at where she pointed. “I don’t see it,” he admitted.

“The rock of these central stones, look at the colour, the lines in the stone. It’s not the same type of stone as all these others,” Ylsriss explained.

“So?” Joran asked for both of them.

Ylsriss sighed, looking at them both as if they were particularly dense children. “So that means that one or the other type was brought here intentionally. Or even both I suppose.”

Devin shook his head. “I still don’t see your point.”

“I’m not sure I have a point,” she admitted, hugging herself against the light breeze. “It’s just odd that whoever built this place would use two different types of stone. It’s not as if they were just random stones either. These outer ones are all uniform. You see the blue tint to the stone? These others are closer to granite or something.” She walked over to the closest of the stones forming the circle. It was shorter than the hubstones but still taller than her. She traced her fingers over the stone lightly and her small size made the stone seem all the larger.

“Why move it at all?” she whispered. She turned to the others. “These things must have a purpose. The effort of moving them and shaping them must have been enormous. Why move them here at all if the ritual would work without them?”

Devin nodded at Joran and then her. “You’re right, it doesn’t make much sense. Okay, let’s think about it. What do we know already? You both came out of the stones here, close to the hubstones, a bit like you were passing through a doorway. If those stones are the path to the fae world, or if they mark the place of gateway at least, then what are these others for?”

He went to another stone, motioning for Joran to go to a third. The stone was weathered and pitted with age, the tall grass cradling the base almost tenderly.

“What are we looking for?” Joran called.

“I have no idea,” he replied back over one shoulder, resting a hand on the stone. His hand slipped gently down the surface, running in the pits and grooves under his fingers. “Just anything really. Like Ylsriss said, they have to be here for a reason.” He moved around the stone, eyes searching the surface. It seemed smoother on the side facing into the circle or was that just his imagination?

He looked around him, trying to place himself in relation to the steps of the ritual, taking the steps in his mind almost by reflex. The flash was so slight that at first he wasn’t even sure he’d seen it. A glimmer of quartz caught by the rising sun perhaps? He searched for a minute before giving up and thinking on the ritual again. Closing his eyes helped and he reached for the face of the stone to steady himself. The stone was cold, icy really and he could feel the heat leeching from his hand.

The stones would be facing in at the ritual, surrounding him, watching like sentinels. Watching, remembering. He traced the steps of the ritual as Obair had taught him and, just like that, the stone flared before him, a bright flash of brilliant light that was gone in an instant. Devin gave a shocked groan and toppled backwards into the grass, clutching at hands white with frost.

“Devin!” Ylsriss cried, and ran to him. “What’s wrong? Joran! Ask him what’s wrong?”

Wordlessly Joran turned Devin’s hand, showing the thick frost on his fingers. He bent to feel for breath and Devin gasped, lurching back again as his eyes flew open and he looked about wildly. “What? What was that?”

“What happened?” Joran asked him in a shocked voice. “We just saw you fly back from the stone and found you like this.”

“I don’t know,” Devin said, looking past them to the stone. His hands hurt and he flexed them, turning them this way and that to find the source of the pain.

Ylsriss prodded at Joran impatiently until he translated. “What were you doing right before it happened?” he asked.

“I was…” Devin stopped, thinking back. “I was stood at the stone, trying to think how the ritual would have me placed at this point.”

“That’s it? Just thinking?” Joran asked.

“Yes. No…” Devin shook his head. “Now that I think about it I was tracing the ritual in my mind too. The way Obair had taught me. The same way as when you arrived. I could feel something, something in the stone, sucking the heat out of me. It felt like it was sucking the very life out of me.” He fell silent as Joran translated for Ylsriss and went to the stone, looking closely, though he was careful not to touch it. It looked different somehow, though it was nothing obvious. Nothing he could put a finger to.

Ylsriss appeared at his shoulder, reaching out to touch the stone before he could stop her. He gasped as her fingers made contact but she simply stood, silent for a moment before looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

Devin reached out but the stone was just that, stone. Cold certainly, but nothing like the burning ice that he’d felt before.

Ylsriss looked to Joran. “Heat? Another form of energy I suppose.”

Joran looked from her to the stone and back again. “What? There are no glyphs here, Ylsriss. I don’t think that’s what this is.”

She pushed past him and crouched close, running her fingers over the face of the stone. After a moment she closed her eyes, hands questing, searching. She crouched for long minutes, running her hands over the rough stone, then pausing and peering closer. Her eyes opened to look at she moved her hand but there was nothing to see. She tried again, searching for long moments before she spoke.

“Glyphs,” she murmured. “There are glyphs on this.”

“What? Where?” Devin leaned close, peering at the stone as Joran translated.

“It’s nothing you can see,” Ylsriss told him. “It was so slight I almost missed it. They’re too worn and weathered. I can only just feel them.”

“But, there are no fae here. No capture plates.” Joran looked around as if to confirm he hadn’t missed them. “What I mean is, if there are glyphs where do they draw the power from?”

Devin’s eyes widened as he listened to Joran and he crouched down beside her, placing his fingertips on the stone. After a moment he frowned at her and she reached for the stone with one hand, searching for where she’d found the glyph and pulling his hand to the spot.

“Here, you feel it?” she asked, knowing he wouldn’t understand but speaking anyway.

His eyes widened as he found it and he grinned. They crouched around the base of the stones, taking one each, with hands tracing over the surface and calling out as they found more of the glyphs. They found them on each stone they searched, and though some were more eroded than others they seemed identical.

“I recognise one or two of these but there’s nothing even close to an activation sequence,” Ylsriss said, shaking her head as Joran relayed her words. “It’s so hard not being able to see them.”

“Perhaps we don’t need to,” Joran mused.

She stopped, giving him a curious look. “What do you mean?”

He chewed his lip for a moment, thinking. “Well, Devin managed to do something just by touching them. Maybe the activation isn’t built around working the glyphs in a sequence. Maybe it’s something else, like the way they do the ritual.”

Devin looked at them both, gesturing impatiently. “Someone else here is going to have to learn Islik or Anlish,” Joran grumbled before explaining the conversation.

Devin nodded thoughtfully and turned back to the stone, pressing both hands to the stone as his eyes closed.

“Devin, no!” Joran cried. “We don’t even know what it does.”

Ylsriss turned at the tone. She couldn’t understand the words but the cry had been clear enough. Devin stood motionless, a faint frown of concentration on his brow. As she watched he stiffened and his breath fogged, white in the air between him. The stone cooled, and then turned icy. Frost formed on his fingers as his skin grew first pale, and then took on a bluish tinge. Long moments passed and Joran gasped in shock.

“Look at his face.” He pointed with a hand that shook. “Stars above, look at him!”

His skin, so pale already, was withering in front of their eyes, the vitality and youth draining away. Faint lines grew into wrinkles, and then grew deeper in moments, the crow's feet lines by his eyes growing longer and reaching down to his cheeks. Hair, so dark before, grew grey at the temples and then whiter as the very colour leeched out of it. They stood, rooted by shock as the young man aged decades in moments.

The stone flared bright in front of him. Glyphs burning incandescent against the stone and Ylsriss saw that the entire stone was covered in them. Thousands of tiny, intricate carvings that the wind and rain had scoured from the surface. A burst of light turned her head as first one, then another of the stones burst into light, until the entire circle flared brilliant in the morning light.

***

Devin pushed forward through a darkness, somehow moving though he knew his body remained still, pressed to the stone. At the edges of his consciousness he could feel the stones drawing the strength from him, drinking it in hungrily and reaching for more. The ritual of the Wyrde surged through his mind, almost moving by itself as it turned faster and faster until the steps were a thunder that seemed to shake his very being. There was something, something indefinable that seemed just out of reach. He could feel it, tantalisingly close, and on some level he knew it would be the key to all of this.

He was already weakening, growing lightheaded as if he'd missed a meal, then worked hours in the fields. He could feel the strength leaving him but shouldered the worry of what damage he might be doing to himself aside. He needed to know. It was a compulsion now, a need strong enough that it overrode anything else and he threw himself deeper into the effort, forcing the steps of the Wyrde onwards.

It began almost like a light, somehow cold and filling his vision, dazzling him even though he knew his eyes were closed. The sensation of movement stopped abruptly as he found himself pressed to a barrier as smooth and cool as fine glass. The power of the Wyrde was still there, pushing him onwards, and the brief irrational thought that he might be crushed passed through him with a twinge of panic.

He pushed, testing the substance of the thing as it flexed against him. The pressure behind him was enormous, bearing down on him as it forced him against the wall before him. In an instant he understood, the power wasn't forcing him into the barrier. The energy was there, just waiting to be used. Without really considering how to do it he reached for the pressure building behind him, joining it with the steps of the ritual in his mind, and drove it into the barrier. The power tore through him, blasting through whatever force had stopped him, driving him onwards. The light grew brighter, searing at his mind as well as his eyes, and then knowledge filled him.

Chapter Nineteen

Obair threw the cottage door wide in response to the screams and Joran’s shouts. His hair was wild and he had the wide-eyed look of someone who had pulled themselves from their bed at the noise.

“Help us with him!” Joran shouted as they staggered towards the cottage. Devin hung between them, feet dragging on the grass as Ylsriss and Joran clung to an arm each, thrown around their shoulders.

“Damnation and ruin, what’s happened to him?” the old druid gasped taking in the sight. He took Ylsriss’s place, ducking under the lad's arm and hissing at the touch of his skin. “He’s as cold as ice!”

“He collapsed at the stones,” Joran gasped between breaths. “We found something, glyphs, but then this happened.”

They dragged him up the three steps and into the cottage, lowering him into the rocking chair close to the hearth. Obair pressed his face close to the boy’s frost covered lips and sighed in relief as the faint breath stirred his whiskers. “Get that fire going!” He barked the order at Joran, peeling back one of Devin’s eyelids and muttering at what he saw. He stepped back, looking down at the young man as he gnawed on a knuckle.

“What happened?” he demanded, rounding on the others.

“We were looking at the stones in the circle,” Joran explained as Ylsriss ran in from the bedroom with blankets, laying them over Devin and tucking them in tight. “It just didn’t make any sense for them to have no purpose. We searched over them and Ylsriss thought she'd found a glyph. It was worn, and you’d never have found it by just looking, but Devin managed to activate them somehow.”

“Forgotten gods! Is that his hair? I thought it was frost!” Obair muttered as he looked at the young man. “So what happened,” he demanded. “Tell me everything.”

“There isn’t much more to tell,” Joran admitted. “Devin did something, somehow managed to activate the glyphs. The whole stone circle was blazing with them. He had his eyes closed, pressing his hands against the stone, but it’s almost like it was feeding itself from him. First it was frost on his hands, and then this.” He waved helplessly.

“And you two just stood there and watched?” Obair demanded of them.

Joran’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for the words. “It just happened so fast,” he managed in the end.

Obair muttered something in disgust and turned back Devin.

The small cottage warmed quickly as the fire stirred to life and ate hungrily as Ylsriss fed it first twigs, and then small logs until the flames blazed in the hearth. Through it all Devin lay motionless while Obair quizzed first one, then the other, repeating questions and demanding answers that neither could give him.

Finally there was nothing left to ask and they sat watching as the colour slowly returned to Devin’s face and fingers. Joran prepared a small meal, though none of them felt like eating, and numb fingers moved tasteless food to disinterested mouths.

As the daylight began to fade they transferred him to a bed, piling the blankets high over him. Ylsriss perched on the other bed, watching him as the others left. The low murmur of conversation carried from the other room but she felt no urge to join them. Translation made the three-way conversation awkward at the best of times.

She awoke near dawn, eyes flickering in the half-light as she reached for her neck and muscles made stiff by sleeping in the awkward position. A cup sat near her foot, filled with tea long-since gone cold. She stood and stretched, reaching up towards the ceiling as she worked her shoulders and tilted her head from side to side to try and work the knot out.

The sound was little more than a hiss but it was enough and her head whipped round to the figure in the bed. “Devin?” She leaned closer. “Are you awake?”

He hissed again, lips parting just enough to let the sound escape. His eyes were open though, wide and alert as they looked back at her, tinged with panic.

She rushed into the other room. “He’s awake!” she shouted as she lit a taper from the fire and carried it through to light the stub of candle set near the bed. Devin winced against the light, blinking until his eyes adjusted.

“Has he said anything?” Joran said, looking over her shoulder.

“Not yet,” she replied. “Here, help me sit him up a little.” They shoved at the pillows until he was propped up in the bed.

“Ylsriss,” he managed finally. The word was barely more than a whisper, slipping past lips that seemed half-numb still.

She smiled down at him. “Ask him how he feels, if he wants something to drink?” she said to Joran.

Tea seemed to make a difference, though it took Ylsriss to pour it into a shallow bowl and guide his two hands as he struggled to drink it. The warm drink seemed to help and she followed up with a thin broth. The colour returned to his cheeks slowly and by mid-morning he was back in the main room, sat in the rocker pushed so close to the fire it was a wonder it didn’t scorch.

“How much do you remember?” Obair asked him.

Devin frowned, pulling his gaze from the hands that he twisted and turned in his lap as he inspecting every new line and wrinkle. “I remember going to the stones with these two. I remember most of it, I think.” He spoke slowly, as if reading from a book and unsure of his letters.

“Ylsriss found glyphs,” he said, looking up and smiling at the old man, finding wonder where nobody else had thought to look.

“How much do you remember about the stones,” Obair clarified. “About what happened?”

The smile slipped from Devin’s face as he looked at the old man. “I don’t know. Fragments. It’s hard to make sense of it all.” The words were coming more easily to him now and he looked at the old man with an intensity in his eyes. “I can remember touching them, the feel of the stone under my hands. I remember how it went so cold. It happened so fast it was like walking out into a winter storm. It was bitter, so cold that it burned my hands but, even so, I couldn’t let go of it. There was a sensation, a bit like the pressure I felt when Ylsriss and Joran arrived, and when I pushed through it was like I was somewhere else. I hadn’t moved. I could still feel the stone under my fingers but somehow that all felt so distant. It was almost like I was seeing with just my mind, without the need for eyes. Like I was dreaming, I suppose, but somehow different. The images were flooding into me. I saw the entire lifetimes of dozens, no, hundreds of people in moments, and then I could see it all.”

“See what?” the old man asked in bafflement, glancing at the others.

“I can’t describe it. My eyes were closed but it was like I was staring into a bright light. I could feel things, see things. I could focus on one area if I wanted. I could examine the colour of a man’s eyes. Or I could rise up and watch it all unfold.” He paused and the next words held none of the excitement of the last. “I think it was the histories, Obair. You keep telling me that they were all destroyed in the purges but I don’t think they were ever written down. The true knowledge was here all along, safe within the stones.”

Obair sat back, mouth flapping as he struggled for words. “Are you sure?”

The question was so ridiculous that Devin laughed, dry painful laughs that bent him over in the chair. “I could see things,” he began again. “So much that it’s hard to keep it all straight. It all flooded into me so fast that it’s hard to understand what happened first.

“I saw the home of the fae, saw the red and gold trees under their twilight sky. I saw the first men and women pulled into their world through gates of light, bound and tied. I watched as the years passed and their cities spread out over their world. Mankind serving the fae as slaves and then, as time went on, working with them almost as equals. I saw silvery discs set down into stone, shining bright with power as they drank in the moonlight. I can’t begin to describe half the things they created. There were men and women carving glyphs down into stone, glowing bright as the power filled them. Gateways created, ways through to other worlds. Towers so high they pierced the clouds.” He looked up at them to the wonder in their eyes.

“And then there was war,” he began again but shook his head as his voice rasped and caught in his throat. “Do you think I could have some water? I want to tell you all this before I forget it.”

Obair fetched a cup quickly, letting Joran finish as he translated quickly for Ylsriss in a low voice. Devin drank in gulps, water running from the corners of his mouth before handing the cup back.

“I saw the war begin,” he said. “Saw the towns and villages of mankind fall one after the other as the armies of the fae tore through them. They fought back, of course, using weapons I don’t understand. Carved rods and staffs that sent fire and ribbons of light into the armies of the fae. Glyphs set into stone that exploded when a fae came near. Terrible things that were awful to see.” The words drifted into silence as Devin stared into space, his expression pained. He shook himself and gave them a wan smile before he spoke again, missing the worried looks that Obair exchanged with the others.

“It was never enough and they were always driven back. The deaths were horrific, the sheer scale of it all, an entire people driven almost to extinction. The bodies were everywhere, I remember it like I was there, like I’d lived through it myself. Finally there was only one city remaining and mankind flocked to it, huddling together as the silver banners of the fae marched closer and closer. They broke through the walls, sending the trees themselves to rip the stones apart. The sky was filled with small purple creatures with wings, fae’reeth I think they’re called. Thousands of them, swarming through the streets of the city and tearing us to shreds as we fled.”

Obair caught the change in the mode of address and raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“Finally we fled. The gateway was rough and thrown together in a matter of days. The glyphs weren’t perfect and a lot of it involved things that had never even been considered before, let alone tried or tested. It opened though, a gateway as wide as barn doors, and mankind rushed through in panic as satyr butchered those who’d volunteered to hold the fae back.

“The Worldtrail was tattered and badly woven. It touched down in a thousand places, flinging mankind across this new world like seeds tossed into the wind. We were scattered but we fared better than those it left in the space between worlds, frozen in an instant and left to hang among the stars.

“The gate couldn’t last long and there were still thousands pressing to get to it when it collapsed. Who knows what happened to them all when it did.”

He sighed hard then. Filling his lungs and puffing it out all at once before falling silent. The silence was a welcome thing, surrounding them and holding them as the images played through each of their minds.

“We were safe then,” Devin said, beginning again. “Safe and free in a world that had never known the touch of the fae. Though scattered, people managed to find each other and settlements were founded. Thousands more died within those first few months. Mankind had been dependent on the fae and the glyphs for so many things and this world was alien in so many ways.” He looked over at Joran, still translating for Ylsriss. “Joran forgot most of what he knew of our world before the fae took him. He’s still coming to terms with it now. Can you imagine an entire race of people who’d never known the change of seasons or had to fell trees for fires? We learned, though. We adjusted and slowly we began to grow and thrive.

“I couldn't tell you how long it was before the first fae found us.” He admitted with a shrug. “Some things were easy to understand but just how much time had passed? That’s really hard to judge. It could be a thousand years, it could have been only a hundred. I don’t suppose it matters really,” he said. “They found us. They must have searched thousands of worlds before they stumbled across us. Maybe they weren’t searching for us at all, perhaps it was just bad luck. Maybe it was always going to be just a matter of time.” He spread his hands helplessly. “The hunt began almost at once. They passed over to this world after every full moon, taking to the skies and hunting down mankind, taking delight in the chase.

“The Wyrde was born out of this, out of desperation. The glyphs were useless to us. With no way to power them they were nothing more than writing. The knowledge of the glyphs had been kept safe, hoarded by those that would become known as the druids. It was passed down from father to son, mother to daughter. As the fae began to hunt us they came together, bringing the stores of knowledge that had been painstakingly written out. Forming the Wyrde would be complex enough, a feat of glyphlore that would have challenged those even at the very peak of when man and fae worked together. Without the ability to harness the moon, and without the help of the fae to imbue them with their Grace, the glyphs were worthless.”

He looked around at them as he drew a breath. They were clustered close to him like he and Erinn had pestered Samen for stories in Widdengate. The image brought a smile to his lips, despite everything.

“The hunt was a sporadic thing. The armies of the fae had worked united, to wipe out mankind, or at least cull them to manageable levels. I don’t think they ever imagined we would fight back, or that we might manage to flee. The fae that first found us were far from united. It was a small group that first passed through the Worldtrails and stumbled across this world. I didn’t understand this as I experienced it but now I realise that they were probably amazed at the way the moon stays in the sky all night. Joran explained it to me, this place, our world, it must seem like a heaven to them. So the Wild Hunt began, bursting from the Worldtrails and cutting down all that the fae could find. Some were taken back to the Realm of Twilight to serve as slaves again but most were simply slain.

“The druids worked at the notion of the Wyrde for years as mankind’s numbers dwindled, and it was only desperation that led to the idea of using a soul. A soul trapped at the moment of death and tasked with protecting all mankind.” He stopped, sinking back into the chair, suddenly too hot. The fire had made the room warm and under the blankets he was stifling. He pushed at them weakly, sending them tumbling down his legs.

“It is a little warm now isn’t it?” Obair said, standing and making his way to the door. “I’ll let some of this heat out if that’s all right?” Ylsriss helped pull the rocker back from the fire as the old man stood at the doorway for a moment, savouring the cooler air and looking out over the lake in silence. “All of this was in the stones?” he asked finally, breaking the stillness.

Devin nodded wearily. “This and more. It’s hard to focus on it all.”

“The ritual of the Wyrde?” Obair pressed, coming back to join them.

Devin nodded. “I know the ritual now, how to lock the fae away from this world again. There was nothing about the other ritual though, nothing about how to power the glyphs.”

“So then we’re no better off than we were before!” Obair said as he threw his hands in the air.

“No,” Devin said quickly. “You misunderstand. The knowledge of the keepers was placed into these stones, maybe into others too, but it was the knowledge of how to work the Wyrde. The knowledge of how to power the Wyrde was entrusted to the guardians.”

“What?” Obair shook his head. “We’ve been over this. I know the ritual, Devin. I could maintain the Wyrde because it was in place but I haven’t the faintest clue how to begin again. If my Master knew he never told me.”

“He didn’t need to, Obair.” Devin said as he smiled weakly. “The knowledge is there. It's waiting in the stones at Widdengate.”

“At Widdengate?” Obair repeated. “Surrounded by an army of Bjornmen.”

***

“Caert,” Ylsriss repeated, patting the side of the wagon.

“Cart,” Devin corrected her. “Or Wagon.”

She frowned up at him. The week they’d waited had done him some good. He’d never completely regain the look of youth but many of the lines had faded from his face. He looked more like a man in his mid-twenties now, though the white hair would always raise eyebrows.

“Which is it then?” she asked Joran as he loaded another sack onto the cart behind Devin. “Wagon or cart?”

“It’s both, or either,” Joran replied with a shrug.

“What? Why have two words for the same thing?” Ylsriss demanded. “This language makes no sense!”

“Islik has more than one word for ships. Reavers, ferries, scows?” Joran shrugged.

Ylsriss shook her head, tossing blonde curls about her shoulders. “No, that’s not the same thing at all. Those are types of ships. They don’t look anything like each other. This language is ridiculous. It makes no sense!”

Joran laughed with a shrug. “She thinks your language is stupid,” he explained to Devin.

“Do we have everything?” Obair called from the door to the cottage.

“I think so,” Devin replied. “Let’s go.”

Obair climbed up beside Joran and clucked the horses onwards. The wagon had been a stroke of luck. Left in the barn and covered in a decade’s worth of cobwebs he’d feared it would be useless when Joran first found it. Without the wagon the old man had worried they’d have had to wait another week or more before Devin was able to travel. As it was he still thought it was too soon. He watched the old man glance back over once shoulder at him with a concerned look.

“I’m fine, Obair,” Devin told him. “If we don’t leave now we’ll be spending the winter here.”

The druid muttered something that Devin didn’t catch and turned his attention to the horses. It was slow going and the cart rattled and shook until they made it to the track. That had been another stroke of luck. Joran had found it when hunting. It was overgrown, barely visible in places, and probably hadn’t been used in a decade or more, but it was wide enough for the cart and should lead them to the road in time.

He twisted to catch a last look at the lake before the trees blocked the view. It felt strange to leave now that it had finally come down to it. They’d come here seeking answers, not really believing that they were here to be found. Now that they had them, and more, it was time to leave. Rhenkin and the Duchess would be waiting for them but part of him could have stayed easily. The stones both fascinated and terrified him and, despite the ordeal, there was a small part of him that longed to touch them again.

He’d been right about the winter though. The last few mornings had carried the snap of frost in the air. It was nothing that was visible yet but autumn was definitely in its last gasps. Winter would not wait for them and the prospect of trying to pass over the mountainous trail in this rickety cart as the snows howled down was not a pleasant one.

The days soon fell into a routine. Obair or Joran drove the wagon, stopping every few hours to switch the horses with the other two that were hitched to the back of the cart. Devin and Ylsriss would sit in the back as she practised her Anlish. She was a quick study and the language was coming to her without issue, though it would be months before she had a firm grasp on it.

The nights had their own routine too as they set camp close to the road, actually on it during the second night. Obair had insisted on setting watches, though the full moon was over a week away. It was easier to give in than to argue. By the third night though, Devin had enough.

“We’re stopping?” he called to Obair as the cart slowed, and then stopped. “Already?”

“It’s going to get dark before much longer, Devin,” the old man said back over his shoulder. “The horses need their sleep as much as you do.”

Devin pulled himself upright from where he’d laid back against the sacks of supplies. “Obair,” he began. “You’ve spent your life with nothing but goats and chickens. How much do you really know about horses?”

“Everything needs to sleep, Devin.” Obair sighed as he stood up at the bench-seat and reached his arms skyward in a stretch.

“Every animal needs sleep, Obair, but not the same way as we do.” Devin told him. “Horses are happy with about three hours a night so long as they get a break during the day. We can’t do this forever but we should be travelling when it’s not fae nights.”

“I didn’t know that,” Obair admitted. “You want to push on then? In the dark?”

“It doesn’t get that dark with the moonlight, Obair.” Devin pointed out. “Besides, we’ve enough lanterns to keep us on the road. We can sleep in shifts just as easily on a cart as we can in a camp.”

Obair gave him a look that sat midway between worried and irked and walked the horses back onto the road.

By the second week however, the routine of setting camp was set. The fire burned low in a pit dug out for that purpose and three slept as Joran or Devin kept watch from the wagon, bow and ironheads on their laps. It made for a miserable night and Devin often found he couldn’t sleep even when Joran came to relieve him.

“What will you do?” he asked Joran in a low voice.

Joran looked down at him, his eyes reflecting the fading light of the coals in the fire. “Do? When?”

“Once we reach Rhenkin,” Devin explained. “There’s really no need for you to go to Widdengate, either you or Ylsriss. What will you do?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Joran said softly, looking up at the stars above the trees. “If you’d been able to ask me before we came through the stones somehow I’d have said I would stay with Ylsriss. Now…” he spread his hands.

Devin looked over to where Ylsriss lay. “She hasn’t forgiven you?”

“Would you have?” Joran asked him. “I took her away from her baby.”

Devin grimaced. He was probably right. “There wasn’t anything you could have done though. It was flee or die. Wasn’t that what you told me?”

Joran nodded, meeting his eyes before looking away quickly. “I don’t think she sees it that way. I don’t think she ever will. She’s pleasant enough when you’re all around. When it’s just us though, her eyes say it loud and clear. She blames me still. She hates me still.”

“You and her though, you weren’t…?”

Joran blinked. “What? No! No, nothing like that. I mean there was a time, after we’d run from Tir Rhu’thin when I thought maybe, but no. We were never anything more than friends. Then when she found me with Aervern everything changed.”

“Aervern?” Devin asked, trying to make it sound nonchalant. “You’ve mentioned her twice now.”

Joran looked away, muttering something to himself. “She was a fae who found us in the human city. When the Wyrde formed it created a barrier that locked the fae away from this world but it also locked some others away in an in-between place. Some hellish place halfway between our world and the Realm of Twilight. When it fell those fae were able to return to the Realm of Twilight. Those are the fae that kept Ylsriss and I at Tir Rhu’thin. Aervern wasn’t from there. She said she was from a place called Tira Scyon.”

“How is that any different?” Devin asked.

Joran climbed down from the cart and came to sit next to him, speaking in a low voice so as not to wake the others. “I only ever met Aervern but she was nothing like those from Tir Rhu’thin,” Joran said. “She’d never met another human. She didn’t even know about the Touch.”

Devin looked at him, incredulous. “Oh, let me guess. She was different to the others?”

“You sound like Ylsriss,” Joran said, bitterness twisting his face.

“Joran, these are the fae,” Devin told him, striving to keep his voice level. “They took my mother when I was barely ten. They’ve killed the only father I’ve ever known and driven the woman I’ve come to call my mother to the point of madness. They took you so long ago you can’t even remember your family. They’ve enslaved you, twisted your mind. They killed your brother for crying out loud! How could you think that she’s any different to the rest of them?”

“Because she is different!” Joran snapped, glaring down at Devin. He shook his head and lowered his hands, aware now that he’d somehow stood and clenched his fists.

“These fae are different in a hundred little ways. It didn’t even occur to her to see me as anything less than equal. She was as happy to teach me as she was to learn from me. They don’t even have glyphs! The fae at Tir Rhu’thin have runeplates and moonorbs everywhere you look but Aervern had never even seen a working glyph. They don’t know how to make them. They don’t even have a written language. She was astonished at Ylsriss learning something from a book.”

“So, what? You’d want to go back to her?”

The answer was too slow in coming. “No! No, of course not. But the things she talked about, that you talked about. When fae and human worked together…”

“I remember,” Devin said softly. “But that was all a long time ago. There’s nobody left who even remembers the glyphs. Even Obair only knew the glyphs of the Wyrde as a ritual.”

“No, you’re right,” Joran muttered, almost too low to hear. “This world knows nothing of glyphs and fae.”

Chapter Twenty

The fae nights were miserable and left them all short-tempered from lack of sleep. The trail had pulled them up out of the woods and taken them higher as it climbed into the rocky hills. The very wind seemed to rake at their skin with icy talons, lashing at them with rain that was closer to snow or hail than water. Despite the association that they all seemed to make between the forests and the threat of the fae all of them had been glad as the path began to descend again and they returned to the trees and the protection the woods offered from the elements.

“Why are you turning off?” Obair called from the back of the cart.

Devin glanced back at him. “You remember the road we took with the horses on the way here? It was barely more than a track in some places. We’d never get this cart through it. Even if we did it would take longer. We can head for Kavtrin until the roads meet, and then head back towards Druel.”

“This is hardly a tour, Devin,” the old man said testily.

Devin sighed in silence and thought better of half a dozen responses. “It will be faster this way, Obair. Trust me.” He looked around again and met the old man’s eyes. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

“Chance would be a fine thing!” Obair muttered, loud enough for Devin to hear and he snorted a laugh. It was a fair point. The cart was hardly ideal as a place to sleep and it rattled and creaked along the road. That would have been bad enough but it was the snoring Obair had been complaining about.

Ylsriss snored. Not the soft, feminine sighs that he might have expected but a grating rasp that mounted a determined assault on the ears. Obair had woken her twice and tried to move her head to stop the noise three times, but each time the snoring had begun again. Softly at first, and then louder until it was a wonder she didn’t wake herself up.

She probably would have woken if she hadn’t been so tired. They all were. The strain of keeping watches during the fae nights was wearing. They’d taken to watching in pairs. The prospect of sitting alone in the dark watching for the fae was terrifying and the practice of taking watches in pairs had evolved on its own, without the need for anyone to discuss it.

Sleep was elusive. It slipped through the camp and out the other side with ease, avoiding the feeble efforts of those that sought to snatch at it. It was rare for any of them to have more than three hours in a night. Sleeping on the wagon was not easy but the light of day made everyone feel safer.

“If you can’t sleep why don’t you come up here and talk to me?” Devin said.

A shaking of the wagon’s bed was answer enough and Obair picked his way through the packs and supplies and clambered over the back of the seat to join him.

“How one does one tiny person make so much noise?” he muttered as he tried to make himself comfortable.

“You’re not all that quiet yourself, you know?” Devin said as he smiled into the face of indignation. Obair sputtered at him for a moment but neither of them had the energy for it. Still, it was easier to stay awake with someone else to talk to, and the wagon was making better progress on the wider road.

The rains had found them again by mid-afternoon and they huddled under cloaks and blankets as the winds shrieked down at them, hurling the rain with a vengeful spite despite the protection of the trees on either side of the trail. Devin eased the wagon off the road and onto the grass close to the woods. “We’re not going to make much progress in this. The roads are already getting bad and the horses are struggling.”

There was no protest from the others. Obair had water dripping from his nose and beard and Joran looked the very picture of misery. The trees offered some protection but not as much as Devin had hoped. Rain still managed to find them as the wind rose and tore at the canopy above them.

“Why don’t you see if you can find some dry wood,” he called over the noise of the wind. “I’ll see to the horses.” He set to work unhitching them from the wagon and rubbing them down as best he could. They were in fair condition despite everything they’d been through.

The fire they managed was pitifully small, fed from a small supply of wood. Wet sticks and small branches were piled close to the fire, in the hopes they would dry enough but Devin didn’t hold out much hope. They’d not had to bother with the tents since the hills. They were small, awkward things. Hard to put up and not having the room to hold the four of them in any comfort anyway.

Devin fought with the thing for the best part of an hour until he managed to get it right. As it was, the best he’d managed to do was erect a tented sheet of canvas over ground already wet from the rain. The groundsheet would lock some of this away but not all of it, and the prospect of sleeping in the wet did not improve his mood. The others had tried to help but Joran and Obair were actually worse than useless and he was left to struggle with Ylsriss.

The rain eased off as it grew darker and they clustered close to the fire, trying to dry out. The woods were filled with the sounds of distant dripping as drizzle misted down onto the leaves above them. The conversation was muted, as miserable as they all felt. Finally, for want of something else to do, Devin crawled into the closest tent and slept.

A shaking woke him. A frantic shaking rather than the gentle rousing that came when it was time to switch watches. He blinked at the darkness but it was so absolute that there was nothing to see. “What is it?” he whispered, and then realised how foolish that was.

“I heard something,” Obair told him in a tight, strained whisper.

Devin scrambled out of the tent, joining Obair and Joran as they crouched low beside the sullen glow of the fire. “What is it?” he began but Joran hissed him to silence.

The woods were quiet and the rains had fled leaving a cool moonlight to shine down from the cloudless sky. Devin had been hunting since he was small and knew well that woods never really grew truly quiet. There should have been birds and the faint rustle of distant animals in the undergrowth. Instead, the only noise was the whispered conversation of the leaves above them.

He stared into the darkness between the trees, trying to focus on using his ears rather than his eyes. The sound was distant but enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. It was childlike but there was no innocent joy in that noise. It was the laughter of a cruel and thoughtless child.

“Satyr,” Devin whispered to Joran and saw him nod in the dim light of the coals. He thought quickly. If the creature knew they were there it would probably come straight for them. Its eyes would be better than his in the dark, he knew. Hiding would be futile unless it had no idea they were there.

The laughter came again, closer this time but from another direction. Devin looked into the trees, following the sound. “More than one.” He grunted. “They’re playing games with us. They already know there’s someone here.”

“What do we do?” Joran hissed.

Devin smiled slowly. The expression stole what little warmth remained from a face already made pale by his hair that shone like frost in the moonlight. He turned his eyes to the darkness, “We play games of our own.”

***

The fire was easy enough to stir back to life. The wet wood they’d stacked beside the coals had dried well and, before long, a large fire was crackling and tossing sparks skyward. Obair sat beside the fire, poking idly at the flames.

Devin waited, crouched low between the first tent and a broad horse chestnut tree. The bowstring felt good against his fingers as he held the ironhead to the string. Joran was positioned on the other side of the camp and they both had a clear view of Obair at the fire.

The druid had put up remarkably little protest, all things considered. He would be in the most danger, and that was assuming things all went to plan. If not… Devin was trying hard not to think about ‘if not.’

The long minutes passed. Twice Devin had to shift to ease the cramping muscles in his legs and he’d had to settle for dropping to his knees. Joran was still, a patch of darker shadow pressed to the trunk of the tree. Even knowing he was there Devin had trouble making him out.

Doubt began slowly. A small question that grew steadily until he gnawed at one knuckle. Had he been wrong? Had the sound just been a bird? What if the satyr attacked as he gave up and stepped out from hiding? Indecision joined with doubt as, together, they whispered into his ear.

The leaves rustled softly, as light as the stroke of the breeze, but it was enough to freeze Devin. He stared past the fire into the bushes as Obair stiffened.

A man emerged from the woods, moving cautiously towards the fire. Devin eyed him curiously. A tall man in a simple white shirt, with dark trousers tucked into polished black boots. He moved slowly, making no sound as he passed over the dry leaves and twigs. Devin scanned the trees for signs of movement but the trees were silent.

Obair jumped visibly as he spotted the man and opened his mouth to speak. An arrow hissed past him and the man screamed as it buried itself in his shoulder, close to the collarbone. The image shattered as the satyr fell to the ground, the familiar blue fire spurting from his chest. It wouldn’t be a killing shot, Devin knew. The arrow had skittered along bone before finding flesh and hadn’t gone deep enough, though the fire might play its own role. He sighted quickly and let fly, taking the satyr in the side of the neck and the flicker of blue fire became a torrent as the creature exploded into flame.

“Just what was th—” Obair began but turned as figures exploded out of the bushes. Devin fired again, dropping a satyr as Obair staggered back towards the tents and fell hard, tripping over his own staff. Joran fired true this time and within seconds the camp was silent again.

“Is that all of them?” the old man’s voice was shaky as he picked himself up.

“I don’t know,” Devin said softly. “I think so.” He picked his way over to the charred remains of the closest satyr, working the shaft of the arrow back and forth to free it. It snapped before it came loose, the fire had eaten away at the shaft until it was little more than a charred stick.

He moved on to the next body and pulled the shaft free. The sensation hit him all at once and washed over him, taking him back to his childhood, back to the tatters of memory he had about Garret and fleeing into the trees. It was an intense feeling of being watched, coupled with the desire to cower down, to run and hide. He raised his head slowly, already knowing what he would see. The fae stood at the very edge of the trees, watching him calmly with its glowing eyes.

“Three satyr gone at the hands of a manling,” the fae mused with a cruel, half-smile.”

Devin froze as thought left him, feeling as exposed as a hare before the hounds. The fae watched him for a moment, seeming to take pleasure from his growing panic. It darted forward. Just two quick steps as it crouched low but even this had Devin scrambling backwards with a cry of panic. The fae’s musical laughter followed him, carrying through the trees, mocking and belittling.

“Joran!” he heard Obair call out. “Joran, shoot it!”

The fae cocked his head curiously and looked at the tree Joran had pressed himself to. “Well, manling?” His words were simple but malice hung heavy in each one.

Devin watched as Joran stepped into the light, bow held ready with the string pulled to his lips. The fae regarded him with calm contempt, a faint smile curving his lips as Joran’s hands began to shake. He raised one perfect eyebrow and Joran dropped to his knees in the dirt, sobbing in terror.

“Damn you, Joran!” Devin spat. “You should have shot him.”

“Yes, Joran,” the fae mocked him. “You should have shot me.”

The fae took three more steps, each one slow and deliberate as he surveyed the clearing. “You have managed to slay my satyr. Though not true fae. They are far more than the measure of you pitiful creatures. This will not stand.” He reached behind his back and pulled knives free with a casual motion. A blur of movement behind Joran stopped the fae cold as Ylsriss snatched up the fallen bow. Her hands shook as badly, or worse, than Joran’s had and the fae gave her an incredulous look before bursting into laughter.

The arrow was close. Ylsriss was obviously unused to a bow but, despite that, the arrow still buried itself in the ground less than two feet from where the fae stood. His laughter followed his smile as both fled into the darkness and he froze in place as Ylsriss reached for another of the ironheads thrust into the ground at the base of the tree. She nocked it smoothly with hands now steady and assured.

“Maehro, fae!” she hissed in a voice as bitter as it was hateful.

The phrase rocked him. Shock stood out clear on the fae’s face at the words. His pulled lips back in a snarl and then, moving so fast it was almost a blur, he darted to the side and retreated back to the edge of the trees before Ylsriss had time to settle the bow on him. He paused, looking back into the camp and the whisper was as clear as if he’d spoken in a normal voice. “You should have shot me, Joran.” Laughter trailed behind him as he vanished into the trees.

“You damned fool!” Obair raged as he rounded on the young man. “You could have killed us all!” Joran ignored him, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

“It’s not his fault…” Devin began, but he fell silent. It was Joran’s fault. The shot would have been an easy one. He may have had his reasons but the blame was all his.

He looked to Ylsriss, still staring after the vanished fae “What was that you said there, right at the end?”

“The words, I speak?” she queried in broken Anlish.

Devin nodded.

“I say, ‘die, fae.’ The casual shrug made the words that much more chilling. He sank down beside the fire, hands shaking gently as he buried them under his arms.

The sound of a hunting horn cut through the woods just as the others joined him. A clarion call as clear as any general’s charge.

“Shit!” Joran gasped as Obair turned frantic eyes on Devin.

“What do we do?” the old man whispered.

“We run!” he said flatly.

“But our things! The tents, the horses—?”

“…Are no use to us if we're dead,” Devin told him. He snatched up the bow and pulled the ironheads from the ground. “Grab some things quickly, I’ll see to the horses.” He stood with arrow held ready as the others scrambled for the packs. Would they be better with the horses? Obair could barely ride on the best of days and Ylsriss and Joran seemed to know nothing of horses at all. He watched the others loading the packs as he thought, making his way over to the horses. A rustle in the trees made the decision for them and he stripped off the bridles, letting the horses go free before he turned and led the others out towards the road at a run.

They ran at a panic-driven sprint, packs bouncing on their backs until Obair called out in a breathless gasp as he began to lag behind. Devin called the others back as he stopped beside the old man. Obair was bent double, chest heaving as he leaned on his knees. Devin put one of the precious ironheads to the bowstring and felt in the quiver, counting with his fingers. He swore viciously as he counted only four more.

“What?” gasped Obair, turning his head to look at him.

Devin pointed at the nearly empty quiver. “They must have fallen out on the road.” He looked over to where Joran and Ylsriss approached. “How many arrows do you have, Joran?”

He checked and, even in the darkness, Devin could tell it wasn’t good. “Just three.”

“Shit!” Devin spat. “This was his plan, to make us panic. This is all a game to him and we’re playing right into his hands. We left the tents, the horses. Now he’ll drive us before him until he’s ready to finish us.”

A shrill, whinnying scream carried to them, chilling despite the distance. Ylsriss looked back towards the camp and then to Devin with wide, scared eyes. Frightened but not panicked, Devin realised. He glanced as Joran and saw a different story entirely.

He spoke softly as the others gathered round. “Okay, let’s not be stupid about this. We have the ironheads, Obair’s staff, and even the knives if it comes right down to it. We are not helpless, that’s what just what he wants us to think. We keep moving but we’ll stay close together and be ready to stop if need be.” They nodded, even Ylsriss who’d probably only caught three words.

They set off at a trot, packs jingling and bouncing on their backs. Not for the first time Devin wished they’d gone back for the horses. The scream of the animals had been harrowing, worse still because it was so needless. It had been an effort to strike fear into them. An act of demonstrating cruelty for cruelty’s sake. It put him in mind of what Obair had told him of the satyr and his goat.

They ran in cycles. A gasping walk became a jog, which then grew into a run. When Obair couldn’t go on they fell back to a walk. The night was still, save for the leaves in the treetops, but somehow the silence behind them seemed to spur them on even more and they never slowed for long.

Shadows danced in the trees on either side of the road, shifting in the pale moonlight and the breeze-tossed branches, drawing the eye. By the third hour Obair was suffering. His run had become a juddering stagger as his feet sought to find the ground in front of him in time to keep him from falling.

Their walks had grown longer, the runs so short they barely began, yet they pushed on. All of them had glimpsed the eyes glowing in the darkness behind them. They never drew any closer but seemed to dance around them in the darkness. Sometimes to one side of them, sometimes appearing up ahead for a moment, only to vanish in a blur of movement.

The light grew slowly. It was a glacial lifting of the gloom that turned the moon-pierced darkness into shades of grey. It paled further still, to the strange light of pre-dawn as the first blush of pink stained the sky. Obair cried out when, at last, the first glimpse of the sun stabbed at them between the trees. He stopped, pointing at the light as if it were something new and wondrous. Devin grinned and sank down onto the packed earth of the road on legs that trembled with the effort. Not even bothering to make a camp they slept, lying beside the road like the abandoned victims of bandits.

***

The horn came as soon as the moon rose. Each night, for the past three nights, it had come. A hunter's call, haunting, and somehow mournful, but also filled with a hunger that pushed them into a run.

After that first night they’d taken to sleeping at sunrise, rising after mid-day and setting off once more. Obair had managed well, despite his age, but Devin knew it wouldn’t be enough. They were being toyed with. He’d realised that on the second night when the horn sounded. Even with Obair's slow pace they’d covered at least fifteen miles from the point when the sun rose the previous morning yet the horn sounded as if it were less than half a mile away.

He glanced at the others as they ran. He’d not said anything about his realisation yet, it wouldn’t help anything if he did. He’d guessed that Obair probably knew anyway, possibly Ylsriss too, but Joran seemed oblivious to it. He greeted each sunrise with a look of triumph and was the first to suggest they set off as they rose from their camp after noon.

The horn had been closer this time. It sounded as if the hunter had been close enough to watch them from the trees. They were being goaded, driven on for the amusement of the creature that hunted them. Another horn sounded, off to the left of them this time and the sound of crashing branches had him shrugging the bow off his back and scrambling for an ironhead. Joran held his own bow ready as Ylsriss and Obair stood close behind them, iron daggers at the ready.

Devin stood with the bowstring to his lips. His arm was already trembling with the effort and, with a grimace, he let the tension relax in the bow. “It’s nothing,” he told Joran. “He’s just playing with us.”

“What if it’s not though?” Joran said, his words tight and just one frightened step from panic. His hand shook as he held the bow and he looked about wildly.

“Joran.” Ylsriss made the word a sentence all its own. Calming, soothing. She laid a hand on his shoulder and he relaxed the string. “You say it’s only one fae, Devin,” he said, as the panic faded from his eyes. “What if you’re wrong? What if there are others? Or satyr and fae’reeth?”

Devin looked at Obair and Ylsriss, taking the measure of them before he met Joran’s eyes. “It wouldn’t matter. They could have us any time they wanted, Joran.”

The confused expression stood in place of Joran’s reply and Devin sighed. “We probably cover the best part of twenty miles during the daylight, Joran. If this thing can find us again to sound that horn at us as the moon rises then what hope do we have of running from it?”

The panic returned again as the words sank in. “Why run at all then? What’s the point?” His voice rose as he spoke, the fear riding high and clear.

He was close to breaking. Devin grabbed him by the arms, just below his shoulders, and shook him as he spoke. “Because every mile we cover is another mile closer to Druel. We’re not running from this fae, Joran. We’re running to Druel.”

“What if it attacks us, stops playing games?”

Devin looked him in the eyes and spoke softly. “Then we’ll kill the bastard.”

Joran looked at him, disbelieving. Devin might as well have told him he could fly from the look on his face. “I hope you’re right, Devin,” Joran said after a moment. “That it is just the one. I really do.” He didn’t wait for a response and set off down the road, running in an easy trot.

Devin watched him go and, as the others set off after him, he looked around at the bushes lining the edge of the trees beside the road. “So do I,” he whispered.

That night passed more peacefully than most. The woods were far from silent, even over the sound of their packs jostling around on their backs, the hoots of owls and rustle of creature darting to cover in the brush were clear. It was a natural sound and Devin was glad for it.

The fae seemed to bring a silence when they entered the woods. The birds hushed and animals huddled in their burrows. Tonight the woods were alive with noise and Devin took comfort from it, though Obair twitched and started with each noise. They were making good time, though it was hard to judge how much ground they’d truly covered. Obair was adjusting to the routine and seemed to stop less often. The fact their packs were growing lighter was definitely a factor and Devin tried hard not to think about it. Normally, there would have been time to set snares or to try and hunt but now they had to rely on what supplies they had and those were dwindling far too quickly.

A faint sound tore him from his thoughts. Something at odds with the rest of the sounds of the night. He reached for Obair’s arm and slowed, trusting to the druid to pass the signal on. An owl screeched a hunting call behind them and, for a moment, he relaxed until he caught the sound again. It was the faint strain of music and laughter.

He opened his mouth to speak but Ylsriss’s pale face caught at him, fear mixed with despair and something that might have even been guilt. He frowned at her but she shook her head.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered at Obair.

The old man nodded. Shadows hid his face but Devin didn’t need to see the expression. “It could as easily be the same as the hunting horn. More games.”

There was something in the man’s voice though. “You don’t believe that though, do you?” Devin asked.

The shadowed figure shook his head. “No. I can’t tell you why but no, I don't.”

They wasted no more time talking and fell into a trot, shifting into a run as soon as they were all moving. Laugher followed them along the road and the trill of flutes grew closer with every passing mile.

“Devin!” Ylsriss cried out, grabbing at his arm and pointing behind them.

He lurched to a stop, twisting to see what she meant. The figure was clear in the moonlight. A satyr stood in the centre of the road behind them, at the very limits of their vision. It stood still, watching them with eyes that were visible even at this distance. Devin pulled one of the precious ironheads from the quiver, spilling the strips of torn cloak he’d stuffed into it to keep them from falling, out onto the road.

“What do we do?” Obair asked, deferring to him again.

He said nothing for a while, staring as the fae creature watched him. “Nothing,” he said at last. “Nothing for now. We keep going.”

They set off again, fear pushing them into a faster pace. Devin glanced back once as they set off but the satyr had vanished. It was different somehow, knowing for certain that they were back there. Before, the fear had almost been an abstract thing. Despite the horns and glimpses of movement it had been fear more of the unknown than anything else. The suspicion that everything they’d seen and heard could be a trick of the fae had given the fear an unreal quality.

He heard the snarl before he heard the footsteps and turned mid-step, staggering sideways for a moment before he came to a stop. The satyr threw themselves after them with an abandon that only a child could match. Devin nocked the arrow he’d already held as they ran and released smoothly. The fear was gone now. All he felt was the icy calm that had surrounded him when he’d shot the Bjornman in the eye.

The arrow took the first satyr in the chest, burying itself deep. The iron tasted the fae blood, filled with the grace the moonlight had given it, and the creature exploded into blue flame, falling without even the time to scream.

Devin reached for another arrow and let fly before Joran had loosed his first. His second shot was as true as the first and within moments it was over.

“Lords and Ladies, Devin!” he heard Obair gasp but the words were muffled, like he was hearing them from a great distance. He ignored them and ran to the first of the satyr, ripping the arrow free before the fire could ruin the shaft. He dashed to the second, burning his hands as he worked the arrow free from the creature’s throat. Then Ylsriss was there, pulling him backward away from the flaming corpse.

“Your hands, Devin!”

He looked down at them and the pain came with the sight. His hands were already an angry red where they weren’t covered in black and gore.

“Stupid man,” Ylsriss told him as she soaked bandages in water and wrapped them. It wasn’t ideal but they couldn’t spare the water to soak his hands properly. Devin grinned despite himself. It was one of the first phrases she’d asked him for. She seemed to be putting it to good use.

“Stars above, Devin, have you lost your mind?” Obair puffed at him as he came to stop. “What were you thinking?”

He shrugged. “We need the arrows, Obair.”

The old man muttered to himself. The simple fact was they both knew he was right. The arrows were their only real weapon against the fae. The knives would mean a hand to hand fight and that didn’t even bear thinking about.

“Can you stand?” Obair asked him finally.

Devin nodded. “I’ll be fine.” Movement behind the old man drew his eye and the others followed his gaze. The fae watched them calmly, surrounded by a pack of satyr. They were too far for Devin to make out numbers but the sound of their voices carried easily on the breeze as the tall figure turned and vanished into the trees, the satyr glaring at them before they too were swallowed by the woods.

It was less than three hours before they came at them again and the satyr came rushing out from the trees beside the road. The creatures were among them almost before anyone had a chance to put an arrow to bowstring, and the bone knives flashed in the moonlight. Joran fell quickly, grasping at his thigh as the blood ran through his fingers. Devin fired an arrow into the mess but it struck only ground as the satyr skipped aside. Things would have turned badly had Obair not acted. He struck out with the iron staff, slamming it into the side of a satyr’s head and throwing the creature to one side, where it crashed to the ground twitching as tiny blue flames licked at the blood oozing from the crater in its head.

The blow seemed to shock both human and satyr alike and the fight paused long enough for them all to take in the spectacle. Ylsriss didn’t slow however and her iron dagger slammed into a satyr, thrusting up into the beast’s side and up between the ribs. She tore the blade free and stepped back as the flames erupted from the wound and fountained from its mouth.

The sheer savagery of their attack seemed to confuse the satyr and the remaining two fell back for a second, long enough for Devin to find his arrow and put it into one of their legs. The last creature gave a snarl of rage before breaking free and rushing into the trees.

Ylsriss dashed to Joran, kneeling over him and speaking quickly in their language. The blood was pooling under his leg and, even if he hadn’t seen that, the look on the man’s face was enough to tell Devin it was bad.

She turned to him, snapping her fingers as she motioned for him to come closer, then tugging at his cloak until Devin handed it to her. Three quick slashes and a tug had a thick section torn from the bottom, which she twisted and thrust under Joran’s thigh, pulling it tight and looking up at them.

“Get me a wood,” she ordered.

“A wood?” Devin repeated. “You mean a stick?”

“Yes, stick,” Ylsriss snapped. “Go!”

He returned with a thick stick quickly and watched as she tied it into the knot and twisted it, drawing the tourniquet tighter. Joran screamed as it grew tighter and Devin and Obair exchanged awkward glances before looking away.

It took two of them but they managed to get Joran to his feet. He leant heavily on Obair’s staff with one hand and stood with his other arm around Ylsriss, white faced and shaking.

“What are they doing?” Devin burst out. “There’s no thought to these attacks. They don’t seem to care if they live or die!”

“Possibly they don’t.” Obair shrugged. “I don’t know much about the satyr. They’re nowhere as intelligent as the fae, I know that much. Maybe it doesn’t occur to them that we might be able to hurt them.”

“It’s not that,” Joran managed in a strained voice. “They don’t expect the iron, that much is true, but they’re not as stupid as you might think. They’re not used to battle. This is more of a hunt to them. They tried the direct approach when they charged at us. Then they tried rushing us from the trees. I don’t know what they’ll do next but they’re testing us, learning our responses.”

Their progress was slow and painful over the next few hours. Joran hobbled between him and Obair, making as best a pace as he could with his arms around their shoulders. His face was pale and it was probably only the pain that kept him conscious. The night showed no sign of ending and Devin travelled in silence, not trusting himself to speak.

“What’s that?” Ylsriss called out, pointing ahead of them into the darkness. Devin stopped with the others, squinting into the gloom.

He shook his head. “I don’t see any—”

“There, look!”

He glanced at her face before looking again. A flicker of light from between the trees, so brief he almost lost it. It came again as the breeze shifted the branches gently.

“Fire!” he breathed the word, almost with reverence, and urged Joran onwards.

“Devin…” Obair’s voice was low and urgent and Devin was already groaning as he turned. The glow of the eyes filled the road behind them in the distance, shifting around in the darkness. It was hard to judge the distance but it was close enough.

“Ylsriss, get his feet,” Devin ordered as he lifted Joran up higher. She reached to grab Joran’s ankles, bending his knees back towards her and they began an awkward run. It wasn’t much faster than a trot and Joran grimaced with each step, fighting to keep the cries in.

The firelight was clearer now, a large campfire shining through the trees.

Ylsriss twisted to look back over one shoulder “They’re coming!”

Obair pulled them into a run and they lurched unevenly as Joran screamed in pain between them.

“It’s no good!” Devin shouted as he slowed, lowering Joran down to the road. He snatched up the bow, drawing and releasing before the image before him really registered. Another ironhead left his fingers and the scene drew into focus. A seething mass of satyr surged towards them, knives bare in the moonlight.

Devin froze with the arrow in his hand. There were so many they couldn’t hope to stand against them. He looked to Obair and saw the same thought mirrored in the old man’s face.

Arrows erupted from the woods to either side of them with yet more arcing overhead. The satyr exploded into flame as Devin looked behind him with mouth agape as figures rushed forward to help with Joran

“We can’t hold them here,” one told him. “Come on!”

Devin allowed the strangers to pull them back as they fired arrows in a retreating line back towards the light of the fire. Whoever they were they had ironheads and the line of satyr was scattering, breaking for the trees to either side of the road as the arrows brought fire wherever they fell.

The camp was larger than it had looked through the trees and Joran was rushed off to a row of tents to have his leg tended. Silence fell as the satyr melted into the woods and men quickly took up positions around the camp. Devin found himself watching the trees as he snatched up the quiver of ironheads that had been dumped at his feet. This had all been too easy. A quick glance at some of the men told him he wasn’t alone in thinking this. A man on the far side of the camp fell with a gurgling scream, and then the satyr boiled out of the trees, rushing into the camp from all directions.

Arrows flew and blue fire flared. Devin froze for a moment, taken by the chaos that raged all about them. The satyr surged into the camp and it seemed that for every one that fell, another two pressed on, darting past the swords that sought to find them.

Devin buried an arrow into the back of a satyr fighting in front of him and moved on, seeking another target. The camp seethed with the creatures and he fired again, reaching for his quiver before the arrow had even struck.

The air seemed suddenly to be full of a gritty sand and he coughed and spat before the taste of the iron registered with him. Around him satyr clawed at their eyes as tiny pinpricks of blue fire flared and were gone. Another grasped at its throat, lurching with panic-ridden eyes as flame burst from its mouth with each breath.

None wasted the moment, and swords rose and fell in an orgy of butchery. As the beasts fell Devin caught sight of the fae. He stood in the centre of the fray, bone daggers whistling around it as he danced between the swords striking at him. A man fell as the fae laid open his throat with a casual stroke and thrust both knives deep into the side of a second man as he moved past. The creature moved like a cat, making his way through the camp with a grace as beautiful as it was deadly.

Devin released the arrow without thinking. He was barely aware he’d drawn the bow. The fae moved in a blur, batting the shaft out of the air with one knife as he shifted out of path of its flight. Devin’s hand scrabbled at the quiver at the creature turned its burning eyes on him, stalking unhurried through the chaos towards him.

A frantic glance told him what his hand already knew, the quiver was empty. He backed away, feet catching at unseen obstacles as his hands reached for the knife he knew would be useless. The fury on the face of the fae was the sea at storm and it leapt the last ten feet, landing without a sound and sinking into a fighting stance.

Devin flailed with the dagger, lashing out in a desperate attempt to keep the fae’s blades from his skin. It didn’t even bother to block the strike, leaning back away from the iron blade, and then shifting in toward him.

A figure in a long cloak stepped past him as the fae lunged in and coolly hurled a handful of dust into his face. Blue sparks erupted from the fae’s eyes as he screamed, the lunge forgotten as he pawed at his face. The figure didn’t pause but moved in low and rammed a dagger into the fae’s chest, reaching for Devin’s arm to pull him back away from the creature as it fell.

The flames that erupted around the wound were far fiercer than anything Devin had encountered from satyr and he staggered further back with a cry, shielding his face with his arms. It was only as the fire began to subside that he realised the hand holding his arm still belonged to a woman. He looked up to her face and the shock of recognition mirrored his own. “Erinn? Is that you?”

Chapter Twenty-One

Caerl spat, his vomiting had long since stopped bringing anything up and now the heaves were dry and painful as his stomach spasmed. He shook his head blearily and crawled back away from the spattered mess he’d left on the broken flagstones of the alleyway. He felt his way up a wall, leaning heavily as he found his feet.

Staggering steps took him out to the street and, by the time he made it through the winding roads and alleyways to the docks, he almost felt close to human again. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken in an alleyway. It probably wouldn’t be the last either. He caught the disgusted look of a man passing him. Rich, a merchant or something, by the looks of him.

Caerl glanced down at his clothes. There was some mess, that was to be expected, but it wasn’t that bad. “What?” he shouted after the merchant. “You’re think you’re so bloody high and mighty do ya?”

The merchant looked back at him, though he didn’t slow, and shook his head, grimacing.

“Bloody rich bastards,” Caerl muttered. “Think they own the fucking world.”

He spat again, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and his hand turned over, the fingertips coming up to probe at his temple unbidden, tracing the scarred indent in the side of his face.

He scowled as he caught what he was doing and snatched his hand away. “Bloody bitch,” he whispered.

The sun was well on its way down already, gracing the rooftops of the buildings in the distance. Caerl noted it sourly. Vetram would be cross at the day’s work missed. He might piss and whine about it but he’d still be good for some coin tomorrow. For now he needed something in his belly to settle it. Stew or bread, something to soak up the sket his retching had missed.

It had taken a long time before he’d grown desperate enough to try the stuff. Wine was water to him these days and ale had never really been enough. It was a month or two after the bitch and her brat had walked out that he’d tried it. He smirked, laughing as he remembered the way it had burnt his lips that first time. The sign of a virgin sket-drinker.

Sket was brewed up or distilled, he really had no idea, in the back streets of Kavtrin. You’d never find it sold in taverns, not the ones that hung signs outside their doors, anyway. It was hard and pure, burning all the way down and immediately taking him to a place that it would normally take five or six large cups of strong wine to reach.

His steps grew stronger as he went, the stagger becoming a slow walk as one hand reached for the stones of the buildings that he passed. The smell of grease and warm bread reached out to him and he knew he was nearly there. Elsa’s Kitchen, home to best food in Kavtrin, or at least the best food he was likely to get.

He pushed his way through the door and down the steps. The room was dark with grease-stained windows and lamps were already lit on the walls.

“Caerl?” The woman’s voice carried over the low rumble of conversation and the sounds of eating. “Lords and Ladies, man, you look like you’ve just been scraped off a nobleman’s boot!”

He smiled, that rakish smile he’d always found so useful with women. “Elsa, you say the sweetest things. That’s why I love you.”

She humphed and pointed him to a table in the corner. “You love me because I put food in your wine soaked belly and put up with your stink.” She sniffed at him as she drew closer. “What is that? Sket? That stuff’ll make you go blind, you daft bastard.”

He shrugged, sinking into the chair and wishing she’d shut up and just bring him some food. “What do you have on?”

“Some stew,” she told him. “It’s been there for a while though. I might be able to do you some eggs and bread if you fancy that instead?”

“Eggs sounds nice. Don’t eat stew these days.”

“No.” She gave a small nod and he watched her gaze shift to the side of his face and back to his eyes again.

“Eggs’ll be good,” he said again.

She stood watching him, not moving. “Come on, Caerl. I ain’t so stupid as all that!” she told him.

He huffed, reaching for his purse. Hands scrabbled for a moment until he realised the truth and sighed.

“Lost it again?” she asked, guessing the truth. “If you weren’t out of your mind on sket you’d noticed being robbed, Caerl, or at the very least you’d remember it.”

He reached down to pull off his shoe, pouring the coppers out into his hand. “Don’t use purses, is all, Elsa. Too easy for the thieves, like you said.”

“Is that it?” she muttered, not convinced.

“Will this cover it?” he held out the coppers. It was barely more than the price of an apple but he already knew her answer.

“It’ll do.” She sighed. “Put your shoe back on, you’re stinking up the place.”

The food was quick, or maybe she just wanted him gone. Either way it was fast and getting it inside him worked to end the shaking in his hands he hadn’t noticed was there until it stopped.

Elsa made him drink some sweet tea too, full of honey and too sweet for his taste, but he knew she wouldn’t stop nagging until he did. Nobody looked at him as he stood. This wasn’t a place where people spoke or made friends. Deep down he knew what it was. It was a refuge for scum and lowlifes. The people half a step from the gutter. Elsa fed them partly out of kindness, partly because she knew no one else would.

The sun was almost gone by the time he made it back outside. It hid behind the rooftops, lurking until it leapt out between buildings, blinding him and bringing curses at the pain.

He should go and see Vetram. He knew he should go and make some apology but he couldn’t face it. He still felt dry. The tea had left a sour taste in his mouth and, despite the fact Elsa had done her best to make it leak from his ears, he was thirsty. Tea was never going to do the job and the idea of Sket was almost enough to make him lose his eggs. He could have something light though, an ale maybe. That might help.

The docks were quiet, or as quiet as they got. Most of those who worked the wharves would be soaking their innards now. Drinking while they tried to dry wet feet. It was a simple matter to steal a prybar. The dockers were famous for leaving them lying around. He stuffed it as far into his sleeve as he could, palming the end as it stuck out.

The key to this was not to pick anyone too rich or important. If you went after someone whose purse was heavy with gold crowns then it was as good as asking for trouble. He wandered the streets, keeping away from the better areas of town and the watchmen that would be patrolling soon.

It didn’t take long. The mark was young for a merchant. Maybe a merchant’s son or a pampered apprentice. Caerl staggered towards him, feigning a drunkenness that he was more than familiar with. He lurched into the man’s side, driving them both into an alleyway.

“Drunken fool!” the young merchant raged, his face twisted in righteous indignation. “Watch where you’re—”

Caerl didn’t let him finish, whipping the prybar out and tapping the man expertly on the side of the head. A tap was all it really took. Much more and the man wouldn’t wake up with his purse missing, he wouldn’t wake up at all. The merchant’s son fell like a sack of wheat and Caerl wasted no time dragging him deeper into the shadows. Moments later and he was hefting the purse, judging the contents by feel.

The first ale felt like water. He peered into the tankard, tilting it to the light to see the colour. It wasn’t the type of place where you could ask if the ale was watered though, so he’d suffered it, and then the three that followed it.

He moved on after the fifth. People tended watch you when you drank quickly and the ale wasn’t doing much for him. He tried whiskey at the next tavern. The purse he’d snatched was heavier than he’d thought and it had been a good while since he’d been able to stump up the coin for a good whiskey. It went down smooth but with barely a bite to it. Sket might be cooked up in the backstreets but it had more of a taste to it than the whiskey just had. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice pointed out that his sense of taste had probably been dulled by the spirits but he ignored it. The things that voice told him were never things he wanted to hear.

It was four taverns later before he came up with the idea to climb the wall. Kavtrin was walled on all sides but the view over the harbour was considered the best. Caerl didn’t want to watch the water. Water meant docks and that would just remind him of Vetram so he'd staggered his way to the north side.

He stumbled up the steps, catching his feet on something or other he didn’t see, and made his way up to the battlements. The guardsmen wouldn’t mind so long as he didn’t get in their way. The moon was rising, fat and heavy as it rose over the fields. The figures emerged from the darkness, almost seeming to dance as the sparkling mist rose around them. He stared for a moment, wondering if it was just a trick of the light, or something worse. Sket did things to you. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t real but not like this.

The moonlight shone on the tiny figures as they spun and danced around each other. Caerl watched, mouth open as they drew closer. The wings took a while for him to make out but the sense of wonder he felt when he did was better than a bellyful of Sket.

“S’beautiful,” he murmured to himself, looking around for someone to share it with.

The figures moved closer and he picked out more and more of them in the moonlight. Tiny purple-hued women, seemingly as naked as babes and as perfect as any man could wish. What he’d taken for a handful quickly became a legion as they spun and danced in the air before the walls.

The others took him completely by surprise. He’d been so focused on the spectacle of the dancing figures that he hadn’t even noticed their approach and the field of sunset eyes almost shocked him sober.

The change came all at once, rippling over the sea of shadowy figures like a breeze passing over a field of wheat. Where it passed, the figures lit up, bearing bright shining standards of blue and silver or sheathed in amour that was so polished it almost seemed to glow itself.

They came, not in a rush but as a surge. A wave, the child of the worst of storms, and made up of creatures escaped from children’s fables. They charged towards the walls with a scream that matched his own as he stumbled down the steps.

The cries that rose from the sentries on the walls as they called out in warning turned to screams as the diminutive winged creatures shrieked over the walls like leaves in a hurricane.

Feet that suddenly felt half-asleep carried him down the street. He staggered, crashing into a wall and careening across the street towards the other until a wave of nausea stopped him.

The crash from behind him spun him around and he stood, dumbstruck as the first section of wall collapsed, torn down by vines that were thicker than oaken branches, thrusting out of the ground and grasping at the stones.

“Caerl!”

He turned, seeking the source of the cry and spotted Elsa, waving at him through a street suddenly filled with screaming people.

“Caerl, run! You daft, drunk bastard!” she screamed, pointing behind him.

He turned slowly, alcohol making his every movement over-complicated and deliberate. The creature stood before him, as tall as him and more beautiful than any woman he’d known. Dimly he was aware of others rushing past him but he seemed frozen by her gaze and the eyes shining like a winter’s sunset.

The smile was cold, as cruel as it was beautiful, and it didn’t waver as she reached behind herself and produced long bone knives. He barely felt the first cut but she made sure that he felt the second. If there was a beauty to be found in his pain she was intent on finding every aspect of it and, as she cut him, she took delight in his every scream.

Kavtrin fell. Not in a way that its defenders would ever have imagined, but in every way that mattered. The fae and satyr poured through the streets, fae’reeth howling through the air above them as they delighted in the slaughter. Soldiers fought alone as terror tore their units apart. They fled, running through the streets until they died alone. Fear stripped away all loyalty, all oaths, and the only fellowship that remained was born of blood and pain.

***

Klöss blinked hard, wishing he could rub his eyes as the guards rushed him through the halls. He’d been dead asleep when Gavin kicked him but the guards had moved so fast there was barely a point to the thief’s warning.

Unlike the last meeting when he’d been walked through the halls, this time they moved so fast they nearly dragged him. He took the treatment in silence. Whatever the cause he’d find out soon enough. Even if he knew the language of these men they’d be as unlikely to tell him anything as they would be to know the reason for the urgency.

Rhenkin looked like hell. His jacket was unbuttoned and he was unshaven. The sleeplessness was etched clear in the lines of his face but it was nothing to the fury that burned in his eyes.

“You lied to me,” he spat. His anger didn’t need translating, though Miriam spoke the words anyway.

Klöss thought back over their last conversation. He’d concealed things, of course. But he didn’t remember actively lying. “I have told no lies. What are you talking about?”

“You told me your forces had gone south with your fleet,” Miriam translated for Rhenkin. “That this ‘sealord’ had sent them to burn.”

Klöss nodded. “I did, and I told you that I wouldn’t talk about my men. I came to talk about the fae.”

“I received word just this morning that Kavtrin has been overrun.” Rhenkin said, his voice cold and quiet.

“Kavtrin?” Klöss shrugged. The name meant nothing to him.

Rhenkin stood and stabbed his finger at a map on the wall. “Here!”

Klöss tried to stand, then sighed up at the guard who had pushed him roughly back into the seat.

Rhenkin snapped something at the man and he stepped back, eyes flashing as Klöss gave him a small smile as he stood. The map was covered in notations in an odd flowing script that seemed more loops and dots than real writing. He looked questioningly at Rhenkin until the man pointed again.

“It seems too close to my thinking. Our fleet would have passed this place weeks ago.” He shrugged. “As far as I know we didn’t even know this place was here. Our lines don’t extend this far.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t your men?” Rhenkin scoffed, his derision was so clear, Klöss barely needed to wait for Miriam.

“This is a larger place? A bigger town than these villages over here?” He waved to the east, towards where Rimeheld stood.

Rhenkin nodded.

“Where are we now? On this map I mean?” Klöss asked, waving around him.

Rhenkin paused, thinking for moment before indicating a position to the north and west of Kavtrin.

“I don’t know how far we are here from this Kavtrin,” Klöss began. “I would have thought you’d be able to see some of the smoke from here if my fleet had razed it.”

Rhenkin turned as Kennick whispered furiously into his ear and the two muttered a low conversation while Klöss looked on.

“Why would you burn a city that large? I thought you people were more interested in plunder,” Rhenkin asked.

“This is not a reaving,” Klöss began. “This is no raid for plunder, as you put it. You’re not a fool, Rhenkin. Don’t think me one. If we captured this place we would have thousands of your people behind our lines. Thousands of eyes and mouths that we could never really control. We have no need of your cities or the people that live within them. Our goal was always to seize lands for our own people to settle. If we’d attacked this ‘Kavtrin’ of yours we’d have burnt it to the ground.”

“And all the people with it,” Rhenkin replied.

“In battle, people die.” Klöss shrugged.

Rhenkin ignored that. “So what are you suggesting? That some other force did this? Or are you telling me that my reports are wrong and Kavtrin is untouched.”

Klöss met the scathing look with a shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not my business to know. I will tell you this though, we both know there’s another force capable of attacking your city.”

“The fae?” Rhenkin raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen these creatures fight, I’ve lost good men to them and I won’t argue that they’re a threat, but an entire city?” He shook his head. “I can’t see it. They don’t have the numbers, surely?”

Klöss glanced back at Miriam as she translated. There was catch in her voice as she spoke. It was easy to forget she was there, despite the fact she was translating. He frowned at her but her old face was blank, expressionless, as she looked back at him.

“If you believe that, major, then you are a damned fool and I’ve wasted my life for nothing,” Klöss said. He turned his back on the man, walking back to the desk and throwing himself down into the chair. “These things attacked us after a battle, attacked our camp. They came out of the night, going through my men like they were nothing. I lost the greatest swordsman I have ever known to one of these fae and yes, they have the numbers.” He realised he was almost shouting and drew a deep shuddering breath, forcing himself to calm down as Miriam caught up.

“I told you what happened at Skelf,” he said, in a calmer voice. “How these fae emptied an entire village, piling the bodies on stakes driven into the ground. Those they didn’t kill they took north with them. We followed the trail from Skelf. I took a group of trackers into the woods myself and we headed after them. It took some time but we found them. They were in a sort of valley in the forest. I’m telling you this, Rhenkin, because I don’t think you realise the numbers of the fae. The goat-men, these satyr, they filled that valley. There must have been ten thousand at least, possibly double that. Not fae, not the things that look like men. Just these goat-men. So yes, Major bloody Rhenkin, they have the numbers to take your city.”

Rhenkin studied him as Miriam talked. The man wasn’t stupid despite what he’d said and Klöss knew it. “There’s more to this isn’t there? Something personal. A man doesn’t give up his life and walk into the hands of his enemy even if his commander is ten times a fool. What is it you’re not telling me?”

Klöss looked down at his hands and felt the edges of surprise that they’d curled into fists. The man irritated him for some reason. His cold control, his insistence in baiting him.

“You know the answer already, I’m sure,” Klöss said, working to keep his voice level. “You didn’t spend all those hours talking to Gavin about his favourite ales. There are fae in the Barren Isles, in my home. They’re involved with the Church of New Days somehow. They have my wife…” he faltered, voice cracking as he dug his fingernails into his palms. “They have my son.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kennick knocked. After a minute he leaned his head in towards the door and frowned at the silence, knocking again. Nothing. The door creaked slightly as he eased it open.

Rhenkin sat in his chair, bent low over the desk with his forehead resting on the report.

“Sir?” Kennick called softly, trying to decide the best course of action. He took a single step towards the major and stopped. Rhenkin’s breathing was slow and rhythmic and Kennick froze with a wince. Another hour wouldn’t hurt anything more than it was already. He’d barely moved, just the shifting of weight in preparation for the step, when Rhenkin spoke.

“What is it, Kennick?” He hadn’t lifted his head from the report and his voice took on a hollow dimension, overlaid by the fluttering sound of the edges of the paper made by his breath.

“Sorry to disturb, sir. Didn’t realise you were sleeping.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. What would make you think that?” Rhenkin sat up, there was ink on his forehead where he’d rested it on fresh writing. Kennick coughed into his fist and tried to focus on the man’s eyes. “My mistake, sir.”

“Was there something, Kennick?” Rhenkin asked.

“Scout report from Kavtrin, Sir,” Kennick replied, reaching to put the papers on the desk.

Rhenkin ignored it and his eyes narrowed as his lips shaped unspoken words. “Too soon,” he said after a minute.

“Sir?”

“It’s too soon for them to have made it there and back already,” Rhenkin explained.

Kennick nodded, impressed. “Yes, sir. They encountered refugees on the way there and sent a man back by horse with the report.”

“Survivors?” Rhenkin, asked in mild surprise.

“No, Sir,” Kennick said as he shook his head. “A caravan. It arrived in Kavtrin after the attack and met our men half way here.”

“And?”

“Sir?” Kennick frowned at the Major.

“Damn it, Kennick.” Rhenkin slammed a hand down on the desk. “Do I have to drag this out of you? Give me some details!”

“No, sir,” Kennick apologized. “The scouts report that the city is devastated, not a man found alive.”

Rhenkin absorbed the news in silence. “Burned?”

Kennick shook his head. “No, it doesn’t appear so, sir. The bodies are heavily mutilated, ‘torn to shreds’ was the term used, I believe. There is also some mention of the walls having been pulled down by some manner of plant.”

“Oh, come now, Kennick,” Rhenkin burst out. “I asked for a report not the deranged ramblings of idiot peasants.”

“I’m just forwarding the report, sir,” Kennick said mildly. “The report did say the man was an ex-corporal, not normally the type to make things up.”

Rhenkin’s eyes flicked from Kennick’s face to the window and to the map on the wall. He gnawed at his bottom lip “Those scouts should be back in a day or so. We’ll get confirmation then.” He looked up at the lieutenant. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes, sir,” Kennick said with a nod. “Confirmation may not be necessary. We’ve just had word from Carik’s Fort. Survivors report the fort suffered a devastating attack. Only a handful made it out but they report the fae swept through there like a plague.”

Rhenkin’s face turned the colour of ashes as he looked at the lieutenant with haunted eyes. “How many survivors?”

Kennick grimaced. “They’re still coming in, sir, but it’s peasants and townsfolk. Not a man in colours among them. It seems the old man, Obair, and the lad that went with him, stumbled across them on their way here.”

Rhenkin reached into a cupboard, pouring the whiskey with a steady hand despite the shock on his face. “Settle them somewhere comfortable. Send them up once they’re in.”

“I’m afraid that’s not all, sir,” Kennick said with a wince.

“What the hell else can there be?” Rhenkin asked. “Has Feldane decided to invade too?”

Kennick drew a deep breath. “Celstwin reports an attack from a Bjornmen fleet.”

“They what?” Rhenkin stormed to his feet.

Kennick carried on, unmoved. “Apparently the fleet was driven off but the city suffered heavy damage and a large portion was caught in the fire.”

Rhenkin sank back down, reaching for the glass. “Fire!” he breathed, stretching the word out. “Lords and Ladies, I never imagined Celstwin would be threatened. Still, I suppose even Pieter will be hard pressed to ignore this.”

Kennick said nothing, but reached out and presented a letter, embossed and sealed.

Rhenkin raised an eyebrow and cracked the seal.

Kennick carried on as he older man read. “The word from the messenger was that Pieter has fallen, sir,” Kennick said. “He reports that Duchess Freyton had called a Council of Lords and that she now holds the throne.”

He read in silence, lips moving occasionally until the message fell from his fingertips. “About bloody time…” he whispered.

“Sir?”

Rhenkin looked up, seeming surprised to find the lieutenant still there. “It seems the messenger’s gossip wasn’t far from the truth. Our duchess now holds the throne as queen and, more importantly, as lord commander of the crown’s armies. From the sounds of things she’s gutted every garrison within easy reach of Celstwin and sent orders on to others. We’re to expect the entire force from Savarel, as well as the rest of Baron Rentrew’s men within days. Her forces will march north as fast as they are able.”

Kennick looked over at the map. “That will certainly present a few options, sir. Did you want some time before I send Obair in?”

Rhenkin looked up from the letter. “Hmm? Oh, no, send him in as soon as he’s able.”

“Very good, sir,” Kennick said, but Rhenkin didn’t seem to be listening. He let himself out, leaving the man with his thoughts.

***

Rhenkin fingered the letter. Selena, queen, barring the pomp of a coronation. He shook his head and snorted a laugh at the situation. She’d always held the power, even when Freyton was still alive but damn, this was on another level.

The child! Rhenkin pinched at the flesh between his eyes as the thought struck. He hadn’t had time to decide how he felt about her passing off the child as someone else’s. “Liar,” he breathed to himself. He’d had plenty of time. He’d just avoided it, telling himself the war was too important. This time he really didn’t have time to think about this. Selena was a distraction at the best of times. He drained his glass, trying not to think about the feel of her skin, how that red hair had looked against the pale flesh of her shoulder.

She’d picked him like a ripe plum. Oh, he’d never admit that to anyone who asked. He snorted at the thought. Who would ask? She had though. He shook his head, smiling at how she’d had to tell him to stop calling her by her title as she'd wrapped her legs around him.

A tap at the door brought him back to reality and Kennick stepped in, ushering Obair inside. The man looked, if possible, older still. His journey had aged him but it was more than just that. Rhenkin looked at him as he waved him into a chair. There was a sorrow there that he hadn’t carried before. A trace of what might have been guilt perhaps.

“Obair,” he said, coming around the desk to clasp the old man’s hand. “It’s good to see you.” Even his handshake was weak, he noticed. “Did you…?”

“Find anything?” Obair finished for him. “Oh yes, as many questions as answers though. We found Lillith’s cottage, just as I remembered it. She’s dead,” he said, getting the words out before Rhenkin could ask the question.

Rhenkin winced. The lost opportunities there were endless. “So you found nothing?”

Obair laughed. It was a hollow sound, tired and empty. “No, not nothing. More than we could have thought possible. We found a way to possibly rebuild the Wyrde, to lock the fae out of Haven again.”

“Then that’s good news, isn’t it?” Rhenkin frowned, the man was talking in riddles and circles. His tone didn’t match his news. He had too much going on to play games like this.

“I suppose it is, in a way.” Obair nodded. “Do you think I could have some of that?” He nodded at the whiskey Rhenkin had left it out on the desk.

Rhenkin flushed. The whiskey wasn’t exactly a secret. Every officer he’d ever known past the rank of lieutenant had kept some in a similar place. At the same time it seemed an admission of weakness somehow and he’d always kept it out of sight. He reached for another glass, pouring for the druid.

The first drink barely covered their arrival at the cottage. By the time Obair recounted the arrival of Ylsriss and Joran and their time in the Realm of Twilight it was Rhenkin reaching to fill his own glass.

“So many months we went with no way to communicate with these Bjornmen and now I have six within my own walls.”

“Six?” Obair blinked owlishly at him, the whiskey obviously taking effect.

“Three Bjornmen surrendered just this week.” Rhenkin told him. “Just walked into a patrol and handed themselves over.”

Obair shook his head. “You said six. Even with these three and Ylsriss and Joran, I count five?”

Rhenkin nodded with a grunt. “The old woman, Miriam. She was following along behind the Bjornmen, travelling the same road. She can speak their language.”

Obair frowned at that. “From what I’d understood there’d been no real contact with the Bjornmen, other than their raids I mean. No trading or anything like that?”

“That’s true,” Rhenkin told him. “We know they come from the east but, so far as I know, no vessel has ever managed to pass the ice currents.”

“Where did she manage to learn it then?” Obair wondered.

Rhenkin’s only response was a shrug. “I’ve too many other things to worry about, to be honest. What the Bjornmen have said is interesting though. Hells it's downright terrifying if you believe it all.”

Obair raised a bushy eyebrow and waved the glass in his hand for Rhenkin to go on.

“This ‘Klöss’ claims to be lord of the city they’ve built in eastern Anlan. He says he sought us out because of the attacks his forces have suffered at the hands of the fae. Says there are satyr beyond count coming for us. Not only that,” he bulled on before Obair could interrupt, “he says the fae have been in their lands too, across the sea. In these ‘Barren Isles’ of theirs.”

Obair sat back at that. “That makes sense I suppose. I’d never really thought about it but the world the fae inhabit might touch on our own in any number of different places. My master and I always focused on the Withengate because that’s where the Wild Hunt was supposed to come from. That doesn’t mean it’s the only place they could cross through. I’d be interested to speak to this man if that could be arranged.”

Rhenkin nodded. “I can’t think of a reason why not. I can have Miriam translate for us, unless you’d rather use Joran?”

Obair tapped the glass against his lips for a moment, then shook his head. “No, let’s use Miriam. Joran’s Anlish is good but he’s still rusty. I don’t want to risk any misunderstandings if we can avoid it.”

Rhenkin went to the door and had a brief conversation with one of the men in the adjoining room. “Shouldn’t be too long,” he said, retaking his seat. “I’ll admit, Obair, I’m having a hard time with a lot of this. The Bjornmen I can cope with. I can even cope with the fae to a degree. But these things you’re telling me about glyphs and rituals, it sounds like something out of a storybook.”

Obair sighed. “I know. There was a time when I’d have said there was a good reason for that. That the truth of the fae was buried in fables. These days, I’m not even sure what the truth is. If what Joran told me is true Haven isn’t even our own world. The fae plucked us from some other place, using us for their own purpose and then we escaped here after the rebellion.”

Rhenkin shrugged. “Does it matter? How many forgotten religions have given their own versions of where we all come from? I’d rather deal with the life I have than worry about where it came from.”

“Well, I’d say it matters,” Obair replied leaning forward. “If Joran’s right then we live in a world that must be very close to paradise for the fae. If we truly did come here from the Realm of Twilight then mankind first rebelled against them, and then fled to this world, locking them out with the Wyrde. To intents and purposes we have first stolen their heaven, and then locked them in a hell between worlds for thousands of years.”

Rhenkin shrugged. “I make a point of not looking for the common ground with my enemy. Understanding their motives is all well and good and has its place. Sympathy for them, however? That doesn’t sit well with me, as a man or as a soldier.”

Obair nodded and raised a finger to make a point when a knock at the door stopped him.

“The translator, sir,” the soldier announced.

Obair stood and looked at the woman curiously as she entered and Rhenkin dismissed the man who had escorted them. The woman was probably older than he was, white hair surrounding a face that had suffered more than its fair measure of pain and loss by the looks of it. She glanced up at Obair once, frowning as if she recognised him.

The change was fast, so quick that Rhenkin might have missed it had he not been looking directly at her. Her eyes seemed to slip out of focus, and then flashed, obscuring her eyes for the time it takes to blink as a blaze of amber shot across them. She staggered back, as if stumbling, and reached blindly for the doorframe as she pulled herself upright.

“Wyrdeweaver!” she gasped.

***

“What did you call me?” The old man demanded through lips pinched tight with shock. He’d almost staggered when she spoke.

Miriam shook her head, her vision still swimming as the effects of Aervern’s sight faded. “The Wyrde, you wove it didn’t you? You worked the ritual. I can see it on you. I can smell it.”

Obair’s mouth worked, trying to form words. “I did, but—”

“Just who are you, woman?” Rhenkin demanded, interrupting.

Miriam pressed a hand to her forehead. This was suddenly all too much. “I need to talk to you about the Wyrde,” she said in a weak voice.

The old man seemed to recover himself and looked at Rhenkin. “Why don’t you sit down? It seems we have a lot to talk about.”

She eased into the chair gratefully. “Thank you, my hips aren’t what they once were.”

“I know the feeling,” Obair said as he smiled. He glanced back at Rhenkin and Miriam followed his gaze but the major made no move to stop him and seemed content to let the old man take the lead for now.

“You’re right, of course,” Obair told her. “I worked the ritual of the Wyrde for most of my life but what do you know of this?”

“My name is Miriam, but I imagine the major told you this already.” She nodded at the man as he looked on. “I was sent to find the Wyrdeweavers. I’ve been searching for you since I left the Withengate, I followed the trail here.”

“The Withengate? What trail?” Obair shook his head in confusion before the realisation took hold and he looked up at her sharply. “Just who is it that sent you?”

Miriam took a deep breath. “Aervern of the fae,” she said.

“What?” Rhenkin burst out. “And you just think to mention this now?”

“Rhenkin, please,” Obair said, holding a hand up to the man, though his eyes never left Miriam’s face. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“I barely know how to start,” she murmured. “I’ve been with the fae most of my life. I was taken, stolen really, when the Wyrde still stood. Ileriel, the one that took me, used to taunt me by explaining just how it was that I was responsible for allowing the fae back into this world and the false religion she'd created through me.

“For years I lived,” she stopped, shaking her head. “No, I don’t suppose it was really living, enduring comes closer but even that’s too generous. I’ve been slave, trophy, and breeding stock. I’ve been the key the fae used to pass through the Wyrde. My mind has been crushed so many times there are days when I doubt my own senses but I remember the lies and myths they used me to spread. The church they created to serve their own ends.”

She fell silent, staring into space for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I’m not doing a very good job of this am I?”

Obair smiled with a shrug. “It’s not easy to put a life into a few sentences. We’ll piece it all together. Carry on.”

“I saw the beginning,” she said. “I saw Aelthen cross into this world and lift his fae into the air for the Wild Hunt.”

“I did too,” Obair told her. He nodded at Rhenkin, “We were all in the glade as the fae burst through. Aelthen, is that the name of the creature that leads them?”

Miriam nodded and her voice dropped to a whisper as she began again, a dark confession as her gaze fell to the floor. “I’ve been dragged along with them as they gather heads like trophies and drag women and babies back to the Realm of Twilight. And now I’ve seen the beginnings of their purge.”

“Purge?” Rhenkin interjected. “Make yourself clear, woman.”

“Aelthen isn’t content with just the Hunt,” Miriam told him. “He wants to reclaim this world for the fae and he intends to wipe it clean of its human infestation.”

“Ambitious,” grunted Rhenkin. “I’ve seen these creatures fight, they’re nasty bastards, but even with that they’d struggle with an entire world. They’ve greater numbers than I’d first thought but not that many, surely?”

“You have no idea, Rhenkin,” Miriam said with a shake of the head. “Aervern made me watch as the armies of the fae attacked the Bjornman city. I saw them call plants from the ground to tear the walls down. I watched as the fae’reeth swarmed through the streets, tearing men to shreds. The Swarm alone could have taken the city. He…” she stopped, held by the look on his face. “What?”

“Did you say they called plants?” Rhenkin turned, rifling through the papers on his desk for the report. He read without turning, grunting sourly, and then tossed it down onto the desk. “This is all very interesting, I suppose,” he began again, “but it’s not the reason you’re here. You’re here because you were sent by the fae. Tell me, Miriam, what does this Aervern want with us?”

She glanced at Obair before she spoke. “I can’t pretend to know what she plans but I know she wants to speak with you.”

***

Selena shifted in the seat, keeping her face neutral at the stab of pain. She allowed herself a frown as she glanced out at the sky. “Hanris, we can’t be stopping already can we?”

The chamberlain glanced at the trees through the window to the carriage. “It would appear so, your majesty.”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that.” She sighed. “Not until things are formalized anyway, and certainly not when we’re alone.”

“It hardly seems proper, your grace,” the stuffy man objected. He seemed to have grown old over the last months, as if age had suddenly reached out from a dark corner to claim him. Secretly Selena worried about him. Losing Hanris was something she wasn’t prepared to accept just now.

“Would you call over that nice young man and see just why we seem to be stopping?” she said, pushing at the seat with one hand and easing herself over again.

“Captain Coulson, your grace?”

“Coulson!” she snapped her fingers. “Why can I never remember the man’s name?”

Hanris’s lips quivered in an approximation of a smile and he worked the glass window down, speaking to the man who had been riding close to the side of the carriage.

“Your grace?” Coulson said, failing to conceal the sigh within the question.

“Coulson.” Selena beamed. The man was worse than Rhenkin had ever been it seemed. He simply had no idea how to cope with a woman who wasn’t content to sit and wash pots. “I can’t help but notice that we seem to have stopped.”

“Indeed, your grace.” Coulson nodded. “The light is beginning to fade and I’d like to have a secure camp established before dusk.”

Selena squinted up at the sun. “Coulson, it can’t be much past four of the clock. I expected to reach Druel today.”

“We’re not that far off, in truth, your grace,” Coulson admitted with another nod. “We wouldn’t arrive before dark however and we’re not so strong a company that I’d be comfortable with the risks of travelling in the dark.”

Selena nodded soberly, unconsciously mimicking the man. “Exactly how far from Druel would you say we are, captain?”

He winced before he spoke. It was slight

but it was there. “We should be able to arrive by mid-morning comfortably, your grace.”

“That’s not really what I asked now, is it?” Selena pointed out with a smile. “Specifics, captain. How far?”

“Three to four hours if we pushed the horses,” Coulson said.

Selena tapped her lips with one finger while she pretended to consider this. “We push on then. The horses would rather be tired and in a warm stable than rested and out in the cold, I’m sure.” The thought of sleeping in a camp for another night was not something she was willing to endure, not with Druel so close.”

“Of course, your grace,” Coulson said. “I had just thought…”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Well, in your condition… The baby and all.”

“Captain Coulson,” Selena said, drawing herself up and fixing him with a stern look. “I rather think that I am the better judge of my fitness to travel, don’t you?”

“Yes, your grace.” Coulson wilted until his pride couldn’t shrink further, then gave an awkward bow in the saddle and wheeled his horse, barking orders.

“Damn that hurt,” Selena muttered, sinking back into the seat and shifting gingerly.

“You have just had a baby, your grace,” Hanris chided her.

“I had a baby almost a month ago and I’ve spent the best part of the time since being coddled and mothered. Neither the Bjornmen, or these fae that Rhenkin has produced, will wait for us.”

Hanris gave her a look that clearly said that, whilst he might find merit in her arguments, he was not about to admit it.

Coulson had the column moving again in a surprisingly short space of time. They weren’t travelling in any great numbers. Coulson had flatly refused to let her and Hanris travel unescorted and she’d had to haggle the numbers down to the size of the company. Even then he hadn’t been happy about it. It seemed she was doomed to be coddled for the near future. The thought was not an appealing one and she sat back into the seat of the carriage, slouching as much as she could as she stared unseeing out of the window. Hanris was wise enough to leave her alone and her thoughts ran from the baby, to Rhenkin’s expected reaction, to the war.

The near sacking of Celstwin had been a close thing. Too close by far. Anlan had never really been a seafaring nation. Its trading partners were all easily accessible by land and, in many cases, journey by sea was simply not worth the risks. The Bjornmen had been within sight of the city before anyone had the faintest idea they were close. If the river had been that little bit wider, or if there had been fewer bridges, Celstwin may well have been burnt to the ground.

She chewed her lip and scowled at the thought. Pieter may have been dealt with but she had done little more than inherit the problems he’d been ignoring. Removing him from power had done nothing to present her with solutions.

Not for the first time she wondered about the wisdom of sending troops northeast. Though the Bjornmen seemed to have concentrated their efforts there, if Celstwin had taught her anything, it had taught her that the Bjornmen could be anywhere.

Guilt caught her completely unaware as a stray thought of the baby drifted through her worries. She hadn’t thought of him in hours. Wasn’t she supposed to be consumed with thoughts about him by now? She’d spent the last month having her ears filled with advice and the mouthings of women who’d done nothing with their lives but birth children and produce their own squalling brats. They undoubtedly knew more about child-rearing than she did but it was doubtful they knew anything about saving a nation.

She wasn’t like them, she’d realised. She was never going to be a doting mother. This baby had been a means to an end, at best a happy accident. And yet she felt guilty that she hadn’t thought of him. If she didn’t care at all wouldn’t she not feel that?

The baby was a safe as she could make him. She was under no illusions over the plots some of Pieter's supporters still hatched. She could never have left him in the palace, a knife in the dark and her line would end with her. Bringing him north was out of the question and so she'd laid trails all over Anlan as to where he was. Raysh would guard him like nobody else could. Not because he felt a sense of loyalty but because he owed her. Jantson would have dithered and Salisbourne would never have thought to employ a thief to find their friend. Raysh owed her his freedom and probably his life.

Druel crept into sight like a clumsy thief, the pinpricks of light distracting her from her thoughts and providing a sketchy outline of her home as they drew closer. Her guard swelled as Rhenkin's men rushed out of the town and attached themselves as escort. She’d just travelled for days with her small contingent but now she was within the walls of Druel more protection was clearly warranted. She smiled to herself at the foolishness of it all.

The town was an odd place. It had never been large, and whilst Freyton’s decision to make it his ducal seat had added its own prestige, it hadn’t had a major impact on Druel's population. There had been many who had drifted out to the smaller villages, or headed east into the Reaches, but they had been offset by the influx of affluent merchants, hosteliers, and toadies seeking to benefit from Freyton’s presence. The result had been an odd town, not even half the size of Kavtrin but somehow missing the cross-section of society that one expected to find in a town of any real size.

She glanced over at Hanris as the carriage clattered through the streets. He was asleep, head hanging down to his chest. Quite how he managed it with the carriage bouncing them around she wasn’t sure but it was good to see the man taking some rest for a change.

His eyes flickered open as they passed through the gates to the ducal palace and the wheel crunched over the fine white gravel Freyton had insisted be spread. She looked toward the entrance and the figures stood waiting for them. She didn’t need to see his face. She could tell Rhenkin just by the way he stood.

He waved the footman away and reached to open the door himself. “Your majesty.” His eyes gave away nothing as nodded in place of a bow. “It’s good to have you back. We weren’t expecting you quite this soon.”

She eased herself out of the carriage and down the small step before she spoke. “The roads were good to us, Rhenkin. And thank you, it’s good to be back.”

“Celstwin seems to have been productive,” he said. His eyes flicked to her stomach and back to her face. It had been quick but the meaning was unmistakable. “We can discuss things inside, Rhenkin,” she told him. “I’m sure there are many things you have to report.”

“Indeed, your majesty.” He gave another short bow and extended an arm, ushering her to the entrance.

Selena headed inside. The sound of the gravel didn’t quite mask the sound of Hanris being roused from his sleep and she flashed a quick smile at Rhenkin. The look he returned was carefully neutral, giving nothing away, and she pressed her lips tight together as she sighed and led the way to her study ushering him inside.

“It’s late Rhenkin,” she told him as she leaned back against the wall beside the closed door. “I don’t want to get into all of this now. You can give me a full report in the morning.”

“Where is my child, Selena?” He sounded strained, drawn, but his voice was nothing to his eyes.

She blinked “As far as I’m aware you don’t have any children, Rhenkin. My son, however, is safe and well.”

The mask had cracked and she pressed back against the door as his anger shone through and he bit each word off. “That is my child, Selena. Don’t play games with me. Now where is he?”

“Don’t be a damned fool, Rhenkin,” she hissed in an urgent whisper. “This child is Freyton’s. Without that fact I was not still a duchess, not able to call the Council of Lords, and this nation would have no queen. You know damned well this is bigger than your wants, now stop acting like a petulant child!”

He glared at her and she could see her words fighting to push through his rage.

“We’re not done here,” he snapped and moved to wrench the door open, stepping past her as it slammed back into the wall. She stood frozen for a moment and it wasn’t until she sighed that she realised she’d been holding her breath. He would keep, she decided. There were more important issues to deal with at the moment but Rhenkin would need to be managed. The only question was how?

***

The knock at the door was followed by both Rhenkin and Hanris as they made their way in. Selena ignored Hanris’s bows and formality as she studied Rhenkin’s expression. The rage was gone. Today the man was all business and his eyes gave away nothing as they approached.

“Your majesty, Major Rhenkin has some rather pressing news to report,” Hanris said with a nod at Rhenkin.

Selena raised an eyebrow. “So pressing it requires you both to deliver it?” she mused with an arch smile. “It must be important.”

“I merely thought to…” Hanris began but stopped as he caught her smile.

Selena gave a delighted laugh and sat up at straighter at the desk. “You know me better than most by now, Hanris. Please, both of you, continue.”

“We have a Bjornman in custody,” Rhenkin told her. “We have had for a number of weeks. He claims to be one of the leaders of their forces.”

“And you managed to capture him?” Selena asked. “How in the world did you manage that?”

“We didn’t,” Rhenkin told her with a shrug. “He and two others walked here on their own. He says he wants to discuss the fae.”

“Wait a minute.” She held a finger up with a frown as she thought. “How are you managing to speak with him? You’ve told me before that any men you’ve captured or taken from the battlefield haven’t been able to speak Anlish.”

“That’s true, your grace,” Rhenkin admitted, ignoring the look Hanris gave him at the title he’d used. “The patrol that found them encountered a woman travelling behind them. She is able to speak their language.”

Selena raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s awfully convenient, don’t you think?”

Rhenkin nodded and reached for the back of the chair set at her desk in front of him with a questioning look.

“I’m sorry. Please, do sit,” she told them.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Rhenkin said, seemingly unable to stop his sidelong glance at Hanris as he did so. “Normally I’d agree with you, it’s just too convenient to have much faith in it. However, there have been other developments as well that have put her in a different light.”

“Go on.” Selena told them. She set aside her playful teasing, now was not the time.

“It’s come to light that the translator has spent some time in the realm of the fae. Indeed, it would seem that a fae herself tasked her to locate Obair for some purpose.”

Selena's eyes widened and she nodded, thinking quickly. “And do we know for what purpose?”

Rhenkin shook his head. “Not as of yet, though Obair could probably tell you more than I could.”

“They’re back then? Obair and the boy?” She picked a pen from the holder on the desk and toyed with it.

“They are.” Rhenkin nodded. “They arrived two days ago but, again, I feel he could give you a better report than I.”

“You seem to be dancing around the edge of something, Rhenkin,” she told him. “It’s really rather irritating. I do wish you’d just come out and say it.”

His eyes flashed then, a hint of the anger from the previous night. It was gone in a moment but it was there. “Very well, your majesty. We’ve had word that the fae have attacked and razed Carik’s Fort and a large portion of Kavtrin.” He glanced up at her expression and bulled on. “We don’t have full details of Kavtrin yet but some of the survivors from Carik’s Fort have managed to make it here. I suspect that this woman, Miriam, the translator, would have something to tell us about this. Despite all of this, I would urge you most strongly, to speak to the Bjornmen we have here first.”

“And why is that, Rhenkin?” she asked with a dangerous lilt to her voice.

If her tone bothered him he didn’t show it. “There are a number of reasons, your majesty. First and foremost would be the fact that the Bjornmen are a present and permanent threat. The fae seem able to vanish at will, or at least move faster than we can effectively counter. The Bjornmen are more easily dealt with. If we must face two enemies at once I’d rather deal with the one we can find first.”

“And the other reasons?”

“If I can be candid for a moment?” He waited for her nod. “The fact we have these Bjornmen here presents us with an opportunity. From what they are telling us the fae have a presence in their own lands too. Not just the lands they’ve taken from us but their homeland. It’s taken some time but I’m coming to the realisation that they may be a larger threat to us than the Bjornmen could ever be. This is more than simply a hunt, picking off the peasants that the fae can find in the open. They’re going further than that. Kavtrin alone shows us that. If we could find a way to reach an accommodation with these Bjornmen then I believe we should explore that.”

“And you think I should speak with them first?” Selena asked him.

“I do,” Rhenkin stated firmly. “Obair doesn’t live in a world with firm numbers and facts, he works on suspicions and best guesses. I can’t blame him for that but I’d rather deal with something solid first before finding a way to deal with Obair’s best guess.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Selena conceded. “I think before I speak to these Bjornmen though, I’d like to talk to this woman. It may be she has more to tell us than anyone else.”

“I’ll have her sent in directly, Your Majesty,” Hanris said with an odd, seated bow.

“Before you do, there is something I’d like to discuss with the both of you,” she told them speaking slowly as she thought it through. “I find myself in a rather tenuous position. I may hold the throne but I have been manoeuvred there by various machinations and I have no intention of being anyone’s marionette. I occurs that I have two rather strong allies under my nose, if the right appointments were to be made.”

“Appointments?” Rhenkin raised an eyebrow.

Selena nodded, and looked up at the ceiling. “Within weeks most of the armies of Anlan will be mustering under my banner. Whilst I am sure the general staff have exemplary credentials I’ve yet to meet a single one of them that I could say I truly trust. Now is not the time to begin a campaign under untested officers, wouldn’t you say?”

Rhenkin said nothing, frowning slightly.

“I can’t have someone else in command, Rhenkin. You’ve shown you can achieve results. You’ve proven your skill and loyalty time and again. I want you to lead the armies.”

“That’s…generous, your majesty,” Rhenkin replied. “But I’m afraid that would never work. The men would never follow a simple major.”

Selena nodded. “Yes that’s why I’m appointing you Lord High Marshal.”

Rhenkin gaped, seemingly lost for words.

“Your majesty,” Hanris said, leaning into the desk. “You are aware the position of Lord High Marshal is usually an honorary one? It is not one usually associated with officers actually in the field, so to speak.”

Selena allowed herself a tight smile. “I am, Hanris, thank you. It does, however grant a military rank and an authority over and above any other save my own, I believe.”

Hanris coughed. “It does indeed. The rank was historically reserved for the crown prince and, on occasion, the prince consort.”

“Well now,” Selena said, glancing at Rhenkin. “Isn’t that interesting? I do take it you’d be willing to work under me in that…position?”

Rhenkin flushed, and then coughed as Selena smiled at him.

“The general staff would throw a merry fit,” he managed finally.

“I’m sorry?” Selena said, in mock confusion. “Who’s queen?”

Rhenkin laughed as he shook his head. “I would be willing to consider it, your majesty.”

“Excellent. As for you, Hanris,” she said, turning to the small man, “I believe I will have need of a Lord Chancellor. If you’d be willing to consider the post.”

“I would be honoured, your majesty.” Hanris said, looking shocked. “Though I feel I ought to give the matter some thought.”

“Do,” Selena said, staring at the wall behind them as she thought. “I believe that will be all, gentlemen. You have things to consider and I believe I have a woman to meet.” She barely noticed them leave and was still staring into space when a guardsman tapped at the door and escorted the old woman in.

Selena studied the woman as she approached. She was old, certainly. Her eyes and face carried more than their fair share of pain and struggle. At the same time though, she had a youthful look about her eyes, as if she hadn’t really lived her years.

She grimaced as the old woman winced her way through a curtsy. “Please, don’t,” Selena told her. “I get more than enough bowing and scraping from the servants. I’ve no need to make a woman’s life harder than it needs to be.” She motioned her into the chair. “Sit, please. I have a number of things I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Miriam smiled as she eased herself into the chair with a soft grunt of pain.

Selena gave her own wince. “Let’s dispense with that, as well, for now. I’ve only held the crown for a little more than a month and I still look behind me whenever someone uses that title.”

“As you wish,” Miriam murmured.

“Major Rhenkin informs me you can speak the language of the Bjornmen and that you learned this in the world of the fae?” the question sounded fantastical even to her and she shook her head at herself.

Miriam frowned for a moment before she spoke. “That’s correct, your…” she stopped herself with a grimace. “That’s true, my lady.”

Selena looked at her for a moment. The woman was nervous, that much was obvious. She looked as though she might bolt at any moment. “I think, perhaps, that we might have an awful lot to talk about,” Selena told her. “I’m suddenly very dry. How would you like a nice cup of tea?”

Miriam smiled with a sigh that took much of her tension out with it. “I’d like that, my lady.”

Selena reached for the bell-pull she’d had installed and looked up in expectation at the door. “Servants can be annoying,” she confided, “but they do have their uses.”

“I think we’d both like some tea,” she told the servant when he arrived.

The wait wasn’t long and Selena waved both the servant and Miriam away as she poured for both of them. “Now,” she said, settling back into her seat and sipping at her cup. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Miriam closed her eyes for a moment. “I suppose, in a way, it all started with Caerl,” she began.

Selena sipped her tea as the old woman told her story. There was something about it that nagged at her but she ignored it as the tale passed from Miriam’s flight from her abusive husband, into the world of the fae, and then, finally, to her time at Tira Scyon. It would have been easy to pity the woman, her life had been torturous, but pity was a luxury she hadn’t the time for.

“Tell me more about these Wildfae,” she asked as Miriam paused to sip her tea. “Do you think there is a division there?”

“A division?” Miriam tapped at her cup as she thought. “Possibly, but it’s not as simple as that. If Aelthen had lorded the powers of the Highfae over them from the start, if he'd withheld the knowledge that they have of glyphs and the things they can do with them, then perhaps things would be different. As it is they are rediscovering things that have been lost to them for centuries. Their world has been turned upside down by the changes Aelthen has brought but this has been tempered by these discoveries. He’s destroying their society and everything they know with one hand yet offering them wonders with the other.”

Selena nodded. “And what about the people there, the humans I mean?”

“There aren’t many in Tira Scyon,” Miriam told her. “Just the few that the highfae brought with them from Tir Rhu’thin. Humans are probably as much creatures of myth to the wildfae as the glyphs themselves.”

“That’s not the case at Tir…” Selena gave up. “At this other place?”

“No.” Miriam shook her head, apparently unaware of the expression she pulled as she spoke. “No, the humans at Tir Rhu’thin are either kept as slaves or used for breeding. The fae don’t reproduce quickly and there’s more chance of them breeding satyr or fae’reeth than a true fae. By interbreeding with humans they can change all of that. Their numbers have grown steadily since I was taken, and even more so since the Wyrde fell. This religion they created, this Church of the New Days, has resulted in hundreds, if not thousands of children passing into the world of the fae. Time passes more there than in this world and they will all have grown to be used as breeding stock.”

“The fae are behind the church?” Selena gasped.

Miriam nodded, guilt plain on her face. “The fae that took me used me as a way to pass through into our world, piercing the Wyrde. It was depressingly easy for them to dupe men with glamours and the religion grew from there. I am sure there are honest people in the church, that most have no idea, but there must be some who know what it is they are doing with the orphans and street children.”

Selena shook her head. “Lords and Ladies this is too much.” She took a deep breath. “Okay we can talk about that later. Tell me about this Aervern. What does she want?”

“If there is a division, Aervern lies at the centre of it,” Miriam told her. “She spent the last month I was with her in Tira Scyon showing me how Aelthen was bringing these changes with him. From his allowing the satyr to rejoin the fae, to his claiming of the Ivy Throne, his actions have all been calculated and she knows that. She has her own agenda though. There has been nothing selfless about her efforts. The fae don’t place as much emphasis on family that we do but it was her mother that Aelthen killed to gain the Ivy Throne. It’s her world he’s disrupting.”

“So why show you?”

“Because she didn’t just show me the impact he’s had there in Tira Scyon,” Miriam explained. “Aelthen has brought the fae together with a common purpose that they probably haven’t had for thousands of years. He’s offering our entire world to them, their promised land. I watched as the armies of the fae swept through the city the Bjornmen have built in the Eastern Reaches. I saw the Great Revel, the horde of satyr that he’s unleashed, and the swarm of fae’reeth that tore through the streets of that place. Not a thing was left living in that city. He plans to march this scourge across all of Haven until this world is all like Tir Rhu’thin.”

“And so she showed you in order to enlist your help in contacting us,” Selena nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. And what do you suppose she wants with us?”

“I don’t know, my lady,” Miriam admitted. “But she will wish to meet you and your Wyrdeweavers, and soon. I've had no contact with her at all since I arrived here and the new moon fell soon after. The moon will be full again in another few days. My hope is that she will reach out to me then.”

Selena reached for the bell-pull again. “I don’t like repeating things,” she told Miriam. “It’s probably best if I bring the others in at this point.”

“Of course, my lady,” Miriam said as Selena rose to her feet and went to meet the servant at the door, giving instructions in a low voice.

“I’ve asked Rhenkin and Obair to join us,” she said as she settled back into her seat, wincing slightly at the pain.

Miriam nodded. “If I can ask, my lady, how old is your baby now?”

Selena’s shock must have shown on her face as the old woman smiled at her expression. “How did you know?”

“It’s been the talk of every servant here, your majesty,” Miriam told her. “And even if it wasn’t I’m an old woman. I can see the signs.”

Selena managed a small smile. “He’ll be five weeks this Setday.”

“You’re still in pain,” Miriam told her. It wasn’t really a question. “He wasn’t a small baby was he?” Her smile was a shade away from a laugh as Selena shook her head with a grimace of remembered pain.

“Salt baths will help,” Miriam told her. “Witch hazel won’t hurt either. You just need to give it time, I’m afraid.”

Selena nodded, frowning at this other side of the woman.

“I was the first taken,” Miriam told her in response to the unspoken question. “The first human the fae stole from this world. I’ve helped so many women after they’ve had their fae-born children I couldn’t even count them.”

The door saved Selena from having to think of a response as a servant announced Obair.

“Your majesty,” the old man said with the briefest nod. “I thought it might be best to bring Devin along. I hope you don’t mind?”

His words were lost on her as she turned at Miriam’s gasp. The blood had drained from the old woman’s face and her eyes were full of tears. Selena followed her gaze as the question worked its way to her lips but the words were forgotten as she saw the young man.

His hair was shocking enough, somehow turned white as if the colour had simply dripped out of the ends, but it was his face that had silenced her. The recognition was clear as he took half a step forward, frowning as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Oh my stars, Devin!” Miriam gasped. Her hand reached out blindly, clutching at the back of a chair to keep herself from falling.

“What’s going on here?” Obair demanded, confusion disguising itself as frustration in his voice.

Devin’s face twisted and the years fell away from him as he spoke. His voice didn’t belong to a man almost full grown but somehow reached back through the years to the child that had been lost and scared in the woods. “Ma?”

Miriam went to him slowly, one hand reaching out in wonder to touch his face, and then she pulled him gently into her arms.

“She took you!” Devin began and then their tears stole what words remained as they clung to each other in an embrace that was almost visceral.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Now then, shall we get started?” Selena told them as she closed the door Devin and his mother had just left through. The morning was getting away from them and she could feel her frustration rising. “Obair, why don’t you bring me up to speed on your trip?”

Obair nodded, though his gaze was still on the door as Selena settled down behind the desk again. “Yes, your grace. Or perhaps your majesty is more appropriate?”

Selena gave a wry smile. “A man recently told me titles are like a warm cloak, a comfort in some places but awfully bothersome in others. Why don’t we dispense with the majesties for now?”

“Very well…” he floundered.

“Selena?” she offered.

“…Selena,” Obair finished, looking profoundly uncomfortable.

“Rhenkin tells me your journey met with some success?” she prompted him.

He nodded, his fingers twisting the folds of his robe in his lap. “It did, though it may be that it provided more questions than answers. Lillith’s cottage was exactly where I remembered it, though she was long dead when we found her.” A flash of something that might have been pain passed over his face and she gave a brief smile of sympathy.

“She did, however, leave a diary,” Obair explained. “Lillith made it clear that the Wyrde was much more complex than I ever imagined. She had been performing her own ritual, just as I was working my own. As it turns out it was Lillith maintaining the Wyrde, I merely helped to provide her with the power to do this.

There was something he wasn’t telling her and she fought back a spike of irritation as she motioned for him to continue. His story twisted away from whatever it was he’d been concealing, becoming so fantastical that she might have scoffed if it hadn’t been for recent events. A faerie creature that could melt through iron bars to effect its own escape, did a lot to eradicate any scepticism she might have had.

Obair continued his tale, taking her through his efforts to teach Devin the steps of the ritual, the arrival of the two Bjornmen that had somehow passed between the worlds, and Ylsriss's stunning discovery.

“One moment,” she said, stopping him with an upraised hand as she pinched at her forehead with another. “Are you telling me that this ritual you’ve been performing is somehow related to these fae markings? To their magic?”

“They call them glyphs, apparently,” Obair told her. “And yes, that would seem to be the case. As surprising as that is it’s the least of our discoveries.”

“I hardly see what more there could be!” Selena muttered to Rhenkin but he returned her look with a blank expression that gave nothing away. That was another conversation to be had today, she thought.

“It would seem that what I’d always been told about the knowledge and records of the druids was not entirely correct,” Obair explained. “My master had always told me that they’d been destroyed during the purges, lost as the druids fled from the men Caltus sent out to hunt us down. Devin, Ylsriss, and the other Bjornman, Joran, managed to locate a series of glyphs. They were etched into the stones themselves at the circle near Lillith’s cottage. Somehow Devin was able to activate their power and access the records and histories.”

“Is that how?” she left the question hanging

“How his hair turned white?” Obair finished for her. “That and more. It was almost as if the stones sucked the very life from him. He had ice on him when they carried him into the cottage. Ylsriss and I have spoken about it a few times but the best we have is guesses.”

“Guesses are often a good place to start when you have nothing else to go on.” Rhenkin put in.

“Guesses, Rhenkin?” Selena said with an arch look. “That doesn’t sound very professional at all!”

“We dress them up and use terms like ‘force predictions’ and ‘logistical estimates.’” He shrugged. “They’re guesses all the same.”

Obair looked back and forth between them, probably sensing the undercurrents, Selena thought.

“Our best guess is that the glyphs were designed to work differently,” the old man continued. “Ylsriss tells me that the glyphs created by the fae function with the power they can draw from the moon. The glyphs Devin activated seem to draw on our life-force itself. I suppose, in a strange way, that makes sense. The Wyrde worked on much the same…” he stopped, clamping his lips shut and glancing at both of them in a panic.

“On much the same what, Obair?” Selena asked. She’d barely beaten Rhenkin to it and he examined the druid intently as he started to speak.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” the old man said, sighing the words out in a confessional whisper. “It was something I never knew. From what I gather none of us ever knew.” He shook his head, ignoring them for a moment before he began again. “Lillith’s diaries made it clear there were two sects of druids, the keepers and the guardians. The keepers, like her, were responsible for maintaining the barrier of the Wyrde. They also kept the knowledge of the truth of the Wyrde, the truth of what it was that provided the power for the barrier.

“The guardians worked a ritual to provide that power. You see, the ritual I performed was keeping a soul captive, trapped between this world and whatever place it is that we go on to after death.” He sucked in a breath, shaking his head. “This doesn’t get any easier to tell the second time around,” he said. “I’d struggled to hold the Wyrde for decades, never realising that every time it tried to escape the hold I had it was a soul trying to escape its torment. I suppose, in a way, it all makes sense. If the Wyrde is a magic based upon the glyphs of the fae then it wouldn’t have their ability to draw power from the moon to rely upon. Our souls are all we have to offer. It’s hardly surprising that Devin’s hair turned white. He’s lucky to be alive at all!”

Selena glanced at Rhenkin but the major was staring at Obair. His mask had slipped for once and the stark horror was clear on his face for just the briefest moment before he caught himself. Someone else might have missed it but she knew that face too well.

“What did Devin discover?” Rhenkin asked.

“Everything and nothing,” Obair told him. “We talked about it on the journey back to Druel. The stones held the records of the druids but it was nothing like we could ever have imagined. The souls of dozens, if not hundreds, of druids had passed into those stones, given freely at the point of death, carrying their knowledge with them.”

Obair shook his head with a bitter laugh. “My master would talk of the lost histories when I was a child. It was the closest I ever got to bedtime stories. This was far more than the collection of dusty books I’d always imagined though. For the moments that Devin managed to reach the histories he touched the lives of those who’d lived there. In that moment he shared years, decades maybe, of their lives. He touched their memories, their lives, everything they’d known. The knowledge came like a flood, overwhelming him, and threw him from the stones.”

“He must have discovered something we can use?” Rhenkin pressed.

Obair gave a helpless shrug. “He learned how to maintain the Wyrde, a glimpse at the history of mankind and the fae, but nothing of any true use.”

“Then it was for nothing?” Selena murmured the question.

“No,” Obair shook his head. “The stones only held so much but they did point us in the right direction.”

Rhenkin frowned. “How’s that?”

“Those were not the only stones,” Obair reminded him. “The histories pointed him very clearly to Widdengate.” He laughed then, a hard sound touched with bitterness. “I left the glade looking for help, hoping to warn mankind. As it turns out the answers lay in the very stones I’d spent my life with. The knowledge, and probably the help I’d sought, was right there with me if I’d only known how to access it.”

“Widdengate!” Selena said with a wince. “How far beyond our lines is that now?”

Rhenkin sighed as he shook his head. “At this point it’s hard to say who holds what. The fae destroyed Carik’s Fort before the Bjornmen ever reached it.”

“So you have no idea what we’d be heading into?” Selena burst out. Rhenkin looked at her calmly, a raised eyebrow asking if the words had been question or statement.

“We do have scouts out there, your majesty,” he reminded her.

Selena nodded at him as she pushed the chair back and went to the map hung on the wall. She’d had it commissioned shortly after the Bjornmen invasion and the detail was something she appreciated every time she examined it. “We have troops en route from Savarel, Celstwin, and what’s left of Rentrew’s forces. Surely it’s just a matter of pushing east?” she asked.

Rhenkin joined her at the map. “Against a normal enemy I’d agree with you, your majesty. These fae don’t appear to wish to play by the rules, however.”

“Explain,” she said in a curt voice.

Rhenkin glanced at the map again, perhaps collecting his thoughts. “If it were simply the Bjornmen we faced your proposal would make perfect sense, a push east with these troops might well drive the Bjornmen from our shores. These fae though, we’ve yet to find a way to fight them effectively. I’m not sure how well we’d fare against both the fae and the Bjornmen.”

“The Bjornmen may well be less of a threat than you think, Rhenkin,” she said, peering closely at the map. “From what the woman, Miriam, tells me, their stronghold in the Eastern Reaches has been levelled by the fae. The ships they have returning from Celstwin are likely to find little but rubble.”

“Interesting,” Rhenkin mused. “Though it doesn’t change the situation all that much. If the fae can take Carik’s Fort, Kavtrin, and Rimeheld in this short time…”

“Rimeheld?” Selena interrupted.

“The name of their fallen city,” Rhenkin explained.

“Then they are a significant force and moving around at will,” Selena finished for him. “Damn it, Rhenkin, how do we counter an army we can’t hurt?”

Rhenkin frowned as he looked at Obair. “We hurt them at your glade. Some of us did anyway.”

Obair grunted his agreement. “Those that weren’t overwhelmed by them, yes.”

“We know iron will hurt the fae…” Rhenkin stopped, staring into space.

“And?” Selena prompted him.

“Sorry, your grace.” He grimaced. “Your majesty,” he corrected himself. “The girl from Widdengate, the one who concocted the notion of trapping the satyr we captured. She managed to lead a group of survivors from Carik’s Fort to here. Apparently they were attacked numerous times by the fae and gave quite the accounting of themselves. I only have half the story, but…” He shrugged. “I believe it would be worth speaking to her.”

“Do,” Selena told him.

“Me, your majesty?”

Selena raised her eyebrows. “The last I looked, Rhenkin, you were the one wearing the uniform.”

“I merely thought—”

She tapped her lips with one finger, thinking. “No, Rhenkin,” she told him. “I’m not convinced of that at all. I still have your captive Bjornmen to speak with. Surely you can manage to speak to a peasant girl.”

“As you wish, your majesty.” Rhenkin agreed.

“My majesty does,” Selena said with a broad smile. “As to the other matter concerning you and I, I believe it is something we should discuss at length but now is not the time.”

“I rather thought you had made your feelings clear,” Rhenkin told her stiffly, ignoring the perplexed expression Obair was failing to conceal as he looked back and forth between them.

“I don’t believe so, Rhenkin, no,” she replied with a toss of her head. “I don’t believe you understand my feelings on the matter at all.”

“If I may, your majesty,” Obair butted in. “If you plan to speak with Rhenkin’s Bjornmen you may find it useful to take Ylsriss and Joran along.”

She looked at him blankly.

“The two Bjornmen who escaped from the Realm of Twilight,” Obair explained. “Devin and I brought them here with us. Joran will be able to translate for you easily enough.”

Selena sucked on her lip. “Do you think they could be trusted?”

“I think they recognise the fae are far more important that the childish squabbles of two nations, your majesty,” Obair told her, meeting her eyes.

“Why do I get the impression I’ve just been told off?” She asked the room.

“I only meant, your majesty…”

Selena stopped him with a shake of the head. “If it was a scolding then it was probably deserved. If not, then it shows I probably needed one. I’ll take them with me, Obair.”

***

The night air was cool. It was closer to cold, if he was honest, but it was good to have a moment to himself. There had just been so much going on it was hard to process it all.

“Devin? Is that you?”

The sound of the footstep had him turning before his name was called but his groan at being disturbed cut off as he caught sight of her.

“Erinn?”

She ran to him, five darting steps that pulled up short as if she were suddenly unsure of herself. “I wasn’t sure it was you. I’m not used to your hair yet. You never really did tell me what happened?”

His fingers reached for it without him thinking. It had grown coarse over the weeks, almost wiry in texture. He shrugged. “It’s a long story.” She looked different somehow, older perhaps. No, now he looked at her it wasn’t really age, it was more something about the way she carried herself.

“You never really told me what happened at Carik’s Fort either, you know?”

“Carik’s Fort was attacked.” She gave him a curious look. “Didn’t you hear about that?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been away, from just about everyone actually. I’m still catching up.” He looked out over the wall again, turning only halfway so his position was an invitation. “They won’t be able to push much further. I hear that the king’s armies are finally on the move.”

“It wasn’t the Bjornmen, Devin,” Erinn said in a soft voice as she joined him at the wall. She didn’t look at him as she spoke but stared out into the darkness beyond the lights of the town.”

Devin stiffened “The fae? Against an entire fortress? What happened?”

She glanced at him and her expression made him regret the question before she started to speak. “They did what they always do. They tore down the walls and slaughtered us until the streets ran red. I only survived because of someone brave enough to shove me under one of the huts. Even then I don’t know how they didn’t find us.”

He probably shouldn’t ask the question, knowing it would be better to stop. He asked it anyway. “Us?”

She shrugged “A girl, Kel. She was the first I found anyway. After that I found Samen, and then Fornn and Jarik joined us once Samen stopped them robbing us. The others drifted in as we made our way here.”

“It sounds like I’ve just been robbed of one hell of a story,” he said with a crooked smile.

She shrugged and gave a small smile of her own. “You get nothing for nothing. You tell me what happened to you and I’ll tell you my story.”

He pushed back from the wall. “Telling stories can be thirsty work, Samen taught us both that. Why don’t we go and find something to drink?” He hefted his purse meaningfully.

She raised he eyebrows at the clinking sound. “Where did you get that lot?”

“Rhenkin’s man, Kennick, gave it to me.” He grinned. “I don’t think they really know what to do me at the moment.”

“More fool them,” she said with a look that had Devin wondering which meaning she’d intended.

He coughed and looked into the night breeze to cool hot cheeks, hoping she hadn’t noticed the blush. “Shall we then?”

She gave him another look, a smile that said she was laughing as much at herself as she was at him. It was a look he remembered from Widdengate. He’d seen it on her face whenever she been flirting with one of the boys from the village or trying to get something she wanted. He extended an arm and she took it easily and they made their way out of the palace and down into the town. She chatted lightly, filling the holes in the conversation that he left as he tried to decide which one it was. Did she just want the story or was she flirting?

The Half Moon was possibly the finest inn in Druel, catering to the elite and the toadies that clustered around the palace. Devin weighed his chances as they approached, and the large man on the door looked at him appraisingly. Erinn was busy looking at a tavern on the other side of the road. Devin cocked his head with a raised eyebrow, making the motion a silent question. The doorman’s flicked to the purse tied to his belt and a smile bloomed on his lips as he shrugged. Druel was too small a town to turn down custom by the looks of things. He waved them inside as Erinn looked at him in surprise.

“Here?”

“Why not?” Devin shrugged, enjoying the look on her face. “My coin is as good as any other.”

They were settled in at a table set in a bay window. Secluded enough for private conversation but close enough to benefit from the fire. Devin ordered a bottle of wine at random, hoping it wouldn’t be foul. He watched as Erinn sampled it. She was acting the part as much as he was, at least he hoped she was. She couldn’t know much more about wine than he did and that wasn’t much. He watched as she swirled the wine in the glass, admiring the colour before she sniffed at it, and then tasted.

Devin’s anxiety was mounting until she gave a smile of approval and the serving man poured for them both; leaving the bottle, and the responsibility with Devin.

“How did you learn so much about wine?” he asked, as soon as the man was out of earshot. “I was just hoping it didn’t taste awful.”

“I don’t.” She shrugged with one shoulder, letting her red hair tumble down her neck. “I was playing along as much as you were.”

“What was all this about then?” he asked, swirling the wine in his glass.

“I copied the couple behind you, in the corner.” She nodded towards the bar and laughed at his expression as he glanced back and raised his glass to her in mock salute.

“Not bad for a couple of hayseeds, are we?”

“We, sir, are the finest Widdengate has to offer,” she corrected him with an arch look and touched his glass with her own before taking a sip. “Now, before you fuddle me with this wine, I believe you promised me a story.”

She was a good listener, prompting him when it was needed at the beginning, and coaxing the details out of him when he faltered, but then sitting wide-eyed as the tale unfolded around them. She gasped when he spoke of Ylsriss and Joran but yet had been sober and calm when he’d talked about his hunting the satyr.

“And this?” she asked, reaching out to touch his hair. Her fingertips brushed his face as they drifted down to the table and he stumbled over his words as she smiled at him with mischief dancing in her eyes.

“The stones at Lillith’s cottage,” Devin explained. “When I reached for the histories, they took something from me. It was like they were sucking the heat, the very life out of me.”

“The histories of the Droos,” Erinn breathed. “We’re lost in a fairytale you realise?”

Devin nodded. Her words had been light, meant as a joke, but that didn’t hide the truth in them. “I know, and we’re searching for a happy ending.” He shook his head and took a deep drink before topping up their glasses. “Still, we’re here. We’ve had better luck than most. Your father must be in his element working with Rhenkin’s smiths.”

Her face fell. “He’s not…” she faltered.

“I’m sorry,” Devin said with a frown. “I just assumed he’d be working with them.”

Her gaze sank to the table as she spoke in small voice. “He’s not here, Devin. He fell when the fae came to Carik’s Fort.”

Devin closed his eyes, cursing himself for the worst kind of idiot. “I’m sorry, Erinn. I didn’t think.”

She nodded. “It’s okay.” She still looked down at the table. The mood was broken. They’d been dancing on the ice that held them from the reality of their lives and now he’d come blundering in, stamping about in hobnail boots. Harlen had been more than just her father, though that alone was bad enough. In a way he represented all of Widdengate. They’d avoided talking it until his mention had brought it all home to them both. Widdengate, their families and friends, it was all gone.

“I found my mother,” he said, trying to shift the conversation.

She frowned at him, confused by the shift in conversation and the statement. “Hannah?”

“No,” he shook his head. “My real mother, Miriam.”

She blinked. “What? How?”

“She was here when we arrived apparently,” he told her. “She came in with some Bjornmen they’d captured.”

“So she just wandered in out of nowhere? Where has she been your whole life?” Her anger rose from nowhere and she leaned forward with palms pressed to the table.

“The fae had her, Erinn,” he told her. “If I try hard enough I can almost remember it. The creature in the woods, the stone circle. Miriam was taken by the first of the fae in this world in thousands of years. In a way, I suppose, all of this began with that.”

“I hate them,” she said quietly. There was a venom in her voice that made him sit back but she carried on before he could speak. “They’ve taken so much from us. They’re evil in a way I don’t even have words for.”

Devin nodded, reaching for his drink. There wasn’t much he could say to that.

“I hate what they do to us too,” she told him, ignoring him as he offered her the bottle. “We’re so convinced that we can’t beat them, that they’re better than us, that most of us don’t even try. We cower down like mice in a field, hoping the owl won’t spot us.”

“What else can we do?” Devin asked her. “I’ve killed satyr but a true fae… Well you heard what happened at Obair’s glade. Most of the men with us wouldn’t even fire their arrows.”

“I’ve fought them too, you’ve seen me fight them,” she said, looking up at him from where she’d tipped her face towards the table. “They can be killed the same as anything else, we just need to realise that. That’s the thing with the fae. We’re so convinced they’re so powerful that we couldn’t hope to challenge them. The truth is, with a handful of this,” she reached for the string around her neck that ran to the pouch she wore, “they’re nothing.”

“You’ve changed,” he told her, smiling into the face of her angry green eyes.

She wrapped a lock of hair around her finger, “Says you.”

That brought a smile to both of them.

“You have though,” he insisted. “You’re not the girl I knew at Widdengate.”

She sniffed. “That girl was a fool.”

“She was,” he agreed. “She had lousy taste in men too.”

She laughed then, a genuine laugh that stole the tension away from the table. “Yes, well, that seems to be improving.”

He blinked. “Is that so?”

“Pour me another drink and we’ll see,” she said, her eyes dancing.

***

Klöss watched as Tristan paced. Three steps to the wall, turn, and then another ten until he turned again, doing a slow circuit of the cell.

“If you’re trying to make me dizzy you’re going to have to walk faster,” Klöss muttered, drawing a snort from Gavin who sat in the straw beside him.

“You are not funny, Klöss,” Tristan told him, sagging down to the floor. “When you suggested speaking to the Anlish about the keiju this is not what I was expecting.”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting a feast in our honour myself,” Klöss told him, “but I take your point. Being locked up like this wasn’t what I’d hoped for but I can’t really blame them. What would we have done to them if they’d come walking into Rimeheld?”

Tristan grunted. “At least you are being taken out and spoken to. We have been caged for weeks.”

“At least we’re not chained to the walls.” Klöss shrugged.

Tristan didn’t bother to comment.

“Have they even spoken to you about the trels?” Gavin asked him.

“Some,” Klöss said with a glance at the thick wooden door. “Not enough. I don’t know how much their man, Rhenkin, believes. I don’t think he trusts me or trusts that this isn’t some ploy. I can’t blame him, I suppose.”

“They think this is a trick of some kind?” Gavin scoffed. “So first we get ourselves taken captive, and then we conquer them from inside their own cells?”

Klöss gave the man a wry smile. “I think that’s the plan, yes.”

Gavin grinned back. “Let’s get started then. This cell is beginning to bore me.”

Klöss glanced over at Tristan but the man was ignoring them, watching the door with his head tilted to one side, listening.

“What…” Klöss began but stopped at a muffled clang from the iron grates that lay in the hallways beyond the door. He raised an eyebrow at Tristan but the expression was lost in the dim light and his eyes turned back to the door as a grating came from the lock.

The men didn’t speak as they came in. One reached for him and put the chains on his wrists as the other held a club ready. It was the same thing they’d done every time they’d come for him lately and Klöss shook his head in silent amusement. Where was he going to go, even if he could overpower them?

Tristan and Gavin watched in silence as he was led away. He managed to meet Gavin’s eyes once but the brief nod said everything there was to say.

It was only moments before he realised they were taking him somewhere new. He was pushed roughly into an empty cell before a bucketful of shockingly cold water was tossed over him, followed by another. His angry question must have shown on his face as one of the guards muttered something to him before holding his nose and grimacing in a pantomime of disgust whilst pointing at him.

Apparently he stank. Klöss could believe that easily enough. They’d been in the same clothes for weeks, rough sackcloth that had been crudely stitched into shape. It was so ingrained with dirt and sweat now that it had stopped scratching.

They marched him on, passing through passages that turned and twisted until he had no idea of the path they took, except that it was new to him. Finally they passed through a series of metal grates and into another passage. The light was brighter here with lamps on the walls here instead of the smoky torches. Wherever they were taking him it was outside of the cells and not to Rhenkin.

They passed up a staircases and into a richly appointed hallway. Twice startled servants skipped out of the way to let them through, staring after them with scandalised looks. They finally stopped at a door guarded by two men in armour. The men themselves were not large but one look at them told Klöss everything he needed to know. These men were not here to look imposing. They were here because they knew their jobs.

He shook the remains of water from his hair as his escorts had a brief, whispered conversation with the guards, the shorter guard glaring at him as the droplets spattered on his face as the other knocked. Klöss grinned at him once and they pushed him into the room.

A woman sat waiting for him. She sipped from a porcelain cup as she watched him come in, her fine gown at odds with the rough wooden table. Armed men stood behind her, almost hidden in the shadows as they stood against the wall. A glance at one face told him they were ready, and close enough, to prevent him doing any harm to her. Still, they were further away than they would have liked, that much was obvious. She was someone of importance then.

The room was mostly bare. Disused he decided as he looked around. The woman motioned for him to take a seat and he stepped towards the chair, looking around for Miriam. A figure peeled itself away from the wall, rushing towards him before being held back by a guard. She struggled and kicked at him, producing a muffled grunt as she twisted away.

Blonde hair flew as she shook her head and then looked at him with a smile. “Hello, rich boy.”

“Ylsriss!” he gasped, his poise gone. “What in the hells are you doing here?”

“Not the hells, Klöss.” She gave a sad smile as she shook her head. “Though it might as well have been.”

She glanced at the chains on his wrists and turned to the woman at the table, speaking quickly in Anlish before shaking her head violently and stabbing a finger at him. The guards took a step towards her as she slammed a hand down onto the table, her voice rising.

Through it all the red-haired woman remained calm and in control, speaking in a soft voice as Ylsriss raged at her. Klöss couldn’t understand the words but he’d seen her angry enough times to know that she was close to losing control completely. The woman peered around Ylsriss at him once and shrugged before looking back to her.

The guard wrestled with the lock on his manacles briefly and they fell clanking to the ground. Klöss rolled his shoulders and rubbed at the skin of his wrists as he looked at the tiny blonde woman. “Were you planning on telling me what the hell is going on?”

“This is Selena, queen of the Anlish,” Ylsriss said as she waved at the woman at the table. “I’ve had you freed, on the condition that you help us.”

He gaped at her for a moment “Us? How did you…?” he gave up as Ylsriss burst into laughter, pointing at his expression.

“It’s very simple, rich boy. They need me and I told her I wouldn’t help unless they free you. In a way you’re my price.”

“Was that price or prize?” Klöss muttered, trying to catch up.

She gave him a look that he’d missed for far too long. “Maybe both.”

Part Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Why am I doomed to be surrounded by an endless reunion?” Selena sighed to herself as the two Bjornmen babbled away at each other. She knew enough of their story to know this could go on for hours.

“Just tell him the bare bones, Ylsriss,” she said, interrupting them. “I need to talk to him.”

The blonde woman gave her a look that seemed to carry any number of curse words with it, but then nodded.

Selena sighed and turned around to one of the men behind her. “It’s Picking, isn’t it?”

“Pickering, your majesty,” the soldier said with a faint grimace.

She nodded, filing the name away. “Do you think you could send one of your men to fetch Rhenkin and the druid?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Here, your majesty?”

She looked around in mock surprise, as if just noticing the state of the room. “Oh, do you suppose we ought to clean it up for him first?” she asked, wide eyed. “Yes, here! If I can stomach it I’m sure they can find a way to manage!”

He set off at a run as she sipped at the tea,

“Does he know who I am?” Selena asked as Ylsriss turned to face her. She grunted her acknowledgement of the woman’s nod. “Rhenkin tells me that he is some kind of commander?”

“His name is Klöss,” Ylsriss grated, not bothering to soften her tone.

Selena sighed. This was clearly not going to be as easy as she’d thought. “Would you please ask Klöss exactly what his position is?”

Ylsriss narrowed her eyes and then, apparently unable to find anything wrong with the request, turned for a brief conversation.

“My name is, Klöss, Lord of Rimeheld and Shipmaster of the Thane of the Barren Isles,” Klöss told her through Ylsriss. “But then I’m sure your man, Rhenkin, already told you this.”

Selena nodded, smiling as Ylsriss relayed the message to her. “He did. As your wife?” she paused on the word, lifting her tone to make it a question before carrying on. “As Ylsriss informed you I now rule here in Anlan. It would seem to me that we have been given an opportunity here, one that is perhaps too great to pass over.”

“I don’t negotiate standing up,” Klöss told her, though Ylsriss failed to completely hide the smile as she spoke for him.

Selena didn’t bother to hide her own and turned to a guard, “Run along and fetch some more chairs would you?”

Klöss settled down into the plain wooden chair when it arrived and smiled. “You mentioned an opportunity?”

Selena shook her head. “I’m not a great one for playing games. I excel at it when the situation demands but I’ve rather come to believe that the time has come for some plain speaking, wouldn’t you agree?”

Klöss’s only response was a guarded nod.

“I’ll begin then,” Selena told him. “We could sit here for hours and talk about the Bjornmen invasion of my lands but that’s not why you came here. Frankly you’re no threat to me now. As a mere duchess I was unable to repel your people but as queen, with all the armies of Anlan behind me, I could drive your forces into the seas and burn your villages behind you.”

She waited as Ylsriss relayed that and held her hand up as his eyes widened and he started to speak. “I think though, that the fae pose a greater threat to both our nations than we could ever pose to each other. I've no intention of keeping you imprisoned or executing you. You're far more use to me alive than dead. It is the threat from the fae that I wish to speak about. What would you say to a temporary truce? An accord by which we agree to work together against these creatures?”

Klöss leaned in, clasping his hands on the table that stood between them. Selena sensed, rather than saw, the hands that tightened around sword hilts behind her and she took a deep breath as the man began to speak. “You’re right, Queen, I didn’t come to talk about our battles. I do not know how much authority I still have,” Klöss admitted. “As I told your man Rhenkin the sealord has taken direct control of this conflict but I think your plan is a good one. With as much authority as I have left I will support you against these creatures. The issues we have between our peoples we can discuss later. These keiju… These…fae, as you call them. I think you are right, they are the greater enemy…” he broke off, shaking his head.

“It began as skirmishes, attacks that came out of nowhere and left too few behind to bring the news. Then they began attacking our villages, emptying entire settlements and leaving the bodies behind to rot. I’ve seen these creatures, seen a horde large enough to give an entire fleet of men pause.” He stopped as the doors opened and Rhenkin and Obair filed in, followed by men bringing more chairs and servants with refreshments.

“Your majesty,” the druid gave a passable bow. “I thought it might be an idea to bring Joran along. We have a great deal to discuss and neither Ylsriss nor Joran would be able to contribute much if they’re constantly translating.”

The man, she’d noticed, was possessed of uncommonly good sense at times. “Very well.” She looked around at the faces about them. “Shall we discuss what we can do against the fae?”

***

The woods were close to the walls of Druel, reaching out towards the town from the edges of the hills. Selena glanced up at the moon and glanced over at Obair with a raised eyebrow.

He shrugged in response to her unasked question. “All we can do is wait, I’m afraid.” Behind him Rhenkin muttered instructions to his men and fingered his own bared sword.

The breeze was light but carried the bitter promise of winter with it. It cut through Selena's cloak and clothes as easily as any knife might and she shivered, pulling the cloak tighter around herself as she glanced around at the others. Nerves showed on their faces and in the way they fidgeted. Of them all, only Miriam and Joran seemed unconcerned.

Rhenkin had picked the place well. Whilst the trees would provide cover for the creature should she try to flee they were positioned some distance from the edge of the trees and Rhenkin’s men all carried ironhead arrows for their bows.

Devin sniffed and stiffened, turning to point out the figure that stepped out from the darkness between the moonlit elms. Selena followed his finger to the shadow making its way out of the woods. She moved with the casual grace so common to dancers and acrobats yet there was something feline about her. There was a beauty to her that went beyond her features and her form. She was a thing of wonder, a myth made flesh. She was glorious.

Selena shook her head, biting hard on her tongue as she fought to chase away the sense of wonder. Even though she’d been warned about this it was one thing to hear about it and quite another to experience it.

Dimly Selena was aware of the men behind her drawing bowstrings back as the creature stopped, cocking her head to one side as she looked at them curiously for a moment before searching the group with her odd eyes.

“I would speak with you, Wyrdeweaver,” she said to Obair, her accent alien but yet somehow formal. “Have your manlings put away their fehru. You have no threat from me.”

Obair cleared his throat as he came to stand beside Selena. “I find that hard to believe.”

She shrugged, a picture of indifference. “Believe what you will, manling. If I wished you harm your arrows and blades would be of little use, fehru or no.”

He glanced back at Selena and Rhenkin with a worried frown. “Ahh…”

Miriam pushed past him with a frustrated sigh. “You set me on this path, Aervern. You sent me to find these Wyrdeweavers. Let’s not waste time posturing, I’m too old for this foolishness.”

The fae nodded soberly. “There is a wisdom in your words.”

Selena pushed forward, clearly if anything was to be achieved here, she would have to do it herself. “What do you want with us?” She cringed inwardly as the creature’s glowing eyes turned to her, appraising her for a moment before it spoke.

“The Wyrde has stood for untold ages, locking those that would hunt away from both this land and my own. Their return has not proven to be all I would have wished,” Aervern told her.

“Your kind has slaughtered thousands of my people,” Selena grated, “forgive me if I find it hard to sympathise with you.”

“Your people?” The fae put a peculiar emphasis on the words, cocking her head. “Can a manling own others of its own kind?”

“I am queen here in Anlan,” Selena replied, unabashed. “The people of Kavtrin and Carik’s Fort that you fae slaughtered for your amusement were my people.”

“You are manlings, we fae.” Aervern shrugged. “Tales tell that the hunt was ever the way of things.” She pushed on before Selena could speak. “Those that have returned, however, would move beyond the hunt. They seek to take this world for their own. Understand, Queen, that this land belongs to the fae far more than it ever has to your people. Your kind fled here, stealing that which was promised us. Aelthen would punish you for this. He would drive each and every one of you before him with a lash until you collapsed to the dirt if he could. He no longer is content with a mere hunt but has raised banners that have not been seen in countless ages. He would set the fae to war, to purge this world of your kind until only a handful remain.”

“And you just want to help us out of the kindness of your heart?” Devin called out.

The fae glanced at him, a dismissive look that said far more than words could hope to. Her gaze lingered though, and she frowned at him for a moment before turning her gaze back to Selena. “You know nothing of my kind, of my world. My reasons are my own, take my aid or spurn it at your peril.”

“What exactly is it you propose?” Selena asked.

“The Wyrde held our worlds apart for thousands of years,” Aervern said, speaking softly. “Now that it has fallen our worlds touch once more. Better that it had never fallen.” She looked past Selena, pausing for a moment on Devin as she sought out Obair’s eyes. “Better that it was remade.”

Selena followed her gaze. “Can you do that, Obair?”

“Perhaps,” the old man said, looking troubled. “The knowledge is locked in the stones at the Withengate, though it nearly killed Devin the last time he reached for it.”

“Aervern!” Joran blurted out.

Aervern smiled at the young man. “Yes, my sweet?”

He flushed as all eyes turned to him, frowns asking questions. “No, I mean Aervern could power the glyphs. It would be just like giving power to a moonorb, there would be no need for Devin to do anything.”

“I think you’re forgetting the small matter of an army of fae between here and Widdengate,” Selena put in. “It’s not a simple matter of strolling across open country.”

“The girl, Erinn, had some ideas about that, your majesty.” Rhenkin put in. “Things I’d rather not go into in present company but that should make our forces more effective.”

Selena pursed her lips. “Even so we’re looking at some time before we have enough men to put into the field. Where else will this Aelthen have razed by then?”

Obair cleared his throat. “If I may, your majesty? There is a rather obvious solution to this.”

“Oh?”

“Widdengate is behind Bjornmen lines, is it not?” he asked Rhenkin.

The man grunted his agreement with a confused frown.

“In fact, from what I remember from your maps, Widdengate is no closer to us here than it is from the coast and the Bjornmen city is it?” Obair persisted.

“What are you suggesting, old man?” Selena asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Obair asked with a broad grin. “You need more men. Didn’t you say that there was an entire Bjornmen fleet headed for home to the city that the fae have just destroyed?”

“Ally with the Bjornmen?” Selena said, aghast. “My rule would be the shortest in history!” She shook her head hard enough to make her hair fly. “I just deposed a king on the basis of his inaction against the Bjornmen, now you would have me ally with them? No, the notion is ridiculous,” she insisted. “Even if I were open to the idea it would take months to broker an agreement.”

“I don’t think it would take nearly that long,” Obair disagreed. “I imagine Klöss could be convinced to come on side reasonably easily.”

“Klöss?” Selena scoffed. “The man is a deserter in their eyes. Exactly how much authority do you imagine he’d have?”

“But this Rimeheld of theirs has been razed, your majesty,” Obair reminded her. “The commanders there are dead, at least that’s what Miriam told us?” He looked to the woman for confirmation. She nodded, her frown mirroring those of the others.

“And from what you’ve told me, Rhenkin, Klöss claims to have left after the fleet had already sailed? So those on the fleet would have no idea he’d deserted would they?”

Selena sighed. “This is all very interesting, Obair. And yes, you’re right, Klöss would probably be able to take charge of the men returning on their fleet. That is if it weren’t for the tiny matter of him being here, not there.”

“Ah hah!” The old man grinned, the smile looking out of place on his usually sad, tired, face.

“What now?” Selena demanded, losing her patience.

“You’re overlooking something. The fae can move from place to place far faster than our forces are capable of, isn’t that right?”

“Well, yes?” she shook her head as she spoke, unsure what he was driving at.

“Then Aervern could take Klöss to his men, couldn’t you?” he looked to the fae who stood watching them.

“I am not here to act as your servant, Wyrdeweaver. There are dangers you have not yet considered. Aelthen will know of your coming. The stench of the Wyrde is still thick on you both and he will know of your presence long before any other fae might detect it. If you attempt to battle your way through to the Withengate he will know of your presence. He will seek you out and lay you low.” That gave Obair pause and he tugged at his beard as he looked to Selena.

“A distraction then,” Rhenkin said, speaking before Selena could. “If you believe you can recreate this Wyrde and banish these beasts by reaching Widdengate then our job is simple. We must provide a threat sufficient enough to keep Aelthen and his forces occupied whilst you do. If the Bjornmen can strike from the east as we move our forces in from the west then so much the better.”

Selena nodded in a distracted fashion, looking at the fae. “Why do I feel I’m being toyed with here? We’re busily making plans to rebuild the Wyrde, as I understand it, to banish you and your people from a place you admit is close to a paradise for you. What I don’t understand is why you would do this? We seem to be taking all the risks here. Even meeting with you was a risk. What exactly is it that you stand to gain?”

Aervern hissed through her teeth, sinking down slightly as she shifted unconsciously towards a fighting stance. “You think I risk less than you? In doing this I betray my race, my entire people. You speak truly, I would snatch their promised land, their paradise, from within their clutching fingers. The response, when I am discovered, will be hot with fury. There will be no flight or hiding from Aelthen. I cannot huddle down inside my burrow and hope the shade-cat will pass. Our Lady pulls at me the same as it does he. Here, in her land, or in the Realm of Twilight he will find me. This is a slave we speak of, granted untold Grace and power and grown to king and tyrant. His vengeance will know no limits. I can be denied my death for a thousand years as he imagines torments to inflict upon me. My life will not end swiftly. Do not tell me I risk nothing, little queen. I am the one laying with the jaws tight about my throat.”

Selena raised an eyebrow. The fae’s obvious anger was interesting and she remained carefully composed as she wondered how best to use it. “If this is true then why would you do this? What do you stand to gain?”

“She gets a legend.” Joran stepped out from the press of men. “There was a time when we achieved wonders, when mankind and fae walked together between worlds. The Realm of Twilight has thousands of us still there, thousands of us who would never know this world as their home even if they were returned here.” He lowered his eyes as his voice fell, “There are some who never could.”

Selena narrowed her eyes, noting others giving the young man the same questioning looks. She shook her head. It was hardly the most pressing thing at the moment. “I don’t like the idea of abandoning them…”

“I don’t see any realistic alternative, your majesty,” Obair told her, though his eyes drifted to Joran as he spoke.

Selena grunted, there wasn't much she could say to that. “Will you agree then?” she asked Aervern. “If what you say is true we will need the Bjornmen’s numbers to be a credible threat to the armies of the fae. Will you take Klöss to find the fleet?”

Aervern met her gaze and regarded her in silence for a moment, obviously thinking. She touched her hand to her lips, chest, and forehead as she stepped back into a bow. “I will do this thing.”

***

The trees flew past her, silvered trunks shone as they were caught in a flash of moonlight that filtered down through the trees. The hand reached for her again and she lashed out savagely as she twisted away from its grasp. Fingernails that were closer to claws than anything else caught at her hair, slowing her as the other hand reached out for her.

The forest floor rushed up to meet her and her hands skidded painfully through leaves and twigs as she fell. Ylsriss screamed, a breathless sound robbed of any force as the wind was driven from her. Terror gave her the strength to roll over, kicking out at the face of the horned creature. The satyr avoided her flailing easily, grinning through its lust as it lowered itself down, crawling towards her.

She lashed out again, stamping out with her heel.

“Oh shit!” The groan of pain was followed by a muffled thud as a body rolled over in the bed and fell to the floor, dragging the blankets with it. She sat up in the bed, curling herself tight and hugging her knees against the cold of the night air.

“Klöss?” her voice sounded small, even to herself.

He groaned again. “Kicked me in the bloody balls,” he trailed off, his words more than halfway to being a whimper.

She rubbed at her eyes, grinding the heels of her palms into them to drive away the sleep. A faint glow still came from the embers of the fire and she crouched down beside it, blowing gently to coax a flame onto the taper before lighting the lamp and moving on to the others.

“Lord of the bloody seas,” Klöss whimpered, curled into a ball beside the bed with his hands between his legs. The laugh burst out of her before she could stop it and she clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in those that followed it. “Oh, Klöss, I’m sorry.”

“Mmph,” he managed, curling tighter against the pain.

Ylsriss, staggered to the edge of the bed, laughing harder. “I was dreaming, I…”

He pulled himself up, falling onto the bed as he curled up again. “Some bloody dream.”

“Oh, come on,” she chided. “It can’t be that bad.”

He stopped long enough to give her a black look, and then snapped his eyes shut against the pain.

“I was dreaming,” she told him again, her laughter fleeing in the face of the memories. “I was being chased, a satyr.”

He sat up then, still bent against the pain, but listening. “A nightmare?” He grimaced at the stupidity of his own question but she ignored it.

“I hate them.” There was a venom in her voice that surprised even her. “I hate them, Klöss. I hate what they’ve done to me, to us…to the whole fucking world.”

He nodded, seeing she wasn’t finished.

“The things they did to me,” she whispered. “To everyone in that place. We’re worse than cattle to them but what's worse than that is that they make us feel like that’s right. That that’s the way it should be, you know? They lay the Touch on thick, sometimes without even seeming to notice, and all we do is adore them, worship them. People like the girl I told you about, Tia. You remember?” She looked at him for a moment but was more focused on his eyes than if he agreed with her or not. “She reached out for the Touch. She wanted it. She saw the fae as gods, or something like it. If Aelthen’s war succeeds the whole world will be filled with people like her.”

“It won’t,” he said.

She was crying now. The tears hadn’t fallen but they hung there in her voice. “It will, Klöss. You don’t know, you didn’t see.”

“We’ll stop them,” he told her, reaching for her.

She pushed away from his touch. “And what about Effan? What about our baby?”

He took a deep breath, hand still outstretched towards her. “I don’t know, Ylsriss. I don’t know what to say. What can we do?”

She shook her head, hiding from the question.

“You told me that the time passes differently. That a week or a year here would be far longer in this Realm of Twilight? How old would he be now? Even if we could find him, would he even know you? Would you know him”

She turned on him then, eyes flashing. “This isn’t just about me! This is your son!”

“I know that,” he shot back. “A son I never even got to see before he was taken.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“It isn’t mine either!”

Silence fell then, thick and heavy between them, swallowing their words and smothering them.

“If we do this thing…” he looked at her, leaning in and lifting her eyes with his gaze.

“I know.” It was barely more than a whisper. She closed her eyes as she took a breath. “I want to go home. Back to Hesk, back to a place that’s ours. I want to be me again.”

“We will,” he promised. He reached for her again and this time she didn’t resist.

“And now you’re leaving me again. You’ve only been out of their cells for a couple of weeks, we’ve only just found each other, and you’re abandoning me.” She smiled up at him, softening the accusation.

He smiled back. “Someone has to go and take charge. If the sealord really is dead…” he sighed. “We have to try and salvage something from this mess.”

“I know,” she murmured, nestling closer, drawing comfort from him.

“I’m more worried about you than me,” he told her. “Why do you even need to go? Surely this Joran can find these glips for you?”

“Glyphs,” she corrected him. “And no, Joran might be able find them but he couldn’t read them well or understand anything much. If they’re any different to the ones we found at that cottage, well, this whole thing falls apart.”

“I don’t like you going near those things, those trels.” He squeezed his arm tighter around for a moment.

“I don’t want to.” She shrugged. “Someone has to… Don’t worry, rich boy, you’re not getting away that easily. Besides, you’ll be closer to them than I will. I don’t like the idea of you travelling with that fae woman one little bit.

“You don’t trust her?”

“I don’t trust any of them.” Her anger and hate bubbled to the surface again for just the barest moment before she pushed it back down.

“At least take Tristan and Gavin with you,” he suggested.

“Okay.”

“Maybe we need to think about something else,” he suggested with a smile.

“Maybe we do…” She tilted her head up to meet his kiss and the shreds of the dream fled, at least for a time.

***

Ileriel stood in silence as her eyes closed and she reached out around her, searching with her senses. The grass was cool on her feet and the wind soft as it brushed her face but she felt it still. The Lady still pulled at her, even as her Gift filled her. It was a gentle touch now, little more than a reminder of the power that would drag her back to the Realm of Twilight but it was there, ever-present, nagging.

A satyr snarled out, breaking her concentration, and Ileriel snapped her eyes open, glaring at the foolish creatures. The Great Revel was restless. Riahl, their supposed leader, barely hard even nominal control. He was the feral leader of a pack of rock wolves. He might be leader of the pack but that did nothing to make the members less wild.

These satyr were nothing like those that had been imprisoned with her in the Outside. Those had a dignity about them, a sophistication that was lacking in these others. Their isolation and banishment from Tira Scyon and the wildfae had made them wilder and more savage. In many ways they were little more than animals. They were ignorant of much of the power the Lady gave them. Their control and use of the Lady’s Grace was limited at best, driven mostly by instinct.

The Great Revel spread out before her, filling the valley they had stopped in. This was the first night they hadn’t run, following the setting of the sun in search of the next manling stronghold. Controlling them was not easy. Might as well try and control the wind. She could direct them, force them in the right direction, but beyond that her influence mattered for little.

The faeborn were no help. Her gaze followed the thought over to where the trio sat under a willow. They spoke little but were always together, their sapphire eyes shining faintly as the Lady blessed them. Aelthen had sent them with her to help control the Revel. So far they had been of little use.

She looked over towards the source of the snarl. Two satyr crouched low as they circled each other, surrounded by a crowd of spectators. The knives flashed as one hurled itself toward the other, blades slicing through the air in a flurry of motion. There was a beauty to the fight of these satyr but it never lasted for long. The grace and elegance of a fae was there but overlaid with something far more savage. For a time the two were able to combine into something quite wondrous but the savagery always won out. In the end the fight would devolve into little more than a brawl.

Ileriel watched them for a moment, channelling the Lady’s Gift towards her eyes and enhancing her vision. The two were well matched in size and strength, it seemed, but the similarities ended there. One fought with all of the grace and beauty of a true fae, the other with a bestial brutality. His blade may as well have been a rock, or a club snatched from the dirt, for all the elegance he showed.

She pursed her lips, appreciating the movement of the first as he stepped outside of the line of attack, shifting behind the satyr’s back and slashing with his blades before breaking off, creating space with which to control the next clash. The response was a roar as base as an enraged shade-cat as the second satyr flew at him, crashing into his body and bearing him to the ground where they rolled in the dirt.

Her lip curled in disgust and she turned back to the curiosity. It lay in a bare patch of earth, scuffed clear of plant and grass. The arrowhead was roughly fashioned, nothing like the precise crafting of her own bone-headed arrows. The metal was dull and barely reflected the moonlight. How odd that something so simple could steal her Grace or set her to burning. How odd that here, in the Land of the Lady, this substance was so common. She reached out, not quite touching the thing.

“They spoil for the battle.”

The voice shocked her, both because of how close it was, and because she hadn’t heard the speaker approach. She shifted, a casual movement that dropped her own arrows neatly over the thing as she looked up at Riahl.

“They are satyr. Your kind is never far from hunt or blade.” She didn’t bother to hide the disdain in her voice and his face wrinkled in the briefest of snarls at her response.

“The huntmaster will soon be nearing his destination,” he told her, keeping his tone level despite the anger that must be raging inside him. “When the sun falls again we will move on.”

She shrugged, the picture of indifference. “We will move when Aelthen wishes it.”

He shook his head, the long hair on his head billowing out like some great shaggy mane. “This thing of moving together, waiting for others to be in position, it has a strangeness to it. It does not feel right to me. It would be simpler, I think, to just loose my revel upon the manlings and gut them as they flee.”

She grimaced, her disgust showing at the idea. “This is not some mere hunt, Riahl. The manlings have an arrogance born of ignorance, they know not their place. They seek to stand against us, to defy us with blade and fire. Aelthen’s Purge will cull them. It will grant us this land, the land that was promised us. If you can keep your animals under control, that is.”

He glared at her then, his anger bright enough to make her rise to a half-crouch as his hands strayed to the knives in his looping harness. “I and my kind are not mere beasts, Ileriel. The Lady blesses us as she does you. We are all fae.”

“You are satyr,” she hissed at him. “I am fae. You will do as you are bid. Now go!” She flicked a dismissive hand before her, shooing him away.

It hung there for the length of an angry breath until he gave a small bow and turned away, but it wasn’t until he’d taken twelve steps that she let go of the knife strapped to her back.

The iron arrowhead lay waiting under her quiver. She crouched slowly, watching the satyr around her. Were any close enough to see? To wonder? She moved quickly, extending a hand again, reaching out with flesh and mind. The light flared under her fingertip, sparked by the barest contact and with a light bright enough to blind. Pain shot through her, numbing her arm and leaving her with an odd feeling of emptiness, of being drained and she clenched her teeth together to contain the scream that sought to escape. She glanced around her quickly, catching the odd looks from the satyr closest to where she crouched.

A glare turned the eyes from her and she reached to retrieve the thing, covering it in a fold of fabric to keep it from her skin. It had drained the Grace from her. Not so much that she would suffer, but that in itself was interesting. She twisted to look behind her to where she knew the sun would rise, draining the Lady's Gift with its touch. She’d huddled in the dark of the woods to avoid it this far whilst the satyr milled about, ignoring of the power it stole from them. Perhaps that was a mistake. She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Rhenkin?”

Kennick turned to the speaker. A red-faced man sat astride a horse that looked almost as miserable as he did. The man was well past his fighting years yet here he was, dressed in armour that was probably too tight and had most likely spent the last twenty years decorating a hallway in his mansion, if Kennick was any judge.

“No, my lord.” He gave a nod in place of a bow. “I am Lieutenant Kennick, the major’s second. If I can be of assistance?”

The man tugged off his gauntlet and pulled a handkerchief from his belt, mopping at the sweat running freely from his face. “A bit of direction wouldn't go amiss,” he muttered. “I have five thousand lancers here, lad. It would be nice to know where he’d like us.”

“I’m sorry, my lord…?”

“Salisbourne, Earl of Westermark,” the man told him. “I’m here with the Celstwin garrison. Those of it that managed to keep up anyway. The rest will be along in a day or so, I imagine.”

Kennick took a deep breath through his nose. Bloody fops were worse than useless most of the time. “I’m afraid the lord high marshal is…”

“The marshal is what, Kennick?”

The lieutenant turned. “Ah. sir, his Lordship, the Earl Salisbourne…”

“Has five thousand horse and wants to know where the hell you want them,” Salisbourne snapped over Kennick’s head.

Rhenkin gave the man a flat stare until he shifted his weight in the saddle. “Good to have you with us, my lord,” Rhenkin said with a nod. He looked to Kennick. “How are we doing?”

The younger man looked skyward for a moment, mentally checking things off. “I would say we’re slightly behind, sir.” He shrugged. “All things considered it could be a lot worse.”

Rhenkin grunted. “Numbers man, give me some numbers.”

“The Savarel contingent arrived last night with General Ackerson, but we’ve had columns trickling in for the past week. With Lord Salisbourne’s lancers,” he nodded towards Salisbourne as he clambered down from his horse, “we have something in the region of sixty thousand on foot and twenty thousand horse. I’ll have a more definite figure for you later in the day. Ackerson has requested to meet you at the earliest opportunity as well, sir.”

Rhenkin waved that off. “Supplies?”

“Well in hand, sir,” Kennick said. “We have wagons already rolling to supply dumps and more ready to move with us. I can give you specifics if—”

“No, that’s fine. Send runners. I want to begin the march as soon as possible.” He looked to Salisbourne. “I trust your men will be able to manage that?”

Salisbourne nodded. “I dare say they’ll be ready. They’re in far better shape than I am and we all knew this march was coming. An army this size won’t take a step in the next few hours anyway, long enough to give the nags a break eh?” He patted his grey affectionately. “They do the hard work, after all.”

“They do, though this won’t be an easy ride for any of us.” Rhenkin gave the man a meaningful look.

Salisbourne chuckled. “I’m not as useless as I look, Rhenkin. I may not be twenty-five anymore, and it took me a good hour to squeeze into this armour, but I can still swing a sword if need be.” He glanced down at his figure and back with a wry smile. “I know my limits, marshal. I’ll leave the bone-cracking to younger men with less sense and more muscle, unless it comes down to it, of course. I can help you lead and organise though, not that I’d want your job, and not that I’ll be getting in your way. An army needs one leader not five.”

Rhenkin nodded in thanks and smiled despite himself. The man, for all his bluster and ridiculous armour, had an easy smile and it was hard not to like him. “I’ll leave you to take what rest you can and ready your men then, my lord. Kennick will get you settled until the runners send word.”

“I suspect there’ll enough titles to trip over, Rhenkin. Call me Salisbourne, or Thomas if you’ve a mind to.”

Rhenkin gave tight smile and nodded a farewell, stepping past the pair and into the command tent where he knew reports would be waiting for him.

The army moved ponderously. Flowing out of the regions surrounding Druel like a great slug and swallowing the fields and countryside to either side of the road. It took hours for them to begin moving, and longer still to form up into a decent marching order. The first day seemed to finish almost before it had begun and, though Rhenkin knew they would cover more ground in the days ahead, the fact that Druel was only just out of sight as they made camp grated.

By the week's end the army was making better progress. Rhenkin dealt with the reports and subordinates as he rode, though he managed to pass a great deal off on Kennick. It hurt to admit it but the man might be more competent that Larson had been.

“How long do you imagine it will take us?” Obair asked, nudging his horse up alongside the major.

“Hmm?” Rhenkin looked up from the paper he’d been reading as he rode.

“To Widdengate?”

“Four or five weeks at least,” Rhenkin told him. “Though I don’t expect we’ll get that far.” The druid frowned and Rhenkin folded the report, tucking it into his belt. “We’ve talked through this twice already, Obair. What’s the problem?”

Obair sighed and looked over one shoulder to Devin, riding behind them as he chatted with Ylsriss. “It’s all too tenuous, Rhenkin. I don’t know, you’re a military man, I suppose I expected firm plans that were set in stone.”

Rhenkin laughed, a genuine laugh that was devoid of mocking. “Plans aren’t often worth the paper they waste. They’ve usually changed before the ink’s dry,” he told him. “We’re pushing eastwards. I have scouts out there already but most of this is in the hands of the fae.” He shrugged and spoke in a lower voice, “It’s not something I’d toss around, Obair, but I don’t honestly know what to expect. This isn’t an army of men we’re marching towards. They don’t think like us, don’t act like us. There are too many unknowns here for us to plan.” He met the old man’s eyes and, for the first time, his frustration showed. “Will they even form ranks like a human army? Will they group together? Or will they fight like a wild mob? For that matter will they even be in one group?”

Obair opened his mouth to respond but Rhenkin stopped him with a shake of the head. “There’s no point in guessing. We’ve been through this and you’ve already told both me and the queen what you know of these fae. The best we can do is head east and wait for the scouts.”

Obair winced. “That’s really all we can do?”

“Unless you have a better idea.” Rhenkin raised an eyebrow.

“Hold on.” Obair frowned back at him. “What do you mean you don’t expect to get that far?”

“To Widdengate?” Rhenkin shook his head. “I doubt we’ll get anywhere close to it. If what the Bjornman told us was true then the fae are here in force. They'll meet us long before we ever get near Widdengate.”

“Then how…?”

“You’ll have to leave, strike out on your own, or with a small force at best.” Rhenkin frowned himself. “This can’t be news to you, Obair. Devin has spoken to both the queen and myself about this at length.”

“He what?”

“His memories of the fae.” Rhenkin shrugged. “Maybe memories is the wrong word, but I mean the knowledge he gained through the stones. The visions he had of the fae armies.”

“I hadn’t realised he’d been speaking to you about them,” Obair admitted with a glance back at the boy.

“As soon as we engage… Even before that, really. At first contact you’ll break for the stones at Widdengate with Ylsriss, Devin, and the others. I can send troops with you but I rather suspect you’ll be better off without them.”

“How does that make sense?” the old man demanded.

“Think, old man.” Rhenkin told him, shaking his head. “Once the fae engage it will be too late for you to go anywhere and escape their notice. For us to fight through all the way to those stones of yours could take months. That’s assuming we last that long.”

He glanced around at those closest to him and lowered his voice. “Your group will have to move before we have any real contact, and it’ll have to be small enough to either escape notice or be overlooked. Sending you off with five hundred men is no use. You might as well be waving flags and blowing trumpets as you ride along. This whole plan is a distraction. This army, and whatever the Bjornmen send west, are there to keep the fae busy, keep them focused on us whilst you get to those stones and do what you have to do.”

“That’s…”

“Incredibly noble?” Rhenkin said with a snort. “Don’t flatter yourself, Obair. It’s what we’d be doing anyway. If the fae are coming in strength, as an army rather than a hunting raid, then we have no choice but to meet them.”

“I was going to say, that’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.” Obair laughed. “But you’re right, we don’t have a choice. I don’t think keeping their attention will be as difficult as you might think though.”

“Oh?” Rhenkin raised an eyebrow. “How’s that then?”

“It’s a guess more than anything,” Obair admitted, patting his horse's neck absently. “Something I’ve picked out of the stories Ylsriss and Miriam have told me. There seems to be an incredible arrogance about the fae. Some of that is warranted, of course. Toe to toe I don’t imagine any human is a match for a fae. But still, there is an arrogance about them.” He gave a grim smile. “I expect the notion of a human army marching to meet them is something that they could never have imagined. Even Devin’s tales of the fae wars tell of mankind retreating, fleeing. The idea of us actually marching to meet them might just be enough to shock them.”

“You may be right,” Rhenkin said. “Getting their attention may be easier than I’d thought then. Let’s hope the iron holds out then.”

“There is that.” Obair sighed, looking around at the army. He looked to Rhenkin, and then glanced back at the black-robed figure of Miriam as she rode behind them. “If you’ll excuse me?” he said to Rhenkin but the man was already frowning at the papers in his hand.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you?” Obair said with a smile as he dropped back beside Miriam.

She shook her head with a small smile. “Some company would be nice.”

He looked at her expecting more but she looked away, gazing blankly ahead of them as the horse plodded behind those in front. They rode in silence for a few minutes as Obair cast glances at her with a frown.

“I was a bit surprised to see you’d come along,” he said, trying again. “I thought you’d have stayed in Druel. By all accounts you’ve had enough travel for three lifetimes lately.”

She looked at him with an odd expression he couldn’t decipher. “I need to see this done.”

He tilted his head at that. He’d not really thought about it before but what was she doing here? This was hardly a gentle ride in the country. “See what done?” he asked with a frown. “What are you even doing here, Miriam? You should be back in Druel.”

She laughed then, a bitter sound that somehow didn’t fit. It had a tone to it, something that wavered between the wild and the not-quite-right. He shivered at the sound of it and almost missed what she said as she spoke again. “So much of this is my fault. I let them into this world. I started all of this.”

“I don’t really think you can blame yourself, Miriam.” He spoke carefully, using the soothing tones he’d once used on his livestock.

“But I can.” She looked at him again and he saw himself reflected in her eyes.

“The Wyrde was already failing, Miriam,” he told her gently. The rituals Lillith and I performed may have been a part of it but there’s so much more we don’t know about the Wyrde itself. It was much more than just a simple ritual. It was bigger than anything we two were doing. My master once told me that the Wyrde was something that all mankind was a part of. It was helped along in a thousand little ways. Even traditions like hanging horseshoes and morris dancing probably played their part.” He scratched at his beard, thinking for a moment before he carried on.

“I do wonder how much impact this religion, the Church of New Days, really had on things. The way they worked to stamp out the old traditions certainly didn’t help but I suspect that the Wyrde would have failed anyway.”

“You can’t know that,” Miriam told him. Her eyes were hard and voice had a brittle edge to it.

“I can, Miriam,” he insisted. “I felt the Wyrde failing for decades. It was a slow thing, like the beginning of a winter's thaw, but little by little I felt it. Every year it grew just a touch harder. It was barely noticeable sometimes.” He snorted a laugh but it was more noise than true humour. “For a while I thought it was just me getting older, getting tired.”

He fell silent, lost in his own thoughts. The horse plodded on without his direction and when he finally looked up her eyes were still on him, questioning and somehow forgiving.

***

The stones were silent and cold. Klöss reached out to the tumbled blocks that had once formed the gatehouse with hands that still shook. He drew in another breath, running his fingertips along the coarse stone as fought down the nausea and shook his head.

This had been a home as much as it had been a fortress. Not just for him but for the thousands of men and women who'd lived here. The wind tossed at his cloak, rustling the leaves that grew from the roots and vines that looked to have thrust out of the earth and made wreckage of the walls.

“This is how you make war then?” he called out to the figure standing high on the broken stones of the wall. “With plants striking from the earth and creatures from the skies?”

Aervern turned her gaze to him slowly, her burning eyes bright in the shadows. “Are your kind any better, manling? Do you not hurl fire and rain arrows down on your foes? We are not that different, manling.”

“Don't call me that,” Klöss muttered but there was no force in his words. He picked his way over the stones, moving into the city itself as Aervern watched him. The place was quiet, a silence somehow intensified by the soft sound of leaves blowing through the wrecked streets. The city was dead. He'd known that when it first came into sight. He'd searched it, of course, calling out whilst the fae stood and watched on with unreadable eyes.

A glint called him to him for a second before it was gone. Something golden flashing from the rubble as the moon peered out from behind the clouds that scudded across the skies. It had only been visible for the barest moment before it vanished but it was the colour of it that called to him.

Klöss frowned, crouching down and poring over the stones as he looked for the source. He grunted, shoving at a heavy stone until it toppled to the side, taking a small avalanche of pebbles and fragments with it. Questing fingers found cold metal and he pulled at the rocks, clearing a space until the moonlight stopped him. The armour was ornate, steel plates inlaid with gold in a complex scrollwork. “Larren,” he breathed. “You poor, stupid, bloody bastard.”

He stood slowly, walking away and letting his feet take him. There was nothing he could do for the man and he deserved no better than the thousands of other bodies that lay in the streets or under the rubble. Rimeheld was dead and Larren had killed her with an arrogance deadlier than any knife.

The thought came to him unbidden. The sealord was dead. With Frostbeard gone then he himself was probably the ranking Bjornman in all of Anlan. To all intents and purposes he was the sealord, at least until the fleet returned to the Barren Isles. The thought gave him pause. With their warleader dead what did this mean for his people?

He looked over to the fae, silent on her rooftop. “What will you do?”

She cocked her head on one side as she looked at him, the question clear but unspoken.

“If this magic is successful,” Klöss explained, “what will you do when the barrier that locks this world away from you is remade?”

“Yours is not the only world that has been ravaged, Klöss,” she told him. Her accent altered his name, putting the emphasis in the wrong place and he shivered at the sound of it. “You did not like to hear it when I told you that we were not so different but it is the truth I speak. We both have betrayed our people for what we believe to be the best path. You sought aid from this Selena. I, from the Wyrdeweavers. Our goal is the same, to rid our worlds of Aelthen and his followers.”

Klöss struggled with that, frowning. “But if this magic, this Wyrde, works. What happens to you?”

“I plan to be in my homeland when the Wyrde falls,” Aervern told him. “I hold a hope, a small hope, but a hope all the same, that a great thing can be achieved.” She sighed at his questioning glance and made her way down to him, stepping easily over the shifting rubble.

“Listen then and I will speak of it,” she told him. “Legends tell of a time when we were not foes. Ancient tales so lost in time that none thought there was a truth in them, but they tell of a time when manling and fae were as one. Together we wove the gifts of our Lady about us, weaving glyphs and crafting wonders that bridged worlds. This is not the only world we touched. Ours is a fallen people, Klöss, the Wyrde locked Aelthen and his host in the Outside, a horror that hangs between worlds, but still other parts of my race are scattered across the stars. The Carnath fled, taking their own path through the Worldtrails as their quest for the Ivy Throne failed. They were not the first to leave my Realm. The people of Tir Riviel had already left, seeking another path to the ancient home of your own people.”

“So that's your plan then?” Klöss said, contempt clear in his curled lip. “To lock Aelthen away behind the Wyrde and dominate yourself?”

Aervern shook her head at him. “Your mind is not so simple, manling. Do not act the blind fool with me.” She ignored him as he glowered. “Through fate, or some scheme of the Lady herself, my kind and your own are bound. Together we might thrive if only given the chance. Tales tell of the wonders your people can work with glyphs but these glyphs are powerless without the gift of Our Lady that only a fae can bring.” She held a finger up, stopping him before he could speak. “My own people are slow to breed. A coupling brings about a fae'reeth or satyr far more often than a true fae. Manling blood mixed with my own could change all of this. Manlings make us more than we can be alone. This is what Aelthen cannot understand. He has fixed his sight so strongly on hate that he cannot look beyond it. I seek to build a world, manling, I seek to reclaim a legend. Even with the thousands of my people who have flocked to Aelthen's banner there are enough that remain in my realm to begin again.”

“With the humans left behind, trapped in your world,” he added not bothering to conceal his disgust.

“These are people that do not even remember your land, manling,” Aervern told him. “Joran tells me that most were stolen from this world as babes or children too young to even remember being taken. It would be no kindness to return them.”

“You stole my son, fae.” The words grated as they left his lips.

“I took no child,” she replied, calm as a still pond. “Do not hold me for what Aelthen has done. This child of yours, Joran has spoken of this. He was a babe, yes?” She stared at him until he nodded. “Time passes at different rates between your world and mine, our offspring grow differently also. I would return your child to you if it were possible but time grows short. How would we find him among all the children in the Realm of Twilight?It may have been many years since you saw him, would you recognize him even if he could be found? Would your she?”

Klöss stared at her wordlessly until he finally shook his head.

She turned away before he could speak, walking in smooth strides through the ruined streets as he gaped at her. Klöss muttered to himself and followed. The fae was like nothing he would have thought, complex and layered. Frankly he'd preferred it when he could just think of them as monsters.

He hurried after her as best he could, picking his way over the fallen walls and buildings. The rear of the city was mostly intact. The defenders of Rimeheld would have flooded out to meet the attacking fae and, by the time any enemy stepped foot in this part of the city, the battle would have been over.

The wind was stronger here and he clutched his cloak around him as he picked his way up the stone steps to the city wall. The moonlight may have been enough to see by but he'd have given a lot for a torch or lantern.

“Your people,” Aervern said. She spoke without turning, pointing out over the harbour to the dark seas.

Klöss followed her finger, squinting. “I don't see anything.”

Aervern shrugged. “That is no surprise. They approach still, however. The vessels will reach you this night.” She gave him an appraising look. “I could take you to them, if you desire it.”

Klöss shook his head, hoping the darkness was enough to cover his expression. The trip to Rimeheld had been a thing of nightmares and his stomach lurched at the memory of all that empty air gaping beneath him. The thought of willingly letting the fae woman lift them into the air again, and then over water… “No, Aervern, I'll wait here.”

“You are certain?”

The words were innocent but he wasn't sure there wasn't a sly smile hidden amongst them. He nodded.

“I will leave you then. I would return to Joran before the Wyrde falls.”

He looked at her, for the first time seeing past the glowing eyes and the alien cast to her skin. Perhaps she was right, perhaps they weren't so different.

“Would you wait?” he asked her. “Kieron can lead the men west as well as anyone. I'd like to be there, with Ylsriss, when it happens.”

She nodded gravely and turned to face the darkness of the ocean. Klöss stood beside her staring into the darkness as they waited for the fleet.

***

“You want me to do what?” Kieron demanded, slamming the tankard down onto the table. Rimeheld had changed in the daylight, revealing damage that had been hidden by the darkness and exposing large sections of the city that seemed untouched by the attack. The docks had escaped unscathed and the fleet rocked gently at anchor as Klöss met with Kieron in an abandoned tavern on the edge of the harbour.

“I want you to march west,” Klöss repeated. “Unload any supplies from the fleet and head inland as fast as possible.”

“Why in the name of the frozen hells would we want to do that?” Kieron burst out. “In case you hadn't noticed there's a little mess here to clear up.”

“I can see that,” Klöss said, pitching his voice deliberately low. “I'm telling you to form the men up and march west. Rimeheld is chock full of extra supplies but if we don't move soon it'll be too late.”

“Too late for what? The Anlish will be long gone by now,” the grizzled shipmaster said, taking a long pull on his ale without waiting for Klöss to speak.

“It's not the Anlish,” Klöss told him. “And you'll do it because I order it.”

Kieron raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh aye? I will, will I? And just what is it gives you authority over me Klöss? Rimeheld has fallen. You're lord of a pile of rubble here not seamaster. We may as well be at sea at this point which gives you no more say over me than any other shipmaster.”

“Rimeheld wasn't the only thing that fell, Kieron,” Klöss told him, reaching into a sack beside him. The gauntlet thudded onto the table, the ugly sound at odds with the quality of craftsmanship that must have gone into the gold-inlaid piece.

“The sealord?” Kieron muttered. “Not that surprising I suppose.”

Klöss nodded. “And as Seamaster of Rimeheld, in a time of war, I claim the rank of sealord until the thane himself orders otherwise.”

“Damn you've a weighty pair, lad.” Kieron grunted. He held a hand up as Klöss's face darkened. “Hear me out, I won't dispute your claim but you're going to need some support. You won't take command of the fleet with nothing more than a shiny glove. If you want us to march west then you're going to have to give us a reason. The Anlish won't be hanging around, we're way beyond their lines. This was a raid. It must have been a damned big one, I'll grant you, but still a raid.”

“It wasn't the Anlish, Kieron,” Klöss told him again.

The old shipmaster's face creased in confusion. “Don't be daft, lad, who else?”

“The fae,” Aervern said, dropping the glamour that had wreathed her in the shadows of the corner.

“Lords of the bloody frosts!” Kieron spat, lurching back out of his chair so it landed with a crash. He scrambled back, crab-like, across the floor.

“Don't worry,” Klöss managed between laughs. “She's not here to eat your soul, she's here to prove a point.”

Kieron looked at him incredulously, glancing back and forth between him and the fae.

“This is what attacked Rimeheld, Kieron. Fae like Aervern here, and there are more coming. We have one chance to stop them, us and the Anlish together.”

“What?” the man's face was ashes, fear wrestling with confusion.

“They're already in Hesk, Kieron, already in our homes,” Klöss told him, boring in. “They took my wife and still have my son. And if the bastard that leads them has his way they'll drive an army over Haven, killing everything in their path. So that's why I'm taking command as sealord, and that's why your going take our men west, to meet the fuckers and feed them some iron bolts from the arbelests.”

Kieron blinked, seeming to realise he was still crouched low, and stood slowly. “And this one?” He shook his head. “Hold on. What do you mean I'm going to lead the men west?”

“I'm going with Aervern,” Klöss told him. “If I stay here I'll be bogged down in endless conversations with shipmasters, all with their own ideas. You're better off with me gone. Just take the orders and go.”

Kieron nodded, still frowning as he took it all in. “And the iron?”

“Fehru, what you call 'iron,' is the most effective weapon you have against my kind, manling,” Aervern told him, speaking in a low menacing tone. “Blade or arrow, it matters little if you use this foul thing.”

The shipmaster swallowed hard, looking back to Klöss “West? That's a bit vague, Klöss… I mean, Sealord,” he added with a weak smile.

Klöss nodded, reaching for the sack again to retrieve a chart. “Head for this village,” he told Kieron, unrolling the map to stab a thick finger onto the mark. “You should find them here, probably already in battle with the Anlish. They call it Widdengate.”

***

The scouts came in, riding hard on horses that were foam-flecked and close to panic. Rhenkin climbed down from his own mount and rushed to the first scout, reaching for the bridle of the horse and patting its sweat-soaked neck as the scout climbed out of the saddle. It was less of a climb and more of a fall but the man managed to keep his feet, clinging to the pommel as if he didn’t quite trust his legs.

Rhenkin winced as he looked at the man. A latticework of tiny slashes covered his face and neck. His leather scout’s armour was probably the only thing that had kept him alive and even that was slashed half to ribbons.

“Report, lad,” Rhenkin said in a gentle voice, pitched too low for anyone else to hear. “Keep it simple, you’re barely on your feet.”

“The fae, sir,” the scout managed between gasped breaths. “No more than thirty miles from us, possibly less by now.”

“Numbers?”

“Couldn’t tell, sir,” the scout said, white-faced. “They filled the skies…covered the land as far as I could see.”

Rhenkin nodded, his eyes going distant as he juggled distances and the time necessary for formations and defences. “Kennick!” he roared over one shoulder as he reached for the waterskin from his own horse and handed it to the scout.

The Lieutenant arrived quickly. “Sir?”

“Take these men and get a full report, and get them patched up too,” Rhenkin ordered.

“Where shall I find you, sir?”

Rhenkin glanced back at him from where he’d been scanning the closest ranks. “I’ll not be long. I think we’ve reached a point here. We’re not going to get much farther. It’s time to get the old man and his company going.”

Kennick nodded. “If we can crest this rise, sir, I believe it would give us a better position.”

Rhenkin looked and grunted. The man wasn’t half bad. Thinking ahead and not getting caught up in the smaller details. “Agreed. Send runners and get the officers up to speed, I don’t want to waste any time.”

Kennick nodded but Rhenkin was already moving, pulling himself back into the saddle and searching for the druid. It didn’t take long. He’d had them attached to a unit close to the front lines for this very reason. The lad seemed to have a firm grip on things but, in many ways, dealing with Obair was like talking to a child.

“We’re sending you out,” Rhenkin announced as he drew close. “I don’t know how long we have and we can’t run the risk of you getting caught here when this battle starts.”

Obair looked about in alarm, eyes wide as if the fae were moments away. “Already? Are you sure?”

The old man looked close to panic. Rhenkin shook his head with gritted teeth. “What did you think this was, old man?” he demanded. “A little country walk? Those men are cut half to ribbons. Tiny slashes all over them, it’s a miracle they even made it to us. You heard Erinn’s story the same as I did, this is the fae’reeth. You need to move, now!”

Devin pushed closer as Obair gaped. “We’re ready, marshal,” he said in firm voice. Rhenkin looked him over and nodded, liking what he saw. “Good man. Riddal will lead you out. He’s a good scout, a good man, and he has experience fighting the fae with Erinn. I’m sending ten men with you. You’ll have the Bjornmen too. Any more than that and you’ll be too visible.”

“If the fae find us with any real numbers then a hundred wouldn’t be much help anyway,” Devin told him, sounding calmer than he probably felt.

“Is there anything you need? Anything other than the obvious?” Rhenkin asked.

“Ironheads, some bags of the filings.” Devin shrugged. “If that’s not enough then nothing will be.”

“Good man. Riddal will be along shortly. Grab your gear and anything else you need for supplies. I want you gone within the half hour.”

Devin reached for his hand, grasping it firmly. “Good luck, marshal.”

“And to you, lad. Try and keep the old man in one piece.” Rhenkin turned away and headed back for the front lines. Wishing luck wasn’t the done thing. It was something only the newest of recruits would do, none wanted to invite disaster, but he had the feeling they’d all need it before long.

Kennick was waiting for him as he emerged from the waiting ranks. “Why are we still standing here?” Rhenkin demanded.

“I’ve sent runners, sir. We’re simply awaiting your order.”

Rhenkin bit down half a dozen responses. The man was just doing his job. “Signal the troops then, we move.”

Kennick nodded and snapped off a salute before turning to the flagmen behind him. The army surged forward, reaching the crest of the low hill in short order. It wasn’t ideal by any stretch. Rhenkin grumbled to himself as he considered the terrain but it was more than he’d hoped for. Woods lay a few miles to their north but the immediate terrain was grassland. They were lucky for what they had. The rise was actually the southernmost of two low hills, sloping down to form a small gully between them. It wouldn’t be enough to influence any human army but, perhaps… He squinted up at the sun, already more than halfway down to the horizon and around again at the terrain.

“Get the men to it. I want stakes and trenches on both these slopes, as many rows as we can get done. Archers to the front and get those engines ready. If those bastards come in the rush I expect them to we’re not going to have the time to piss about. Send some men with axes to those woods, we’ll need the firewood.”

The army deployed as fast as possible for a force of that size, as units formed into ranks and set to work creating the field fortifications. Within the space of an hour the hillside had been transformed as rows of trenches were carved into the soft green grass and stakes rammed into the mix. Here and there the sun caught on an iron spike mixed in with the wood.

He watched the men work as runners came and went, bringing reports to Kennick. Only occasionally did the man need to bring the issues to him and so Rhenkin watched, and waited, and worried. Any man that tells you they are not nervous on the eve of battle is a liar and Rhenkin had told this lie a thousand times. A commander is a living flag. He hadn’t the luxury of allowing his emotions to play over his face. Instead he scowled at the men and the field fortifications as he watched, grunting at the readiness reports that Kennick delivered.

The clouds rolled in, taking the warmth of the autumn sun and painting the skies in drab greys. Rain wasn’t too much of a threat, the clouds were too pale for that, but the light faltered early and evening came too soon.

They waited. Men were still working, building huge stacks of logs and dousing them with lamp oil, but most simply waited. Rhenkin sighed explosively and looked to Kennick. “Scout reports?”

“Due any moment, sir,” the man told him. “The last three had nothing to report. It’s as if they were never there.”

“Or that they’re not advancing,” Rhenkin suggested, chewing on his lip. “How far are we ranging?”

“Two hour’s hard ride, at last reports,” Kennick told him with a wince.

Rhenkin shook his head. “And there’s no sign? That’s past where the scouts were attacked.”

Kennick shrugged. “As I said, sir, it’s as if they vanished.”

The wind had picked up as darkness fell and the night was full of the snap of canvas as it tugged at the tents. Rhenkin picked his way through to the perimeter, squinting against the darkness as he headed for the closest of the men on watch.

“Anything?” he asked.

The man didn’t stop his inspection of the night. “Not a bloody thing.” He glanced at Rhenkin and stepped back half a step in shock. “Um, sir,” he added.

Rhenkin snorted a laugh at the man’s discomfort, “Don’t worry about it, son.”

The horn sounded as he finished speaking. It sang out long and low, a mournful sound that would have had the men twitching even if it hadn’t come from nowhere. Rhenkin turned his head, trying to pinpoint the source but the sound had seemed to come from more than one direction. Another joined it, calling from a different direction, and then still others sounded, until the noise was loud enough that he felt it in his chest. The men closest to him looked about in all directions, as panic reached for them.

“The hell with this!” Rhenkin muttered and pushed his way back to the command post.

“Lord Marshal!” Kennick rushed to meet him. “We have reports of movement at the eastern perimeter.”

“You think?” Rhenkin muttered dryly. “They’re playing games with us and I’m not in the mood. Get those fires lit and let’s see if we can spot the bastards.”

Fire arrows were touched to braziers and lofted high into the darkness before they fell on the mounds of oil-soaked wood. The bonfires were as large as haystacks and the flames tore through the lamp oil before eating away at the logs.

Within moments the gloom of the night was lifted as the flames of thirty fires reached up to the heavens. The air shimmered with the heat as men squinted past them and still the horns sounded. Whatever illusion the fae had employed fell like a dropped sheet and the banners of the fae blazed blue and silver as they were revealed.

“Archers!” came the call from a dozen mouths but men were already moving. The fae had appeared only fifty yards from Rhenkin’s front lines, a sea of shining silver armour and glowing eyes that extended as far as anyone could see. The rushed shots of the Anlish archers were panicked and rough. Blue fire exploded among the fae as ironheads stuck home but far more were lost in the darkness.

The fae paused, almost seeming to recoil for a moment, like a great shining wave reaching its limit, and then a great howl rose from the host and they charged.

Anlish archers exacted a terrible toll and sheets of ironheads carved a broad channel through the fae. The range was such that the arrows almost couldn't help but hit something and, unlike human armies, the fae carried no shields. Wherever the ironheads tasted blood, fire raged, and the arrows rained down upon the fae leaving a river of blue fire behind them. And then the fae closed.

The battle was chaos. The fae didn’t fight like a human army and the Anlish troops splintered and faltered as fae and satyr leapt over whole units to attack from within their own lines.

Rhenkin watched in silence. His men knew their jobs and there was little point in screaming orders at those already on the front lines.

“Sir?” Kennick said in an anxious tone.

“Yes, Kennick?” Rhenkin’s voice was flat.

“Orders, sir?”

Rhenkin glanced at the lieutenant, the man’s fear tinged with panic. “Calm down, lieutenant. Let’s let them arrive at the party before we pour them drinks.”

Kennick gave him an odd look, “Sir?”

“Fine,” Rhenkin sighed. “Send runners to Salisbourne and have him ready the lancers.”

Rhenkin barely noticed the man leave. The front rippled and surged as the fae slammed into the Anlish army and the air was thick with screams and the sickening crunch of weapons on bone. They were more evenly matched than he could have imagined. The incredible speed of the fae was offset by his own men’s iron weapons and often the smallest scratch was enough to send a satyr screaming to the earth as flames erupted from the wound.

White arrows came screaming in from the fae host. Some trick of the fletching Rhenkin assumed, but the keening sound was unnerving. Despite the fletching their power was undeniable. The arrows tore through the Anlish, often passing through shield, armour and body before they erupted from their victim’s backs. Entire companies fell in moments and Rhenkin grimaced as he looked to the north for the lancers.

He did not have to wait long and the ranks of horses thundered towards the fae flank, dull, iron-tipped lances lowering as they rode. The first fae to meet the lancers simply darted out of the way. Satyr and fae both, taking the single step or two needed to avoid the iron tip, and then the horse was past them. As they penetrated however, the weapons found flesh and the creatures screamed as the heavily armoured lancers tore through the flank of the host.

The sound of a thousand hungry bees announced the fae’reeth before the swarm even came into sight. “Ready the catapults,” Rhenkin told Kennick. “Red flag.” The man had managed to retain control this far but so much depended upon this. The iron weapons were proving that they could shift the balance back from the huge advantage the fae held over human troops. The fae’reeth, however, were another matter.

The swarm moved slowly, perhaps enjoying the panic they caused as they drifted over the ranks of the fae host and drew closer to the Anlish lines. The fires had lit the skies but Rhenkin couldn’t even guess at their numbers. It was as the scouts had said, they filled the skies. They passed over the Anlish ranks and hung, a mere fifty feet above the heads of those that fought and died below them, and then on some silent signal the cloud disintegrated and the fae’reeth fell upon the hapless Anlish like wolves upon sheep.

“Sir?” Kennick said, plucking at Rhenkin’s sleeve. The Marshal ignored him, watching the scene as the diminutive creatures howled through the foremost elements of his army. They passed like a black wind, leaving nothing but the dead and screaming in their wake.

“Sir!” Kennick said, with more urgency.

Rhenkin nodded to himself slowly. “Now!” he roared.

The signal passed through the army, long red flags that fluttered in the breeze signalled others in a relay until the message reached the catapults. The contraptions rocked forward against the thick ropes staking them down as they hurled their payloads skyward. Massive balls of cloth shot towards the fae’reeth, unfurling as they flew, and releasing a smoke-like substance that drifted gently downward like a dark cloud.

The fae’reeth tore through the Anlish ranks causing death and chaos. Where they passed order simply ceased to exist and the fae and satyr took full advantage of this, carving through entire companies in moments.

“Archers,” called Rhenkin, pointing.

The gesture prompted a sharp look from Kennick. “Our men, sir?”

“Are already dead, Kennick,” Rhenkin told him. “Let’s take some of the satyr with them.”

Kennick shook himself and gave the order.

The iron filings misted down, hanging in the air just long enough for the fae’reeth to enter the cloud. The result was shocking. Tens of thousands of blue sparks erupted above the battlefield as iron found wings or flesh and the tiny creatures burst into flames. The fae host faltered and fell back and then, as the Anlish began to press forward, they vanished.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The very ground was scorched. What had he really expected? Devin spat into the long grass and looked back to Halther. The scout nodded at him, though Devin had no idea what that was supposed to mean. He was already looking back to the remains of the village.

Widdengate was a charred ruin. Most of the buildings were nothing more than scorched sections of earth but here and there blackened beams thrust up from the tumbled stones and reached, claw-like, to scratch at the sky.

Against all odds a single house seemed completely untouched in the middle of the wreckage. Devin frowned at it, trying to remember who had lived there, but with the village burned around it he couldn’t place the building and the failure grated at him.

“Shouldn’t stand on a hill like that, lad,” Halther told him. “Makes you too easy to spot.” He reached up to touch at his hair, nodding at him.

Devin nodded, swearing at himself silently at the rebuke. He knew better than that. “That was my home,” he told the man in a low voice, reaching for his hood to cover his bone-white hair.

Halther glanced down at the village and looked back to him with an unreadable expression. “Time to move,” he told him. “I’ll lead off.”

Devin followed the scout, hunched down into a crouching walk as they made their way down the hillside and towards the trees where the others waited.

“No sign of anything,” Halther announced as they drew closer. “Doesn’t look like anyone or anything has been here in months.”

Riddal nodded, still looking out at the remains. “Judging by the map your home was a good bit north of the road anyway,” he told Obair. “It’ll take longer but I’m not daft enough to walk the road in Bjornmen territory.”

“They are supposed to be working with us, you know?” The druid replied with a glance back at Tristan.

Riddal snorted and curled his lip. “Them as sit at the top might be. Your men on the line though? That’s another matter. You argue your point all you like, crossbow bolts don’t tend to listen too well in my experience.”

It was hard to argue with that and Obair let it go. Riddal and the scouts led them off, north of the village itself, and into the woods.

Devin walked in silence, though any conversation was a hissed whisper anyway. Obair and Miriam walked together as usual, heads leaning close as they spoke. Devin had avoided speaking to anyone much as they had approached the village. Every clearing and tree stump seemed to be familiar, each telling a tale of the childhood he’d spent here. Having Miriam with him made his memories seem surreal.

The boy who’d fled into the trees with his mother as they hid from bandits seemed a very different person to the one who’d grown up in the village. Miriam’s presence forced him to admit that they were one and the same and that was not something he could cope with especially well. He’d avoided her mostly, keeping to Ylsriss and Joran or ranging ahead with the scouts.

For her part she’d left him mostly alone. There had been the occasional time when he’d felt her gaze on him and looked up to find her watching him with a strange look in her eyes, a mix of sorrow and guilt.

“Do you want to speak of it?” the voice was hushed but full of concern.

Devin turned to see Ylsriss watching him. He shrugged, “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“I never really knew my mother,” Ylsriss said then. “Sickness took her while I was too young to understand it.”

Devin winced. “I’m sorry. Some kind of fever?”

“Not a sickness here,” she said, touching her chest. “A sickness of the thoughts.” She grimaced, touched her forehead. “I don’t have the words.”

“Of the mind?” he guessed.

“Yes, good. The mind.” She shook her head, falling silent for a moment. “Your mother was taken from you? By the fae?”

Devin nodded but she was already speaking again.

“My mother was taken, too, by this sickness.” She looked away from him, speaking more to the woods around them than to him. “It began as a small thing. She would forget things. Names, places… you understand? Soon, though, she was forgetting to feed us or getting lost. Then one day she left us, my small brother and me, to fetch food from the markets. She never came back. I was five.”

Devin looked at her. “What happened?”

“To her?” she shrugged. “I do not know. There are many things in the darker places of Hesk that can take a life. I cared for Egham as best I could but he was not a strong child. The winter took him from me.”

He closed his eyes in a grimace. The message was clear enough. “You think I’m being foolish?”

She looked at him, smiling sadly. “I think the fae have taken enough lives. Your mother has been given back to you, do not waste that gift.”

“I don’t know her, it's—”

“It is not easy for you?” she asked and he nodded gratefully.

Her eyes hardened. “Then try harder.”

He looked ahead to where Miriam picked her way through the trees.

“Go, foolish boy!” Ylsriss pushed at him and watched him leave.

“You don’t change, you know?” Gavin told her.

She looked back at him. “How do you mean?”

He smiled. “Even after all this time you’re still the little mother of Hesk looking after the lost ones. You probably couldn’t stop if you tried”

She looked back to Devin as he approached his mother, watching as she smiled at him. “Shut up, Gavin.”

***

Water still dripped from the trees, though the rain seemed to have stopped for now. The sun peered warily through the clouds, shining from a dozen directions at once as the wet leaves reflected the light.

Riddal’s hand shot up, clenched into a fist, signalling them for silence. Devin froze, fingering the arrow he held ready as he frowned at the scout. It began as a feeling, but there was nothing he could see or hear. The woods were as still as they had been all day, silent without even a breath of a breeze. The quiet was odd but he’d almost grown accustomed to it. Gradually he became aware of it though, the prickling sensation of being watched. He peered ahead of them, scanning over the trees and bushes, trying not to let his vision settle on anything. A flash of amber caught him but, by then, it was too late.

The arrow slammed into Riddal and tore its way through his chest, bursting free in a shower of gore as it slammed into a tree with more force than any shaft had a right to. The scout toppled, sinking to his knees without a sound and collapsing to the dirt as blood rushed out to embrace the dried leaves under him.

Ylsriss was the first to move, grabbing Miriam and dragging her down behind the cover of a stand of birch. The others were quick to follow her lead, seeking shelter from something unseen that had killed without uttering a sound.

The laughter carried through the trees easily, cutting the silence to tatters. Devin looked to Halther, the closest of the scouts he could put a name to. He reaching for his quiver from where he lay in the dirt he pulled the ironhead free, making sure the scout saw the red marking on the shaft.

The laughter carried again, a childlike sound this time, and from another direction. An arrow flew from one of the scouts and crashed into the bushes as he swore.

“Up, and move,” called Halther. “We sit here we’re dead.”

Devin got a foot under himself and surged forward, passing the scout and racing in the direction the arrow that had killed Riddal had come from.

“Shit! Not that way, lad,” Halther called in a tight whisper. It was far too late and Devin was past him, darting around the edges of a holly bush as he ran. He didn’t look back but could hear the others following as he ran. The heavy footsteps of the large Bjornman, Tristan, crunching after him. The fae would have moved. Only a fool would have staying in the same place after a kill like that. Devin hoped fervently that the fae who’d fired on them was no fool.

The sound of the others following behind was thunderous and Devin sank down behind the torn stump of a tree, setting arrow to string and waiting. Halther reached him in moments but saw the plan for what it was and kept going. The others passed him, Obair and Ylsriss giving him worried looks as they fled. Miriam gave only a small smile and what looked like an approving nod as Joran and Tristan helped her along. They had no chance of running. Even if it had been a Bjornman that killed Riddal they would have not been able to outdistance them. Miriam and Obair were simply not able to move at any speed. Against a fae they may as well have stayed put.

Devin looked back along the path he’d carved into the woods. He held the ironhead in place but without a full draw on the bow, that would just lead to aching muscles and missed chances. The woods were silent again with not a breath of breeze and only the sound of his companion’s passage behind him. The leaves above him rustled in the breeze and he took slow and deliberate breaths as he sought to slow his racing heartbeat. Satyr were one thing but a true fae was something quite different. Ambushing it was tantamount to suicide but then, that was the idea.

The leaves rustled again and in a moment Devin realised his mistake. He was still thinking like a human. A man hunting quarry would only ever pass over the ground a fae though, with all its grace and power, wouldn’t know that restriction.

He lifted his head slowly. Nothing draws the eyes so much as movement. The leaves danced gently in the branches ahead of him, sending shafts of sunlight down to the forest floor. He let his eyes wander slowly, scanning the resting canopy. In a flash he understood there was no breeze, and the arrow left his bow barely a second after his eyes shot back to the dancing leaves.

Blue light exploded in the canopy and the fae trailed flames down as it fell screaming to the dirt. The arrow had taken the creature in the thigh and it clawed at the shaft in a panic, trying to tear it free as the flames spread. The shaft was buried deep though, and in moments the fire consumed it, leaving only a blackened husk that collapsed in upon itself like a burnt out building.

Devin crouched down behind the stump, listening as his legs shook. If there were others he would be lucky to live through the next few minutes. Arrogance had killed the fae as much as Devin’s arrow. It had probably never even occurred to it that one of them might lay in wait as the others fled. They were humans, quarry, manlings. They weren’t supposed to think like this. The next fae, or satyr, wouldn’t make the same mistake.

He waited until his legs gave up their shaking and peered out around the stump again. The body of the fae had all but vanished, ashes turning to dust and sinking into the leaves. The faint sound of birdsong drifted through the trees and Devin stood with a sigh, leaning gently on his bow as he closed his eyes.

The others had stopped in a dry stream bed, tucked in under a mass of roots that reached down from a tree growing on the bank. Devin walked openly, being sure to step into the spaces between the trees so as to be seen. Being shot by his own companions was not something he had in mind.

“Devin!” Ylsriss called out as he approached.

Obair clambered out to meet him, grasping his arm as the others clustered around. “I thought we’d lost you, boy,” the old man told him.

“I’m fine, Obair.”

“You’re a damned fool is what you are!” His lips were pinched and his eyes flashed as he glared at him.

Devin blinked. “What?”

“Why do you think Rhenkin sent men with us?” the druid demanded. “It’s because we needed protection. They’re here to do the fighting, and the dying if need be, because we are too valuable to risk.” He glanced over at the scouts. “Better one, or even all of them, fall than you. You are the only one of us who has an inkling of how to work the stones. How dare you put yourself in danger like that? Don’t you ever do something so stupid again!”

Devin gaped. The old man was genuinely furious. He stepped back, pulling his arm from where Obair gripped it, his fingers biting painfully into his flesh.

“He’s right, lad,” Halther told him in a soft voice. “Yours was a good plan and I’m guessing it worked but that’s what the boys and I are here for. We’re only a few hours from this clearing of yours. Leave it to us.”

Devin looked from face to face but the same admonishment was clear in their eyes. He shook his head in frustration.

***

Rhenkin pulled the tent flap aside as he looked up at the sky. How could it be this close to dusk again? The days had blurred for a time as they’d pushed eastwards but the full moon would return this night and inwardly he wondered if they would be ready.

“Nerves, Rhenkin?” Salisbourne asked from the camp table with a tight grin. His voice was pitched low enough not to carry but Rhenkin looked around anyway before he spoke.

“Any man who claims not to feel nerves before a battle is a liar,” Rhenkin said.

The smile faded from the earl’s face. “That’s true enough. To be honest you look more worried than nervous.”

“Damn,” Rhenkin said, dropping the flap and going back to the table, resting his hand on the back of the chair. “I thought I was hiding it better than that.”

Salisbourne snorted a laugh. “I’ve spent too many years in politics not to see things like that, Lord High Marshal.”

Rhenkin grimaced. “Let’s dispense with all that shall we? It’s a hell of a mouthful and I’m not about to stumble through ‘my lord’ every time I need to speak to you.”

Salisbourne pushed his way to his feet. “Quite right. I don’t hold with titles on a battlefield anyway. Rank is good and well but titles stick in my mouth.”

Rhenkin gave the man a look and managed a polite smile.

“What are you worried about, Rhenkin? Your plan seems as sound as any other.”

“It’s not so much a worry as it is this not knowing,” Rhenkin admitted. “I feel blind here. Any other enemy and I’d have scout reports, force estimates, a march path. We don’t have any of those things with these damned fae. All we know is that they can return to Haven tonight but where?” He shrugged and walked across the tent to refill his cup. “For all we know,” he said, speaking back over his shoulder, “the blasted creatures might pass us by completely and head straight for Celstwin or Savarel.”

Salisbourne grunted, reaching inside his jacket. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, Rhenkin, it’s that there’s not much point in worry. Trouble will find you if it comes looking you don’t need to show it the way with worry.” He worked the stopper open on the hip-flask, taking a sip and tossing a wink at Rhenkin. “You should have a nip or two of this. Water’s not going to help you.”

Rhenkin nodded, ignoring the whiskey. “I’d give a lot to know where those damned Bjornmen are too. This will be short and ugly if they don’t pull their weight.”

“You’re expecting a major battle then?” Salisbourne asked.

Rhenkin sighed. “The hell with it,” he said, reaching for the flask and taking a sip. “Not bad, not bad at all.” He sniffed, scratching at one cheek. “Honestly, Salisbourne? I expect them to hit us with everything they can muster. We had one brief encounter with them and they fled. The arrogance of these creatures is endless. We’re the runt that's just kicked the street tough in the shins and slammed the door in his face. As soon as they can get through from wherever hell they come from I expect them to come at us in a giant storm of shit and hate.”

“You paint a pretty picture, Rhenkin,” Salisbourne joked but his face was solemn.

“You asked.” Rhenkin shrugged.

The tent flap flew open then as Kennick stepped in. “You asked that I inform you when the moon rises, sir.”

Salisbourne gave Rhenkin a grim smile. “I suppose now we’ll see, eh?”

Rhenkin grunted and followed Kennick out of the tent. It wasn’t especially dark and the moonlight worked with the fires to make it brighter still. “How do things stand?”

“As you ordered, sir,” Kennick said. “Scouts are rotating in every half hour and the men are at half-rest.”

Rhenkin nodded. Half-rest would ensure the men all had weapons to hand and were able to move at a moment’s notice. None would be sleeping and company commanders would be keeping a close eye on their men. “Keep me updated. I’m going to take a look at the men,” he told the lieutenant.

“I believe General Ackerson wished to speak with you, sir,” Kennick said, stopping him.

Rhenkin grimaced. “Again?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.” Kennick told him, his face gave nothing away. He’s better at hiding it than me, Rhenkin realised.

“Well it can wait.” Rhenkin sighed. “I’m going to look at the men.”

“Where shall I find you, sir?”

Rhenkin looked back at him. “Use your initiative, son. There aren’t many marshals here.”

He wandered aimlessly, picking his way through the camp. The army stretched out much farther than he could hope to circle but he felt a need to see the men. Talking to them would be a waste of time. Every soldier picks themselves up when speaking to an officer. What he needed was to taste the mood.

The men were nervous, that much was obvious. It could be seen in the over-loud laughter from the three he passed playing dice just as easily as it could in the silence of the others who ran whetstones over their weapons or checked their armour. The officers were feeling the nerves too, barking orders at their sergeant and corporals. Oddly, what sergeants Rhenkin saw seemed to be taking things in stride. Experience, he supposed. There weren’t many sergeants who made officer rank. Most stayed sergeants for the duration. Officers were likely to be new to their company or their rank, a sergeant though, they were the bedrock of any army and familiarity probably gave them something firmer to cling to.

He shook his head at himself. There was nothing familiar about any part of the situation. The coming battle would be huge, somehow he knew that. The small clashes they’d had with the fae before the new moon had been small. They’d been tasting his men, testing their responses. Now that the full moon had returned, the full fury of the fae host would descend upon them and a small part of him wondered if they were really ready.

It wasn’t just the tactics, though they were novel enough. It was the fact that he would have to relinquish control. This army was simply too large a force for him to manage everything. He would need to trust in his men and his officers to do what needed to be done and pray to any gods that might exist that they'd do it well. “Time to loose the reins, old man,” he whispered to himself.

The report, when it came, was delivered with more calm than it ever had previously. The runner that found him pointed him back in the direction of the command tent but the mood of the army had already changed. It was almost possible to see the point that orders reached units as men shovelled down the last few mouthfuls or rushed off for a last piss.

“Tell me,” Rhenkin called out to Kennick as he approached the tent. Salisbourne stood already half into his armour, surrounded by majors, and not a few colonels, as he pointed at the map in the lieutenant’s hand.

Kennick snapped off a salute. “Lord High Marshal, scouts report contact to the east, no more than an hour away at best.”

Rhenkin chewed his lower lip as he squinted up at the sky. “The sun will still be up then. Are they on the march?” he frowned at the nod from the lieutenant. “Seems out of character but I suppose that’s what we get for making assumptions isn’t it, Kennick?”

“It is indeed, sir,” the lieutenant told him but he was already turning to the others. “Gentlemen, it would seem that the fae have come along to play. They’ve even arrived in daylight, isn’t that accommodating of them?” He gave a thin smile at the chorus of responses.

“You all have your orders. I don’t see that anything has changed overly and so I intend to stick to the plan as much as we can. The fae are far too fast for us to control a battle if we try and advance towards them so we’ll fight a defensive position and let them come stick themselves on our iron. Objections?”

Kennick cleared his throat from behind him and Rhenkin turned with raised eyebrows as the more senior officers muttered complaints. “Something to add, lieutenant?”

“A suggestion, sir,” Kennick said. “A retreating line of archers to harry them as they approach?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Rhenkin shook his head. “Normally I’d agree with you but with the little presents we’re going to be leaving for them, I don’t want to give them any reason to speed up. If that’s all then, gentlemen? I believe you all know your jobs.” He made his way back into the tent as the others left, reaching for his own armour.

The catapults were already launching by the time he had the gambeson on and he smiled a grim smile to himself as he shrugged his way into the mail. The plate could stay where it was, he decided. His armour was only for show anyway. If the fae made it deep enough through the ranks to fight him then the battle was lost anyway.

“No sign of the Bjornmen?” he asked Kennick in a low voice as he stepped out of the tent.

“Nothing so far, sir,” Kennick told him, apologizing as if it were his fault.

Rhenkin muttered darkly and looked eastwards, past the foremost ranks of his army. The command tents had been erected on a small hill, with the army arrayed around him. The hill wasn’t large enough to make any kind of defensive position but it would afford him a decent view of the battle. Not for the first time he wondered if he’d been right to settle in this location. There were more defensible positions to both the north and west, but none that allowed for the same range of movement and visibility over the battlefield.

“Rhenkin!” the voice was loud enough to cut through the noise and Rhenkin groaned as he looked to the source.

“I told your man I wanted to talk to you an hour ago. Where have you been man?” Ackerson bulled his way through to the tents, thick white moustache standing out against the red of his face.

“General, I really don’t think this is the time for a discussion,” Rhenkin told him as he approached. “The enemy have been sighted. We could have less than an hour.”

“Listen to me, Rhenkin,” Ackerson told him in a quiet voice. “We can do this here, or in your tent. Either way this shouldn’t take long.”

“Fine,” Rhenkin sighed, leading the way into the command tent. “Give us a few minutes,” he told the men poring over the large map spread over the tables.

Ackerson waited, watching the men leave until the flap fell closed behind them. “Rhenkin, do you know what I've learned over the years as I rose through the ranks?” Ackerson said, turning to him. “I’ve learned that it’s impossible to do everything yourself. There is a world of difference between being a major in command of a few companies and being a general with an entire army under you. There’s no shame in accepting help from someone more experienced.”

“Thank you, Ackerson,” Rhenkin told him. “As I’ve said before I appreciate the offer but I am quite comfortable with the command. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Damn it all, Rhenkin,” Ackerson snapped. “You’re a country major with no real battlefield experience. How well do you really think you’re going to do when the lines buckle and men start falling over each other and pissing themselves?”

“I think that’s about enough, Ackerson,” Rhenkin told him quietly.

“I really am going to have to insist, major.” Ackerson snapped. “Go and play with the maps and let someone who knows what he’s doing take care of things.”

“I said, that will be enough!” Rhenkin snapped out the last word like a whip. “I am Lord High Marshal and you will do as ordered, Ackerson.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, boy.” Ackerson sneered. “It’s an honorary rank from a girl who’s not even been queen long enough for her arse to warm the seat of the throne. If I’m forced to have you removed I will do so.”

“General Ackerson,” Rhenkin told him in a dreadfully quiet voice. “I am in command here and your insubordination will not stand. I will give you this one, final chance to return to your men and carry out the orders I give you or I will have you put in irons and chained to the supply wagons, do you understand me?”

That actually seemed to puncture the pomposity and the man gaped at him for a second before collecting himself. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Rhenkin pulled open the tent flap. “Kennick!” he roared.

“Sir?”

“General Ackerson will be returning to his company now. If he finds any cause to delay he will become a colonel. If he countermands my order he will become a major.”

Ackerson’s mouth dropped. “Now see here, Rhenkin. I don’t need to stand for this…”

“Ackerson, if you don’t leave this tent right this moment I’ll have you digging latrines and watering horses before the day’s out,” Rhenkin warned him.

“I…”

“Now!” Rhenkin roared.

“I think we’d better leave, sir.” Kennick told Ackerson, holding the tent flap open for him.

An hour passes very quickly when you’re counting the minutes and Rhenkin stood in silence as Kennick dealt with the readiness reports that came and went. Finally even the catapults fell silent and a hush drifted across the army as men were left with little to do but wait and think.

The dark stain that was the fae host seemed to appear in moments, passing over the horizon and pooling out over the ground like a scribe’s mistake. Rhenkin watched as the fae host drew closer and frowned at the dark clouds that seemed to follow them.

“Another illusion, sir?” Kennick nodded at the clouds.

Rhenkin glanced at his second. “We’d better hope so, lad. If those bastards can control the weather then we’re going to be in for a shit time of it.”

“I think we all knew we’d be in for a shit time when we left Druel, sir,” Kennick replied.

Rhenkin snorted, laughing through his nose. “Keep an eye on that toffee-nosed bastard, Ackerson. If he so much as farts out of turn I want to know about it.”

“Understood, sir.” Kennick’s face was carefully blank.

The fae moved slowly. If they were a human army Rhenkin would have assumed they were using the time to make sure units were in position but these creatures didn’t seem to work in the same way. The previous battle, and the few small skirmishes they'd had since, had shown a different way of thinking. Though the fae were banded together in a host they almost seemed to work independently, rushing into battle in a mob that placed little or no reliance on individuals working together. It was something that should work to give him a decided advantage. Men fighting as a unit were always more effective than men fighting alone, or so he hoped.

The armies of the fae approached until they were at the limits of catapult range, and there they stopped. Aelthen was clearly visible in the vanguard as they drew to a halt, surrounded by fae riding some form of massive cat. Horrors were visible among the fae, creatures formed of flame or raging storms of ice. Still others seemed to be formed of writhing smoke or things fresh from nightmares.

Darkness fell steadily and the huge fires that dotted the field were lit by torch and flaming arrows. Still the fae stood, silent as they waited. Rhenkin felt the mood of his men shift as surely as he heard the mutters.

“What are the bastards waiting for?” Kennick spoke up in a low voice.

“The moon I expect,” Rhenkin replied, not taking his eyes from the massive figure of Aelthen at their head. “From what the druid tells me so much of their power comes from the moonlight.”

“And you’re just going to wait and let them have it, sir?” Kennick asked as politely as he could manage.

Rhenkin fought the grin back as far as he could, glancing over at him. “It’s in hand, lieutenant. It’s in hand.”

There was no signal, no horn or trumpet. Between one breath and the next the fae charged. They ran in silence, moving so swiftly that for a moment Rhenkin froze, and then the first catapult fired, lofting a cloth bundle that unfurled as the air tugged at it and loosing a cloud of iron filings into the path of the oncoming fae.

The fae faltered for a moment, but then barrelled on, pushing through the clouds that grew thicker as more catapults hurled the iron into their path. Rhenkin glanced up to the horizon and a small smile grew as he saw the first sliver of the moon. Sparks were visible even from this distance as the moonlight worked with the iron filings misting down out of the air and landing on exposed skin.

The satyrs raced ahead of the fae, rushing in a dark torrent as they passed the first of the bonfires. They were still far beyond arrow range and Kennick gaped at Rhenkin as the first of the fae faltered, and then fell to the ground howling as they burst into blue flames. The charge faltered in moments as the host bunched up behind the satyrs writhing on the ground in agony as the flames consumed them.

Rhenkin narrowed his eyes and he watched the forward elements of the fae host bunch up. It was too good an opportunity to waste and he opened his mouth to give the order. The first of the catapults fired again before he could speak and he nodded approvingly.

“Good man,” Rhenkin breathed as he watched the fresh explosions among the fae. “Loose iron arrowheads,” he explained to Kennick who frowned in confusion.

Kennick nodded. “A good idea, sir. But what made them falter in the first place.”

Rhenkin grinned then, in genuine pleasure. “Caltrops,” he told the younger man. “An idea of that smith’s daughter, Erinn. Three long iron nails worked together so a point is face upwards no matter how they lay. Easy to make and damned effective by the looks of things. The catapults have been littering the field all afternoon.

“Damned clever,” Kennick grunted. “It won’t hold them though.”

“No.” Rhenkin nodded as his smile faded. “No, it won’t.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The clearing had changed from the last time they’d seen it. The once-peaceful glade had been ravaged and the ground was churned to ruin by the passage of thousands of hoofed footsteps. Obair’s cottage had been torn to pieces where thick tree roots had thrust out from the ground and burrowed into the sides of the building to rip it apart.

Tristan turned to Ylsriss, muttering something in his deep voice.

“What did he say?” Devin asked, curious.

“He said it doesn’t really look anything special and asked if we were sure about this place,” she told him.

“Forgotten Gods, you’d better be!” Halther said, looking over to the stones. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Do we need to wait for the moon?” Obair wondered, raising an eyebrow at Joran and Ylsriss.

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem to work the same way as the glyphs the fae use,” Ylsriss told him with a shrug. “That’s just my best guess, of course.”

Halther worked his way around the others, leaning in close to Obair. “How long do you think you need?” he asked.

“I really have no idea,” the old druid admitted.

Halther muttered something to one of the scouts near him and shook his head darkly. “You’d best be getting on with it then. I really don’t want to be here when the moon rises, not if we can help it.”

Miriam pushed past them, making her way out to the circle of stones and wandering through them with a bemused expression as her fingertips brushed over those she passed.

Devin followed her, glancing up at the sky almost without thinking. The sun hadn’t shown itself all day. The sky had been blanketed in pale while clouds, making it hard to guess at the time of day. Halther was right though, time wouldn’t wait for them.

“Let’s get started.” He stepped into the circle reaching for the first of the stones as he crouched, feeling for the glyphs. Dimly he was aware of the others fanning out around him and searching the stones.

“There’s nothing here!” Joran called out.

“Try another one,” Devin shouted back. The edges of panic were already reaching for him. Joran was right, these stones were different to the ones at Lillith’s cottage. Not just the height, though these were far shorter, the stone was not the same. The stones at Lillith's cottage had been pitted with age but there had been a grain to the rock that had made the glyphs easier to find as they broke with the stone's natural pattern. These stones were nothing like that. They were ancient and pitted from ages exposed to the elements but other than that they were featureless. Devin looked around at the others and panic sought and found him. There was not a glyph to be found.

“Try the hubstones,” Obair suggested. He had probably intended his voice to sound calm. It wasn’t, and the tinge of panic only served to make his own worse.

“Here!” Joran cried out, crouched beside the fallen hubstone. It lay to one side of the monolith making a shape with its fallen companion that was close to forming a T.

Devin rushed over, crouching down beside him and searching with his hands. There was definitely something there, a series of lines that were too regular to be anything natural.

“It doesn’t feel like the others,” he said with a frown at the younger man.

“How do you mean?”

“The other glyphs were more curves and loops. This is more angular.”

Joran looked at him for a second and barked out an incredulous laugh. “That’s your expert opinion is it? Not enough curves?”

“If you two have quite finished?” Ylsriss stood behind them, arms folded over her chest with a raised eyebrow.

She crouched into the gap they made for her, tracing the glyphs lightly. After a moment she closed her eyes, frowning.

“They are different,” she said at last, sitting back. “At the other circle I couldn’t read them but I was closer to it than this. This is almost like reading a different language.”

“Nothing?” Devin pressed. “Nothing at all?” He looked over to Obair, sharing a worried look as the druid drew closer.

She shook her head. “Not really. There are a few things that are close. Characters that sort of remind me of others but they’re really not that similar. It could just be coincidence.”

“What about this?” Devin asked, pointing at a small hole in the stone. “I thought it was just a chip in the stone to start with but look, it’s too regular.”

Ylsriss leaned forward to peer at it, running her hands over the stone around it. “I don’t know. I can make out glyphs around it but…” She shrugged.

“Does it matter?” Joran asked?

Devin cocked his head, frowning at him, but Obair got there first.

“I’d say it matters!” he snapped. “What do you think we travelled all this way for? If Ylsriss can’t work these glyphs then this has all been for nothing!”

“Easy…” Devin told the old man, pushing his arm down from where he’d stabbed it at the air in front of the Bjornman.

Joran was unruffled though. “Except that Ylsriss didn’t work the glyphs at the other circle, did she?” He looked to Devin. “Don’t you remember? She couldn’t find anything close to an activation sequence, you did it all yourself.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Obair mused. “Can you remember how you did it?”

Devin flushed as the faces turned to him and looked down at the ground. “It was the same way I felt the moon,” he spoke slowly, dredging through a memory that was jumbled and confused. “The same as when Ylsriss and Joran came through—”

“Wait, what about Aervern?” Joran stopped him. “I thought we were going to wait for her to power the glyphs?”

Devin glanced around the clearing and looked back to the Bjornmen. “I don’t see her, do you? Face it,” he said as Joran’s face fell, “this is about fighting the fae, about shutting them out of our world. How much did you think we could really trust her?”

He stopped then, ignoring Joran’s response and reaching for the stone. There was a feel to this, a sensation of movement, though he himself never took a step. He closed his eyes and grasped the stone.

For long minutes nothing happened. Obair exchanged worried looks with the others and tried to ignore the muttered conversation of the scouts at the edges of the clearing.

“Look!” Ylsriss hissed urgently, pointing at the stone. Where Devin gripped at the stone, a faint covering of frost was forming.

“Is it…” Obair began, but stopped himself. Devin’s eyes were blank, staring into nothing as he frowned in concentration. The frost grew thicker, climbing over his fingernails as the skin on his hands grew paler and took on a blueish tinge.

“Is there no way we can help him?” Joran asked. “This nearly killed him the last time.”

Ylsriss shook her head. “I don’t even know what he’s doing. Though…” She paused, looking at Devin again. “Maybe it’s not that complicated.”

She reached out, grasping the hand that hung loose at his side. The cold was instant and immediate, sucking the heat from her body so swiftly that it robbed the strength from her gasp. She stiffened, throwing her head back as the shiver took hold, shaking her in tremors so strong it was a wonder she stayed upright.

“Ylsriss!” Joran gasped, reaching for her other hand.

“Don’t!” Obair stopped him. “For all we know she’s not helping him at all. Don’t blunder in.”

Joran glared at him for a moment, and then peered at the stone. “Look.” He pointed. “The frost is lessening. It’s doing something.” He met Obair’s eyes with a defiant look. “By this time at the cottage there were lines growing on his face and his hair colour had gone.”

Obair grunted. It was true, the frost did seem lessened, though both wore painful grimaces.

“This I can help with better than you, I think,” Tristan rumbled. His hand looked huge as he reached for Ylsriss’s small one but the effect was no less pronounced and he gasped and stiffened. Joran watched him for a second and reached out, followed by Gavin.

Obair looked on in silence, after long moments a cold hand reached timidly for his own. Miriam’s worry mirrored his own. They were not so very different, he realised. Both their lives had been taken up by duty and suffering and neither of them had ever been given a choice. He returned her worried smile and, together, they watched on and waited while the scouts held a nervous vigil around them. Miriam nodded as Obair gave her a questioning look. The old man gave her a small smile and reached for Gavin’s hand. Where the others had gasped, Obair barely stiffened. Miriam’s eyes closed but his eyes simply grew blank as his brow furrowed in concentration.

***

The skies grew darker as afternoon headed for evening. Halther and the others gathered wood and set to work building fires around the clearing. If the fae were to make an appearance they wouldn’t remain hidden for lack of light.

One of the scouts settled down beside a fire and set to work rummaging through the packs. He glanced up at the strange look from the others. “We may as well get a hot meal going. We still need to eat and it’s not as if any fae close enough to see us would miss these fires is it?”

Halther shrugged and glanced at the others. “He has a point, I suppose.”

They gathered around one of the fires set close to the ruins of the cottage. Clumps of iron still jutted from the ground. It was unlikely to be of much help but it was better than nothing.

The conversation was hushed and stilted and frequent looks drifted over to the figures clustered around the stone. A small fire had been set beside them where they knelt, but if they drew comfort from it they gave no sign.

It was well after night had truly fallen that Joran gave a long, pained, groan and fell to the earth. After hours of silence from the stones the sound cut through the hushed conversation of those sat around the fire and Halther jerked upright, spilling the bowl he’d cradled on his lap and sending it spinning to the dirt.

Tristan blinked and stood slowly as the scouts rushed over to the seven of them. He shook his head at the barrage of questions, none of which he could understand. After a moment he reached for Ylsriss, grasping her by the shoulder. As if something passed between them she let Devin's hand drop and collapsed into Tristan's arms.

Obair barely noticed as Devin sat back. His hand trailed down the side of the stone until it touched the earth.

“I know,” he managed, his voice so soft it bordered on being a whisper.

Obair sank to the ground beside him, reaching for his shoulders to keep the young man from falling. “Are you okay?”

The look Devin gave him was murderous. “I know. I know what the Wyrde is, what it always was. I know what we will have to do. And you knew all along, didn’t you?”

“I'd guessed at it,” Obair admitted. “Lillith left enough in her diaries to hint at it. It was nothing more than hints, mind you.”

“What are you talking about?” Ylsriss asked. Her voice was weak and she still clung to Tristan but she was awake and alert.

“Somebody has to die,” Devin told her. “The Wyrde is a soul, a human soul holding the fae back. The druids use its power to form the Wyrde. I can rebuild the barrier but to do it one of us has to die.”

Ylsriss reached for the steaming cup Halther offered her, taking a sip and waiting while another was offered to Devin. He smiled his thanks, wrapping both hands around it and seeking to pull the warmth directly into his hands. “It needs a soul, someone Wyrde-touched. It was always one of the druids in the past. The master gave a part of himself to the stones and to the Wyrde as the apprentice took over but it doesn’t need to be. You, Joran, even Obair or I, any one of us could do it.”

Her face was stricken as she looked from him to Obair. “How do we choose?”

“The choice is already made,” Miriam told her softly. “You’re so young, all of you. You all have long lives to live. Mine was stolen from me by the fae long ago. I've had years of torment but I haven't really lived a life. What years remain to me are mine to use as I see fit and I can’t think of a better way to live, or die.”

Devin’s head shot round, horrified. “Ma… No!”

Her hand reached for him, stroking his cheek. “It’s okay, baby boy. You’ve a whole life ahead of you,” her voice grew thick and almost fierce as she forced the words through the tears that threatened, “and I am just so very proud!”

“Miriam, you don’t need to…” Obair cut off. “I’d planned…”

She shook her head. “I know, Obair. Devin can’t do this alone though. You’ll be needed here. He’ll need someone to guide him.”

He paused at her words, eyes narrowing in thought for just a second as something struck him. He nodded slowly, turning to Devin. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Devin shook his head as he pulled himself to his feet. “No, I’ll never be ready.”

“I know,” Obair gripped his shoulder. “I’m not either but who knows how much time we have?”

Miriam moved past them both, climbing up onto the stone laying at the centre of the circle. It was only as she lay upon it that Devin realised that this stone had never been resting upon the others, this had always been its purpose. She smiled at him once and lay her head back, closing her eyes.

The moon was clear through the clouds as they began, stepping in concert as they moved through their different rituals. Obair had begun at one side of the circle with Devin facing him from the other. The rituals brought them close together and twisted them apart again. There was an odd symmetry to it as they moved, something that pulled at the edges of Ylsriss’s mind, crying out to be understood yet eluding her. Their steps traced glyphs across the churned mud of the ground, forming sequences that made even the gateway she and Joran had used to escape the Realm of Twilight seem simple. The rituals wound on, moving in spirals around each other in a dance so complex it was unnerving.

Miriam gasped as it began, her face etched with pain as the frost climbed up over her clothes and skin. Fern-shaped fingers of ice reached up over her cheeks as the stones drew on her strength and her body's heat. Though the woman made no sound and barely moved, the agony she suffered was clear. Ylsriss gripped Tristan's hand tight as she watched, biting at her own lip until finally, unable to take it any longer, she turned away.

“Ylsriss!” Gavin grabbed at her arm, finger pointing upwards. “Lords of the Seas, look! Look at the moon!”

“What about it?” she looked from the sky to his face.

“It was full before, look now!”

She followed his finger with a frown. Where the moon had hung full it was fading, drifting into darkness as if a veil were being drawn across it. She looked back to the pair moving through the steps of their rituals. Were they doing this? Was this even possible?

Footsteps turned her head even as Halther’s men snatched up weapons.

“I offer no threat, manlings.” The voice was soft and somehow familiar.

“Aervern?” Joran wondered as she stepped into the circle of light from the fire. “You came!”

She smiled at him as she came closer. “I go where I will, sweetling, did I not once tell you this?”

He shook his head, nonplussed. “I…”

She went to him, reaching out to press a finger to his lips. “I come for reasons of my own, but also this one desired to be here.” She stepped aside with a graceful sweep of the arm.

“Klöss!” Ylsriss ran to him, hurling herself at him as he emerged from the gloom. “What? Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he told her as he stepped back and looked at her. “I had to come as soon as I knew Aervern was coming here. I couldn’t risk not coming.”

“What do you mean?”

“You belong here with me, Ylsriss,” he told her. “If these two succeed there will be no way back here from the world of the fae.”

“You thought?” She shook her head. “You thought I might go back?”

“I know you would,” Klöss told her. “If you could find a way to pass over I know you would.”

He stopped her as she started to speak. “Let me finish, okay? Effan was stolen from us, he was taken. He’s my son and I never even got to hold him but he’s gone from us as surely as if he’d never taken breath. Aervern explained it all to me, the way that time passes differently between our worlds. Our baby could be three summers or more by now. He’s probably walking and speaking.”

“I know all of that, Klöss,” she said, looking away from him. There was an edge to her voice, an angry hurt waiting to lash out.

Klöss smiled, looking past her anger as he moved to meet her gaze. “I can’t lose you, Ylsriss. If these two succeed there will be no coming back. If you were to pass over you’d be trapped there forever and who’s to say you would ever find Effan?”

She frowned, shaking her head. “How would I even get there, Klöss? If there was a way I might have but…” she stopped, looking at Aervern.

“You!”

“I would assist if I could,” the fae told her. “The loss of a youngling is something I would not wish upon anyone, fae or manling. I can well imagine your torment.” She looked at Joran as she spoke and a slight smile curved her lips.

“Wait…how?” he began

Aervern took three swift steps and reached to rest her fingertips on Joran's chest. “We do not place such an importance on these things as you manlings,” she told him. “Yet ties of blood are not unimportant to us. Our child will wish to know its sire. This is not your world, Joran. There is nothing for you here. If these Wyrdeweavers succeed then all that is fae in this realm will be torn free and cast to the Outside. I would have you return with me before the veil is drawn between us.”

He looked over at Ylsriss and the frown caught up with him as his head whipped back to the fae. “Hold on, what do you mean, ‘its sire?’”

Her smile was all the answer she gave and all the answer he needed.

“We have a child?” he asked.

She nodded, her eyes a mystery. “There is not much time, sweetling. Will you return with me?”

“Joran, you can’t be serious!” Ylsriss blurted as she turned to look at him.

He shrugged with a sad smile. “You left the Realm of Twilight to come home, Ylsriss. I have no home to here to find. You told me that yourself, remember?”

Ylsriss shook her head. “I was angry, Joran. I didn’t mean for you to do this…”

He smiled at her, “But I can make a home there, something to belong to.”

She shook her head again, confusion making her face hard and angry. “What about the touch? You’re making a slave of yourself!”

Aervern shook her head. “The touch is a thing of the highfae, of Aelthen and his kin. I would never do this thing. This smothering and crushing of self, it is a thing only a creature that needs endless assurance of their own superiority would do. I seek Joran as my life-mate. I have no need of a mindless pet.” She bared her teeth slightly in a smile that was stepping closer to being a snarl as she laid a possessive hand on Joran’s arm.

Ylsriss ignored the veiled threat, shaking her head again as she denied everything. “Don’t do this, Joran,” she insisted in a voice thick with tears. “You’ve only been here such a short time. Don’t give up on our world, don't give up on us.”

“Don’t you see, Ylsriss?” he asked gently. “This isn’t our world, it never was. I’m not giving up on it, I’m just choosing something else. The Realm of Twilight will change with Aelthen gone. There will be no camps, no breeding pens. You were there in the ruins of that city, you saw the things that man and fae can do together. We could rebuild that. I want to be a part of that.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded.

“Well come here, you dumb ox.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as he came to her. She wrapped arms around him, holding him fiercely. “I will never forget you.”

Aervern stiffened, looking out over the darkened trees and sniffing at the air. “We must hurry. Our time here grows short.”

Joran frowned and seemed about to speak but stopped as Aervern met his eyes. “Maybe you’re right.”

She led him over to the standing stone, stepping past Obair and Devin as they moved in their dance around Miriam. All three seemed oblivious to their presence, lost in the ritual of the Wyrde.

“Find my son, Joran,” Ylsriss told him. “Find Effan.”

He nodded once into the silence between them. There were no words. There was no need.

Aervern reached for the monolith, gazing into the distance behind them with an odd expression. and then the fae was reaching for him, and they passed out of the world in search of a new one.

***

Rhenkin found himself reaching for his sword as the fae crashed into the line. It was odd, both being removed from the lines but also the manner of the clash. Human armies would smash into each other, meeting blade with shield. The fae were nothing like that and more of them stepped smoothly past the iron blades of Rhenkin’s men than sought to parry the strike.

The fae and satyr were not so much as driving the lines back as they were fracturing them. Units disintegrated and crumbled back in upon themselves, seeking to kill the fae that raged in their midst.

White arrows hissed out of the fae host, driving completely through men and showering others in gore. They passed through bodies without slowing, slamming into other men before coming to a halt. Iron arrows flew back in return, spreading blue fire wherever they struck home. Up and down the line the battle raged and Rhenkin watched on. There was little to do and entirely too much time to think. Reports came and went and Kennick issued small orders for small details in a steady stream.

His eyes were drawn to Aelthen. The huge creature was always where the fighting was thickest, laying about him with a massive broad-bladed spear. Huge roots suddenly burst from the earth as the creature held his hands forth. They whipped out, grasping up men by arm and leg and tearing them slowly in two as they screamed. The line shrank back from the spectacle as the blood spattered across the ranks and, as another hail of white arrows struck, the line simply dissolved.

“Hold it, Ackerson,” Rhenkin muttered to himself as he watched the men stagger backwards. “Damn it, hold the line!”

Satyrs surged forward with a bestial roar that reached even to Rhenkin’s ears and the flank buckled, and then broke. Men turned and fled as satyrs drove into their midst, bone knives flashing. The charge, when it came, was textbook perfect. Neat orderly cavalry rows arranged perpendicular to the front line and flowing down from the edges of the flank. Rhenkin nodded to himself in satisfaction as he saw the sabres flashing in the moonlight as the men charged. And then the realisation hit.

“Kennick,” he grabbed the man’s arm. “Send reserves to the right flank. Send them now!”

“Sabres,” he breathed. “You bloody fool, Ackerson.” The sabres were the preferred weapon of the Savarel cavalry, a swift slashing weapon. In many ways they epitomised the way the men were trained to fight. A lightning quick strike on a fast horse, sabres flashing, and then away before the enemy had a chance to gather themselves.

The problem was not the men, or the tactic Ackerson was employing, it was the sabres the men carried. Ackerson had dismissed the warning that steel weapons were useless against the fae. The weapons Rhenkin’s men carried were pure iron. Ugly, quick-forged weapons that had none of the grace of the steel swords they were used to. Iron was simply too brittle to forge into a sabre worth having and it certainly didn’t shine in the moonlight like that.

The charge faltered as it punched into the fae, the sabres slashing into fae and satyr and rebounding with little or no effect. Horses screamed as the bone knives of the satyr slashed into flanks and eyes, and then the men themselves were torn from their mounts.

“Sir!” Kennick cried out as Rhenkin rushed for the horses picketed beside the command tents.

Rhenkin ignored him and threw himself into the saddle, driving his boots into the startled beast’s flanks as he urged it towards Ackerson’s flank. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He growled as he crouched low over the horse.

The captain staggered back as Rhenkin hurled himself out of the saddle. “You there, get those archers firing. Four sections in a constant volley, right into the breach.”

“Are you mad?” The captain burst out. “Those are our men out there! Who the hell are you anyway?”

Rhenkin grabbed the man by his mail shirt, hauling him close until their noses almost touched. “I am Lord High Marshal Rhenkin, now get those fucking archers moving!”

The captain paled, and then flushed before turning and barking orders. The men moved swiftly but Rhenkin knew it was too late. The fae were already deep into the ranks and the cavalry had been butchered. Arrows streaked overhead as the first of the volleys were lofted and blue fire exploded along the lines but Rhenkin winced at the screams. Some of them would be his own men.

The flank stabilized over time, forcing the fae back with sword and arrow but the losses were horrendous. Over half the reserves had already been committed and the lines had buckled twice more at the centre and the left flank. The moon was high in the sky now and the fires were barely necessary as the bright light shone over the battlefield.

A low moan of terror rose from the foremost elements of the army as Aelthen stepped up onto the mist that surrounded him, waving the fae behind him into the air. The hunt rose up in the same spiral that Rhenkin had first seen in Obair’s glade when the fae had burst free from the stones. He winced as they charged up and over heads of the foremost lines and plunged down into the ranks, hacking left and right before rising up into the skies again.

Arrows streaked after them but most fell short. Those than did make it close enough to threaten, exploded into splinters before they ever found flesh. Snarling in frustration Rhenkin turned his face away as Kennick pulled at his arm.

“Sir, look!” Rhenkin stifled a groan as he followed the lieutenant’s pointing finger and frowned. The fae host stretched out before him, extending so far that there were elements that hadn’t even entered the battle yet. On their flank though, something seemed to be happening. It was too far to make out any detail but the flashes of blue fire told their own tale.

“The Bjornmen?” Kennick asked.

Rhenkin shrugged and glanced up at the sky. The sight stole the words from his mouth and he gasped as he pointed himself. The moon had risen high over the horizon now but where it had been full, a dark stain now spread over the face of it. The most easterly edge was already as dark as the skies behind it and the darkness was increasing.

“What the…” Kennick managed but his words were lost in a roar of fury. Aelthen stood still in the air, glaring up at the moon. He raised his great spear high and screamed out his anger again. His eyes glowed, growing in intensity until they shone brighter than the bonfires. Then, with a thunderous inrushing of air, he vanished.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The clearing had fallen oddly silent. The rituals of the Wyrde were performed in silence and the only sounds were the faint footfalls of the two druids as they wove their steps about the stones. Ylsriss let Klöss take her hand and lead her to where Tristan, Gavin, and the scouts waited.

The wind was picking up, whipping leaves from the treetops and tossing them up into the moonlight.

“You managed to keep her in one piece then?” Klöss said as he grinned at the big man.

“What could harm her?” Tristan smiled but turned, frowning at a faint noise behind him.

“Problem?” Gavin asked but the man didn't answer.

The spear came out of the air, emerging from nothing as it passed into reality and thrust savagely at the Bjornman. Tristan was already moving, twisting one the side on instinct but the broad blade cut through leathers and flesh with ease until it skidded along his ribs.

Aelthen stepped forward, flinging Tristan aside as the air shimmered, falling from him like water as he emerged from the illusion.

“You pitiful creatures dare to attempt this?” he demanded in a powerful voice.

Tristan was the first to answer, picking himself up with rage burning in his eyes as he tore the axe from his back and rushed at the fae creature with a roar. Blood ran freely from the wound along his side but the man didn't seem to feel it. His eyes were wide and the scream unending as he struck at the creature in a savage fury.

Aelthen shifted away from the berserker, pushed back by the sheer fury of the assault. His spear moved with ease to block strikes that were little more than a blur but which left little time for a return stroke.

Gavin was the first to move in a battle that had lasted only moments, pulling daggers free and darting in behind the fight, crouching low and waiting for an opening. He moved smoothly, blades flashing as he struck but he may as well have been fighting smoke. Aelthen shifted out of his reach with ease, barely seeming to take his attention from Tristan and the axe.

The blow came from nowhere as Aelthen's rear hoof lashed out and caught the thief in the side of the head, hurling him across the clearing. The satyri lunged forward against the axe-wielder, becoming a blur of motion as his eyes flared. The spear caught Tristan squarely in the ribs, bursting through his chest as if his flesh offered no real resistance. Blood spattered over Klöss as Ylsriss screamed and they staggered back away from the sight.

“And is that all you offer?” Aelthen sneered, tearing the spear free of Tristan's body as the man dropped to the dirt.

The only answer was the hiss of an arrow as Halther let fly an ironhead. Aelthen barely seemed to notice as one hand came up and snatched the shaft out of the air. He turned his gaze to the scouts as they readied their own arrows and a cold smile spread over his face. The arrow splintered in his hand as his eyes flared, bathing his face in amber. Along the line men cried out as their bows shattered, thrusting jagged shards of wood into unprotected hands and wrists.

“This abomination ends here,” Aelthen declared, lifting the spear once more as he stepped towards the circle where Obair and Devin worked on.

The sword hissed as Klöss pulled it free of the sheath, the sound itself calling out a challenge. Aelthen turned his head at the sound. “You also?” he asked in surprise. “You would pit yourself against me? Are you so eager to die, manling?” The satyri seemed almost incredulous, the shock reaching out to him from some place beyond his arrogance.

Klöss gave no answer, stepping away from Ylsriss and sinking back into the fighting stance Verig had spent so many years schooling him in. He raised the blackened blade of the sword above his head in a two handed grip and met the creature’s eyes in defiance. “Come then, fae.”

Aelthen inclined his antlered head in a nod as formal as any bow and raised the great spear again, shifting into a guard position. The strike was fast as Aelthen uncoiled like a whip, seeming to move from a relaxed posture into the strike without passing through any of the movements that should have been involved in between.

Klöss barely moved, adjusting the great sword less an inch and shifting his line so the strike slid down along the blade and extended out behind him. His slash was savage, passing under the spear and lashing out at a foreleg. Aelthen stepped aside, letting the blade pass him. The shock on his face made way for a grudging respect, and then the blades lashed out again.

Ylsriss ran past the pair as spear crashed into blade. Klöss moved with a grace she’d never seen from him as he flowed from stance to stance, his great black sword a blur in front of him. Aelthen held the spear as a staff, whistling the blade and haft about him with one hand and striking and blocking with both.

“Help him!” she screamed as she raced to Halther.

He looked past her, unseeing as he gazed at the creature in awe, eyes wide with adoration. She kicked at him but he didn’t even seem to feel it as he staggered to the side. Light flared behind her and she spun in shock as the stones of the circle burst into life. Glyphs that had been worn out of sight by aeons of rain and wind burned brighter than any flame as they flared along the length of the stones.

She shook her herself violently as Klöss grunted in pain, bringing her back to herself, as a slash caught him high on the arm, biting through his leathers. Halther didn’t react as she shoved at him, turning him around to reach for his quiver.

Aelthen thrust a palm forward into the air and Klöss suddenly rocketed away as if struck a hammer blow. The creature's eyes glowed brightly as a faint green mist began to rise from him, torn free in the glow of the stones.

Ylsriss screamed out Klöss’s name but he ignored her, heaving himself to his feet and edging closer to the stones as he sank back down into his stance.

“Impudent.” Aelthen sneered as contempt flowed over his features. He raised the spear again, ran ahead of her, and charged.

There was no way to block the strike. Aelthen was easily three times Klöss's weight and the blow would pass through him without even slowing. He ducked and rolled to one side, gasping in the green mist that seemed to surround the satyri as Aelthen passed him with less than an inch to spare.

The power rocked into him and Klöss gasped in shock as a flash of understanding hit. He breathed the mist in deeply, eyes flaring amber as he spun to block the blow he had somehow felt coming. His blow was slight, a backstroke that had been robbed of any real force by the strike he had parried. It caught Aelthen a glancing blow on the ribs below one great arm but the bellow of pain from the beast was deafening. The satyri staggered back, clutching at the wound with one hand as he stared at Klöss in shock and dismay. The shipmaster raised the black sword with a smile and Aelthen’s eyes widened as he looked from Klöss's glowing eyes to the blade, seeming to truly see it for the first time.

Klöss surged forward with a flurry of blows, drawing on the power that coursed through him. The blade felt like nothing in his hand and he wove it in combinations that he would never have even attempted normally. Aelthen staggered away from him, fear and confusion robbing his movements of any grace as he desperately fought to keep the black-iron blade from him.

Ylsriss didn’t hesitate. Hesitation would just have made her movements more obvious as she circled behind the creature. She raised the ironhead in one hand, grasping the shaft like the hilt of a dagger. Three quick racing steps brought her close enough and she rammed the arrow down, thrusting it deep between the ribs of the stag body beneath Aelthen’s human torso and feeling the shaft snap in her hand. “That's for my baby, you bastard!”

Blue fire gouted from the wound and Aelthen screamed, a shockingly human sound, as he turned and slammed the length of the spear against her, crashing her aside like a discarded toy. He ripped at the wound, ignoring Klöss, as he strove to tear the ironhead from his flesh.

It was almost too easy. This was no longer a fight, it was slaughter. Klöss raised the black-iron blade high and hacked. The sword sheared through flesh and bone, tasting blood, and then the iron blade met the Lady’s Gift.

The explosion tore through the glade, throwing Klöss through the air to crash into the stone circle, blasting the air from him as he slumped to the ground and lay still.

***

Devin worked in silence but it was a silence that was ignored. The ritual took his all, took his entire self, dulling his emotions as it stole him away from the world. Dimly he was aware of the surge of power that was rushing into the stones from Miriam, powering the ritual and opening the histories of the druids to him.

The steps of the ritual were almost second nature to him, implanted in his very consciousness by the knowledge buried in the stones. As he moved, forming glyphs with his steps, he mirrored his movements within his thoughts, forcing the sensations and his awareness of the moon through the channels he carved in his mind. Screams and shouts nagged at him from the edges of the clearing but it was a half-heard babble, unimportant and easy to ignore. Instead, the knowledge of the druids filled him, reaching out from the stones that surrounded him and pouring into him.

The histories of the druids stretched out before him, the lives and experiences of hundreds, if not thousands, of men and women passed into the stones at the moment they gave their lives to the Wyrde. He knew now that the Wyrde had always been a single soul, but that soul had never been trapped and held for all the ages. It had served, waiting until the next master was ready to pass on the task of the ritual to their apprentice. Death had never been an ending for these druids. It was merely the next stage in a task that only ended as their soul was released from the Wyrde, passing on to whatever lay beyond the veil as another took their place.

He could feel Obair, feel the ritual he wove about him, but it was powerless. It was like the old man was painting with water, the strokes sure and certain but holding no colour. What was the difference between them? Why could he feel this power and not the old man? He reached back through the histories, passing through lives in an instant as he sought answers.

The histories ended with the purges. Devin’s mind shot back to childhood memories of Samen’s tales at the first mention of King Caltus. His purges had succeeded in ways that that mad king could never have imagined. Though the druids had lived on the knowledge buried in the stones, of the hidden glyphs and how to access them, had been lost. The druids themselves had been reduced to simple caretakers, going through the motions of a ritual that none of them truly understood.

Devin flew back through lives, passing generations in an instant while his feet led him through the ritual, back to the very beginnings of the Wyrde, when mankind was fresh from the war with the fae and the desperate flight through the Worldtrails. The answer was right there, simple in its truth. The knowledge filled him with horror. Mankind was never meant to touch the power of the fae, mankind never could. Fae blood was needed to touch that power and it was the fae blood within him that worked them now.

Centuries of interbreeding with the fae had resulted in fae-born that were little different from mankind. For some, the fae heritage had thinned over countless generations. For others it ran true. That was why he had been able to feel the moon so easily. That was why he had been able to feel Miriam and the fae host as they passed between the worlds. He hadn't been feeling the Wyrde at all. He had felt the passage of the fae through the Worldtrails. Obair must have a touch of fae blood, enough for him to push his ritual onwards but nothing close to what was needed to relight the fire that was the Wyrde. That would come from him.

He felt him then. As the realisation of what he was came to him he felt Obair moving through the histories. It was as if the rituals had themselves merged and formed a bridge allowing the old man to see what he himself had already discovered. He felt the shock of discovery and the old man moved with purpose, driving back through to the very forging of the Wyrde with a desperation that startled Devin even through his numbness.

Devin's mind fled then, pushing away the histories and rushing through the halls of his consciousness until his eyes snapped open and he saw the glade once more. His step faltered for the briefest moment as he saw the burning corpse of Aelthen and the crumpled forms scattered around the glade but he moved onward. The strands of power he wove were hollow, he saw that now. In many ways, little different to those woven by Obair. It was a vessel they created, needing only to be filled.

Obair lifted his head then, glancing at Devin as they reached the culmination. His steps wove glyphs ever closer to Miriam until he stopped beside the stone, waiting as Devin moved on.

He knelt then, reaching inside his robe. “You won't be alone, Miriam,” he said softly. “I understand it now. There's no need for you to be alone in this.”

Her eyes were wet as she reached to touch his face with her fingertips. “You're sure?

Obair nodded as he gathered Miriam to him, embracing her and placing the long iron blade against her back. She kissed him then and the surprise in his eyes softened as his smile grew.

“It was never intended to be a single soul, Devin,” he called out. “The forgers of the Wyrde were close but they never truly grasped it. One soul alone was enough to power the Wyrde as they intended, trapped and directed by the living druids working the ritual. But with two it is a power unending. The ritual would never be needed, the Wyrde would be maintained from within. One soul to power and one to guide.”

Devin froze at the words, struggling to free his mind from the strands of the ritual that bound him as he fought to understand what the old man meant. And then it was too late. Obair thrust his body forward as he drove the blade through Miriam and into his own chest.

There was a moment of utter silence, and then the stones exploded in light as the glyphs flared brighter than a noon-sun. Devin staggered back, shielding his eyes as he stumbled from the circle, stumbling over Klöss who groaned beneath him. His mind burned as the steps of the ritual seemed to repeat themselves, coursing on and flowing ever faster until it was one blinding blur.

He heard screams, though at least one was his own as he lay in the grass. A force seemed to snatch at him, tugging but somehow unable to get a firm grasp. Above him them the veil grew stronger, passing over the moon until nothing remained and the skies fell into utter darkness as the light of the stones guttered and died. Devin lay in the darkness. In the stillness that followed he felt it, the first stirrings of the Wyrde.

***

Ileriel spat curses as Aelthen vanished and allowed the flow of the battle to carry her back away from the manlings. The stench of fehru was everywhere and the foul taste of it covered her tongue with every breath she took. Manling arrows rose high above the host, bringing crude slivers of the stuff down towards her and she reached out with her Grace, slashing the shaft that would have taken her in the throat.

“Variska!” she called out, lending strength to her cry with what reserves she had. The sight of the Lady, half-obscured by some black taint, filled her with dread and she tried to keep her gaze away from the sky.

The fae'reeth had ceased their attack as soon as Aelthen vanished and the Swarm turned in lazy circles above the battlefield. Variska shone at its heart, easily visible to both fae and manling. She turned her burning gaze to Ileriel for the barest moment before looking away, unconcerned with whatever the fae might wish of her. Ileriel spat a curse. The manling impudence knew no bounds and their use of fehru was taking a toll that she doubted Aelthen had ever imagined.

The satyrs were hurling themselves against the manlings. Riahl's horde of beasts were mad with bloodlust and barely seemed to notice that they were being cut down with each surge they made against the line of fehru facing them. She could easily pick out Riahl himself, more than half lost to the blood-rage as he stood and ordered his horde onwards.

This was not a fae battle. Fae did not line up in these neat rows and crash together in an endless succession of screams. This ebb and flow was reaping as much fae blood as manling.

As she watched the satyrs gave up their endless clashing against the manling lines. Instead, they hurled themselves high into the air with shining eyes as they employed what Grace they could. The beasts crashed down, deep into the manling lines, laying about them with blade and fist. The humans fell into chaos for a moment, but then flares of sapphire exploded within their ranks. The tactic was useless.

Riahl seemed to ignore the losses, sending more and more of his Great Revel leaping to their deaths as two fae sought to stop him. The creature was a liability, too far gone to the wilds to respect the order of things. She had been right about him from the beginning.

The sensation built slowly, a thin shard of pain that wrapped her fear around itself and bore through her until it was buried deep into the core of her. Ileriel looked up at the moon in terror. The black hole in the sky told her as much as the thick green mist that rose from the fae around her, whipping away in a wind that seemed to have come from nowhere.

Pain took her and she staggered further from the front lines until her terror overcame the agony and she fled, stumbling past fae and satyr who held their hands before them in wonder as the Lady's Gift poured from them, surrounding them in green torrents that seemed to rush about, tugging at them, pulling.

The manlings seemed to have stopped their attack, looking on in wonder as the armies of the fae fell about in panic and dismay. Ileriel scrabbled at her quiver, dumping the fine white arrows out onto the ground until the bundle of cloth fell free. Desperation robbed her of any grace as she fell to the ground, scrabbling at the cloth in panic. Already she could feel it tugging at her. Already the foulness of it pulled at her, seeking to drive her from this world.

Blue fire flared between her hands as she grasped the arrowhead and Ileriel screamed bitter agony as she fled through the fae host, burning what Grace she had by forcing more speed from her legs until she left the battle behind her and reached the trees. The fire burned away at her hands, flaring bright between the wreckage of her fingers but already the flames were lessening, no longer the raging furnace they had been.

The fae stopped, leaning against a tree as she glanced back at the battle. The mist was thicker somehow, filled with motes of something darker. Flecks of black sand tossed about in the wind-driven mist. The screams reached her easily, cries of panic and despair as the specks grew larger until they looked like ashes tossed up from a fire.

Ileriel glanced at the fehru in her hand. The fire had gone but never had she felt so utterly drained. The tugging of the Wyrde was still there but somehow it was slipping past her, unable to find purchase.

A howling reached her from the satyr on the fringes of the host and she looked over in time to see the closest of them dissolve into fragments, blown like ash in the wind as the Wyrde tore them from the world. Hundreds of satyr fell in moments and a keening wail pulled her gaze to the Swarm and the glowing fae'reeth at its centre. Variska screamed and all about her the fae'reeth exploded into fragments.

Panic spoke to her in a voice that was too quiet for her ears. Her legs listened and she fled through the trees, deeper into the forest. The cave had the scent of beast about it, damp fur and musk, but Ileriel barely noticed. She retreated to the darkest corner, hidden far from the reach of the Lady or her jealous sibling. As she curled into a ball around the fehru arrowhead still clasped to her breast she smiled. The Wyrde had no hold on her. What the sun or moon might bring she did not know but for now she was free.

***

Devin came to slowly, blinking at the light. There was something between his lips, a cold texture on his teeth and he probed at it with his tongue. His mind was slow, his thoughts struggling over each other as he fought to make sense of it all. The taste hit him first and he spat, mud and grass mixed with the blood from his split lip. There were noises around him, voices that sounded familiar. Slowly he pushed himself onto all fours, dizziness threatening to pull him back down to the mud as he fought his way up to his knees.

“Devin?” The voice seemed over-loud, everything was too bright. He waved a hand, not really knowing himself what he meant by it as he pushed the sound away.

“Halther?” he said, frowning at the sound of the name.

“Here, lad. Get this inside you.” A flask was pressed to his hands and made its way to his lips. He coughed and sputtered at the brandy, pushing it away.

“Are you all right, lad? Are you hurt?”

“No.” He shook his head, then regretted it as a wave of dizziness hit. “Just a bit groggy.” He looked around the clearing, eyes registering but not quite understanding the scene before him. A small crater had been driven into the soft earth at the edge of the stone circle and the grass that surrounded it was blackened and scorched. Halther's scouts were huddled around a small fire, tending to their own wounded.

“What happened to the others?” he asked Halther.

“The Bjornmen?” Halther pointed, not waiting for the answer.

Klöss lay in a tangled mess, half-curled around one of the stones at the edge of the circle. Ylsriss had slumped down beside him.

“They're all right, just out cold by the looks of things,” Halther confirmed. “Come and let me get a look at you. You could use something to eat if nothing else.”

“Obair!” Devin gasped as the memory hit him. “Miriam!”

“Don't, lad. They're gone,” Halther warned him but Devin was already moving. The figures were bound together in an embrace with the knife driven through both of them. Whatever force the ritual had let loose had stripped the life from them. Their skin had an odd grey tone and stretched over hollows left by sunken cheeks and wasted muscles. He reached out gingerly.

“Don't,” Halther whispered but it was too late. The flesh crumbled where Devin reached for Obair, tumbling down in a cascade of fragments, closer to ashes than skin and bone. The fragments tore others free until the bodies collapsed in on themselves with a soft sigh.

Devin staggered back with a horrified expression.

“I told you, they're gone,” Halther said gently. “Don't beat yourself up over that, there was nothing left there but a shell.” He led Devin over to the fire and sat him on a section of log, spooning stew out of the pot for him.

The food was almost tasteless but it was hot and Devin found that the more he ate the more he came back to himself. “How long?”

“Were you out?” Halther finished for him. He shook his head with a shrug. “It's about mid-afternoon by my reckoning, so throughout the night and most of this day. Most of us didn't move until morning. I checked you over and left you be until you started moving.”

Devin grunted and poked at the stew with a spoon. He sat for a while, soaking up the heat from the fire and trying to coax the stew into tasting better than it did. Klöss and Ylsriss came to after another hour and the group around the fire grew.

The silence that surrounded them was thick and decorated with the frequent glances cast toward the stones as each of them wrestled with memories that felt closer to being dreams.

“Is it done?” Ylsriss asked finally.

“I don't know…” Devin began but stopped himself, letting his eyes drift out of focus as he concentrated. The Wyrde was there, as strong as it had been during the ritual but far easier for him to feel. It was almost as clear as the pain he'd felt from the passage of the fae through the worldtrails but subtly different, somehow familiar.

He nodded. “It is, I can feel the Wyrde.”

Ylsriss stared at him for a moment and buried her face in her hands for a moment before rushing away from to the fire for the solitude of the trees. Klöss stared after her, reaching for Gavin's arm and shaking his head when the wiry man made to follow.

It was only as Klöss turned and looked at him expectantly that Devin realised they had no way of communicating without Miriam or Joran. Ylsriss was obviously not going to be of much help right at the moment. Devin frowned at the Bjornman and shrugged helplessly as the man sighed and pointed first at the axe, then the trees, and finally the fire. He nodded as a smile of understanding showed on Devin's face and made his way over to where the body of Tristan lay.

The remains of the cottage provided some easy lumber but even with everyone helping it still took time. It was growing dark by the time Klöss judged the pyre to be ready. It towered above them and the Bjornman refused any offers to help as he worked to light the bundle of twigs and tinder at its base. Klöss stepped away from the heat as the flames rose, seeming surprised to find the others gathered around the pyre as Ylsriss reached for his arm.

They did not speak. There were no words even if they had been able to understand each other. Devin thought back, remembering a different pyre formed from the ruins of another cottage. So much had changed since Artor's death but it yet seemed he had come full circle. The conflict between Anlish and Bjornman would be settled by wiser men than he. For now it was enough that the threat of the fae was over.

He looked up, following the sparks of the fire as they rose into the skies. The moon was bright, just rising above the trees and Devin gazed at it with wonder. He closed his eyes for a moment and forced himself to concentrate, to feel. The Wyrde coursed onward, and through it he felt that same familiar presence. His could feel his mother. Miriam was out there with Obair as he guided her steps in a ritual that would never end. She always would be. Devin looked up at the moon and smiled.

Epilogue

Ylsriss burrowed deeper into the furs piled thick on the bed. “Burning hells, what possessed me to come back here?” she muttered to herself.

Hesk was freezing. Winter had come early and wrapped the city in an icy embrace. She hadn't been able to get warm since they'd arrived. Anlan had been cold but Hesk was bitter. It was a cold that crept in past the thick walls and warm fires and leeched away at you until your bones ached. Perhaps some tea would help. She needed something hot inside her.

A low crawl took her to the edge of the bed, moving careful1y so as not to let the chill under the blankets. She reached out blindly for the slippers and worked them onto her feet before wrapping herself in the furs and braving the cold air in search of clothes that would go on quickly.

She should have lit the fire in the bedroom when Klöss left that morning. “Daft idea, woman.” she muttered. “He should have lit it himself.”

A shuffling walk, trailing the furs, took her down the stairs and through into the kitchen. The stove was lit at least, that was something, and the warmth of the kitchen was a blessed relief. She sloshed the kettle experimentally and set it onto the stove to boil.

Snow was falling heavily outside. She peered out through the window and shuddered at the sight. The snow lay thick on the rooftops and was filling the streets. Winter was here in earnest and in Hesk it would be no fleeting visit. The city would be cloaked in snow for the best part of three months now, and even then it would only be tempered by the driving rains of early spring.

The Realm of Twilight had been a warm land. Winter was unknown there, and for the first time she found herself almost envying Joran. Just thinking of the name brought a host of memories and feelings with it, tumbling over each other as they fought for her attention. She pushed them aside as thinking of Joran would only lead to thoughts of Effan and that just led to tears.

She been inconsolable for much of the trip back to the Barren Isles, avoiding most conversation and spending as much time as she could alone by the stern as she looked out over the water. “I hope you're happy, Joran,” she whispered.

She reached out with one finger, drawing idly in the condensation on the window, and then stopped herself. The glyphs stared back at her, a simple series that would have worked to activate a runeplate. The water droplets were already running from the bottom of her finger strokes, ruining the image, but for a moment she wondered at it. The glyphs almost looked like the Dernish script that she'd often seen on the precious casks of keft that Klöss so loved. She'd never noticed the similarities before.

The hiss of the kettle brought her back to the stove and her hands worked automatically, producing cup, leaves and honey. She filled the pot and poured. The tea needed to steep but she needed something hot to hold. “Flavour can wait for the second cup,” she told herself as she cupped her hands around the mug.

The knocking was insistent, less of a request than a demand, and Ylsriss hurried to the door.

“Gavin!” She flinched back from the snowflakes and the cold wind that burrowed through her furs, seeking exposed flesh.

“I thought I'd see how you're getting on,” he said.

She stepped back. “Come in, you look half frozen. Oh, for all that's good and right, you don't even have a cloak! Kick the snow off your boots and get in here.”

She pulled him through into the kitchen and poured him hot tea as he stood near the woodstove warming his hands.

“What brings you here?” she said, passing him the cup and setting two chairs close to the stove.

He took it gratefully, hunching over it and blowing at the steam. “Nothing really. It's just been a week or so and I wanted to see how you're doing.”

She gave him a look. “Klöss sent you didn't he?”

Gavin blew on his tea.

“Oh, Lord of the Frosts, I'm fine!” she said. “I don't need checking up on.”

“If you say so.” Gavin sipped at the tea as she glared at him.

“If anything, you need more checking on than I do,” she told him. “What have you done since we got back? Where are you even living? Back in that cellar?”

“I'm still finding my feet,” he said with a shrug.

That gave her pause. They were more alike than she really liked to admit. “It hasn't been easy,” she muttered. “The cold doesn't help.”

He glanced over to the window. The snow settled in the frame and stuck to the glass. “It was a lot milder in Anlan.”

Hmm.” Ylsriss nodded. “Do you think about them?”

“Who?”

“Devin, Obair, all the others.” She waved vaguely.

Gavin shrugged, sipping at the tea again. “Sometimes. It's more Tristan for me than anyone else. Though I suspect Devin is going to have his hands full with that red-headed girl.”

“Erinn.” Ylsriss nodded.

“That's the one.” Gavin smiled. “Still, the boy got his happy ending.”

Ylsriss looked down at the cup she nestled in her lap. “Happy endings only happen in faerie tales, Gavin. In life you need to work for any ending you can get. The happy ones always seem to take their price in tears. Yours or those of another, the price must always be paid.”

He looked at her for a moment. “We didn't have to come back so soon you know? We could have stayed for the coronation at least. Part of me wanted to see their queen get her man too. Rhenkin is as clueless as any man I've known.”

“I don't have any interest in foreign queens.” Ylsriss sniffed. “Besides, this is my home.”

“True.” Gavin stood and made his way to the window. “Hesk is home, snow and all.” He looked back at her. “What do you think the Keepers will do? With the trade offer I mean?”

She sucked on her bottom lip for a moment. “I don't know. It would change everything, if we had something to trade. The reavings, the whole make-up of who we are would shift. I can't see them doing it though. If we trade our reavers then how long would it take before the Anlish were making their own?”

“I don't think that was the idea,” Gavin said. “I got the impression it was more that the Anlish would pay for cargo space on our vessels.”

Ylsriss shrugged. “I suppose. I don't really care so long as it gets Klöss's head out of the noose.” She'd tried to sound relaxed. She failed.

Gavin went to her, crouching down and taking her hands. “You can't think they blame him for the sealord? For everything?”

“Who else is there to blame?” She gave a sad smile. “Klöss puts on a brave face but he's never been that great at hiding things.”

“Klöss will be fine,” Gavin told her. “He's already told me they're focusing on the sealord. This whole war has been a disaster from the beginning. The Chamber will need to place blame somewhere and the best place to put it is with a man who can't argue. The sealord sponsored this effort from the start.”

Ylsriss stood, turning away from him quickly. “This tea is closer to being just warm water than anything else.” She sniffed, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “You want another?”

Gavin shook his head and watched as she busied herself at the stove. “You're right though, you know that?” she told him over one shoulder. “They'll spend a month talking but it will work itself out. I…” she broke off as she fumbled the cup and it fell to the ground shattering on the unforgiving floor, splashing the hot liquid everywhere. “Shit!”

Gavin was out of his seat and rushing to her as she stepped back from the mess. “Are you okay?”

“I'm a clumsy fool is what I am,” Ylsriss muttered as she fetched a cloth from the sink.

“Well that much is obvious,” Gavin said with a grin. “But are you hurt?”

She shot him a black look from where she was crouching over the mess but her smile wouldn't be held back. “I'm fine. Just a bit wet and stupid. I haven't been this clumsy since…” she broke off.

He helped her pick up the pieces of the clay cup and sat back as he watched her make another, stepping awkwardly over the wet floor. The butter dish was set back on the counter, away from the edge but as her foot slipped it was the first thing her flailing hand caught. It shattered as easily as the mug had, sending butter and shards of pottery flying.

“Ylsriss!” Gavin cried as she landed heavily.

She looked up at him, and then back to the butter and the tears began. Flowing hot and fierce with the shock and joy that fuelled them. “I was wrong, Gavin. Maybe it doesn't need to be a faerie tale.”

The End

Acknowledgements

And so here it is, the end. In the last few months I've wondered if this book would ever happen. To be honest, it came very close to not happening, and so I owe a massive debt of thanks to a long list of people. This book, in fact this series, wouldn't have happened without the support of my family and my amazing wife. I also need to thank Claire “The Smurf” Frank and Clare Davidson for stepping in at the last second to help with edits and formatting. A big thanks to Steve Drew for my endless blacksmithing questions, and endless gratitude goes out to Tim Marqitz for his amazing work editing and helping to produce this final draft. Finally the biggest thanks goes to everyone who has read and enjoyed my books and taken the time to leave a review or who got in touch to tell me.

It's been fun everyone, I hope you enjoyed the journey.

Graham Austin-King

About The Author

Graham began writing with children’s books for his own kids. Fantasy is the genre he has always read himself though, and this is why he started The Riven Wyrde Saga, a fantasy series beginning with “Fae - The Wild Hunt”.

Visit his blog at http://grahamak.blogspot.co.uk where you can sign up for e-mail updates and be the first to hear about new releases.

Find Graham on facebook at http://on.fb.me/1pMyWmK.

He loves to chat with readers.

Follow him on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/Grayaustin.

Graham can be contacted at GrahamAustin-King@Hotmail.co.uk or through his website: http://www.GrahamAustin-King.com