Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 12

The range that began at the coast to run eastward of Quon Talian lands was rugged, but unfortunately very small as mountains went, and Orjin Samarr was beginning to think he and his troop had hiked over every square league of it. They had survived to date by keeping to the roughest, most uneven ground available to better keep the Talian cavalry at bay, a strategy that could only work for so long, as they were running out of ground, and steadily being forced eastward.

The Quon Talian commander, Renquill, had indeed been recalled from his assault upon Purage, and had since dedicated himself to chasing down Orjin Samarr and his ‘band of outlaws’, as Quon would have it. So far Orjin had managed to stay ahead of his pursuers, all the while waiting for word from Purage command. For surely they would dispatch a relief force; after all, he’d ended the siege and drawn the invading force out of Purge.

This evening he made the rounds of his forces huddled at shared fires – wood at least was plentiful, and Renquill knew they were up here anyway. No, the real limiting factor was food. The isolated hill tribes had been grateful enough to offer what they could, but they did not have the resources to feed both themselves and another four thousand hungry men and women. And nor would Orjin expect them to.

He paced the bivouac, showing his undaunted face, clapping shoulders and making small talk. Out here, among the men and women, he was now ‘Greymane’, their leader and champion. Finished, he returned to the fire that was his unofficial camp headquarters, where among his old command he was still plain old Orjin. Here, however, smiles were even fewer. Young Prevost Jeral was showing the longest face; she was taking the silence from Purage personally.

It was Terath who finally broached the subject none other would say out loud when late into the night she announced to all: ‘We’re running out of mountains.’

No one disputed this, or everyone was too tired to argue.

‘Indeed,’ rumbled Orhan, ‘the beaters are so close I hear them night and day.’

‘Renquill must be ahead, waiting for us,’ said Orjin – stating the obvious to invite comment.

Prevost offered a sour nod. Gone now were her long braids; she’d had her hair hacked short as there was no way to care for it. ‘He’s a prissy officious bastard, but he knows his stuff.’

‘Could we make a dash for Cullis?’ Terath asked, though she did not appear hopeful.

Orjin shook his head. ‘They have no reason to take us in. Quon’s named us outlaws, remember?’

That at least raised a few chuckles.

‘In the jungle Horn,’ Yune murmured, hunched in his multicoloured rags, ‘we use lines of beaters also.’ He poked his staff at the fire. ‘But sometimes the hunted deer turns out to be a jungle cat. Many beaters are lost this way.’

Orjin peered at the fire-lit faces arrayed round the camp – none appeared to oppose the intent behind Yune’s comment, and so he nodded. ‘Very well. It’s decided. We’ll wait till the last moment then turn upon the line, try to break through westward.’ He looked to Jeral. ‘Perhaps then we’ll have word from Purage, yes?’

But Prevost Jeral would not raise her eyes.

Word spread through Orjin’s command that night and eager faces met him the next day; it seemed everyone was tired of running and looked forward to a fight. Their hill tribe guides led them eastward, and all had been briefed to keep an eye out for the best place to turn back. Towards noon word came of a wide gorge, one of the last before the easternmost slopes, and Orjin gave the order to pass through, although he, Orhan and Terath held back, since they would lead the charge.

Once the last of his troops had filed through, Orjin passed the word to halt and everyone sought cover to wait. The shadows in the narrow gorge lengthened. Thirst plagued Orjin – they were also nearly out of water – and he picked up a pebble to hold in his mouth. Some two hours later – measured by the movement of the shadows – the beaters arrived: a column of Quon Talian regulars following their trail.

Orjin offered a nod to Orhan across the way, who answered with a grin and unlimbered a huge hammer he’d taken from a Talian camp. Orjin drew his two-handed sword. He knew they’d be spotted at any moment, so he stepped out, howled his war-cry, and charged.

Momentum, of course, was all. He had to keep charging forward, shouldering men and women out of his way, not bothering with any finishing blows – those that followed would take care of that.

So Orjin cleared the trail, always pushing westward, hammering more than cleanly striking, counting on shock and surprise to help him. Eventually, however, a spear between his feet tripped him up and Orhan stepped over to take the lead, sweeping his weapon left and right. Terath pulled him to his feet and shortly thereafter they burst through the column and were outside the noose, and Orjin stepped aside, panting, waving everyone forward.

Terath stopped with him, and she offered a salute. ‘Well done … Greymane.’

Orjin gave her a face. ‘Thanks a lot.’

Troops cheered as well, and shouted ‘Greymane!’ as they passed.

Orjin straightened, raising a hand, and nodding to all.

‘They will tell stories of this,’ Terath said. ‘How you bulled aside an entire Talian column.’

‘Easy to do when you have a giant on your arse.’

Terath shook a negative. ‘You led, Orjin. You led.’

He turned away. ‘Another week of short rations and none of us will have the strength for this.’

Terath nodded. ‘We’ll see what Purage says. Perhaps a relieving force.’

‘Yes.’ Orjin agreed, for form’s sake, exhausted, leaning on his two-handed sword. But still – why the long silence?

They marched west, guided by hill tribesmen and women through the remotest and most precarious paths Orjin had ever seen; some no more than cliff trails that he thought would challenge any damned mountain goat. But they were surrounded now, with Quon Talian troops on all sides. Privately, Orjin thought they had another ten days at most.

It was three days later that Prevost Jeral joined them at the campfire and proffered a cylinder of horn, sealed in wax. ‘Word from Purage, by way of the hill tribes.’

Orjin took it, vaguely troubled by the woman’s lowered gaze – he had thought she would be far more pleased. He walked off a way, breaking the seal and reading the unfurled scroll.

It was a long time before he re-joined the group around the campfire.

Terath raised her eager gaze. ‘What word?’

Orjin tapped the rolled scroll in his hands, took a heavy breath. ‘We are ordered to surrender to the Talians.’

Terath gaped. ‘What? After all this? That’s outrageous.’

Orjin was nodding. ‘I agree. The order is ridiculous. But it is signed by the Council of Nobles and the queen.’ He looked at Jeral, who still would not meet his eye. ‘It seems we are being forced to make a choice.’

‘Choice?’ Orhan asked, his brows furrowed.

‘We are being thrown to the wolves,’ Yune supplied.

Orjin didn’t disagree. ‘Follow orders or become outlaw in truth.’

‘The bastards!’ Terath seethed.

Prevost Jeral surged to her feet. ‘A word, commander. If you would.’

Orjin nodded – he’d been expecting this – and invited her aside. Off a distance, he turned to her, expectant.

The prevost was rubbing her hands down her thighs. After a long silence, she said, ‘Two cylinders arrived from Purage. Orders for you. And orders for me.’

He nodded, unsurprised.

She looked skyward, drew a hard breath. ‘I am ordered – that is, if you refuse to obey your orders – I am ordered to arrest you and hand you over to the Quon Talians as a criminal.’ She crossed her arms, hugging herself. ‘A cessation of hostilities has been negotiated. The price is your head.’

Orjin turned away. It was just as he’d suspected. Facing away into the night, so very impressed by their damned tenacity, he said, ‘Hood take those Quon merchants. They meant every word they said, didn’t they?’

‘I’m so very sorry …’

He raised a placating hand. ‘It’s all right. I understand.’ Turning, he faced the woman, and regarded her for some time before saying, slowly, ‘The choice isn’t ours, then. It’s yours.’ He cocked a brow. ‘What will you do … prevost?’

In one fluid motion the woman drew her sword and dropped to one knee before him, blade proffered in both hands. ‘I say damn them to Hood’s deepest abyss.’

Orjin took hold of her shoulders and raised her up. ‘You realize you will be declared outlaw as well?’

She shrugged. ‘I can’t return without you. I’ll be arrested. Perhaps we should break out across Seti lands after all.’ She offered a fey laugh. ‘There’re plenty of wars in the east.’

He shook his head. ‘We’ll settle this here. One way or another.’ He beckoned her back to the campfire. ‘We’ll just have to find a way out of this knot, hey?’

The furious debating at the fire died down as they returned. Orhan, Terath and Yune peered up, expectant, and Orjin eyed each in turn, then sighed. ‘We run. Prevost Jeral here wishes to stay with us and I say yes.’ He glanced to her, considering. ‘However, perhaps you should offer the choice to your troops: stay or try to break through to the north, re-join Purge forces.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll speak to them.’

‘Welcome, Jeral,’ Terath said. ‘But the problem remains – run where? There’s nowhere to run to.’

Orjin waved the objection aside. ‘We’ll just have to stay alive long enough to find an answer to that.’

Terath was obviously not satisfied but chose not to argue any further. Orhan slapped his leg and laughed. ‘We will lead them on such a chase, hey?’

Orjin laughed as well and passing soldiers smiled to one another, their mood brightening. Jeral smiled also; the gift of leadership – this man had it. She leaned to him, saying, ‘I will speak to my sergeants,’ and he nodded her off.

Orhan rose, quite stiffly. ‘I will rest for the morrow.’

Terath stood, appeared about to say more, but reconsidered, shaking her head, and marched off into the dark.

Orjin lowered himself to the ground before the fire. The Dal Hon shaman, Yune, regarded him steadily from across the flames. Orjin cocked a brow. ‘Yes?’

The elder sighed and poked anew at the fire. ‘I will work to locate our beaters as before, but now they are all about. I won’t be able to see them all.’

‘Thanks for the warning. Do your best.’ The old shaman nodded, a touch glumly, and returned to studying the fire. Orjin reflected that their state was indeed dire if this tough old campaigner was showing his concern. ‘We’ll get out of this – don’t you worry.’ The Dal Hon didn’t answer, and Orjin rose to limp to his bedding.

* * *

A young girl ran across the grassed savanna of northern Dal Hon at night. The bright moon lit the landscape in a silver monochrome. She wore a simple slave’s shift and her long dark hair coursed behind her. She gasped and stumbled, nearly spent, peered back with wild wide eyes, then pushed onward once again.

Eventually, staggering and panting, she halted. Tears smeared her dirty cheeks and she sobbed, gesturing into the empty night. The air ahead seemed to brighten as a light like that of the moon began to shimmer there.

A snarled ‘No!’ sounded from the night and the girl yelped, jumping. The brightening snapped away.

The thick grasses wavered all round her, lashing and writhing, and a knot of them twisted about her legs, yanking her from her feet.

The tall swaths of grasses parted, revealing a handsome Dal Hon woman, her thick black hair bunched in woven braids. Bright silk ribbons held gold coins, shells and precious stones tied among the braids; vest and trousers were of untanned hide. She thrust an arm forward and the grasses shifted to lash the girl’s hands behind her back.

Crouching, the woman set to starting a fire. ‘Who sent you?’ she asked as she worked.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ the girl gasped. ‘I … I am just a slave.’

The woman barked a laugh. ‘A slave who is a talent of Thyr? Unlikely.’ Once a small fire of grass was alight, she rose and disappeared into the dark. Alone, the girl let her head fall back, and cursed under her breath.

A short time later the woman returned, a load of dead branches in her arms. These she set down next to the diminishing fire. ‘Regardless,’ she suddenly began again, ‘whoever it was is cruel and thoughtless – sending a child to spy among the tribes. Think about that.’

‘I am just a—’

Snarling again, the woman snapped a hand and the grasses lashed themselves across the girl’s mouth. ‘I am not interested in your lies,’ the woman ground out. ‘I want only the truth. And the fire will reveal it – if only in your cracked and whitened bones.’

Once the fire became high enough the woman dragged the girl towards it until her bare feet touched its edge. The girl struggled, but the thick grasses roped her from her neck to her ankles. ‘Who sent you!’ the woman yelled and gestured again, pushing the soles of her captive’s feet up against the embers.

The girl screamed behind the gag of twisted grass and passed out.

When she came to, blinking, she saw the woman sitting cross-legged in the flickering light of the fire, a set of thin slats, or cards, arrayed on the ground before her. Seeing her awake, the woman indicated the cards. ‘Not what I was expecting. I assumed the Queen of Life would be high – involved. But she is in the far left arcade, detached.’ She tapped the deck of remaining cards to her lips. ‘You do not work for the Enchantress.’

‘I don’t work … for anyone,’ the girl murmured. ‘I’m just … a slave …’

The woman sighed and shook her head. She rose, took hold of the girl again, and thrust her feet into the fire once more. ‘Who do you work for?’ she shouted.

The girl screamed anew until her voice cracked and then she mewled, pleading wordlessly, sobbing, until unconsciousness took her again.

When she awoke the second time she found the woman, a Dal Hon witch, seated again, the wooden slats arrayed before her anew. The woman picked up a card and held it up to her. ‘This one keeps emerging. Over and over again, with each reading. Do you know which one it is?’

The girl just shook her head, her hair matted to her face and head with sweat and dirt.

‘The new one,’ the witch told her. ‘This meddler. Shadow – or Shadow House, as some would have it.’ She regarded the girl narrowly. ‘What is Shadow to you?’

The girl looked to the night sky, tears running from the corners of her eyes. ‘He pays,’ she finally stammered, her voice a thin whisper. ‘Pays for information.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘Anything. Everything.’

The witch stood over the girl. ‘Such as? What have you found? Anything?’

But the girl continued to look up, a smile slowly growing on her lips.

The woman spun, scanning the starry sky. ‘Someone is coming.’ She eyed the girl. ‘How could anyone have found you so quickly?’

The girl just smiled, and with a growl the woman gestured again, and the twisted grass ropes tightened round the girl’s neck. She gagged, thrashing, her face darkening.

The fire burst into a gyre of rising embers and flaming branches that flew, swirling, to engulf the woman, who roared her rage, ducking, and covering her face.

When the searing heat had passed she bashed her hands over her hair and leathers to put out any fires, then glared about. She stood in a widening circle of scorched ground, the grasses burning in a ring around her – alone. She pressed her fists to her chin and screamed her rage.

*

Two figures lay smoking in a landscape of sand and rock under a dull pewter sky. One, a lad, rose and shook the other, a girl.

‘Janelle!’ the lad called. ‘Speak to me.’

‘You took your time, Janul,’ she whispered, smiling. ‘Where were you?’

‘The west. I know a healer. Come.’

She looked down to the blackened oozing meat that used to be her feet. ‘I cannot walk.’

‘I will carry you.’ He picked her up in his arms. ‘It is not far. As these things go.’

When she did not answer he peered down to see that she’d passed out. He hurried onward.

After walking across the dusty landscape for a time, the lad Janul made a gesture and with a burst of dry dusty air he emerged into darkness and a rainstorm. He squinted into the lashing rain. Nearby, waves struck the coast in a strong slow beat. He walked on until a weak yellow light grew ahead. It resolved into a lantern under the eaves of a rude hut of greyed slats and thatch. He pushed open the door.

The hut was empty but for a wizened elder seated in a chair next to a small fire. Candles of all lengths burned everywhere, giving the single-roomed dwelling a golden light. The ancient tilted her head, blinking, ‘Who comes to old Rose’s poor home?’

Janul saw by her frosted opaque eyes that she was blind.

‘My sister is wounded,’ he said, and laid her upon the bed of bundled straw.

‘Ah,’ Rose said. ‘Your sister, you say? There is a price for healing in this hut – and I do not mean coin.’

He waved his curt assent, then realized his mistake and said, ‘Yes, yes.’

The old woman pushed herself from her chair and approached, a hand extended. ‘Well, let us see …’ Janul guided her to Janelle. The ancient hissed when her hands found the girl. She tsked. ‘So young, yet her life’s flame gutters. She hasn’t enough strength left to pay the price.’

‘I have.’

Rose laughed, a harsh mocking cackle. ‘It’s not so easy as that, boy!’

‘For us it is,’ and he guided the woman’s other hand to his face. She felt at both, Janelle’s and his, and her breath hissed from her in wonder. ‘Twins! Bonds forged in the womb.’ She nodded, ‘Aye, it may work.’ She pinched his chin. ‘Know you the price, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘I shall take of your life’s candle. Both of your years shall diminish while mine shall lengthen. You are agreed?’

He looked down at his twin, her face such an eerie echo of his own. ‘Aye. Agreed.’

Rose waved a crooked hand to the bed. ‘Lay you down next to your sister, then. I must prepare.’

He gently edged Janelle over and placed an arm under her head and closed his eyes.

Janelle awoke in a cramped bed in a cramped hut full of evil-smelling, choking smoke. Waving a hand before her, coughing from the harsh sooty fumes, she found the door and staggered out.

Then she stopped and stared at her bare unmarred feet.

What had happened?

Her ears were roaring and somewhere distant it sounded as if someone was calling her name. She raised her gaze to peer uncomprehendingly at a rocky coastline and a horizon of iron-grey water. A figure rose from a boulder near the surf and climbed the shore. As he neared she recognized him and could not believe her eyes. Grinning so familiarly, he took her shoulders.

‘Good to see you.’

She raised her hands to his face, brushed her fingertips there. ‘It really is you – I thought I’d dreamed you.’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

Her gaze sharpened. ‘What happened?’

‘I brought you to a healer.’

She studied his face, so like her own – wider and blunter than she’d have wished. ‘We have no coin, brother.’

He lifted his chin to the hut behind them. ‘She’s a wax-witch.’

Janelle sagged a little. ‘So, I paid with my life’s years.’

He shrugged. ‘We both did, sister.’

She clenched his hands now, tightly. ‘Both? Oh, Janul …’

‘You don’t think I’d let a few years come between us, do you?’

She now touched her own face, expecting to feel wrinkles and dry ancient flesh. ‘What will happen? How will it happen?’

‘The witch, Rose, said we will just age more quickly.’ He directed her to a nearby rock and invited her to sit. ‘I don’t imagine I’ll be living too long, in any case.’

She chuckled at that. ‘Nor I.’

They sat side by side in silence for a time, until the crunch of footsteps behind made them turn. A woman approached, in skirts, a knitted shawl about her shoulders. Janelle thought her just past middle age.

‘Rose?’ Janul asked, wonder in his voice. ‘You are … that is, you can see.’

She nodded. ‘Aye. I bloom brighter for a time. But that too shall pass, as all years do. You two are young; you do not understand as yet.’

‘Nor do we want to,’ Janul said.

The witch smiled knowingly. ‘In time you will. Then you will clutch at your years as all do.’

‘Not I,’ Janelle said.

The witch, Rose, drew a blackened pipe from her bosom. ‘Ever foolish are the young – perhaps that’s what makes them young.’

‘Any more fireside wisdom?’ Janul asked.

The woman was scraping the pipe bowl. ‘Do not think me simple, little ones.’ She gestured to them with the pipe. ‘You two are children of Shadow. Your master is set upon overturning every applecart he can reach. I do not approve of his methods, but I understand his motives – how else is he to make room for himself, hey?’

The twins eyed one another uncertainly.

Rose waved a dismissal. ‘Faugh. Do not worry. Your secrets are safe with me. I am just a simple wax-witch. Push and pull go the fates.’ She walked off, repeating in a singsong voice, ‘Push and pull.’

The twins waited until she was out of earshot, then Janul asked, ‘What did you learn?’

Janelle nodded, and whispered, ‘The tribes bicker as always, but they are close to moving against Itko Kan. All it may take is a push.’

At that last word Janul frowned and glanced at the witch, who walked the shore now, hands at her back, puffing on the pipe. ‘Very good,’ he murmured, distracted.

‘And the west?’ Janelle asked.

‘I am with a troop of soldiers.’

Janelle waved him from that. ‘Head to Dal Hon – I’m known now. You’ll have to take over.’

But her twin shook his head. ‘No. I see possibilities. I should remain. You stay here in Kan. Keep an eye on things.’

Janelle nodded. ‘Thank you, brother. But … what possibilities?’ She took his hand.

‘These troops have been outlawed and are on the run, hunted by both Purge and Quon Talian armies with nowhere to turn.’

‘So?’

He shrugged, but a grin climbed his lips. ‘Well – they’re only a few days from the coast.’

Her eyes widened as she saw it, and she squeezed his hand before releasing it. ‘Yes. Go. I will try to make the arrangements, but I have not heard from the Magister of late.’

‘He is travelling beyond reach.’

Janelle gave a curt nod, accepting this. ‘Ah. Then I will contact one of our sisters working among the Claws.’

Janul seconded the nod. ‘Accepted. You will be all right?’

She waved him off. ‘Yes. Go. You may be missed.’

He rose, still reluctant, but she gave him a hug. ‘Thank you, brother.’

He nodded. ‘Very well. Until later.’

‘Yes.’

* * *

Ullara rode her two-wheeled cart northward across the rolling central Seti Plains. The sickly mule her father had given her – the least of his stock – flourished under her care. Free to eat as much wild grass as he liked, he filled out; his coat thickened and became glossy.

She had never been outside Li Heng proper, but she’d heard that northward lay the trading outpost of Ifaran, and beyond that would lie the barrier of the Brittlewash that ran down to meet the Idryn at Ipras. She understood that the headwaters of the Brittlewash could be found somewhere in the immense tracts of the Forest Fenn. And beyond that, everyone claimed, rose the vast mountains of the Great Fenn Range – which few, if any, had ever actually seen, let alone visited.

The Fenn Range was her goal, unrealistic though it might be – especially for a young blind girl all alone. Though she was not alone, not really. Her helpers and guardians hovered close, sometimes even perching upon the much-scarred wood of the cart, while the chief of her companions soared high above, taller than a man, able to bring down an adult bhederin: one of the giant eagles of the Fenn Range, whom she had given the name Prince. And her aim was to return him to his home.

She did not have to hunt, as her providers were many. Each day they came, depositing their offerings of the wild’s abundance: mice, voles, ferrets, mink, hares, badgers, and once Prince even dropped an entire rust-hued deer.

After that near disaster she trained them to bring her only the long-eared hares, which she preferred.

When evening came she would merely reach out to the mule, whom she’d named Bright, to halt, then climb down and unharness him to let him roam free. She could not see herself, but even when she did have eyes she’d always ‘borrowed’ the vision of her birds to see far and wide. Now she maintained these connections day and night and found that she could see far better now than with her old eyes. In fact, she could see better at night than during the day, and would even have travelled through the dark but for poor Bright.

She was also not alone on the wilds of the Seti plains. Fellow travellers skirted her, warily giving her distance, as did hunters and other such wanderers. Honest travellers, however, were not the only ones on the plains. Exiles, outcasts and other such criminals also haunted its hills. Early on, one such gang had chanced upon her trail. A young woman alone – they thought they’d found easy prey.

The moment the party closed upon the cart her companions tore their faces off and ate their viscera. She left their bodies where they lay as a warning to others. Word, she imagined, was spreading of the crazy woman, or whatever they were calling her, travelling northwards.

The only time she was truly alone was each evening when she made a modest fire and set her meal to cook on a stick. Her companions did not like the fire. During these times her vision occasionally failed her.

It was during one such evening, by the fire, west of the trading post of New Seti, that she had her first true visitors. Thanks to all her night-hunting companions, her night vision was sharp, and so she watched them approach: a band of Seti who dismounted at a respectful distance while one of their number closed upon her small fire. She recalled the strongest of her night hunters and waited.

Her visitor proved to be an old Seti woman wrapped in a thick shawl covered in feathers. The woman paused a short distance off and called, ‘May I share the warmth of your fire?’

‘Come.’

Sighing, the woman eased herself down close to the weak flames and extended her hands to the heat, such as it was. ‘My thanks. Hospitality is rare among you outsiders.’

‘What of your band who wait in the night?’

‘Band?’ the woman echoed, chuckling. She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Just my honour guard. I am Tolth, daughter of Amal, shaman of my clan – the Eagle Clan.’

‘Ullara, daughter of Renalt.’

The old woman inclined her head in acceptance of this, all the while eyeing her carefully, and it did seem to Ullara that the woman’s gaze was sharp and piercing – like that of a bird of prey. ‘You are out riding at night?’ Ullara asked.

Tolth smiled. ‘No. Word has spread among us Seti of the bird-woman.’

‘Bird-woman?’

‘That is what you have been named.’

‘Ah.’

‘And I am here to offer you a place among us. Among the Eagle Clan. It would be a place of honour, you can be certain of that.’

This was not what Ullara had been expecting at all and she let out a breath, quite overwhelmed. It took her a while to find the words to respond. ‘I … well, my thanks. But I must … that is, I feel called to the north. I don’t know why – I just feel it.’

The old woman was obviously disappointed, but she nodded knowingly. ‘I understand. A journey of the spirit and the flesh.’ Grunting with the effort, she pushed herself to her feet. ‘Very well. But the offer stands. Once you are finished in the north and wish to move on … think of us.’

‘I will. My thanks.’

The woman paused, raising a hand. ‘Permission to leave a few of my young bloods as escort?’

Ullara was not comfortable with the idea. ‘I don’t – that is, there is no need.’

‘They would consider it an honour. And there are river crossings ahead. You may need the help.’

She considered this, and relented. ‘Very well, my thanks. But they must keep their distance.’

The old woman chuckled once more. ‘Oh, they will. Of that you can be sure.’ She inclined her head. ‘Travel well. And I hope we shall meet again.’

‘Fare well.’

So she acquired her own honour guard, of a sort. And they did keep their distance, either at the shaman’s orders, or their own discretion. Only when the cart became stuck did they approach, as the ground became rougher the further she journeyed north.

Weeks after this, close to the northern boundary of Seti lands, Ullara had one last visitor.

He came at dusk, walking openly, and she saw him long before her escort. Once they caught sight of him the warriors of the Eagle Clan came rushing in, pale, bows readied.

Their leader stood before her. ‘The man-beast approaches,’ he managed, his voice hoarse. ‘We will defend you, of course, as we swore. But ready yourself, as there is little anyone can do against him.’

She raised a hand to him. ‘Stand aside, Orren – it is Orren, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But—’

‘Stand aside,’ she repeated. ‘I order it.’

‘But—’

‘Stand aside! I will meet him.’

Amazed, perhaps even awed, the Seti warrior bowed to one knee before her. ‘As you order.’ He waved off the ten men and women of his troop, and they withdrew.

A short time later the tall shape of the upright man-beast, Ryllandaras, the White Jackal – whom some named the Curse of Quon – approached. Frankly terrified, yet determined to hold to her instinct not to run, she stared up at the great giant. All wire and muscle he appeared, his shaggy pale pelt crossed with scars, his eyes slit and glowing like hot amber. His blunt muzzle swung to left and right as he surveyed the surroundings; then he spoke, roughly, more like a measured cough. ‘And where is your guard?’

‘I sent them away.’

He crossed his thick, white-pelted arms. ‘Why would you do such a foolish thing?’

She replied, ‘Because I am in no danger,’ and was quite proud of the lack of quaver in her voice.

‘Really? You are in no danger? And why is that?’

She swallowed to steady her voice once again, and managed, clearly, ‘Because I know what a hunting animal looks like. And you are not hunting.’

The black lips drew back – revealing even more of his huge teeth – in what she thought might be an attempt at a smile. ‘You are correct. If I were hunting, you’d be dead.’

She saw no reason to dispute this. ‘To what, then, do I owe the honour of this visit?’

‘Honour?’ Ryllandaras grunted. ‘Few would name a visit from me an honour. But you are correct again. I have come to have a look at you.’

Her heart felt as if it were throwing itself against her chest – rather like a trapped bird. ‘Really? Whatever for?’

‘To see for myself. I have sensed it … but could not believe it. It has been a very long time.’

‘A long time since … what?’

The creature tilted his head, examining her. ‘Since anyone has touched upon the Beast Hold.’

‘The what?’

The monster grunted. ‘Instinctive, then. Perhaps as it should be. The Beast Hold is all about … instinct.’

Gathering her courage, Ullara dared, ‘I heard a rumour that the Five had captured you in Heng.’

Ryllandaras’s lips twitched as if in scorn. ‘Captured, hey? Well, haven’t you heard – I’m everywhere across the plains.’ And the creature seemed almost to wink one amber eye. It peered about as if searching the surroundings. ‘In any case, I have lingered long enough. I offer you your due.’

And to Ullara’s amazement, and terror, the man-beast inclined his head to her, as if in salute, then quick as thought bounded away. She sat stunned until her escort reappeared, and the first thing they did was bow on one knee to her.

A half-moon later they had reached so high into the foothills of the Fenn Range that the cart was of no more use. Her escort packed her remaining supplies on to Bright’s back.

‘You are bound to continue, then?’ Orren asked.

She took hold of Bright’s lead. ‘Yes.’

The youth – perhaps no older than she – eyed the heights dubiously. ‘There are things up in these lands that would care nothing for your … friends.’

‘Monsters, you mean?’ she asked, half-teasing.

He set his jaws. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘All the same.’

He sighed, eyed the distant snowy peaks once more. ‘Perhaps we should …’

‘No. Return to Tolth. Tell her what you have seen.’ The youth’s jaws worked. ‘I have my escort,’ she offered.

He sighed again, his hands clenching. ‘Very well. It is not for me to interfere.’

‘Fare well, then. And my thanks.’ Leaning forward and up, she kissed him on the cheek. The lad blushed a very livid red. His troop burst into laughter, quietening only when he glared.

She raised a hand to them all. ‘Fare thee well, children of the plains!’

Turning, she pulled on Bright’s lead, and started climbing. Her companions soared above, circling higher and higher, eager, it seemed, to feel the fierce winds of the heights.