The Night of the Swarm

21

12 Halar 942

The soil of Mount Urakan was frozen hard as oak; the travellers could not bury their dead. They took the bodies to a level place south of the Water Bridge, and there built rock cairns over Cayer Vispek, Thaulinin and the other three fallen selk.

Before she covered her master’s face, Neda set her finger in the blood that still oozed from his forehead, then dabbed the finger with her tongue. Pazel stood near her, helpless to ease her pain. If Vispek had died at home, there would have been a cup of milk in which to mix that drop of blood, and any Mzithrini present would have tasted it.

A hand on his arm: Hercol. The swordsman beckoned, then crouched beside Neda, who looked up astonished. Hercol pressed his thumb to the bleeding spot on Vispek’s forehead, then licked his thumb clean. He glanced at Pazel expectantly.

Pazel made himself do it. He was disgusted, but then it came to him that he was honouring the man who had given him back his sister, and gratitude welled up in him anew. For this the Arqualis called them savages, he thought. For this the Arqualis said they should be killed. Pazel looked up to find that Thasha and Neeps had joined them. Without hesitation they tasted Vispek’s blood, and Neda said calmly that she would die for any of them, and then they rose and finished building the cairn.

At the cliffside, Bolutu knelt and said a prayer to Lord Rin for the safe keeping of his friend Big Skip Sunderling, and the selk sang for the comrade that the maukslar had slain. Pazel looked down into the gorge a last time. Ramachni, what’s happened to you? It had been hours since he took owl-form and went in pursuit of the maukslar. Had he slain the demon, or been slain? Had he prevented the creature from sounding the alarm?

Thasha and Hercol were looking at the body of the ogress, still lying in the aqueduct’s flowing water.

‘She was a miserable creature,’ Thasha said. ‘You could see it in her eyes.’

‘Nothing but pain has ever issued from the Thrandaal,’ said one of the selk. ‘But the ogres had a hand in their own misery. I have heard it said that their leaders found fear and murder so useful in conquest that they came to think of little else, and at last fell into a strange worship of pain, even inflicting it on themselves. In time this practise dulled their senses and their minds, until they were left with nothing but an impulse to do harm, and a few grey memories of elder times.’

‘Let us try to move the body,’ said Prince Olik. ‘It is too foul a thing to leave rotting in the aqueduct.’

Working together, the six humans, three dlomu and four selk just managed to heave the vast corpse onto the rim of the bridge, where it balanced for a moment before toppling into the gorge. As it fell, the cruel iron crown slipped from the creature’s head and caught upon a jagged spire thirty feet below, where it hung like a sinister wreath.

‘There’s a message for the sorceress, when next she sends her creatures here,’ said Lunja.

‘Yes,’ said Hercol, ‘but we must be far away before she does. If Ramachni prevailed against the maukslar we may yet be undetected, but other enemies will be waiting for these dead ones to report, and sooner or later their silence will be noticed.’

He turned to the four selk. ‘Which of you will guide us now? For to my eyes the mountains are still a labyrinth, and the sea is still far off.’

One of the selk, darker-haired than his comrades, shook his head. ‘It is not so far off now. But Thaulinin knew the roads best, and Tomid, whom the ogress killed, was second to him in that lore. I myself have been as far as the Weeping Glen, but that was centuries ago in my youth. All the same we may set out: there is but one trail that leads away from the Parsua.’

They rose and pulled their equipment together; Pazel and Bolutu armed themselves with the swords of the fallen. Then they turned their backs on the Water Bridge and started west, following the narrow path among the trees.

The sun blazed fiercely on the white mass of Urakan, rising above them like a great blunt horn. The cold was retreating; drops of meltwater glistened on the pine needles.

‘I hate to mention this,’ said Neeps, ‘but we’ve lost our tent. Big Skip was carrying it.’

The dark-haired selk turned and looked at Neeps with concern. ‘In that case we should make for the Urakan Caverns,’ he said. ‘There are supplies hidden in their depths, and we need only turn aside for a few miles to reach them.’

‘Any detour worries me now,’ said Bolutu. ‘Hercol is right: we dare not linger in this place. Is there no shelter along the downward trek?’

‘I have never heard of any,’ said the selk, ‘but I can tell you this much: if you hope to escape the high country today, you must move faster than you have done since we left the Secret Vale. Urakan is the last of the Nine, but even the lesser peaks beyond her are severe. We have no tent, and no fire beetles — and bad weather is coming; don’t you feel it?’ Hercol shook his head. ‘At home in the Tsordons I might be able to read clues in the wind, but not here. Lead on; the rest of us will try to match your speed. But remember that we must aim for stealth also. The foe that sees us is a foe that must be killed.’

They set off through the twisted pines, jogging along the narrow westward trail where Valgrif had pursued the athymar. The snow was deeper here, but it had clearly melted and refrozen many times, so that now it bound the land in a smooth crust that snapped like eggshell underfoot. Their slain enemies had broken a path, but their footprints were hard and icy. For several hours they struggled west, rounding Urakan, and in all that time they descended no more than a hundred yards. Pazel grew frustrated: the day was passing, and they were still almost as high in the mountains as they had been on waking that morning. But whenever there was a break in the trees he saw the reason for this roundabout course: the vast gorge was still beneath them, and until it diverged they could not dream of descending.

The divergence came in late afternoon, when from a rock outcropping they saw the gorge twisting away to the south. ‘This is good news and bad,’ said the dark-haired selk. ‘The trail will soon start its descent into the valley, but we have not been fast enough. Tonight we must dig a snow-shelter, unless we chance upon some ruin or cave.’

They carried on another hour, with the lowering sun in their eyes. Then, a short distance ahead, they saw that the pine forest ended, and that the snow was mounded high.

‘That’s a funny sort of drift,’ said Neeps.

‘There speaks a son of the tropics,’ said Hercol. ‘That is no drift, Undrabust. It is the remains of an avalanche.’

They approached, and Pazel gasped at the spectacle. Across the trail, and stretching up and down the mountain for as far as he could see, lay a huge battlement of snow. It had obliterated the trees, and was indeed several yards taller than their highest tips. Looking up at the peak, he could see the vast hollow cavity from which the snow had collapsed.

‘Our enemies scampered right up,’ said Corporal Mandric, pointing out a line of footprints on the slope. ‘I guess we’ll be doin’ the same then, won’t we?’

‘No trees to hide behind, up there,’ said Ensyl.

‘And no other path,’ said Hercol. ‘We must cross quickly and hope for the best. Keep your hoods up, and your blades out of the sun.’

They donned their white hoods and climbed the rugged snowbank. At the top they could see that the avalanche was at least a mile wide, and ran straight down the mountain for many miles. It was like the line a finger leaves when dragged across a dusty chalkboard. Nothing stood in its path.

‘Look there, in the next valley,’ said one of the selk, pointing. ‘Can you see two roads converging, and four standing stones? That is the Isima Crossroads, where we are bound.’

Pazel could just make out the four stones, which were grouped together in a square. Then the selk hissed and drew everyone down.

‘Soldiers!’ they said. ‘Dlomic soldiers! They were hidden by the stones.’

‘I cannot see them,’ said Lunja. ‘I can barely see the stones themselves.’

‘Selk eyes are sharper than our own,’ said Bolutu, ‘and that is a good thing today, if it means that they will not be able to spot us either.’

‘Unless one of them produces a telescope,’ said Hercol. ‘Move along.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Thasha. She pointed down the length of the avalanche. ‘Is that our trail, by any luck?’

Pazel shielded his eyes. Far down the slope, a second line of footprints crossed the ribbon of snow. The dark-haired selk shielded his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘that is the second switchback, and there is a third below it, much further, which perhaps you cannot see. Eventually there must be a fourth.’

‘A shortcut?’ said Lunja dubiously.

‘It would be that,’ said the selk, studying the slope. ‘There are some small snow-ledges, eight- or ten-foot drops at the most. That is probably why our enemies did not climb it themselves. But they would not hinder our descent. We could save a day’s march by that path.’

‘And get spotted, and killed,’ said Pazel. ‘Nice idea, Thasha, but we’re better off under the trees.’

‘Some days you’re thick as cold porridge, mate,’ said Neeps. He pointed back down the slope they had just ascended. ‘We can walk along the edge of the avalanche, and stay hidden from anyone in that valley. And after sunset we can climb up here and carry on.’

‘What, in the dark?’ cried Mandric.

‘In the dark,’ said Olik, nodding. ‘Yes, by damn, that’s a fine idea. This snow is packed: that will make for better footing than this trail.’

‘And that bad weather you say is coming?’ demanded the Turach.

‘All the more reason to descend quickly,’ said Hercol, ‘and along the path of the snowslide we can at least be confident of not losing our way. But you are right to be wary, Mandric. Tonight we must tie ourselves together as before.’

It was decided. They retreated halfway down the snow mass, until its bulk hid them from the valley, and started straight down the mountain. The angle of the snow made walking difficult, but they were heartened by the thought of escaping the mountains sooner, and even the approach of nightfall did not dampen their spirits. Better to walk through the night than to try bedding down in this cold, Pazel thought. But the wind was rising, and the selk looked anxiously over their shoulders at Urakan.

As darkness fell they climbed the snow ridge again. Once tied together they began to feel their way downhill, with the sharp-eyed ixchel on the shoulders of the selk leading the way. While a little light remained they made steady progress, never straying far from the edge of the avalanche, and before long they crossed the first switchback. The moons were hidden by the peaks, but the starlight helped Pazel find his footing, and now and then a selk would look back at him with a glowing blue eye. They dropped from several ten-foot ledges without incident, although letting himself fall into darkness frightened Pazel more than he cared to admit. Enough! he thought, after landing hard for the third time. Someone can blary well strike a match at the bottom next time, so that we know how far we’re going to fall.

They reached the second switchback and pressed on. But shortly thereafter the wind surged, cold and brutal, and snow began to fall. Pazel was appalled at the speed of the storm’s arrival. Before any of them could speak they were staggering and shielding their eyes from the driven snow.

‘Down, down to the trees!’ roared Hercol. ‘Hold fast to the ixchel! Valgrif, keep that dog beside you!’

They fled the open surface of the avalanche and began to burrow into its side. They used their picks, their scabbards, their bare hands. It was much harder than digging into the fresh powder on Isarak: this was old, dense snow, and many a broken pine lay buried within it, and there was no light at all. Meanwhile the storm became a blizzard, the snow slashing horizontally, the brittle pines crashing around them and the wind like a throng of tortured souls.

Finally they were all out of the blast. They had dug a cramped burrow, mounding the excavated snow into a wall and propping branches against the opening to block at least part of the wind. But they were blind and soaked. The selk wine went around, but when Pazel’s turn came he found that he was shaking uncontrollably, and he spilled more down his chin than he managed to swallow. ‘Dry yourselves!’ said Hercol. ‘Use the cloths from the selk. Use anything you like, but do it now.’ Pazel’s cloth was at his neck. The outer layer was damp, but within its folds it was, amazingly, dry. He rubbed it frantically over his limbs, and a little feeling came back into them.

‘I have spread a canvas on the snow,’ said Hercol. ‘Squeeze onto it, the closer the better.’

‘Night Gods!’ shouted Corporal Mandric. ‘Mr Bolutu, your pack is hot! The blary Nilstone’s giving off heat!’

‘Do not warm yourselves by the Nilstone!’ said the selk. ‘Its heat is illusory; the old stories tell of just such a snare. It cannot warm you; it can only scald and kill. If Arpathwin were here he would explain.’

‘Well he ain’t here,’ growled the Turach, squirming, ‘and I don’t need a mage to tell me hot from cold. Give your pack here, Bolutu; let me move it to the centre. We’ll see who don’t warm his hands.’

‘Stay away from the Stone! ’

It was Thasha — and it was not. Her voice had come out with more ferocity than ever Valgrif put into a snarl. Mandric froze, and neither he nor anyone reached in Bolutu’s direction again.

Pazel had been cold before, but now he understood that it had only been a tease. This was agony, and they were all in it together, moaning, blind. Even the selk were quietly shaking. Hercol made them report one by one: were their toes dry? Were their heads covered tightly? Were they all sharply awake?

‘I’ve been more so,’ said Myett.

‘Then sleep — if you never mean to wake,’ snapped Hercol. ‘Where are you, crawlies? Come here.’

In the ixchel tongue, Pazel heard the women laugh grimly. ‘He’s only trying to provoke us, to keep us alert and alive,’ said Ensyl.

‘Of course,’ said Myett. ‘Do you know, sister, I could almost love this man.’

‘But I do not love his armpit,’ Ensyl replied.

Then Hercol passed out dried fruit and seed cakes and hazelnuts and hard black bread. ‘Eat!’ he said. ‘The food is coal, your stomach is a furnace; you will see how fast it burns away.’

‘How long until daylight?’ asked Thasha.

‘Long enough. Chew your food.’

‘Pitfire, now he thinks he’s Captain Rose,’ muttered Neeps.

It hurt to laugh. It hurt to breathe, to move, to refrain from moving. Someone (who cared who) had taken Pazel in a bear hug; Pazel himself held tight to Thasha, and found that she in turn had wrapped herself around Valgrif, who had curled into a ball. Pazel heard Neeps and Lunja whispering together — insults, surly apologies, then softer words he tried not to hear. Time slowed, as if they were trapped in some diabolical ceremony, sustained for cruelty’s sake and nothing more. They held one another. Little by little the howling of the storm died away.

When the selk declared that dawn had arrived Pazel did not believe them: it was still dark as pitch. But then the nest of limbs and bodies broke apart (cramped muscles, fresh cries of pain) and light poured in suddenly from one side. The storm had piled another eight feet of powder against the side of the avalanche. They crawled out, dazzled, into bright sun and crisp, still air.

The storm had left its mark. The humans had cold blisters on their hands and feet, and some of them were bleeding. For the dlomu matters were worse: their skin had cracked in places, and the blood in the wounds had frozen into tiny crystals that fell out when they moved, like pink salt.

‘The caves would have protected us,’ said Hercol. ‘I was wrong to insist on this course of action.’

‘No, swordsman,’ said Prince Olik. ‘If we had lingered on the mountaintop, we would still be facing the whole descent, and under a much greater depth of snow. All this day we should have spent ploughing through it, hip-deep or deeper, only to reach the spot where we stand now.’

Hercol nodded, but he did not seem much inclined to look at the bright side. ‘We have won back a little time. We must win back more. Let us walk for an hour before we breakfast; it will do us good to move.’

They struggled down along the side of the avalanche, wading through the fresh snow like bathers in the surf. The trail’s third switchback was of course quite lost to sight, but the selk found it anyway by the ever-so-slightly wider spacing between the trees. They followed it away from the peak, steeply downhill. The air warmed, their limbs warmed, and gradually the depth of snow decreased.

Much of that day they walked in silence — around the edge of a frozen lake, through a forest of strange evergreens that smelled of ginger, along the edge of an ancient wall that ran for miles through the foothills: one more defence breached by the ogres of the Thrandaal. Again and again Pazel found himself scanning the skies. He saw any number of vultures, crows and woodpeckers, but no owl, no Ramachni.

The old wall became still more ruined, and the travellers picked their way between the tumbled stones. At one point Pazel found himself and Neeps walking a little apart from the others. He glanced around surreptitiously. Then he whispered in Sollochi, Neeps’ mother tongue.

‘Listen, mate, I need to tell you something. You, and no one else.’ Neeps blinked. ‘Pitfire. What?’

‘That night at the Demon’s Court, when I spoke to Erithusme. I told you most of what she said. But just before she vanished she told me something strange: that there’s another. . power, hidden on the Chathrand. The mage didn’t want to tell me. I had to badger her something fierce.’

‘What kind of power?’ said Neeps. ‘Do you mean another way to bring her back?’

‘No, she’d have been more keen on that,’ said Pazel, ‘and besides, she was obsessed with Thasha breaking through that wall inside her. As far as Erithusme’s concerned, that’s the only right way now. This other power is something dangerous, something mad. You remember the spot on the berth deck, where I used to sling my hammock?’

‘The stanchion with the copper nails.’

Pazel nodded. ‘She told me to bring Thasha to that very spot. And nothing more. “When Thasha is standing there she will know what to do.”

That’s it. A moment later she was gone.’

Neeps was clearly struggling for calm. ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that you’ve not told anyone? Not Ramachni, not Hercol?’

‘Just you,’ said Pazel. ‘Maybe we should tell them. But what if they say something to Thasha? She’s the problem, don’t you see? If Thasha knew, she’d want to use this thing as soon as we set foot on the Chathrand. Even if it killed her.’

‘She is stubborn. Like a blue-blooded mule. And Pitfire, those copper nails? She must have seen ’em before.’

Pazel looked at him sidelong. ‘Don’t be dense, mate. The compartment’s always full of bare-assed tarboys.’

They almost laughed. Pazel needed a laugh. But he wouldn’t let himself, not now. The laughter could too easily spill into tears.

‘If something happens to me-’

‘Nothing’s going to happen to you, Pazel.’

‘-and you take her there alone, please — make her be careful. Erithusme was very clear on that point: whatever’s hidden there is a last resort.’

Neeps gave his promise, and they trudged on into the lengthening day. The ruins ended; the land grew flat, and the forest rose about them tall and ancient and seemingly at peace. Suddenly Valgrif stopped, rigid. He lowered his muzzle and sniffed, then showed his fangs.

‘Dogs,’ he said. ‘Athymars. They passed here in the night, or very early this morning.’

‘Many?’ asked Neda.

‘Many,’ said the wolf. ‘A large hunting pack, twenty or more. But they must be far away now, or well hidden; otherwise I should be able to catch their scent on the wind, not just here where their flanks rubbed against trees.’

Pazel felt as if someone had just broken a cane across his back. Twenty of those mucking creatures! ‘So what now?’ he said.

‘Eat,’ said Valgrif.

‘I beg your pardon?’

The wolf looked at them urgently. ‘Eat, eat for several hours’ marching. Then wash your faces and hands, and wash your mouths out with snow, and bury the place where you spit. And you dlomu, change the dressing on your bandages. You must bury the old ones here, along with anything soiled or food-stained.’

‘What’s all this about?’ asked Corporal Mandric.

‘Staying alive,’ said the wolf. ‘A pack that size is far more dangerous than what we faced at the bridge. If they find us, they will kill us — and they will find us, if they catch our scent. They would pay no heed to a single wolf, but they will know the smell of dlomic blood. And your food’s reek is unlike anything in this forest. You must remove any trace of it — and wash your hair, too, if you can stand the cold.’

‘We can stand it,’ said Lunja firmly. ‘We saw what the athymars can do with those fangs.’

They ate, and scrubbed with snow, and buried what Valgrif had told them to bury. Then they set off, more guarded than ever. The air beneath the giant trees was still and quiet. Valgrif ranged far ahead, and the noiseless selk followed, just near enough to keep the party in sight.

For nearly an hour they crept without incident through the forest, and heard no sound but the cawing of crows. Then Valgrif loped back among them. ‘Something is wrong,’ he said. ‘I can smell the dogs: they are much nearer than before, but the scent is weak, as though some of them had disappeared. Perhaps the pack has divided.’

‘Or dug in?’ suggested Pazel. ‘To ambush us?’

‘Twenty athymars would not wait for an ambush,’ said the wolf. ‘They would simply tear us to pieces. We must bear north, away from their scent.’

He moved on, out of sight, and the party followed as before. Hercol and the selk archers held their bows at the ready; the others walked with their hands upon their swords. The snow cover was by now quite thin, and they could hear the crackle of leaves and sticks beneath their feet.

Pazel winced at every sound. He glanced up at the tall pines around them. The lowest branches were twenty feet above their heads.

Then Valgrif snarled. Pazel turned and saw a dog’s shape flashing towards the wolf between the dark trunks. A second followed. Hercol whirled around, drawing his bow as he did so. The selk too were taking aim.

‘Don’t fire!’

It was a selk’s voice, shouting from far off in the trees. The archers paused, and for an instant Pazel feared some trick, for the dogs had just closed on Valgrif. But they were not dogs, they were ash-grey wolves, and they greeted the black creature with whimpers of joy.

‘Kallan! Rimkal!’ barked Valgrif. ‘Comrades, these are my sons!’

The wolves ran in circles, yipping and prancing. They were woken, like the creatures at the temple in Ularamyth, and they greeted the travellers with great courtesy. Then Pazel heard the four selk in their party crying out with joy.

‘Kirishgan!’ they shouted. ‘Fire’s child! Kinsman!’

For it was he. Pazel almost cried out as well — but a dark thought made him hold his tongue. Everything Thaulinin had told him about the selk way of death rose suddenly in his mind. Kirishgan, meanwhile, rushed forward and embraced his fellow selk, then turned and looked at the other travellers with delight.

‘Hail, Olik, prince and brother! I feared for you, when I heard that you had defied the sorceress.’ Kirishgan’s eyes moved to Pazel. ‘Smythidor,’ he said, ‘how I hoped we would meet again.’

‘Then it’s you?’ said Pazel. ‘ The. . whole you?’

‘We selk are whole but once,’ said Kirishgan, ‘and for me that time is yet to come. But yes, Pazel, I am flesh and blood. And here are your family! Sister Neda, brothers Neeps and Hercol, Thasha Isiq, who has palmed your heart.’

Pazel blushed. He had spoken of them all to Kirishgan, over tea in Vasparhaven Temple. And of course the selk remembered. Brothers: that was exactly right, of course, and so was what he said of Thasha. So right that Pazel couldn’t face her, in fact. ‘Where have you been, Kirishgan?’ he asked.

‘Among Nolcindar’s people, whom I met in the West Dells of the Ansyndra. For eight days and nights we have led the Ravens on a merry chase, away from Ularamyth and the Nine Peaks. Hundreds there were, but we have reduced the count.’

‘And the athymars?’ asked Valgrif.

‘Slain, father,’ said one of the wolves. ‘They were scouting this valley from Urakan to the Weeping Glen, and letting no creature pass. But at nightfall they always congregated here, and last night we fell upon them during the storm. Rimkal and I tore six between us, and the selk killed the rest. We buried the pack not far from here, but by the smell I think some scavenger has found the grave and dug them out again.’

‘Where has Nolcindar gone?’ asked Thasha.

‘To the Ilidron Coves,’ said Kirishgan. ‘When we saw the extent of the forces arrayed against you, we knew that someone had to run ahead and ready the Promise for the open sea. There will be no time to waste when you arrive with the Nilstone. We three stayed behind, and sought you in the mountains, for we guessed that you would cross the Parsua by the Water Bridge. We were still far south of Urakan, though, and you crossed before we could come to your aid. There are still many hrathmogs in the southern peaks. And when at last we came to the last mountain before the Nine, we looked down on a terrible sight: an eguar fighting a demonic creature, a maukslar probably. More worrying still, the eguar was our loyal Sitroth, who had sworn never to leave the North Door of the Vale unguarded.’

The others told him at once of their own battle with the creature. ‘Sitroth attacks me,’ said Prince Olik. ‘Then a demon attacks us all, and is driven off by Ramachni. And now Sitroth and the demon fight each other. How to make sense of it all?’

‘But saw you nothing of our mage?’ said Bolutu. ‘No owl, no mink, no sign of spellcraft?’

‘We surely missed a great deal,’ said Kirishgan. ‘ The battle was scorching trees and melting snow, great clouds of steam were rising. We could see the path of destruction leading back along the Parsua Gorge. The maukslar lashed out with teeth and claws and fire: it was the faster of the two. Many times it struck like a snake, and recoiled out of reach. But Sitroth’s fire burned hotter than the demon’s, and its bite was deadly. Every blow it landed did terrible damage. At last the maukslar rose into the air and fled. Its wings were burned, however. It could not fly far, nor reach the clifftops, and Sitroth pursued it below. I would have hailed the eguar, then, had our own secrecy not been so vital.’

Suddenly Valgrif and his sons went rigid, their eyes and ears turned westwards. After a moment Pazel heard a distant rumbling sound, and the echo of a hunting horn.

‘That is part of the Ravens’ host,’ said Kirishgan. He glanced at Prince Olik. ‘Common Bali Adro soldiers, for the most part. You could ride out and greet them, Prince, but I do not think they would bow to you.’

‘They would not bow,’ said Olik. ‘Macadra has made a slave of the Emperor, but the generals still march under his flag, and no minor prince’s command may outweigh that of the Resplendent One. We would be seized — with mumblings of regret perhaps — and then delivered to torture and death.’

‘What of the Crossroads?’ asked Valgrif. ‘From the peaks we saw enemies stationed there.’

‘The Standing Stones are always watched,’ said Kirishgan. ‘We must keep to the woods and fields if we are to have any chance. We will cross the Mitrath, north of the Crossroads, and the Isima Road further west. But we go swiftly. When the dogs do not return at nightfall, Macadra’s riders will know something grave has happened, and converge here. They are still scattered, chasing false leads. But gathered together they could watch every inch of both roads, and cut us off from the sea.’

‘We would travel faster without our mountain gear,’ said Lunja.

‘Leave it, then,’ said the selk, ‘There will be no more climbing, until you scale the boarding-ladder of the Promise.’

They dropped their tarps, picks, and grapples in a heap, and covered them hastily with snow. Then they set off running, west by northwest. The forests here were beautiful, with columns of golden sun stabbing down through the moist, moss-heavy trees. Pazel, however, was in too much pain to enjoy them: his blisters were leaking blood into his shoes. When they jumped over streams he imagined ripping off his boots and plunging his feet into the clear water. But much worse than the pain was the awareness that he might — somehow, unthinkably — be fated to kill the friend who had joined them.

Time passed. The snow stretched thinner and at last disappeared. Here and there the forest gave way to patches of soggy meadow. Then the wolves came bounding back to the party and announced that the first road, the North-South Mitrath, lay just ahead.

They crept on until it opened before them, broad and dusty and stretching away straight as a ribbon to north and south. All was still. From where he crouched Pazel could see hoofprints and the marks of wagon-wheels. Far off to the south rose the four Standing Stones of the Crossroads. To the north the road climbed into grey, forbidding hills, studded with the ruins of old homesteads and keeps.

‘Many riders have passed here today,’ said Hercol.

‘Soldiers of Macadra,’ said Kirishgan. ‘No one lives here any longer. These were the outer settlements of Isima. And deep in those hills lies the fairest spring in all the Efaroc Peninsula, where the first selk queen, Miyanthur, gathered wild strawberries as a courting-gift to her betrothed. I used to swim there as a child, thousands of years after Miyanthur’s time, but still centuries before the rise of King Urakan. We asked him to build his road elsewhere and leave the hills untouched, but he was a king and had no time for talk of strawberries. The land is healing slowly, however. And the berries are still there.’

‘Unlike the king,’ said Hercol. ‘Well, we are fortunuate: the road is empty, and the Crossroads are distant enough, unless there is a telescope trained on this spot. We must chance that. Come swiftly.’

They stepped out upon the high, hard-packed road. Pazel felt very exposed, here in the bright light of a sprawling sky. Hercol came last, frowning at the hoofprints to either side of them, and sweeping a pine limb lightly over their own tracks like a broom.

It was a relief to plunge back under the trees. They ran on, west by southwest, racing the setting sun. Now and then the wolves paused and cocked their heads, but Pazel heard nothing but their own pounding feet. An hour passed, and then the forest came to a sudden end. They were at the second crossing.

They crouched down in the grass. This road, the Isima Road, was wider and clearly more travelled. To the east, Pazel saw the four Standing Stones once again. They had rounded the crossroads unseen.

‘Clear again,’ said Neeps.

‘For the moment,’ whispered Neda in Ormali. ‘But we’ll be in plain sight even after we cross the road, unless we crawl that is. Tell them, Pazel.’

She was quite right: the trees had been cleared for at least two miles on the far side of the road, and the grass was merely elbow-height. Still, they had no other choice, and so on the count of three they dashed across the road and into the grass. Once more Hercol brought up the rear, sweeping their tracks away. But as he reached the edge of the road he suddenly raised his head like a startled animal, then sprinted towards them, waving his hands and hissing.

‘There are soldiers riding hard out of the east! Scatter, scatter and lie low! And be still as death, unless you would meet your own!’

They obeyed him, racing away into the grass. Pazel found himself near Kirishgan and no one else. They threw themselves down and waited. Moments later Pazel heard the sound of horses on the road. It was no small contingent: the host was surely hundreds strong. Then a man’s voice barked a command. The pounding hooves slowed, then stopped altogether.

Now there were several voices, murmuring impatiently. ‘Ride in, then, have a look,’ shouted the one who had halted the company. ‘But be quick — you know how she deals with latecomers.’

Pazel heard a swishing sound. One of the riders had spurred his horse into the grass.

With infinite care, Kirishgan moved his hand to the pommel of his sword. The rider drew nearer still. Pazel saw a helmet gleam through the grass-tips, and sunlight on a dark dlomic face. Kirishgan met Pazel’s eye. Don’t do it, don’t move! Pazel wanted to shout. But he could do not more than slightly shake his head.

Five yards from where they lay, the rider turned his horse and looked back in the direction of the road. ‘Nothing here,’ he shouted. ‘You saw a dust-devil, Captain, if you want my guess.’

‘Don’t speak to me of devils!’ shouted a second voice, from closer to the road. ‘We’d be out of these wastes by now if the maukslar hadn’t smelled something odd in the mountains. Well, get out of there! We’ve have that cursed dog-pack to locate yet.’

The rider spurred his horse back towards the road. Kirishgan took his hand from his sword, and Pazel let himself breathe. Not today, thank Rin in his heaven. At a shout from their captain, the host gallopped on into the east.

The travellers regrouped. ‘Four hundred horsemen, and fifty more on sicunas,’ said Prince Olik. ‘An Imperial battalion, no less.’

‘And the maukslar was with them,’ said Thasha. ‘I wonder if it had taken Dastu’s form already.’ Her eyes were bright. ‘The mucking idiot. I expect they’ve killed him.’

‘That is one possibility,’ said Kirishgan. ‘Let us not speculate on the others. But it is the fate of your mage that worries me now.’

A heavy silence descended, and it fell to Hercol to break it. ‘We must try to keep our spirits up, as Ramachni would no doubt implore. Well, Kirishgan, what shall we do? Crawl?’

‘Yes,’ said the selk, ‘crawl. And that is not a bad thing, for very soon we shall bid this good land farewell. It is fitting to touch it with our hands, to breathe the air closest to its skin. The wicked have many servants — even the selk have been corrupted now and again, to our shame. But stone, snow, grass, forest: these are ever willing to help us, in their humble ways. I shall ache for this land when we depart. It is an ache that can only end when I find my way back here, or my errant soul finds me.’

So they crawled, knees aching but sore feet relieved, and passed slowly across those miles of open grass. An hour later, the host of riders swept back westwards along the road, sounding horns for the pack of athymars that lay dead at the foot of Urakan.

Finally the trees resumed, and the travellers stood and continued their painful run. The ground rose and fell; sharp rocks pierced the earth among the roots and leaves. The forest was pathless, dense. They scrambled down into ravines, pushed through walls of savage thorns, forded rivers with the icy spray about their hips. But that night Kirishgan brought them to the shelter of a cave, and the fire they built in its mouth warmed them all. There the selk told them a tale about Lord Arim and Ramachni, and their battle with Droth the Maukslar-Prince. It was a harrowing tale, and the others listened, rapt. All save the wolves: they paced uneasily in and out of the cave, and raised their muzzles often, appraising something on the breeze.

‘What do you smell, Valgrif?’ Myett asked, rising and touching his flank.

The wolf looked down at her. ‘Nothing, little sister,’ he said at last. ‘ The enemy is far away.’

That night Pazel slept deep, his fingers and Thasha’s interlaced. He did not dream, except for a single, phantom moment, when he thought a dog’s tongue licked his chin. But at daybreak Myett was sitting cold and apart, and the three wolves were gone without a trace. Then Pazel knew. Valgrif had smelled salt. He feared no living thing, but waves and surf filled his heart with dread. Waves and surf, and farewells perhaps.

They nibbled some seed-cakes, sipped wine against the morning chill. Hercol and Kirishgan swept out the cave, hiding every trace of their visit. Then the travellers set off through the last of that dense wood. In time they came out upon a windy plateau and crossed it running, scattering a herd of spotted deer. From the plateau’s rim they saw a silvery tongue of water below them, twisting among dark cliffs, and tracing it with their eyes for several intricate miles, the sea.