Darkburn Book 1: Fall by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 1

There ought to have been nobody else here.

So what had caused that sudden rhythmic thudding, as if a frantic heart had started to beat in the grey depths of the forest?

Yaret felt the hoofbeats drumming through the ground before they became audible. It sounded like a solitary horse, but still… In fourteen years of travel through this slice of wilderness, where tangled forest met the lonely grasslands, there had never been a horse – or another human – to be seen.

The hoofbeats were coming closer rapidly, crashing through the undergrowth in reckless haste. Swiftly Yaret picked up the waterskin and stepped away from the bank of the Darkburn.

Here, the Darkburn was no more than a lively brook, not yet a river. After gathering itself upon the moors, it dived into this gnarled forest of ancient oak and hutila and greythorn.

Apart from the constant chanting of the Darkburn's waters, this had always been a quiet place.

Until now. The hooves grew louder, faster, their vibration making the faded foliage quiver: the urgent thuddings of a heart that was about to break.

The horse burst through the bushes in a fountain of dead leaves and splintered twigs. It was riderless. And it was terrified.

Foam covered its snorting mouth: sweat ran down its heaving brown flanks from the empty saddle. Yaret stepped forward with vague thoughts of trying to catch it. But the horse barely slowed. Its eyes rolling, its breath harsh and rasping, it plunged away upstream to stumble noisily between the straggling trees at the forest’s western edge, where Yaret had left the donkeys.

The two donkeys looked up in mild surprise, but the horse did not stop. Charging out from the trees, it galloped on, hoofbeats diminishing quickly now, across the open grass until it was out of sight and hearing.

As the quiet returned Yaret stood still, considering that empty saddle. She had no wish to go any deeper into the tree-meshed darkness from which the horse had burst in terror. But a fallen rider might be lying somewhere in those shadows.

She hesitated, unnerved, and irritated by her own anxiety. The horse was nothing to do with her. Easier to just walk away.

Letting out a long sigh of resignation, she stepped into the gloom cast by the trees, alongside the infant Darkburn. Although the stream still sang on to itself, like a child at play, all else was silence. No bird calls, no small rustlings in the undergrowth. The bowed trees waited.

Yaret was readying herself to find a corpse. But she was not prepared for what came next.

A hundred yards in, the stench hit her with an almost physical force. It stopped her in her tracks and nearly knocked her over. A thick miasma of soot and ashes, charcoal and decay, it was death made palpable. It bludgeoned the soul and wiped out any other thought. Her mind went numb with fear.

Sick and helpless, her legs turned suddenly as weak as wool, Yaret fell on her knees. What was this – this burning horror, this overpowering dread as if the end of everything had come?

Was this death? It was surely worse than death: for it was rage, despair, grief, hatred of all things, herself included. The annihilation of all hope. It filled her with a roaring emptiness.

She huddled crouching with her head wrapped in her arms, trying to bear it. The grief and fury were telling her to dash herself against a tree, to find some cliff down which to hurl and

break her body. Curled in a ball amidst damp stems and leaves, she was aware that nothing else around her – except the gurgling water – moved at all. The very trees seemed stricken.

And then something came. With her arms around her head, Yaret glimpsed it only past the corner of her elbow. Down by the stream it crept: a long, black, burning shadow, crawling in the same direction that the horse had fled in.

She could feel the heat that emanated from it, even at this distance: as fierce as if the thing contained a furnace. Yet there was no sound above the water’s murmur. The dread grew more intense, unbearable. Time slowed and stopped.

Do not move, do not look, she adjured herself. Be a bird, be a squirrel, something unthinking, something not worth notice. Be neither man nor women nor mind nor heart.

She did not move, did not look, but stared at the ground, tried to become the insect in front of her climbing a stalk, not worth a second’s observation. That small brown beetle climbing to eternity was all there was. There was nothing else.

At last time restarted. The cloud of sickness seemed to lift, a little. The heat was dissipating. Trickle by trickle, the oily tide of hatred and despair receded. High in the canopy, a bird gave an alarm call and flew away with a sharp clatter of wings; the beetle reached its leaf, and Yaret raised her head.

“The donkeys!”

They had been in the path of that thing. But as she shakily stood up and gazed towards the forest edge, there silhouetted against the light were the dear familiar shapes of Dolm and Nuolo. She could tell by their stance that they were afraid; but they had not panicked. They had simply moved out of the way. The burning creature had been hunting for a horse, not donkeys.

A horse with an empty saddle and full saddle-bags: the proof that there had been a rider not so long ago. What had the thing been pursuing? Horse or rider? Did it know the difference?

It knew the difference between horse and donkey. It had intent and purpose. It had been hunting for the rider, surely, but had not known the rider was not on the horse.

So where was the rider?

With even more reluctance than before, Yaret made herself walk on into the forest, following the Darkburn as it skipped and swirled downstream.

It was easy to see the way the crawling thing had come. It had laid a trail of smoke and desperation along the water’s edge. In places the wet ground had charred beneath it and the grass had shrivelled into thin dead stalks. On drier ground this would have been a trail of fire.

The dread and hate and horror lingered too, like the aftermath of a bad dream. The stench was fading but left an aura of decay. Only the Darkburn chattered blithely on, quite unaffected.

How big had the burning creature been? The length of a horse, thought Yaret; no, even longer; but much lower to the ground. All body and crawling legs – no head to speak of, just a bluntness. Creeping, but creeping fast. A thing burnt black: yet not entirely. Within the charcoal body there had been a deep, half-hidden glow like red-hot embers.

Enough. Don’t think about it now. It’s gone. You’ll know if it comes back.

She tried to walk silently, following the brook’s amber waters as they ran through the trees. The forest was shadowy and knotted but not threatening, although the Darkburn had a dubious reputation, further down – a hundred miles further down, once it had become a mighty river. Too far away for more than muddled stories to have reached Yaret’s home, up north in Obandiro. She saw no fallen rider, only the scorched trial.

But where had the hoofprints gone? She realised they had disappeared.

Doggedly Yaret retraced her steps until she spotted hoofprints in the mud beside the water.

She frowned as she deciphered them. It seemed the horse had slithered down the opposite bank just here; the crawling thing had come from further back downstream to cut it off.

So she leapt from stone to stone across the swiftly-flowing burn, and clambered up the far steep bank, following the trail of skidding hoofprints.

Before long, the ascent became less steep. The ground flattened out into a stand of huge, graceful hutilas still in their late summer greenery, their arched branches showing the first faint tints of brown and gold. Between them there was little cover, only a mat of leathery leaves and strips of peeled bark. No fallen rider lay there. Yaret kept walking, scanning the ground for half a mile, until she came to the northern margin of the wood.

There before her lay the plain – the Darkburn Loft, looking slightly unreal in a shimmer of watery sunlight. A place free of distinctive landmarks or indeed of anything remarkable, it was bumpy with small rocky outcrops and dotted with stooped and stunted trees.

Behind it rose the softly purpled mounds of the Coban hills; far beyond them, a mere haze in the pale sky, were the mountains. West of those mountains, Obandiro waited for her.

Home. Yaret sighed and looked back down to scrutinise the ground again.

It was hard to make out any trail. Deer and wild goats grazed the Loft, criss-crossing the thin pastures and creating their own maze of random paths. A horse’s hoofprints were not easy to pick out for someone who was not a hunter by profession. Yaret was no hunter: she was a weaver, and a pedlar of woven goods. Expert in woollen cloth, but not in tracking.

As she walked, she grew frustrated by her failure to see more hoofmarks. Maybe the rider had fallen off miles away. She crossed a sprawling streamlet fringed with watercress, and squinted at the muddy banks: no hoofprints anywhere. Not far away there was a rocky outcrop, so she made for it, intending to climb up and look out from the top.

By the outcrop’s base, amongst large tumbled boulders, was a leg. It was almost hidden in the grass. Once she got closer she could see that the leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and was attached to a body.

At first sight the man appeared to be dead. There was a lot of blood. Two crows perched on a rock expectantly.

She shooed the crows away and knelt down to inspect the man. Some of the blood was caused by the thornbush the body had crashed through in its fall. But by the head, the blood had pooled, warm and sticky, on the grass.

A youngish face, eyes closed, a week’s growth of beard; and in the tangled curls of black hair there was an ominous swelling, blood oozing from it, where his head had struck a rock.

But the man was breathing.

Yaret straightened up. “Right,” she said, and looked around, assessing her position. She was twelve miles from her last stop; and she knew that place could offer her no refuge. It was eighteen miles to the next settlement, the first of her stops in the Coban hills.

There was no other farm or village in between. The two of them were stuck here on the nowhere of the Loft, totally alone – apart from a terrifying creature in the nearby forest; and somewhere, a runaway horse.

Surely out on the open plain the horse would easily outrun the creeping monster that pursued it. With any luck, it would lead it miles and miles away…

The donkeys. Better fetch them soon, she thought, make sure that they were safe. It might be possible to move the fallen rider if he could be got across Dolm’s back. Yet even so Dolm would not be able to carry him far. Two miles, if she was lucky. And two miles would be no use.

But the rider was already well concealed here, by the rocks; so perhaps she could just move him enough to get him fully out of sight, and then pitch camp and tend to him.

Why do that? Gather your things now and go! Find the donkeys and get moving. Don’t hang about here, with a dying man at your feet, and that thing of fire and darkness lurking.

Go now, go now, GO NOW!

It was her own voice urging her, loud and strident in her head. She did not care for what it told her. But she halted, undecided for a moment, before she answered it.

“No. We pitch camp, and keep him here.”

Chapter 2

First she assessed the rider’s injuries. Most likely he’d been thrown from the horse into the rocks, and then had tumbled through the thorny bushes to the ground. His twisted right thigh was obviously badly broken, but at least there was no blood seeping through his breeches; the bone had not ripped through the skin. His arms seemed to be intact although his ribs might not be, for the leather jerkin was badly scuffed and full of grit.

But to Yaret’s thinking the head wound was more worrying even than the leg. It was still slowly bleeding, and the young man showed no sign of consciousness.

Behind her in the rocky outcrop was a deep cleft – almost a cave, though not totally enclosed; it was open to a narrow slice of sky. In there, the rider would be fully hidden. So she grasped him firmly by the armpits, and with some effort pulled him two or three yards in until he lay within the gap between the high stone sides. The space was wide enough for both of them to shelter there.

During this process there was no change in the man’s shallow breathing. He was far away and sailing on unknown seas, which was probably just as well, since the crooked leg seemed to have got straightened in the process of dragging. At least that saved Yaret the difficulty of trying to do it. Now the leg needed splinting: with wooden laths if possible, bound on with strips of cloth...

Donkeys. All her possessions were on the donkeys’ backs. She needed to retrieve them.

Having checked that the man’s breathing was not obstructed, she stood up and left him lying in the rocky gap.

She ran most of the way back to the donkeys. On coming to the forest she skirted round the edge, although she had to pick her way across the Darkburn where it danced into the shadow of the trees.

And then she had to leap the trail left by the burning thing, marked out in scorched and blackened grass – a trail unlike any that she had ever seen. But the sense of horror, like the odour of decay, had faded now; and of the thing itself, there was thankfully no sign. A little further on, Dolm and Nuolo were waiting.

“Come on then,” said Yaret, as the donkeys strolled over to her. Nuolo was nervous; Dolm wasn’t, or wouldn’t show it, or had already forgotten any cause of fear.

After giving Nuolo a sympathetic caress, Yaret led the donkeys back across the stream and past the stand of serene hutila trees. There she paused, reflecting. Hutila bark – which the trees shed in profusion – was tough and durable. So, entering the wood, she gathered several lengths of curved grey bark, and added them to the donkeys’ load.

With relief she left the forest, to head across the breezy spaces of the Loft. When she approached the outcrop, a few goats were grazing near it; that was a reassuring sign. They watched her with wary yellow eyes while she halted and unstrapped the donkeys’ packs. As soon as they were free, the donkeys began industriously grazing too.

The rider lay where she had left him. Yaret stowed the packs beneath an overhanging boulder by the entrance to the cleft. This was as good a place as any for a camp: the rocks gave shelter, while the boggy streamlet a hundred yards away meant there was no need to go down to the Darkburn to fetch water. Her raincover could be stretched between the stone walls of the cleft to protect the rider.

At the same instant as this thought, the rain came, light but steady, as if it was setting in for some time. It greatly comforted Yaret. A thing of burning charcoal would not like the rain. And the steady drizzle formed a veil; already the distant wood was growing filmy, and within minutes it was barely visible. The goats became phantoms. The donkeys munched with unconcern.

Standing in the rain Yaret at last let herself relax. Apart from the occasional lion or moorhound, she seldom met with danger on her travels. Only in certain towns did she need this state of high alert, where she put it on with her breeches.

Male mode. It was more than just the donning of masculine clothes and keeping her voice low. It was also the shrugging on of a readiness to fight.

Last year in Havvich market, her disguise must have slipped: she’d found herself being trailed around the stalls by a pair of persevering drunks. When they tried to pull her down an alley, she head-butted one of them, and kicked the other between the legs so that he folded up as neatly as an ell of worsted. Danger was to be anticipated in Havvich. She hadn’t expected to meet any in the empty lands down by the Darkburn.

But this rain was friendly. Be neither man nor woman; be yourself. That was from Madeo, the greatest of travellers. Good advice.

Time to tend the rider. Unrolling one of the packs Yaret found first her own cloak, and then a soft green cape that should have been delivered to Bruilde at her last stop, but which would now do to cover the injured man. Next she unpacked the raincover, a roll of oiled linen which she stretched between the rocks above him. It gave good enough protection from the drizzle.

Then, beneath its shelter, she opened the other pack. In here were all her grandfather’s samples, large squares of finely woven wool in a variety of coloured checks and stripes.

She picked out the mustard check, her least favourite; and dampening it, gently mopped away the blood congealing on the man’s bruised head. After rinsing out the cloth, she made a cold compress for the swelling underneath the curls of hair.

Now the leg. With her knife she cut a cross in his breeches to expose the thigh. As she had thought, the skin was not broken, merely discoloured and badly swollen. She felt along the bone, pressing down through a layer of muscle – plenty of it, not much fat – and eased the leg until it seemed as straight as it would ever be. Perhaps not quite straight enough. Still, it would have to do.

On trying out the strips of curved hutila bark against the broken thigh, she found two lengths that cradled either side quite neatly. They made as good a support as could be managed in the circumstances. After some consideration, she chose the blue striped sample –

never popular – and tore it into strips to tie the bark splints on.

Finally she laid the spare cape gently over him. The man’s own cloak and breeches were of dark, plain wool: a fine twill, greenish grey. His shirt was brown linen in a loose weave beneath the leather jerkin.

Camouflage clothing, thought Yaret, well-sewn and well-worn. He had been on the road for a while, judging by his clothes’ condition. But he had found time to wash himself if not his clothes. He did not smell, at least.

With that thought came another. Standing up, she walked out to the patch of bloody ground where he had fallen and emptied the waterskin over it, watching the reddened water sink into the grass. There might be wolves around; and mountain lions were known to prowl the Loft. Quite apart from anything else…

It crept across her mind, unbidden: the crawling shadow, burning with hostility. Could it scent blood? Well, she would make sure there was none for it to scent. As she went over to the boggy streamlet to refill the waterskin, she surveyed the landscape of the Darkburn Loft.

All appeared peaceful under the hazy veil of rain.

Down at the streamlet the water was clear. Yaret gathered handfuls of watercress from its verge to add to supper. There was plenty of food in her packs for tonight – indeed, for four or five days if need be.

But how long would her need be? How quickly would the rider regain consciousness?

What could she do with him when – or if – he did come round?

Squatting by the water in the rain, she shook her head. Eat and sleep tonight. Think about the rest tomorrow. She wouldn’t starve. Although no hunter, she was skilful enough with her bow to take at least one goat down before the others fled. And there were rabbit droppings everywhere. No, she wouldn’t starve. She’d just be late.

She raised her head and gazed beyond the Coban hills, to the far land where her grandparents were waiting. But they wouldn’t worry yet. She was ahead of her schedule in any case; she had a few days to spare, because of the abandoned homestead in Deloran, her last stop twelve miles back.

And now she began to wonder about that…

Chapter 3

The injured man did not wake up to eat. So Yaret sat back against the rock face and shovelled porridge straight from the pan into her mouth. It contained shreds of dried apple, and a handful of furzeberries which she had gathered earlier in the day and which turned the porridge purple. It didn’t taste too bad, apart from the watercress. Tomorrow she could shoot a rabbit, although that would take longer cooking.

The small fire was still smouldering underneath the raincover. As the space began to fill with smoke, she threw handfuls of earth over the embers. There was no point trying to keep it going overnight; and she felt that it was safer to have no smoke to give away her presence.

On her way to Deloran yesterday she had smelt the smoke a mile before she got there. As she approached the long, low, sprawling farmhouse, it had appeared intact despite the thin grey pall that hung above it.

Not until she was close up did she see why the stone walls looked so dark: they were black with soot. The place was now a shell, for several roof beams had collapsed in the fire. The outbuildings had been burnt down too. When she touched a blackened wall it felt warm and faintly greasy.

There was no-one there to tell her what had happened. All the carts had gone, along with the animals: the roof had fallen in on an empty stable. So Bruilde and her people had escaped.

But they hadn’t taken much else with them. Most of the goods and furniture were still inside the house, charred and useless, stinking of acrid smoke. There must have been no time to rescue more.

Yaret stepped over the remains of the door and stood in the stone corpse of the kitchen.

Dishes still on the table held the ashes of some ruined meal. The wind blew through.

Maybe the fire had started here. A fallen lamp, a too-hot pan, even an unswept chimney…

so many things could happen.

But seldom did in an establishment like Deloran. Bruilde’s household was well organised; a strong-minded woman in her seventies, Bruilde kept everyone in line.

The farm had been one of the stops on Yaret’s route where she had liked to linger for a day or two: safe in her female-hood, she would exchange gossip and collect tales to take home to her grandparents. Bruilde had been a friend of her grandfather, who always gave Yaret a long letter to carry to her. The sealed letter was still in her pack with nobody to give it to. No-one to give her back a letter in exchange. Where was Bruilde now?

Despite all the gossiping, Yaret knew little about Bruilde’s connections. She had no idea where the household – farmhands, their families, and animals – might have gone. But gone they were.

Thoughtfully chewing her porridge, she cast her memory back another week, to the market at Moreva. She liked the small town, which was friendlier than Havvich, and usually had a carefree, almost festive feel. But this time she’d found people edgy and preoccupied.

“No time to think about clothes now,” said one passer-by as she set up her samples in the corner of the market.

“Why not?”

“More important things are going on.” He was a workman with a sack of flour on his shoulder and a worried crease between his brows. “Kelvha is on the march, haven’t you heard?”

“They’re always on the march,” said Yaret, who was in male mode. “Always fighting some border skirmish or other.”

“This is different.”

“Why? Who are they at loggerheads with this time?”

The man shook his head. “Not sure. There’s some trouble going on down south, I think.

This isn’t the usual small-time raiders or clan brawls. It could be serious. Kelvha are buying up supplies: food, armour, everything.”

“An army needs good woollen cloaks,” suggested Yaret.

“And you can’t supply them till next spring. Forget it. I’m laying up stores of food before they can buy the lot.” He adjusted the sack upon his shoulder and walked on.

Yaret took only one order there, for a disappointing four yards of russet serge. She could learn little more about the trouble on Kelvha’s borderlands. In spite of what the man had said, she suspected raiders, or else the usual clan posturing. The Kelvhans did a lot of that, although she wouldn’t have dared to use the word “posturing” to any Kelvhan. Their squabbles were generally about land and rank: who owed tribute and respect to who.

Hierarchy meant everything in that kingdom.

Not that she’d ever been properly inside Kelvha. Round the edges was close enough; she traded with the Outer Kelvhan towns like Moreva, who then traded on to the interior. She’d seen a few Kelvhan nobles in her travels, and had admired their fine horses from a safe distance. The Kelvhans were courteous in a lordly way but made no attempt to hide their weapons, be they jewelled dagger, ornate sword or decorative bow: and they dressed well.

Lots of embroidery in gold and silver thread. What they would do with her grandfather’s homespun wool, Yaret could not imagine.

But that was the nobles. There must be plenty of homespun underlings in Inner Kelvha.

Yaret had sometimes thought of venturing there to find out. Caution, and her grandmother’s frequently expressed dislike of Kelvhans, had prevented her.

So: there was trouble in Kelvha. There was unease in Moreva. There was a burnt-out farmhouse at Deloran.

And further north, the week before, there had been some story of a burning, overheard at the Gostard inn… some remote village wiped out by fire, though nobody had seen it, and if there were no survivors, as reported, then who had spread the tale?

Yaret had asked the company, “What happened? Was it a lightning strike?”

“Naaah,” said the tale-teller in a long note of contempt. “You’re soft in the head, boy.

Lightning burn a whole village down? It were sorcery, that’s what.”

“Whose sorcery?”

He put his face down level to hers. His teeth were bad. He took her for a gormless teenager, so she acted one, wide-eyed and ignorant.

“Liol’s,” he said. “You heard of Liol? The old Sorcerer? Nobody told you that bedtime story?”

Yaret shook her head.

“Lives on the mountain-tops,” said the man with a happy snarl. “Eats babies. And small boys. Doesn’t bother to cook ’em first.”

“Leave the lad alone,” said the inn-keeper peaceably, polishing a tankard. He knew who Yaret was; she’d been stopping at his inn for fourteen years – half her life – first with and then without her grandfather.

“That wizard Liol is so old he’s just a bag of bones,” said the customer with a leer. “That’s why he crunches up those babies. Always hungry. Yum, yum.”

The inn-keeper laughed. “Like you, Abrel,” he said, and pushed the dish of fried bar snacks across the counter to him. Once Abrel was busy impressing the rest of the company, the inn-keeper turned to Yaret.

“Best eat in your room,” he said. “And lock the door.” He handed her a slice of cold egg pie.

“Thanks, Rud.” But she lingered to ask him, under the hubbub of the bar, “What really happened in that village?”

“Who knows?” Rud was a big, slow-moving, unruffled man. But now he was troubled.

“Just rumours. There are always rumours.”

“Who’s that Liol that he talked about?”

“Leori. Can’t even get his name right. Abrel knows nothing about him.”

“But you do?”

“Leori’s stayed here a few times,” said Rud. “He’s old, I’ll grant. But burning villages or eating babies – that’s just nonsense.”

“He’s harmless, then?”

Rud hesitated. “I wouldn’t say exactly that.”

“Is he really a wizard?”

“Take your pie and go,” Rud told her. So she did.

Now, sitting underneath the raincover, she put down the porridge pan and thought about egg pie. It had been very good, with soft, crumbly pastry and herbs. And Rud: that easy-going, watchful man. She wished she’d had the chance to ask him more, but after a night kept awake by the noisy carousing downstairs – and the odd rattle at her door handle – she had left early, before anyone was up.

Leori. That was interesting. The old stories back home mentioned the wizard Lioru… But those had been set down by Madeo the Bard four hundred years ago, so it couldn’t be the same one. Perhaps it was just a name for wizards.

Twilight was coming: the misting rain was darkening to grey. She checked the sleeping man. There was no change, even when she shook his shoulder and tickled his cheek. His breathing was long and slow as if he were sunk deep in hibernation.

The donkeys ambled over to the rocky cleft, wanting their usual bedtime handful of oats.

She rubbed their damp backs and shoulders and stroked their rough foreheads. Nuolo nuzzled back, while Dolm regally accepted her caresses as the homage that was his due.

After giving them their oats she put the remains of the porridge in a bowl for the morning.

Then she set dried peas to soak in the pan. They needed a full day’s soaking, but she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon, not unless the fallen rider woke. Not even if he woke.

She checked him again – no change – before she lay down on her bedroll next to him. She placed her bow and three arrows ready on a low rock on her other side. Her knife was by her hand, as always. The donkeys stood sentinel outside the cleft: grey shadows stoic in the dusk.

They would warn her if anything came.

Even so, it was a long time before she could allow herself to drop down into sleep.

Chapter 4

It was only a small noise in the darkness, but it woke her instantly. She’d snatched up the knife and was already on her feet before she worked out what had caused it.

The man was gasping. Laying down the knife, Yaret squatted by his side. There was half a moon and even underneath the raincover she could see the faint glistening of his open eyes.

He was muttering something in a language that she did not know. It wasn’t Kelvhan.

“Hallo?” she said to him quietly in Standard. “You hurt yourself falling off your horse.

Don’t try to move: you broke your leg. You’re quite safe, but it’s the middle of the night.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then he said, in Standard, “I need to pee.”

So that was a good sign, although it involved a lot of fumbling with his breeches and the second cooking pan. Most of it ended up in there, as far as she could tell. It occurred to her that other functions might be harder to deal with. But hopefully that wouldn’t happen in the middle of the night.

The man lay back again.

“Roth,” he whispered.

“Is that your horse? The horse ran away.” She listened to his laboured breathing. It sounded as if he were in pain, but she did not ask because she had nothing to offer him for it.

“Leg,” he said after a moment.

“Your thigh bone got broken. It’s splinted. Try not to move it. Do you want a drink of water?” When he nodded, she propped his head up in one hand and held the waterskin to his lips. He drank.

“Ah,” he said at last, which she took to mean enough. Or possibly it hurts.

“You hit your head as well,” she said. “Try to sleep now till morning.”

As far as she could tell, he was asleep again quite quickly. Soon after dawn, when she got up, he was softly snoring.

So she left the semi-cave, emerging to see a feeble sun perched on the eastern horizon amidst long thin rags of cloud. As she performed the morning ritual of Haedath, she thought of her grandparents: how they would also at around this time be touching the earth, then putting their fingers to heart, lips, forehead in turn, murmuring the same words in Bandiran that she was now murmuring.

A sudden wave of longing for her grandparents washed over her. Someone to advise her, to tell her she was doing the right things. She let the feeling flow through and down to the ground that their feet shared. Then she imagined them setting out upon their daily tasks: her grandmother would go to feed the chickens, milk the goats and check the other animals. Her grandfather, still strong though somewhat stiff these days, would head straight upstairs to his loom.

They might exchange a few words about Yaret, and discuss where she was now – Grandda knew the route backwards, having made the journey to sell his cloth for so many years before he broke his hip. But their speculations would be routine. They wouldn’t worry.

And in fact despite her affection for them both, she wouldn’t want Grandda to be here with her after all. She had come to value greatly the solitude of these annual journeys. The visits to the towns – selling cloth and taking orders – had become almost the least important part of them. It was the lonely stretches in between that made her feel alive.

Yaret looked out across the Loft, at the landscape that seemed to hold so much hidden meaning although nothing disturbed its airy everyday tranquillity. To the west the clouds had cleared and were mere feathers, high and distant as if some giant white owlet had been chased across the sky. Against them wheeled a single bird: no owl, too big, soaring far above a gang of rooks who were throwing themselves around in the air with reckless skill.

She washed and tidied up her things, greeted the donkeys, and walked down to the streamlet to drink and refill the waterskin. The quiet expanse of Loft around her felt both familiar and strange. Although she’d crossed this stretch of land so many times, she’d never stopped here overnight. Usually she camped a further eight miles on, at the Loft’s northern edge. It was a long haul from the last stop at Deloran, but Grandda had never paused here either and she kept to his routine.

She remembered that she had once asked Grandda why he didn’t linger on the Loft. That must have been after her first journey with him, when she was fourteen. He had hesitated before answering.

“Chance of wolves and lions, amongst other things.”

“That’s true of half the places where we stayed,” Yaret had objected. “It wasn’t a bad spot.”

For the Darkburn Loft – long and narrow, running parallel to the Darkburn river and the forest – was a peaceful place to travel through, barring its chill winds: it was high and wild and dry underfoot, the thin soil barely covering its rocks. The Loft had water, wood and wildlife, the three requirements for a camp. Yet Grandda had always crossed it at its narrowest point, heading straight north towards the Coban hills.

“Does nobody live there, on the Loft?” she had asked him.

“Nobody.”

“Something does,” Gramma had put in, “but not people.” Grandda had given his small, stubborn wife a frowning look.

“What does live there, then?” persisted Yaret.

“Plenty of animals,” said Grandda, and this time Gramma kept her mouth shut.

The Loft, it seemed, belonged to nobody. Like the Darkburn forest that enclosed the river, not only was it uninhabited, but nobody laid claim to it. Possibly it was not worth the trouble of laying claim to. Its pastures were too poor, and its winter storms too bitter. The hunched posture of its scattered trees betrayed the force of those bone-freezing winds.

At this time of year, however, as summer slipped into autumn – and now that the rain had stopped – the Loft was not unwelcoming. Everything looked tranquilly uncomplicated in the cool, clear air. Sometimes, in traversing it, Yaret had had the vague sense of another, unseen presence, but that could just have been a result of her grandmother’s obscure comment.

Certainly the Loft held no feeling of malevolence.

Walking back to the camp, she ate a slice of last night’s porridge and checked the rider.

Asleep; although he woke ten minutes later.

“Hallo,” said Yaret. But he was only half there. When she explained to him, again, that he had fallen off his horse, he seemed to barely take it in. He just shook his head a little as if troubled by a fly.

Yaret made him drink more water. She noted that his eyes were moving oddly; the right pupil looked larger than the other.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Ah.” It came out as a sigh. Maybe telling her his name was too much trouble. Maybe he could not remember it. That was worrying.

“What’s your name?” she repeated.

No answer. He wanted to sleep. That, too, worried her; but there was nothing she could do about it. Perhaps sleep would be the best thing for him.

So Yaret changed the dressing on his head, causing no more than a vague murmur in that unknown language. The swelling was still large and angry but at least there was no fresh blood.

Once he was sleeping soundly, she left him again. Fetching Nuolo, the smaller and more amenable of the donkeys, she led her over to the Darkburn forest.

Half way there she turned to gaze back at the outcrop where the rider lay. Nothing gave away his presence. Dolm was standing guard beside the cleft, but to a stranger’s eyes he could easily be a lone wild donkey. The raincover was hidden and her packs were tucked well out of sight.

The rider’s packs, however, might still be attached to the runaway horse; and the horse might still be in the area. Yaret intended to search for it. She would not go far into the forest.

But round its edge she could look for the missing horse and also gather enough firewood to keep her going for a while.

As she walked she glanced frequently at Nuolo ambling unhurriedly beside her, checking her for signs of distress. But the donkey showed none until they reached the point where the Darkburn stream plunged into the trees – the point at which the horse had fled the forest and the burning creature had crawled after it. And then Nuolo was only a little twitchy. There was no trace of the creature’s dreadful stink; nor of the intense onslaught of hatred that had almost overcome her. Wherever the thing was, it was not here. So Yaret crossed the stream.

No further tracks had added themselves to yesterday’s. The hoofprints and the trail of scorched grass looked the same. The landscape showed no other sign of anything unusual.

Two goats sneered at her from a distance; a rabbit bounced out of a nearby clump of grass and scampered nonchalantly off.

Yaret began to follow the double trail of hooves and scorched grass west, away from the trees. She would go no further than she was comfortable with. And for a while she was comfortable enough. The trail ran alongside the stream for half a mile or so, before the hoofprints veered away and the blackened trail followed them.

They led to the escarpment – the long, low cliff that formed a natural wall to the western end of the Loft. Several rills tumbled down from it in miniature clouds of spray, to merge into the Darkburn. A few newly dislodged rocks showed where the horse had scrambled its way up towards the plateau at the top.

Had its pursuer followed? Yaret studied the cliff wall. No burn marks there. But further away she spotted a black scrape across the ground. The thing had crawled along the base of the escarpment, perhaps hoping to find an easier path up. Climbing was difficult for it, then.

“Come on, Nuolo.” Yaret began to scramble up the cliff where the rocks made a natural staircase. Behind her, she heard Nuolo’s following clatter and snort. When she reached the top of the escarpment the donkey was a few yards behind her, clambering onto the flat stone shelf with a reproachful look.

But Yaret, feeling exposed, lay down to gaze out at the landscape. She had been up here only twice in her life before today – both times alone; for her grandfather had never shown any interest in wasting his time to climb up here. On each of those occasions a haze had obscured the scene below.

This time it looked quite different. A strong breeze blew, and had cleared away the mist so that the landscape was laid out like a giant map for her perusal. A buzzard wheeled through the air on a level with her eyes: and behind it, dark and forbidding, lay the great mass of forest that concealed the Darkburn river.

The forest was much bigger than she had ever realised. It had the shape of a many-fingered hand, growing to a broad forearm as it wound away to the horizon in the east. Over the impenetrable mass of trees four birds circled, too big for buzzards. Perhaps they were sea-birds. Impossible to say, for she had never seen the sea: it was a thing of legend two hundred miles away to the south.

Also to the south, but much closer, she could see a wide stream meandering over open ground before it dived into the nearest finger of forest. Another Darkburn. She didn’t know which of the many streams were merely tributaries, and which the main channel: for here, at

the birthplace of the Darkburn river, all water was Darkburn as soon as it entered the shadow of the trees.

Crossing the ground towards that wandering tributary was a line drawn in charcoal. The crawling thing had abandoned its pursuit, and left the cliffs to cut back towards the river. So maybe it was no more comfortable than she was about being out in the open.

It heralded its coming with the stench of death; it carved a void of fear in passing; it left behind a trail of blackened grass. And now it had headed back to… somewhere else.

Somewhere else was good enough, as long as it wasn’t anywhere near her. Yaret retreated from the edge and surveyed the dry upland behind her for the missing horse. She could not see so much as a hoofprint or a hair.

But there was a brightness on the sloping ground two hundred yards away. Something flashed briefly in the sunlight as she moved. Now she walked warily towards it.

It was a long sword, lying on the nibbled grass. Maybe its scabbard was still tied to the horse; for that was the only place such a sword could have come from, up here amidst the goats and buzzards.

She squatted down and looked at it. To the best of her knowledge, nobody back home in Obandiro owned a sword except the mayor and the miller, and those were for ceremonial purposes only. Although the blacksmith had a small collection in his smithy, they never left their hooks high on the wall. Bows and knives were much more usual. Only Kelvhans commonly carried swords, with bright bejewelled pommels.

This one’s hilt was plain. When she picked it up, she saw the blade was badly scratched and notched. She stood up and swung it experimentally: it was too long for her, and heavy, and difficult to wield one-handed. The leather-bound hilt had room for two hands if required.

It was double-edged: a war-sword, then. And when she ran a cautious finger down one edge, it was extremely sharp. Not something you’d want to have dangling unsheathed from your belt…

Which meant she had to carry it outstretched in her hand all the way back down the cliff, while Nuolo followed her. The sword was a dangerous encumbrance and she worried about tripping. What would you want to carry this thing around for? Who would want to carry this thing around, up here in the middle of nowhere?

When she stopped to gather firewood in the stand of hutila trees, she picked up more thick scrolls of leathery bark. Three pieces wrapped around the sword meant she could safely strap it onto Nuolo’s back on top of the firewood. Then, leading the plodding donkey, she made her way thoughtfully to the camp.

Chapter 5

That afternoon the rider woke again, more fully.

“Roth?” he said.

“Is that your horse? You fell off it, do you remember?”

The man half turned his head. “Not horse,” he said. “Rothir.”

“Is that your name? Are you Rothir?”

He closed his eyes, as if in pain. “No.”

“What’s your name?”

No answer. But he wasn’t sleeping now.

“I found your sword,” Yaret told him. Possibly the sword was called Rothir. People sometimes gave them names, she knew. What was a suitable name for a cumbersome, ridiculously dangerous killing-tool? “It was on the ground a mile or two away,” she added.

“But I couldn’t see your horse.”

He opened his eyes and looked up at the raincover, a yard above his head. “Where am I?”

“You’re near the edge of the Darkburn forest. I found you here. I’m Yaret, a travelling pedlar. You’d fallen off the horse and broken your leg and hit your head.”

“Ah.” That seemed to go in. But possibly straight out again, because half an hour later when he woke up a second time they had an almost identical conversation.

This time she persuaded him to drink a little water, and to chew a bit of purpled porridge.

All he really wanted was to sleep. But his sleep was restless and disturbed. She sat down next to him cross-legged to sew, doing her repairs while he dozed and twitched. When he woke up for about the eighth time, with a jolt, he began to speak agitatedly in his own tongue.

“Rothir! Parthenal, emal tero arguril…” He muttered on disjointedly, in a tone of anxious warning.

“There’s nobody else here,” said Yaret after a while. “Only me. And I don’t understand you.”

He fell silent before speaking again, this time in Standard. “Where are the others?”

“I haven’t seen any others. How many others should there be? How far away?”

No answer.

She tied a knot in her thread. “The thing that scared your horse,” she said carefully, “the burnt thing that was chasing you, it seems to have gone away.”

“Where to?”

“Further down the Darkburn river. I saw its trail leading from the bottom of the cliff to the edge of the forest.” She hoped it had gone further than that, right back into the forest’s dark heart, to whatever hole it had crawled out of. Her camp was still, potentially, far too close to it for comfort; but there was nothing to be done about that.

“Darkburn,” the man murmured. Next time she looked up from her mending, his eyes were closed again.

By late afternoon he was another stage further into wakefulness. This time he told her his name.

“I am Eled.”

She was aware that by now he was awake enough to lie, but she nodded.

“Welcome to my camp, Eled, such as it is. I am Yaret, a weaver and pedlar of woven goods.”

“Yaret.” He repeated it carefully.

“How are you feeling?”

“I think… I broke my leg?”

“You did. Does it hurt? I’m sorry, I’ve nothing I can give you for the pain.” She regretted her lack of bitterbark or even star-moss. A foolish omission.

“And I lost my horse?”

“Yes. I’ve looked for it but I can’t find it.”

“Oh!” His dismay was evident. “Then I’ve lost…”

She waited. “I found your sword,” she said after a moment. “I’ve got it here.”

But Eled shook his head restlessly and began muttering again in his own language. It was evidently not the sword that worried him. When Yaret asked if he was still hungry, he turned his head away. He did not want to talk to her.

So she stood up. “I’ll leave the porridge here, beside you. Try and eat some if you can. I’m off to shoot a rabbit, and I’ll have another look for your horse at the same time. The donkeys will stand guard. Dolm! Nuolo!” She called them from the entrance to the cleft.

Dolm was reluctant, Nuolo obedient. As the smaller donkey trotted over, Yaret put her arms around her neck to whisper, “Bray if anything comes close, you understand?”

The words would mean probably nothing to Nuolo; but Yaret’s tone would convey her meaning. The donkey understood how to guard the camp. Nuolo would bray if anything happened that she did not like. And Dolm would bray too: possibly not to be outdone, but also to protect Nuolo. He was not the brightest of donkeys but he was fearless.

Picking up her bow, Yaret left the donkeys standing by the cleft and set out rabbit-hunting.

She crossed the Loft to a higher stony outcrop where the rabbit droppings were the thickest.

Crouching down behind a rock, she waited. It was late enough in the afternoon for them to come hopping out and within a quarter-hour she had bagged two. She said Oveyn for each of them, and then took out her knife and gutted and skinned them on the spot. Crows or a buzzard would clean up the guts as soon as she was out of the way.

Where was the rider’s knife, she wondered? He must have had one; everybody did.

Probably lost along with the horse and all his baggage. There was no sign of a horse up here.

She would have to provide everything for him.

The weight of responsibility seemed to push her down as she walked back to the camp. On her travels she had no responsibilities except to her donkeys, and to the land – to leave it as she found it. In her absence from her grandparents it was easy not to worry about them, and she never wasted time worrying about herself.

But now she had to worry about Eled. What could she do with him? What if he grew worse? Better not to think about it. No point resenting him. Not his fault.

Yet her mind was heavy. At this stage of her journey it ought to have been light. She picked some clumps of cushion grass to stuff under her bedroll and tried not to speculate about how long she might be stuck here.

That evening’s fire was built out in the open so that the raincover would not end up full of smoke. Both rabbits went into the pot. She could keep on cooking them up each evening, with the soaked peas, until the meat ran out. Which would not take long; but there were plenty more rabbits where those had come from.

She carried the dishes into the cleft and propped Eled up against her packs. Spooning a little rabbit stew carefully into his mouth, she wiped away the juice that dribbled down his chin.

“Who are you?” he asked, almost fearful: though maybe less of her than of his own forgetfulness.

She told him, again.

“Where am I?”

She told him that, again. Then she said, “How many others of you are there? How far away might they be?”

He was silent. So Yaret did not press him on the subject.

Instead, once he had eaten, she checked his leg; it was still badly swollen. She wished she had some star-moss to apply to it, and to his head, which felt warmer than it should. She had seen no star-moss anywhere, not even by the boggy streamlet. Down by the Darkburn river, perhaps star-moss might grow…

But no, it was not worth making the attempt unless she was sure that it was there – and that nothing else was. Her skin crawled at the thought of going back into those woods. With an effort she made herself ask the question that had been uppermost in her mind all day.

“Eled. That thing that your horse ran away from. The blackened thing that burns a trail.

What was it?”

Silence. Then he muttered, “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do. What if it comes back?”

A pause. “How far are we from the forest?”

“A good half-mile.”

“Then we might be all right.” That meant they might not be. He closed his eyes, but Yaret persisted.

“Eled. Wake up for a moment. Is that burnt thing the only one?”

A pause. “No.” His eyes stayed closed. “The only one like that.”

It was the answer she had dreaded. Now she needed more. “So there are others, even if they’re different? What are they? That thing – what’s it called?”

Another, longer, pause.

“Darkburn.”

Yaret gazed thoughtfully at Eled’s tired face. It wasn’t a bad face. In other circumstances, without the bruises, she would have called it attractive. She suspected he was younger than he appeared; perhaps in his early twenties, younger than she was. But some dreadful knowledge seemed written on his countenance, even as it relaxed back into sleep.

Darkburn. If the charcoaled thing was named after the river – or the enfolding forest – it suggested that that was where it lived. Eled had implied that it would not stray far from the trees. There was no scorched grass hereabouts; so the creature had not crawled this way. The horse had merely fled here in its panic, and then in a confused frenzy of terror had stumbled back towards the river. Remembering the singed trail that led from the escarpment to the forest, she was somewhat reassured.

An hour or two later, however, once darkness had fallen, that reassurance seemed of little worth. Yaret lay awake listening to Eled’s shallow breathing which sometimes seemed to be trying to form murmured words; but not words that she knew.

Darkburn. It seemed wrong to call such a horror by that name. It made her imagine the whole forest creeping, burning, tainted with decay. She had always thought of this land as essentially benign. After all, she’d crossed it alone for seven years without meeting any trouble. The Loft had seemed a place apart, with that air of remote suspense which high empty lands often seemed to hold.

As for the forest – it was a much greater forest, she knew now, than she had ever realised.

Her grandfather’s rudimentary maps did not go far enough. Grandda had never mentioned such a vast mysterious expanse of trees.

But then Grandda had never talked much about the Darkburn, just as he’d never chosen to linger close to it. She’d always assumed that he was merely anxious to get home on this last leg of the journey. Now she wondered if he’d been anxious about something else.

The injured rider’s breathing grew steadier in the darkness. Still she could not sleep. In the distance, two or three miles away, a wolf howled. After a moment another joined it; they were hunting. Fully alert now, Yaret strained to listen, trying to judge how far away they were. Then she got up and walked out of the cleft, bow and arrow in her hand.

The moon was hidden: wishing to rest, the huntress of the sky had pulled a cloak of cloud across her home. The broad shining road laid by the stars along the great plain of the heavens gave Yaret some comfort, but too little light.

More howls came from the south-west; however, the wolves seemed to be no closer. After a while the howling stopped and she persuaded herself to go back to her bed.

There she lay awake, and annoyed at being awake. She felt too jumpy to let herself fall into the welcoming chasm where sleep waited. Hovering on its starlit edge, she caught glimpses of snatched dreams from across that hazy border without managing to tip herself over into its oblivion.

So much out there that she did not understand. She was not used to this anxiety. Only in the last year or two had concerns about her ageing grandparents nagged at her. The freedom from care – she realised now that it was gone – had been the journey’s chief delight.

This new concern was heavy, and unwelcome. She felt trapped between the rider and the wolves. And what else?

The donkeys, she thought. The donkeys will let me know. The donkeys stayed quiet. So at last Yaret allowed herself to lapse into a fitful, fretful doze.

Chapter 6

The next day was a strange one. Yaret, short of sleep, felt fuzzy and slow-moving: once she had hauled herself from her bedroll, she couldn’t seem to do anything right. She managed to kick over the waterskin, dropped her slice of porridge on the ground, forgot where she had stowed her second shirt, and was ridiculously surprised when the injured rider spoke to her.

He needed a pee. And this time, the other thing as well. He thought she was a man, of course, and in any case it was no problem for her. When Grandda broke his hip she and Gramma had had to do the same. So she tried to roll Eled over gently to deal with it and clean him up, although it was difficult with the splinted leg. He groaned. She realised that he was in severe pain, but that so far he had hidden it. Or maybe he hadn’t felt it fully until now.

“Try and keep that leg still,” she told him once he was again lying on his back, his face damp with sweat. “It doesn’t look too bad this morning.”

This was a lie. In truth the leg was slightly more swollen than on the previous day. She laid a cold wet cloth across it, since there was little else that she could do. The skin felt hot and tight, but not as hot as Eled’s forehead. She put a slice of porridge in his hand, from where it fell in soggy crumbs on to his shirt.

He needed something that was easier to eat. But when she offered him cold rabbit stew, not much of it went in. So she persuaded him to drink more water, and then asked,

“Eled, where else do you hurt? Apart from the leg and your head?”

He touched his chest.

“Yes, your ribs,” she said. “Anywhere else?”

He tried to smile. “Just everywhere.” He was embarrassed, and sad, and his youth was suddenly evident. She tried to think of something that would cheer him up.

“Do you remember I told you that I found your sword? It was on the ground a mile or two away.”

He looked at her questioningly, so she fetched the sword to show him, holding it carefully in its sheath of bark. Eled put out a tender hand towards it.

“Rothir,” said Yaret experimentally.

He stopped and looked up at her. “Rothir? Where?”

Not the sword, then. “Earlier on, you kept saying Rothir. Is that a person?”

Eled did not answer. He touched the hilt caressingly and pulled his hand away with a sigh.

What did men find to love so much in swords?

“How far away are your friends?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Far.”

“How many?”

“Some.”

Perhaps he did not trust her enough to say more. How long might it take to win his trust?

She had a sharp image of day following day, every day the same, with the fallen rider still lying in this spot, herself still tending him. How many days?

There was no point in thinking about it. In any case she was too tired to think about anything properly. So she left him dozing and went down to the boggy streamlet to wash her clothes and the soiled woollen squares, carefully squeezing the soapy water into the ground so as not to contaminate the stream. Animals had to drink from it. And if other, not so friendly, things were lurking downstream, she did not want to send them any clues.

Then, since the air was mild, she stripped off and bathed. She saw herself from a distance, as if she were a hawk looking down on a small figure splashing in a puddle in the midst of a vast empty plain. A distant hare sat up on a rock to watch her. Further away, she glimpsed a fangol sneaking through the wispy grass before sitting up to watch the hare.

The water was too cold to make her want to linger. However, it woke her up a little. Once dressed again, she returned to the camp and draped the washing across bramble stems to dry.

Eled was asleep. She put a full waterskin beside him, and then checked the donkeys. They were grazing happily enough. To wake herself up a little more, she decided on a reconnoitre of the area, continuing her search for Eled’s horse.

Since she had already been south and west to the escarpment, she set out on foot to the north and east. There was no chance of getting lost, even though the further she walked, the less she recognised the landmarks; for the Darkburn forest was a constant presence, marching alongside her half a mile away.

After three miles or so she stopped. The distant Coban hills had turned their shoulders to her and changed their shape, but otherwise the landscape was much as before; a rise and fall of close-grazed knolls and scattered trees all leaning south.

Sitting down against a lichen-covered rock that was warmed by the sun, she scanned the scene around her long and carefully, looking for any movement that might mean another rider, or perhaps a tired stray horse.

Something stirred in a distant thicket and she held her breath until she saw it was an antelope. Once she’d spotted that one, she realised others were grazing, heads all pointing north, well-camouflaged amongst the tumbled rocks.

Venison, she thought. She should have brought a donkey and her bow. Could have carried one back. Too late now. She’d been too tired to plan.

Closing her eyes against the sun, she leaned her head back on the warm rock, awarding herself a two minute nap. After that she would go back to the camp.

Yaret did not know if the two minutes turned to five, or ten: probably no more, but as her head nodded and jerked towards her chest she woke up with a start.

She scrambled to her feet. What was that? She stared and spun round: stared again. Now she could see nothing unusual. The distant antelopes still grazed. Nearer to her was an ordinary bunch of pitted rocks and roots and broken tree-stumps.

But surely something else had been there just a second ago: a small, solid… person?

Creature? Object?

Lin.

But lins didn’t exist. Except that they did. Only they didn’t.

They existed enough for some people to speak to them and bow to where they thought they were and treat them kindly. They existed in children’s tales and drinkers’ songs and old folks’ lore. In other words, they didn’t exist. So what had she just seen?

A thing of the imagination, like the lin. It was several years since she’d last seen one, although as a child she’d seen – or thought she had seen – lins aplenty. Children generally did, and were humoured by the adults who knew better. Or believed that they knew better.

But the traditions persisted. So now Yaret bowed to where she thought she’d seen this lin, and recited the Lins’ Grace, the words of courtesy that Gramma had taught her to say on the Dondel Bridge back home. Then, in case the lin in this country didn’t understand Bandiran, she repeated the rhyme in Standard:

“Woodwone, woodwone, hob or lin,

Grace to thee and all thy kin.”

Nothing moved except the breeze in the grass. But it was strange.

A lin, she reflected as she set off walking back to camp, would not appear to her. It would stay hidden. As soon as humans looked at lins or hobs or woodwones – which were all related and possibly all the same thing – they changed to stumps of trees or plants or even animals.

Badgers were a favourite, apparently. Some might be able to change to stone although her grandmother had disputed that. Coming from Ioben, Gramma took lins quite seriously.

Yaret looked backwards at the clump of rocks. Nothing. Naturally.

And what would a lin be doing here in any case, out in the open, far from woods or water?

The woodwones were the ones who lived in forests. They were tall and branchy, supposedly.

Lins were smaller, more compact; they preferred water and hung around bridges. The hobs hung around houses. Why, nobody could explain.

When she got back to the camp Eled was awake again, his eyes wide and darting. He looked anxious and yet not relieved to see her. His forehead felt feverish to her touch.

“Where are they?” he said, “Where did they go?” and then began to mutter in his own language, almost frantically. He was, thought Yaret in some alarm, bordering on delirious.

She applied fresh cold cloths to his leg and to his head, which seemed to calm him after a while.

“You went away,” he said, as fretful as a child.

“But I came back,” said Yaret. “I just went to explore the land around here.”

“Did you see them?”

“I saw nobody. But no danger either. I saw a lin.” And to take his mind off his distress and pain, she told him about the lin, and about lins and woodwones in general. It seemed to interest him and to be a concept not altogether strange. Maybe his people had their own versions of lins.

At least her chatter woke him up in a better way than worry. So she sang him the children’s song about the lin under the Dondel Bridge, in a clumsy Standard translation. He listened carefully.

“But they’re not the real words, are they?” he said.

Yaret was impressed that he could tell. “No, you’re right. These are the real words.” She sang it again, in the original Bandiran, with the gestures and the little dance.

That amused Eled. He smiled, his face relaxing. She liked to see him smile, so she danced the Rannikan for him: the children’s dance – it got harder the bigger you grew – with all the tapping of hands to hips and heels, kicking and jigging faster and faster until she was breathless and he was laughing. There was just enough room to do it in the rocky space. She stopped to pant; and saw the lin again, above her.

But of course it wasn’t. It was just a clump of thistles growing from a fissure in the rock.

She was dead tired, imagining things that weren’t there.

As she thought this, the donkeys brayed in unison, as harsh and loud as tuneless horns.

Yaret grabbed the sword – no, that was stupid of her, useless – dropped it, and snatched up the bow instead, throwing the quiver across her shoulder, already stringing the first arrow as she moved. She had it drawn up to her cheek before she emerged from the cleft between the rocks.

And saw the horse walking towards her. It looked at her and stopped in mid-step, hoof raised, ready to run. It bore a saddle, one ragged saddle-bag, and no rider.

Chapter 7

Yaret sat on the ground with her arms around her legs. She had been sitting there, motionless, for a good half hour, and finally the horse was warily approaching.

It was a large brown mare; undoubtedly the same one she had seen three days ago. A fine-looking animal despite its nervousness. Nuolo wandered over to it and gave it a friendly nuzzle. The horse was twitchy and inclined to kick, so Nuolo withdrew. Dolm, after one long, speculative stare, ignored the horse entirely.

An empty sword-sheath dangled from the saddle, knocking against the horse’s legs. That must be irritating; and the saddle too must chafe, thought Yaret, after three days strapped to its back. After a few more minutes she stood up. The horse twitched and stamped. She took half a dozen steps towards it and sat down again before it could work its way into a panic.

Eventually it bent its head to graze, watching her at the same time.

She moved a little closer twice more in the same manner, until the horse set off cantering away and it became clear that she could do more harm than good in trying to catch it. So she went back to the camp, rebuilt the fire and set the pot on it for supper.

“Your horse is here,” she told Eled. “It still has one saddle-bag.” The words didn’t seem to register with him, which was concerning. His awareness had dipped dramatically since she had danced the Rannikan an hour ago.

Yaret decided that he needed food. He wasn’t eating enough. So she concentrated on getting some mashed-up peas and shreds of rabbit inside him, spoon-feeding him with words of encouragement as if he were an infant.

Then she threw a handful of oats into the remaining stew in the pot to bulk it out.

Tomorrow she’d have to find something to supplement this diet, hunt out some roots and vegetables. She should have done that today but the tired woolliness of her brain hadn’t latched on to the necessity. The dried peas would only last a few more days.

She herself ate less than she would have liked, and then looked through her bags to tot up what food still remained. There was a flat pack of some dried meat from Havvich, but you might as well eat leather. She only kept it as emergency rations, because it reputedly never went bad, and might also do to sole her boots with. There were the rest of the peas, and two large bundles of oats, which she had to share with the donkeys. Dried beans and apples made much smaller bundles.

Then there was one packet that she had forgotten: brown biscuit, another emergency ration. Eled could probably cope with it if it were soaked. Last were two little pottery jars, the smaller of salt, the bigger one of honey – a gift from a customer which she was taking home for her grandmother. That was all.

If she could get the saddle-pack off Eled’s horse, it would probably contain some food. So she had one more fruitless attempt at edging closer to the horse before dusk fell. Still it would not allow her to come near.

Maybe a night with the donkeys would calm it down; though not if those wolves started howling again… Yaret sincerely hoped they wouldn’t. She badly needed sleep.

Resisting the temptation to immediately find her bedroll, she set some biscuit to soak with a spoonful of honey in the water. Gramma wouldn’t mind. How long before she would see her grandmother again? It could be weeks at this rate. The thought sneaked into her head that things would be much easier if the rider simply died.

“Oh no no no, not while I’m looking after him,” she said aloud, and crawled over to check again on Eled. Still alive, for now, thank goodness. She did not want him to die.

The donkeys wandered over for their evening handful of oats. Yaret fed them quickly; for once she’d thought about sleeping she felt ready to keel over.

“Guard the camp,” she mumbled to Dolm. It occurred to her that if anything came near the camp, now the horse would warn her too – by galloping away if nothing else. Comforted by that drowsy thought, she fell down on her bedroll, pulled the blanket over her and was instantly asleep.

When she woke it was, astonishingly, full daylight. She sat up and scratched. Eled was snoring faintly. Yaret crawled to the entrance of the cleft and saw the horse was still there with the donkeys, grazing.

She spent some time trying to lure it closer with a handful of oats before she gave up in exasperation. What was the point of the horse returning here if it wouldn’t let itself be caught? Stick to a useful task, she thought: hunt for some roots to dig.

The likeliest spot to find edible roots was the richer pasture closer to the Darkburn. She took Dolm with her, more for the sturdy comfort of his company than anything else.

As the donkey plodded with a deliberate lack of hurry beside her Yaret wondered what she would do with the horse if she did succeed in catching it. It wasn’t as if she could even ride a horse with ease. They hadn’t owned a horse for years – not since old Mallie, who had pulled a cart around at the pace of a snail and had gone no faster with Yaret perched upon her back.

Yaret had ridden Dolm on occasion, although he didn’t care for it and wouldn’t go far. But even a recalcitrant donkey was nothing like a high-strung, kicking, galloping horse.

All the same… Maybe she could somehow get the rider up on to the horse and move him.

Where to, though? Twelve miles back to Deloran – no, not Deloran, somewhere still inhabited. With a broken leg. And the next town to the north was almost twenty miles away.

“Well,” she said. “One thing at a time.”

And then she gave a cry of startled relief, because something was working in her favour here, at least. In a damp depression in the ground were growing not only wild carrots and nips but thick bushy spikes of spearweed, which was generally regarded as food for pigs but was perfectly nutritious for hungry humans too.

She spent some time digging out roots and harvesting the grainy spearweed; though when she looked around for star-moss, she found none. Then she ventured to the nearest finger of the forest, where she gathered more wood and kindling for the fire. Dolm was useful in carrying all this back.

A productive morning’s work. Yaret spent the afternoon making overtures to the horse now that she had carrots to entice it with. Although it ventured a little closer, it would not allow her to walk towards it without cantering away.

When she went into the cleft to ask Eled for advice on approaching the horse, he could give her none. He was dismayingly sleepy and barely coherent, and felt almost as hot as he had two days ago. He was going backwards.

Yaret fed him more soggy biscuit laced with honey and sang him a couple of songs, since they had amused him earlier. The shadow of a smile crossed his drawn face. She cleaned him up and washed him down again, trying to make him comfortable. But she knew that he could not be comfortable.

Eled slept. Yaret washed out the cleaning cloths and tidied away her dried linen. Carefully avoiding the horse, she walked back down to the streamlet to rinse the roots and cut more watercress.

One day at a time. And another one was nearly gone…

How many more would pass before she could move on, move Eled, do anything at all? A parade of endless days seemed to march ahead of her, with nothing changing but the wind: everything held in suspension while she waited for the rider’s leg to mend. It could take weeks.

And the head wound – Eled’s drowsiness and confusion. She felt the sad weight of care increase; there was no escaping it. She had taken on this burden, and she could not lay it

down and walk away. She could only do what she was doing. Rinsing roots and picking watercress.

Dolm brayed, and Yaret stood up with a start of shock. She swung around, a bunch of watercress in one hand and her knife in the other.

There was a man standing behind her, three or four yards away. How had he got so close without her hearing him? Was he a brigand, a highwayman?

This was no highway. She stood quite still, taking in the travel-stained cloak of grey-green wool, the long sword sheathed but clearly – intentionally – visible, the broad body and shaggy head and cold dark eyes. All this in an instant. The man was not threatening her; not yet, at any rate. But Yaret thought that she had seldom seen anyone look so thoroughly fed up.

He spoke in a deep, impatient growl. And in his voice the threat was there, if kept in check.

“Where did you find the horse?”

Chapter 8

“Where did you find the horse?”

He could not keep the threat out of his words. He was too tired and too desperately anxious after three days of continuous riding, searching. The young man standing by the brook was slightly built: despite the knife he held, he’d be easy enough to overpower if he didn’t answer soon.

He made himself wait.

The young man gave him a long, curiously assessing look. He seemed to be in no hurry to reply. When he did speak, it was almost casually. His low, quiet voice was liltingly accented, sounding a little like the villagers around Melmet.

“I didn’t find the horse,” he said. “The horse found me – or rather, it found my donkeys.”

He nodded to where the three animals were grazing together on the far side of the boggy stream. “It turned up here last night. But it won’t let me get close to it: that’s the reason it’s still saddled.” He paused. “Why? Is it yours?”

“It belongs to my friend and kinsman.” And now he knew he could not keep the weariness and disappointment from his voice.

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Eled.” It didn’t matter now.

The young man stood still, considering him for a few more seconds. His loose-fitting clothes looked as if they had been made for someone else. His rusty hair as well as his accent marked him as a northerner; that colouring could be seen around Ioben. The man shrugged, stuck his knife in his belt, stooped to pick up a bunch of carrots, and as he straightened up said,

“Your friend is over here.”

“What?”

The young man was already walking away as he continued to speak over his shoulder.

“I found him after he’d been thrown from his horse. He’s quite badly hurt. His right thigh’s broken, probably some ribs as well, and he hit his head on the rocks as he went down.

He’s got concussion; it seems serious. He’s still not woken up properly. Not for long.”

Wary and astonished, he followed. The northerner walked up to a rocky outcrop and then straight into it, entering through a split between the high stone walls which had been concealed by thorny bushes.

Inside there was a tidy camp – a compact space with a thin oil-cloth for a roof. Lying stretched out on his back, part covered by a cloak, was the comrade for whom he had been hunting for so long.

“Eled!” As he knelt down beside Eled a surge of relief mingled with concern washed through him. He was aware that the young man standing over them had closed his hand on his knife hilt.

Eled opened his eyes and gave him a sleepy smile. “Hello, Rothir.”

The hand relaxed and left the knife.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” said Eled. “A bit hot.” His words were slightly slurred. When Rothir placed a hand across his forehead it felt decidedly hot to his touch. But Eled’s pulse was steady, if a little fast. Beneath a dressing of striped woollen cloth, the wound on his head looked ugly, with its clotted scabs, but at least was clean.

Rothir drew away the cloak and dressing covering Eled’s legs to reveal the broken thigh.

Equally ugly. He felt a deep responsibility for this youngest member of his troop; and such a

brave, eager member Eled was. His heart ached for him now, his anxiety rearranging itself into a different shape.

After inspecting the thigh gently he looked up at the northerner with creased brows.

“Hutila bark?”

“It was the best thing I could think of to splint it,” said the young man with a faint note of defensiveness. “His leg was quite badly swollen. It was twisted when I found him so I straightened it out as best I could. Luckily he was unconscious at the time. The swelling seems to have gone down a little today.”

“When did you find him?”

The young man tapped fingers against his leg, counting. “Three nights,” he said. “This is the fourth day.” Rothir was astounded, again. “I found him fallen just outside this cavern.

He’d been thrown against those rocks beside the entrance. I’d already seen the horse an hour or so earlier, running witless and riderless down by the Darkburn. It disappeared and I didn’t see it again until last night. But it had an empty saddle so I knew I had to look for a rider. So I looked. And I found Eled.”

Rothir frowned again. Three nights? The young man seemed unbothered. Time could not mean much to him.

He bent to ask his comrade a question in his own tongue. “Eled, do you remember what happened?”

“The stonemen,” whispered Eled breathlessly, also in Vonnish. “Ambush. I escaped. But they sent a darkburn after me. A big one.” He spoke in painful, urgent jerks, with a short pause every few words. “Arguril? Did he get away?”

“He’s safe, don’t worry. He met up with us and gave the alarm. Do your ribs hurt?”

Eled nodded. The northerner quietly picked up a pan from his side – a piss pan, evidently

– and carried it away, as if to give them privacy. He did not re-enter the rock cleft while Rothir was there.

Kneeling beside his stricken friend, Rothir listened carefully to his disjointed account.

There was not much more to learn from Eled that he had not already heard from Arguril.

On the way home from their mission, when the six Riders had split into their accustomed pairs, Eled and Arguril had been allocated the eighth branch of the Darkburn river to explore.

A dozen miles down that branch they were ambushed by a large company of stonemen. Eled had fled west, upriver, losing Arguril in his flight. He had spent the best part of a day trying to elude the stonemen through the knotted labyrinth of the Darkburn forest.

“I thought I was safe,” he whispered hoarsely. “Thought I’d got away. Then… then the darkburn came. Big. Bigger than any we’ve seen before. Much bigger. Longer. Felt stronger.

Worse.”

“Worse?” That was bad news. It was hard to imagine anything worse than the darkburns Rothir had already met.

“Much stronger. I couldn’t control Poda. She ran all over the place. Eventually she got up the bank. Out of the forest. I don’t remember after that.”

“How big was the darkburn?”

“Long. Low.…” Eled’s eyes half-closed. “Strong.”

“Don’t worry about it now, Eled. It’s gone, and you’re safe,” said Rothir, although he was deeply worried himself, not just by his friend’s condition but also by his words. This was something new.

But he did not ask any more questions for the moment. He took a pack of star-moss from his inner pocket, and dampening it from the waterskin which lay by Eled’s side, he applied it to the head-wound and the swollen, blue-bruised thigh. A pity the northerner hadn’t thought to do that.

Then he stayed by Eled’s side a little longer, talking to him calmly, reassuring him that the other four Riders of the troop were all unhurt – or at least they had been a few days ago, when Rothir had last seen them. Although he felt a deep and even brotherly concern for Eled, he took care to keep his tone light. As Eled’s eyelids closed again, he covered him gently with the cloak and left him.

Some distance from the cleft, well out of earshot, he saw the young man – or youth, rather, perhaps little more than a teenager after all: for despite his leisurely self-assurance he was slim and beardless. He was slicing carrots into a cooking pot. A small fireplace had been built, and the wood within was smouldering.

“No room in that little space for all three of us,” said the young man as Rothir approached.

“So I’ll cook and sleep out here tonight. You’d better stay near Eled.”

“I have to thank you for your service to him over the last few days. I imagine he would otherwise be dead by now; or at least, beyond recovery.”

He got another long, assessing look. It was slightly disconcerting from one presumably so young. Rothir realised that despite his casual demeanour the youth’s eyes were alert and searching.

“I take your thanks,” the northerner said formally, and then added in a rueful tone, “I wish I could have done more for him. I know the bark splint isn’t ideal. But I had nothing better, and no star-moss.”

“I have applied star-moss. I should introduce myself. My name is Rothir.”

“Yes. Eled said it once or twice when he was rambling. He wouldn’t say any names when he was lucid.” He stood up, wiping his hands on his breeches. Not a big youth, but straight-limbed enough. He had broken his nose at some point. “I am Yaretkoro Thuleikand of Obandiro in the north,” he announced, and watched for Rothir’s reaction.

Rothir did not know what reaction was appropriate. Although he thought he might have heard of Obandiro, he did not remember where it was. He was certain that it was not somewhere he had ever visited on his travels. Nor did he recognise the patronymic form of Thuleikand. Did it indicate high birth?

“Yaret for short. I’m a pedlar of woollen cloth,” the youth added, immediately dispelling that possibility. “I pass through here every summer and then head home. Beyond the Coban hills.” He indicated the direction with a vague sweep of his arm. Beyond the Coban hills, Rothir knew, lay quiet, sparsely populated lands, prone to cruel winters but otherwise free of trouble. No reason for him ever to have been there.

“When you saw the horse that first day,” he asked Yaret, “did you see anything else?”

Yaret looked at him soberly. “I saw… something difficult to describe.”

“Please try anyway.”

So the tale was told, a little stumblingly. Rothir could tell that it was difficult to remember as well as to describe. It did not surprise him. A first encounter with a darkburn was always a dreadful thing to recall – if you survived. And this one sounded even more formidable than the others he had met.

“What I cannot explain,” said Yaret at the end of the tale, “is the feeling that the creeping thing put into me. The great fear – the despair. And anger; even grief. I can ascribe it only to the deathly smell.”

“Grief?”

“I would say even that.” Yaret spoke softly and with care, as though Standard was not his tongue of choice.

“I have experienced those feelings,” Rothir said. “Not the grief, but the horror and despair.

They are generated by the creatures.”

“Eled said that it was called a darkburn, like the river. So it is not unique, then? There is more than one darkburn?”

Rothir nodded. “You described this one as being long and low,” he said. “How long?”

“As long as a horse. Longer. A horse and a half. Low to the ground, on four short crawling legs. It seemed to have very little head. Even less tail. And it was burning.”

“Burning? Not burnt? You said it was charred black.”

“With fire inside,” said Yaret. “I saw in its midst for a second a glow, like embers. After that I did not look.”

Rothir thought about this. “Can you show me exactly where you came across this thing?”

“Now?”

“Yes, while Eled is sleeping, if it’s not too far.”

“It’s little more than a mile. Dolm! Nuolo!” The youth called to the donkeys before turning back to Rothir. “What is the horse’s name?”

“Poda.”

Yaret nodded. Once the donkeys had ambled over he addressed them. The language he used was unfamiliar; not Kelvhan, at least. It might be Ioben, a remote tongue of which Rothir knew little.

He heard the words Poda, Rothir and Eled, as if Yaret were informing the donkeys of events, and he was faintly amused.

“They will look after things while we are gone,” said Yaret confidently.

“How well do they understand you?”

“Who knows? They get the gist.” Yaret set off striding towards the forest and the river.

“You have your own horse? Or did you walk here?”

“I certainly did not walk. My horse is resting over there.” Rothir pointed east, to where a gorse thicket four hundred yards away was concealing his horse Narba. As soon as he had spotted the young man by the stream near Poda, he had dismounted and approached silently on foot, aiming to take him by surprise.

Now he scanned the rest of the landscape carefully, checking for movement: for anything that ought not to be there. All appeared to be calm and undisturbed. Such an empty, lonely land this was; it seemed always to be listening – not necessarily to him, but to something that he could not hear. Apart from the throaty complaints of scattered goats, there was no sound, not even of the wind.

By the time they reached the forest edge he had observed nothing untoward. There was no stink of darkburn; just the clean, deep scents of earth and water and damp leaves, the presages of autumn. Yaret followed the course of the stream as it plunged underneath the trees.

“Here I saw the horse. There I went in, by the way that the horse had come out.” They entered the full gloom of the forest and walked a short distance until Yaret stopped. “Here I stood. And there, moving by the water, I saw the thing you call a darkburn.”

Rothir went to inspect the ground beside the busy stream. The weeds were crushed and blackened, but no matter how minutely he looked he could discern no clear prints.

But then in general darkburns did not leave anything that could be called footprints, only occasional marks on the burnt ground. Here he noted some indented lines like claw-marks, but judging by the flattened plants it seemed this darkburn had chiefly slithered on its stomach. Nothing like the previous ones.

“Did you see it again after it crawled away?” he asked.

“No. When I came back about three hours later, I saw its trail crossing the loft. The trail went along the bottom of the escarpment – the cliff at the loft’s western end – and then headed back towards the trees.”

“The loft?”

“That is what we call this land above the forest,” explained Yaret. “The Darkburn Loft. It means a high habitation.”

Rothir looked at him. “Habitation? For whom?”

“A good question,” said Yaret. “I have always thought it was merely for itself. Now I don’t know.”

“Can you show me where you saw this trail?”

For answer Yaret turned and led the way back out of the shadow of the trees.

“To the left of those boulders.” He pointed and Rothir studied the escarpment. He ought to go up there to look around… but not today. He wanted to get back to Eled. Then tonight he simply needed to extract all the information he could from the pedlar before the youth moved on.

On the walk back to the camp it occurred to him that Yaret had asked no question of him apart from whether he had a horse. Maybe the pedlar was a little simple, although on further reflection Rothir was inclined to think that that was far from being the case. So maybe Yaret’s idea of etiquette meant minding his own business. That would suit Rothir, who had no intention of telling his business to any stranger.

They were half way back before Yaret spoke again.

“It is a relief to have you here, I must admit. Eled will need a long recovery, I think. How to move him was a problem.”

“Move him where?”

“Well, that is another problem. The next village I know of is eighteen miles north, in the Coban hills. There is nothing before that but ruins.”

“The southern edge of the Iarad,” said Rothir.

“Is that what you call the deserted land? But even in Coba they would not offer any medical care beyond the most basic – if they would take him in at all. There is no guarantee of that. And it’s a long way to travel for a man with a broken leg.”

“I know of somewhere closer,” said Rothir. “A dozen miles west of here there is a farmstead called Deloran, where–”

“There isn’t,” said Yaret. “Not any more. I came past it. It’s burnt out.”

“It’s what?”

“Sorry. It’s gone. Burnt and empty. It was still warm, five days ago. But I think the people got away.”

Rothir kept walking and said nothing. He was deeply shocked, although a grim interior voice muttered, Why are you so surprised? The stonemen have encroached everywhere this year.

“You saw nobody there?” he asked after a few moments.

“No people, and no bodies either.”

Bruilde will have managed, he thought. But it changed his plans. He could not take Eled there now. And without Bruilde’s help, he would never get the sick man all the way to Thield. He would have to go in the opposite direction.

“In that case, I need to get him to a rendezvous with my companions to the east,” he said.

“When?”

“In seven days’ time.”

“How far away?”

“At least two days hard riding.” That time would be twice as long with Eled, he was well aware – assuming that his friend could even be somehow got onto a horse. But if he missed the rendezvous, how long would the others wait?

He expected the questions to come then, but Yaret merely commented, “Very well. That will not be easy. We’ll eat first, and then think about it. Dinner is rabbit and roots: is that all right with you?”

“Any food is all right with me,” he said.

“Before we eat,” said Yaret as they approached the camp, “I would suggest you go and fetch your horse. Its presence may calm Poda down sufficiently for you to catch her and

relieve her of the saddle and the bag. She had two saddle-bags when she first ran out of the forest, so she must have shed the other one somewhere. We can look for it tomorrow.”

“We? You are not concerned in this.”

“If you want to move Eled I think you will need help.”

“Although I want to move him, in truth I don’t see how it can be done,” said Rothir wearily. He felt the extreme fatigue of the last few days fall on him like a heavy cloak.

Nevertheless he did not sit down yet. He could see the sense of Yaret’s suggestion, and the sun was already sinking rapidly; so he went to find his grey horse Narba, still waiting patiently amidst the gorse-bushes. When he led Narba to the camp, Poda whinnied in recognition and trotted over to meet him. Although she would not allow herself to be caught and handled, Rothir trusted that she would now settle down more readily.

He walked over to the fire, where Yaret handed him a bowl half-filled with some unappetising brown mush.

“This is for Eled. You may be able to persuade him to eat more than I can do.”

He sampled it tentatively: soaked biscuit sweetened with a little honey. It tasted better than it looked. Stooping to enter the narrow space where Eled lay, he woke his friend with quiet words. Then, murmuring encouragement, he spooned as much biscuit into Eled’s mouth as he could before Eled waved his hand to indicate enough, smiling faintly as his eyes closed yet again.

Rothir checked his dressings before sitting back to study him. Under the star-moss the inflammation of the thigh seemed to have abated even in the last two hours. But it was a bad break, and Eled’s lethargy would make moving him doubly difficult.

If only Deloran were not burnt… He tried to shake off his fears about the people there.

There was nothing he could do to help them: so concentrate on what was possible. But the apprehension clung.

Once Eled dozed, Rothir stepped out of the rocky cleft to join Yaret by the fire. He was handed another bowl, this time of hot stew with a tangle of watercress wilting on top. The rabbit and roots were good; a mysterious ingredient which looked suspiciously like spearweed proved to be slightly gritty but palatable.

As he emptied the bowl Rothir felt belatedly aware of his hunger. It was days since he’d bothered to pay attention to whatever food he ate; he had shovelled in just enough fuel to keep going, as fast as he could. Had taken as little rest as possible. Now he let himself slow down and taste the stew. A feast, of sorts.

“Would you like some more, Rothir?” Yaret spoke his name with a rustic, burring intonation. It made him sound like a stranger to himself; and indeed he did not feel fully himself, but a little light-headed, as if the rabbit and roots had made him drunk.

He shook his head, for he knew there could not be much food to spare, and he had few enough provisions left in his own saddlebags. But Yaret handed the pot over to him anyway, and then sat back propped against the warm rock, crossed legs stretched out towards the fire.

The setting sun gleamed gold across his meditative face and made the rusty hair leap into sudden redness. Rothir refilled his bowl.

“I have some dried meat in my pack,” he told the northerner. “You could cook that up tomorrow.”

“Is it from Havvich?”

“No, thank the stars.”

Yaret laughed. A companionable sound. It made him realise that he was not alone.

“I’m fairly sure they all escaped the fire at Deloran,” Yaret said. “All the carts were gone.”

“Were they? Good.” It relieved his mind a little. He ate, more slowly now.

“I’ve been thinking,” Yaret said after a moment in his quiet voice, “that if we could get Eled up on your horse we might be able to rig up some sort of prop for his leg with lengths of

hutila bark. I know he’s sleepy. But if his leg’s supported he might be able to ride with one of us on the horse behind him.”

“One of us?”

“However, we don’t need to make a decision yet. If the rendezvous is two days’ hard riding, that is perhaps four days’ steady ride. It gives us three days to see if he recovers his senses before we need to set out.”

“You said we again,” said Rothir.

“And there’s an alternative. You ride to your rendezvous and find help, while I look after Eled here. Or if we can get him to the Coban hills, we could bribe the villagers to take him in.

Although I would not recommend you leave him there alone, I could wait there with him.”

Rothir thought about this as he ate his second bowl of stew. They were options, if not good ones. But no option was a good one. He shook his head. “You’ve been here long enough.”

Yaret shrugged. “I’m ahead of my schedule. I’ve got time to spare.” As the donkeys strolled towards them he got to his feet and began to feed a handful of oats to each, pulling their ears and talking to them affectionately in his own soft tongue.

Rothir took a last mouthful of stew and lay back against the warm stone to savour it, watching Yaret with the nuzzling donkeys. Beyond them, the two horses grazed tranquilly together against the setting sun. He’d get that saddle off the mare tomorrow. Give Narba and himself a day to rest.

Rest! It had seemed so far away for so long. He knew that it was not just the effort of the last week, but all the weeks and months before that made him weary. The frequent fights against the stonemen: the constant risk of ambush: the endless – often fruitless – scouting, long days spent in the saddle.

The tents of Thield had moved four times already since the spring, trying to escape the stonemen and the darkburns that ran amok before them sowing fire and devastation. No matter where the Riders went, the stonemen always seemed to find them. There had been no rest all year. But now he felt himself beginning to unwind at last.

In the last few hours his fortunes had turned round, from grim alarm to some variety of hope. Eled was safe: that was the main thing. Somehow he would find a way to get the wounded man to his companions. Although he would have preferred the company of Parthenal, this northern pedlar hadn’t done too badly. By some miraculous chance the youth had rescued Eled; and in doing that, he realised, had rescued Rothir himself.

Exhaustion washed over him in a huge, slow tide. But along with it, like the hush of waves on sand, came something unexpected; almost joy. He recognised the feeling as relief, which in his opinion and experience formed a major part of happiness. Failure was his greatest fear.

But thanks to the pedlar, he had not failed his comrades nor Huldarion. He had not let them down.

As if in answer to his thankfulness, a sudden parting of the clouds sent a fine sheen of golden light across the peaceful land, painting it for immortality; an endless moment when earth and heaven met. It seemed a country known in dreams, so bright with hope and promise.

Rothir did not believe in signs and portents. None the less he allowed his tired limbs to relax and his weary mind to drink the beauty of the landscape in. There had been so little hope for years, but against all reason he glimpsed the edges of it now, like the light around a door. Tomorrow…

Well, tomorrow there would be much to do. But meanwhile this evening was enough.

Chapter 9

“Do you want a slice of porridge?”

Rothir opened his eyes. The sun was high. Yaret stood over him holding out a mottled slab. Beside him Eled yawned and smiled. Eled had been quiet all night; or perhaps Rothir himself had been too worn out to notice.

“I’ll try him on some peas and biscuit while you wash,” said Yaret.

“That would be good.” Rothir stood up and stretched, as much as he could in the narrow space. Then he carried a bundle of clothes and his strangely purple-dotted slab of porridge out of the rocks and down to the streamlet where the horses grazed together.

Last night’s gold had turned to lemon in the hazy sunshine: it felt like a veiled, enchanted land, both wild and peaceful. He’d ridden across this plain a number of times – always in a hurry to get somewhere else – and had never stopped to look around. There had never been much here to seize the attention.

Nor was there now. A fangol basking on a rock was the most notable sight: the peace was punctuated only by the rasping of the grazing horses and one of Yaret’s donkeys munching on a thistle. Prickly things seemed to thrive up here. Not much else did. There was just enough thin grass for the horses.

Poda was much calmer now. All the same Rothir did not approach the mare, but simply sat down near her while he ate his porridge. Then he stripped off and, standing in the cold water where the streamlet pooled, rubbed himself down thoroughly with his dampened linen shirt.

Poda, watching this familiar activity, drew a little closer.

After he had dressed himself in his spare clothes, he threw the grimy shirt and underbreeches in the pool and scrubbed them briefly before he rose and greeted his own horse – Narba remaining as stolid and unbothered as usual.

Finally he turned to the mare, speaking softly to her in Vonnish. At last she let him stroke her shoulder and take hold of the bridle. Carefully he unstrapped the saddle-bag, released the saddle and freed her from her burden. He was pleased to see that her back was not too chafed.

After a few more murmured words and pats of reassurance he left her, retrieved his wet clothes from the pool and carried all the gear back to the camp.

There, even before he laid out his clothes to dry, he unpacked the saddle-bag. He immediately saw that this was not the one he wanted. None the less, the food inside it would be useful; stale bread, plenty of biscuit, dried fruit and a few hard-boiled eggs. He walked into the cleft to tell Yaret.

He was used to moving silently and Yaret did not hear. He saw the youth kneeling beside his fallen kinsman, gently offering him a spoon of sludgy biscuit with a murmur of “Try and eat a little more, Eled,” in a voice that sounded higher than before; raising a slim hand to brush away Eled’s hair with such a tender touch that Rothir froze.

The world shifted slightly. He saw kneeling before him not a beardless boy, but a female, age unknown, ministering to his friend. But why think that? Men could show tenderness too.

Yaret looked up and saw him. There was a flicker of alarmed awareness. That was what convinced him. He – she – knew that she had given herself away.

They stared at each other. Rothir began to frame a question, but Yaret got in first.

“What does Eled usually have for breakfast?” The voice was low and brisk again, the tenderness hidden so instantly that he could not be sure it had been there.

“What? Bread. Fruit. Whatever’s quick.”

“I have no bread,” said Yaret. “I suppose biscuit is no worse.”

She was signalling him to ignore it. In front of Eled the discussion could be postponed at least.

“I have some bread,” he said. “Not fresh, but still edible. Also eggs, fruit and biscuit, from Poda’s saddle-bag. I’ve just got it off her.” He addressed Eled. “Poda is safe and settling down now. She let me unsaddle her.”

“She’s not hurt?” asked Eled.

“No. She was only scared.”

“A little later, Eled,” Yaret said, “we can try to stand you up between us, and then if you can take a few steps out of this cave, with our support, you can see Poda. And she will see you. That will help her settle down some more.”

“Later,” murmured Eled, his eyelids already drooping.

Once they had left him and stood outside the cleft, Rothir tried again.

“Yaret. I understand that you–”

She cut across his words severely. “We should go and look for the second saddle-bag, if you think it will contain anything useful.” Her gaze was cool and distant; her hand a casual inch from the knife in her belt.

“I intend to go and search for it now.” He saw that there would be no discussion. He could force her to admit her disguise, but what would he gain? He needed her help and did not wish to forfeit her goodwill. “Since you say Poda ran off to the escarpment, I’ll ride Narba up there to look around,” he added, reflecting that it might be politic for him to distance himself for a while. He was aware his breadth and looks could be intimidating – an impression which he knew was fully justified, but which at this moment was slightly to be regretted.

When she nodded he whistled his horse over. After saddling Narba, he buckled on his sword belt and slung his bow over his back, because he never rode unprepared. Then he cantered off towards the Darkburn forest. Such a short, unhurried ride counted as rest and recreation for both horse and rider.

As he rode he tried to analyse the disturbance he had felt. That sudden sense of things shifting. He did not like to find himself so easily deceived, although he fully understood why such deceit was necessary.

Indeed, it was practised by some of the female Riders of the Vonn – those who could pass as male – when they were on the road. Two members of his own troop were women, from one of whom he took his orders. Maybe he could tell Yaret that.

But no, he couldn’t. Say as little as possible to as few people as possible: that was one of their rules, and a wise one, because you could never be certain who would talk to who. And he knew nothing of Yaret. She might not even be a pedlar, although he was inclined to think that that at least was true. All those woollen samples backed it up.

When he reached the Darkburn stream he examined the ground more carefully than he had the previous day. Leaving Narba by the forest edge, he followed the trail on foot where it led further in beneath the groping trees.

No saddle-bag lay on the ground. All was perhaps more silent than it should be. The tracks had not been overlaid by any others. Crucially, there was still no sign of any stonemen, which was what he had chiefly feared to see. Nor was there any lingering aura or scent of danger, although after a few moments he had the curious sensation that he was being watched.

Rothir had had that feeling before. In a place like this it was as likely to be wrong as right… or as likely to be right as wrong. He turned round in a full circle slowly: nothing moved. He looked overhead: a squirrel sat curled up on a branch. Maybe that was all.

Nevertheless he stood against the tree and watched the forest, quite motionless himself.

After five minutes he decided he was wrong this time. On turning to leave, he stumbled over an old tree-stump and apologised to it before he knew what he was doing. He must be still more tired than he had realised.

Out of the wood the wind was brisk and the sun bright. He led Narba along the trail of hoofprints and burnt grass that headed to the cliff. There it diverged into two: the snaking

scorch of the darkburn was easy to see, moving away from the exposed side of the escarpment where the thing had crawled back to the trees. That was the trail he followed first.

It led along a small, deep stream which flowed into the forest to meet the larger Darkburn.

At the narrowest point the trail crossed the stream; so this creature could cope with a little water at least. Such a shallow stream would not put out its fires.

Then the creature had turned right as it met the main stream, heading deep into the wood.

Rothir followed the trail for another mile in case there was some lair; but the blackened path did not halt. The darkburn had returned the way it had come, along its namesake river. Was it blind, he wondered, and simply following the scent or sound of water?

His knowledge of darkburns was too limited. Since the first one had appeared twelve years ago – he still shuddered at the memory – contact with them had for a long time been thankfully infrequent, but devastating when it happened. In this last year, however, it had happened more and more.

Even so, he did not know how many different types there were. Some that he had come across had been smaller than a human although far more deadly. Things of smoke and darkness, they were fast-moving and could out-run a man – or rather, out-rush him: for often they appeared as a rushing whirl, a spinning, smoky, indistinct mass of fear and dreadful heat.

Only once destroyed – for they could be destroyed, if your sword was strong enough and the fire did not eat you first – did they acquire some sort of substance. He remembered the first time he had managed it: the shards of charcoal left on the smouldering ground had been hard and brittle, white-hot in temperature if black in colour. For the darkburns’ heat was never expressed in light.

Except for this new sort. That red inward glow that Yaret had reported. And crawling legs… A few darkburns appeared to have limbs, of a sort; but he didn’t recognise this type at all, with its heavy slithering track and occasional claw-marks. This was something big, and new.

They are like corpses, he thought, burnt and desiccated corpses given animation, but hotter than a blacksmith’s forge. Not alive in any normal sense. They are artifices created purely to cause fear and destruction – to create horror. Overwhelming, disabling, fatal horror.

Contemplating the sooty trail he shook his head. He was a mile into the forest now and that was far enough. So he returned the way that he had come.

On leaving the trees he made for the long austere barrier of the escarpment. He could see where Eled’s horse had scrambled its way to the top, so he sprang up its rocky side by the same route. As he stood on the plateau and looked back at the dark mass of the forest fading into the distance, he thought of his companions somewhere beyond that obscure horizon.

If only he could send a message to Parthenal. Speak it to the woods, perhaps, and let the leaves carry the whisper long mile upon mile… No doubt the Farwth could easily arrange something like that.

But the Farwth would not do it here, for this was not its realm. The only way to get a message to his fellow Riders was in person.

“All the same,” said Rothir aloud, “I wish that you were here with me, Parthenal. One female pedlar’s not enough.” Then he shook his head again wryly at the pointlessness of his words, and resumed his hunt.

He tracked the signs the horse had left in its flight across the grass and stony slabs towards the higher ground. Its trail betrayed its panic as it zigzagged, sometimes widening to a gallop, its hooves leaving white scrapes on the rock; then slowing to a trot, before something spurred it to another gallop.

And there in the middle of the gallop, lying on a slab of orange lichen-painted granite, was Eled’s second saddle bag. Rothir let out a breath of relief as he walked over and picked it up.

It was still tied closed and intact. It wouldn’t have mattered if the saddle-bag had been lost, except that Eled would have been distraught; but there was no guarantee that it would have stayed lost.

Eled’s scabbard was there too, still attached to it, but no matter how carefully Rothir looked, he could see no sign of the sword. That was a frustration. Still, Eled was in no condition to use a sword right now. Unlikely to be for some time. Soberly he climbed down from the escarpment and went to retrieve Narba.

Halfway to the horse, something caught his eye. He strode over to inspect it: a shredded mess of skin and bones. It was the remains of an antelope, two or three days old, much chewed and torn – by wolves, most likely, judging by the toothmarks. A reminder that the darkburn was not the only thing out here to be wary of.

And now he had the responsibility of the helpless Eled, and a female – who might not be so helpless, who in fact seemed quite resourceful, but who was certainly not a warrior.

When he got back to the camp and dropped his haul on to the ground, Yaret looked at the scabbard.

“Oh,” she said, “there it is. I’ve got the sword. I forgot to tell you. It’s rolled up in hutila bark underneath my packs.”

Rothir was exasperated and hoped it did not show. He stowed away the saddle-bag without unpacking it. He knew what it would contain. Eled looked at it anxiously and said nothing.

“We’ve got both bags now, both undamaged,” he told Eled, and saw the relief in the younger man’s eyes.

Yaret hitched up her breeches and squatted next to Eled. “How do you feel about trying to stand up?” she asked him.

She? He? Rothir was unsure again. Yaret acted very like a boy, with a faint brusqueness and casualness of movement that made him wonder. Was it possible that he’d been mistaken?

“You don’t need to put any weight on that leg,” Yaret was saying. “We can support you on either side, and set you down again if you feel dizzy.”

The voice was business-like rather than gentle: in that middle register where it could be either a young man’s highish tenor or a low-toned woman. Rothir studied the face, noting the total lack of beard and the smooth throat. The slightly crooked nose and strong lines of the bones were good camouflage. As were the attitude, and the shapeless clothes. But no, he thought, he was not mistaken.

“I’ll try to stand,” said Eled, looking up at Rothir.

So Rothir went on one knee at his right side – the side of the broken leg – and with a

“One, two, three” the two of them hauled Eled up together. Leaning on him heavily, the injured man stood trembling on one foot.

“All right,” said Eled breathlessly, and they were able to move him a few steps forward to the entrance of the cleft. Yaret released him and let Rothir guide him through the narrow opening.

“Ah.” Eled breathed deep and looked around. “Poda!” The horse came over at a trot to nose and snort at him. With Rothir supporting him, Eled put up a hand to touch Poda’s head.

“Not your fault,” he said in Vonnish. “You were right to run. There’s nothing else you could have done just then.”

He remained standing for a few moments before a sigh told Rothir that he needed to be let down. They sat him gently against the most forgiving of the rocks near the fire.

“In an hour or so we’ll stand you up again, and have another go,” Yaret told him. “It’ll be good for your muscles. Try to stay awake a little longer now. Watch the horses. Poda will be happier while she can see you.”

On moving away, she murmured to Rothir. “What do you think? Is there any chance of getting him onto a horse within the next three days?”

“I think so.”

“Really? With that leg? But he would not be able to ride far.”

“He would be able to go as far as needed,” Rothir said. “You don’t know him.”

“True. Is he always so… gentle and quiet? I mean, when he is well?”

“He is a quiet man,” said Rothir, “and yes, gentle, and formidably brave. If he can, he will ride with a broken leg.”

“If he can,” she repeated. “Well, possibly he can, but there is the head wound too. You may well have to go to your rendezvous alone, after all.”

Rothir stared out across the empty-seeming plain. “I am reluctant to do that,” he said. “Not because I fear your ability to look after Eled, but because I do not know what else there is to fear.”

“You mean that creeping thing. The darkburn.”

“Yes.” There was no point in mentioning the stonemen to her. Where darkburns were, the stonemen were usually not far behind. But not in this case – or not so far. He did not know if that was merely down to luck.

“Do you think the darkburn might come hunting Eled?” she asked.

“Possibly. And there are other dangers besides the darkburn… Wolves, for instance.”

“I know. I heard wolves howl the other night. They came no closer than two miles, however.”

“Two miles is nothing in a wolf pack’s range. And there may be lions.”

“Seldom,” answered Yaret. “I have only seen a lion here twice in many years of travel.”

“That’s twice too often.”

“True. The second time I was alone,” said Yaret thoughtfully. “The lion circled me. I have never been so frightened in my life – that is, until I met the darkburn.”

“What happened to the lion? Did you shoot it?”

“No. I didn’t want to unless it became unavoidable. And it would have had to be a very good first shot, better than I was capable of at the time. It went away after a while: not hungry, I expect.”

They both gazed out across the loft. It looked undisturbed and undisturbable. A flock of goats scampered briefly, chased by nothing but the wind. Clouds scudded in the sky. But everything could alter in a moment, Rothir knew: a lion could suddenly appear. Everything could go wrong so easily, the way it had a week ago.

There had been no more than the usual cause for care, no signs of any stonemen when the troop of six set out. They had left the cloud-bound land of Farwithiel after holding the council

– if it could be called that – with its sovereign. Maeneb was the only one of the troop with whom the Farwth would communicate, and she did not tell the others everything that she had learned. Safer not to know, again. But she had written down the Farwth’s counsel and put a copy of the scroll in the saddle-pack of each pair of Riders, so that if she were lost, all would not be lost.

Then they had set off, in their pairs, exploring the northern fringes of the great forest of the Darkburn for signs of the stonemen’s hideouts on their way back home to Thield. They had arranged to rendezvous every three days.

On the second rendezvous Arguril had ridden up alone. He was unhurt but stuttering with shock. Stonemen had attacked, he told them, and they had barely managed to escape, the thickness of the forest hindering their horses. At last, after many miles, Arguril had lost his pursuers; but he had also lost his riding-partner Eled.

So since then, they had all five of them been hunting for Eled. Now that he was found, Rothir did not want to let him go again.

He had to make the rendezvous in one week’s time. And he would prefer to take Eled with him. Perhaps he could manage that alone; but a glance at Eled propped against his rock – his

eyes already closed once more – told him that the prospect was not a likely one. Eled would need someone up behind him to hold him on the horse. Poda was too nervous to bear the wounded man in safety; and even Narba, strong and willing though he was, could not carry two full-grown men for such a distance.

He glanced at Yaret, who stood scanning the landscape, her face somewhat sombre since the talk of lions.

There is, of course, a lighter option, he thought resignedly. Which means I have to take her at her word; and take them both.

Chapter 10

That afternoon they managed to get Eled on his feet and hobbling around on another three occasions, only for him to drop down exhausted after ten minutes or so each time. Rothir was frustrated.

“It’s the head injury,” said Yaret, almost apologetically. “A man I know back home was the same after a cow kicked him in the head. It changed him. He spent three days asleep, and then he turned aggressive.”

“I trust that Eled will not turn aggressive,” Rothir said. “That’s not something I would want to have to deal with.” All his earlier relief at finding Eled had vanished, replaced by this new problem. It was not Eled’s fault, nor Yaret’s; but it made him impatient all the same.

After looking at him keenly Yaret said, “I’m off to shoot a rabbit.” She picked up her short hunting bow and walked away. Rothir found that he was glad to be alone.

Once she was at a distance he went into the cleft and unrolled the saddle-pack that he had recovered up on the escarpment. It contained Eled’s spare clothing, some more biscuit, mostly crumbs, and a pack of cobnuts: old, last year’s. The new ones would be ripening at Farwithiel… He wished that he were back there now, in the protected peace of that old forest, its great columned spaces so different to the untidy knotted jungle of the Darkburn.

Perhaps at Farwithiel he could find some help for Eled, if the Farwth allowed it. But if he did not meet his companions at the rendezvous they would be searching vainly for them both… No, whatever happened afterwards, he had to make the rendezvous.

Beneath the clothes he found a leather tube, and inside that, the scroll. Rothir checked that it was still intact and dry. He was not tempted to read it. Safer not to know; and whatever it said would not help him with his immediate problem. He replaced it carefully inside the bag, covered it up and stepped back out into the open. Eled was still slumbering.

Yaret was a hundred yards away, kneeling up behind a rock, bow drawn. For some minutes she was motionless. Rothir could not see the rabbit until she shot it, when it became visible as a sudden tumble of brown and white against the grass. Yaret went to pick it up, and as she stooped appeared to make some sort of gesture to it, touching her hand to her forehead and saying unheard words.

Rothir walked over to Poda to continue his task of taming her. He could handle the horse without much difficulty now; she did not resist when he walked her up and down beside the streamlet. Tomorrow he would try to get the saddle on her. If Poda would allow herself to be ridden it would be one less problem burdening his mind. Others still preyed on him, however.

“I will sleep out here tonight,” he said over the remnants of the rabbit stew, “beside the fire.”

“Because of wolves?” asked Yaret.

“Because of wolves or anything else. You sleep next to Eled in the cavern.”

“No,” said Yaret mildly. “I will sleep out here also. If there is danger it will be better to have two of us out here to face it. And I have to protect the donkeys. Eled is well enough to call now if he needs us.”

He made no more than one attempt to persuade her. It was her camp, after all. When she spread out her blanket beside the cooling fire, she carefully laid next to it her bow and three arrows, and then her knife, within inches of her grasp.

And when in the night a wolf’s call threw its long mournful rope across the land, Yaret was on her feet as swiftly as he was himself.

“Less than a mile,” she muttered, standing with her bow drawn and aimed into the darkness. Rothir’s sword was in his hand, for there was only a quarter-slice of moon to light the shadows and an arrow could easily miss its target.

To the south the Shieldholder stood in the sky, his sword also ready and marked out by stars. Rothir was aware of how full the night was, a world unto itself, one not entirely familiar to him even though he had walked through it so often. Here it seemed like another land where the stars reigned supreme.

Through its great silences he listened carefully for the scuffle of approaching paws. There were none. And when another long howl came, and then its answer, they had moved further away eastward. The wolves were hunting deer or antelope most probably.

Minutes later, the next howl was more distant yet; and then it was followed by a whole series of snarls and yapping cries before the starry silence once more filled the night.

That was not a normal hunt, thought Rothir.

“Perhaps they met a rival wolf pack,” murmured Yaret.

“I expect so.” But he did not like the unusual nature of the sound made by the wolves. He stood and listened for another quarter-hour before he allowed himself to assume that all was safe. Yaret had already lain down again. So he lay back down himself beneath the guarding Shieldholder and slept lightly until dawn.

He was awake before Yaret. When she arose, he noticed her performing some brief ritual, touching ground and chest and face while she mouthed unspoken words. He pretended not to see, just as he pretended to pay no attention when she wandered off for her ablutions. She in her turn was careful to afford him equal privacy. Evidently nothing was to be said about her gender.

Once Eled had been fed and washed, Rothir saddled Narba and walked him around sedately. After seeing that, Poda allowed herself to be saddled also; and when Rothir swung himself up carefully on to her back she neither bolted nor tried to fling him off. His spirits lifted as he rode her up and down.

“Will you try and get Eled up and riding next?” asked Yaret, watching by her donkeys.

“No,” he said, swinging himself down from the saddle again. “I’ll try you.”

She looked faintly alarmed. “Really? If I have to ride, I’d prefer Narba. The last horse I sat on was thirty years old and slower than a cow. Even trotting was beyond her.”

“I meant for you to try out Narba. He’s level-headed; he won’t give you any trouble. We’ll take both horses for a ride.”

Before leaving he checked that Eled was comfortable. When Rothir said he was going for a short ride, Eled smiled and nodded, with a mere trace of anxiety.

“Don’t be long,” he said.

“We won’t be,” Rothir promised, patting his shoulder.

It was a shame, he thought, that Yaret was not a practised rider. When he hoicked her into Narba’s saddle, she was light; so that was something. But she was not happy.

“Too high,” she said. “I’m used to donkeys. I feel like I’m about to slide off.”

“We shall only walk at first,” he reassured her. Mounting Poda once again, he set off walking at a steady pace and instructed Narba to follow. “Let your legs relax,” he told Yaret.

“You don’t need to pull on the reins. Leave them loose. That’s it; you’re doing fine.”

“No trotting,” said Yaret.

“Have you ever cantered? It’s actually easier than a trot.”

“No cantering,” said Yaret.

Nevertheless, she did allow Narba to break into a trot after a while, saying “ow, ow, ow,”

under her breath as she bounced resolutely on his back. When Rothir accelerated into a canter he looked behind and saw Narba following eagerly. Yaret’s face was set in a grimace and her body looked tense.

“Relax!” he called back. “You don’t need to grip so tight!”

“I do,” said Yaret breathlessly. Rothir slowed down to a walk again, turning Poda’s nose towards the east. He had a destination in his mind, although he did not know exactly where it was.

They rode on for about three miles, Yaret practising a trot for short stretches on the more even ground, while Rothir surreptitiously scanned the terrain until he thought he saw what he was looking for: a black patch on the green-grey Loft.

“Wait here,” he said, and spoke a word of command to Narba. “I’m taking Poda for a gallop.”

The mare stretched out willingly while Narba stood obediently motionless and was soon left behind. A hundred yards on, he slowed down to inspect the spot.

On the ground lay two wolf corpses, both horribly burnt. Rothir studied them and then gazed over to the heavy brooding mass of the Darkburn forest. It was still no more than a mile distant: too close for comfort. There was a scorched trail running across to it. Without dismounting he followed it for a little way towards the trees. The wolves had come too near to darkburn territory, perhaps.

But in that case the camp was too near also. Far too close for comfort. He pulled away from the forest edge and returned at a gallop to Yaret, who was still at a dead stop on Narba.

“How do I get him to start up again?”

“Give him a gentle squeeze with your legs.” Rothir spoke in Vonnish, giving his horse permission to move, and Narba obligingly set off.

“Donkeys are different,” explained Yaret. “Especially Dolm. He just does what he wants mostly. What did you find over there?”

“Two dead wolves. You were right; it looked as if two packs had fought each other. Let’s go back now, and see if we have any chance of getting Eled up onto that horse.”

Once back at the camp they helped Eled to stand up again, and manoeuvred him onto a low stone platform to make it easier for him to mount Narba. Even so, Rothir had to effectively lift him up into the saddle.

It was lucky, he reflected as he heaved, that although tall, Eled was slim and less thick-set than he himself was. He would not have cared to try to lift himself into a saddle.

Yaret had a support ready for the splinted leg: a construction of hutila bark and chequered cloth which they propped beneath Eled’s right thigh. It stuck out at an awkward angle but seemed strong enough to protect the leg. Eled laughed.

“Not too bad,” he said, and Rothir was encouraged.

“Now you get up behind Eled,” he told Yaret, and helped her to climb on to the horse’s back. “Try not to kick him.”

“Who? Narba or Eled?”

“Narba. You can kick Eled all you like.”

“It might help me to stay awake,” said Eled, which Rothir took as another encouraging sign.

They managed to walk up and down several times before Eled began to slump in the saddle. Yaret, who was grasping him round the waist, said “Help!” with sudden urgency, and Rothir sprang to assist both her and Eled off the horse’s back. He laid his friend down against the supporting rock.

“That’s a good start,” he told Eled. The young man nodded, smiling, before his eyes closed again. It seemed to be involuntary: willpower was not enough to keep him awake.

“He’s heavier than I expected,” Yaret said in an undertone. “To hold upright, I mean. If he loses consciousness up there I’ll be in trouble.”

“I can ride up behind him myself if need be,” answered Rothir. “But not all the time; the weight’s too much for Narba.”

“We need a cart,” said Yaret ruefully.

“A cart would only work where the ground is level. This is the most practical way to move him. You did well there.”

“Good,” she said, with an unexpected smile. It made her look full of mischief. He wondered how old she was: not the twenty he had thought at first sight, when he had assumed she was a young man; but probably under thirty.

He did not ask. Better not to make such personal enquiries. Yaret seemed more at ease now, presumably having decided that he wasn’t going to jump on her. In truth, jumping on her was the last thing on his mind. His love life – such as it was – he kept strictly separate from his life as a Rider of the Vonn.

But to say “Don’t worry, I’m not interested” would be intrusive and, he hoped, unnecessary. Instead they discussed provisions, and debated whether it would be wise to shoot a goat.

“I know they’re tough, but we could cook the meat overnight,” said Yaret, “if you think a fire would be safe. Or do you fear more wolves?”

“I think we’ll do without the fire overnight. Or the goat, tempting though it sounds.”

“One rabbit won’t go far with three of us. And Eled needs to eat better food than biscuit,”

Yaret said.

“We can add my dried meat to the pot.”

She nodded. “Yes, it looks more edible than mine. I wish Eled would wake up a little more.”

“When I try to talk to him it puts him back to sleep,” said Rothir wryly.

“That’s because your presence calms him,” said Yaret. “I expect he also finds the thinking that conversation requires is too hard at present. But music goes where words cannot. I can try singing to him. That seemed to work on him the other day, before you found us. He liked it, I think.”

Rothir shrugged. “Well, why not?”

“Because I don’t sing very well,” said Yaret with another grin. But she got up and went to sit cross-legged by the fire beside the dozing Eled, where she began to sing in a low voice; a cheerful children’s song, from the sound of it, with a repeating chorus. She didn’t have a trained voice, it was true, but it was pleasant enough and in tune. Eled woke up and seemed to listen.

“Now, you have to clap to this one,” said Yaret. “Clap, clap!” Eled appeared to have forgotten how to clap until she put his hands together, as though he were two years old.

Rothir was dismayed all over again. Would Eled ever recover? Would he ever be fully himself? He feared that he could see little prospect of it at the moment.

But with the fear came determination: all the more reason not to abandon his friend.

Whatever became of Eled should not come through his neglect.

And Eled was clapping properly now, almost with enthusiasm. After the song he said, “Do that thing you did. With the feet.”

“The dance? The Rannikan?” Yaret stood up and began to chant and dance at the same time, clapping her hands and then tapping them onto heels and hips and heels again, in a complicated pattern that went faster and faster. Eled laughed. Yaret finished, panting, and looked over at the top of a rock. There was nothing there but a clump of thistles, but it seemed to hold her eye.

“Oof! Enough of that for now,” she said. “I will teach you to dance the Rannikan once you are back upon your legs, Eled. Everybody back home learns it.”

“Sing something else,” begged Eled. It truly was as if the music turned him to a child again.

“Wait a minute.” Going over to rummage briefly in her pack, from it Yaret pulled out a small rounded object. It was made of half a dried gourd; or rather, two quarters, stiffly hinged

with metal handles on the underside and with a single string across the top from edge to edge.

Yaret squeezed the handles underneath to pull the two sections of the gourd apart, and twanged the string. It created a hollow plinking note which was almost comical in its melancholy. By squeezing and releasing the handles she could produce hollow notes in different pitches.

Then she sang again, another simple song in her own language which was full of soft consonants, accompanied by plinks and plonks at every second beat. Her face was alive with happy concentration.

Although Rothir thought that by this time her femaleness was fairly obvious, Eled did not appear to notice, or possibly to care. He was smiling. The music made him focus in a way that nothing else seemed to do just now.

“You must be musical,” Yaret told him after the song had ended.

“I don’t know,” said Eled.

“There’s never been much chance to find out,” Rothir added.

She studied them both. “You play no instruments?”

“Back home some people do.” This was her cue, thought Rothir. Now she ought to ask, Where is home? or at the very least, What instruments?

Yaret asked nothing. She simply nodded and put her gourd away.

Eled was happy, which was something. He seemed to live in the moment now: he knew where he was and why, but it did not go deep enough to worry him. That was perhaps a good thing in the circumstances, Rothir reflected. He would have preferred the old Eled back – but not an Eled riddled with guilt and fear.

Evening cast its violet curtain over them. Eled became a drowsing shadow, disconcertingly insubstantial. The donkeys, more sure and solid, trotted over for their customary oats. Once the porridge had been cooked up for the next morning, Yaret carefully killed the fire with handfuls of damp earth, and then lay down with her bow and three arrows within arm’s reach and her knife by her hand. She appeared to be asleep within five minutes.

Rothir lay awake as full darkness fell upon the land. There were fewer stars tonight: only the Shieldholder strode across the sky, while the slender moon slipped in and out of high-fleeing clouds.

He was half listening for wolves, half running the tune back through his head, with all its accompanying plinks and plonks. Happy, mournful notes. A shepherd’s instrument. No, Yaret was no shepherd. What was she, again? As the notes began to slow and run awry, he also fell asleep.

He woke to the donkeys’ strident braying. It tore through the night, ripping his sleep apart: a few seconds later both horses joined in. The terror in Poda’s neigh was obvious. When Rothir sprang to his feet he felt the judder of their hoofbeats shaking through the ground.

The horses were fleeing, but something was coming. As he gripped his sword in readiness he could smell it – the smoke and something worse. The stench of death. And with the smell came the horror: the anguish and dismay and sense of all things ending. Familiar now yet always new, always worse than you remembered, worse than you could imagine.

Against the dark of night and the streaking shadows cast by the moon it came towards them, a darker shape, a big one this time, taller than a man, and whirling. It seemed to have long limbs although he could not tell how many. It made no sound. The stink and heat were almost overwhelming but it was the fear that he needed to fight off.

Yaret loosed an arrow. It did not slow the darkburn. Rothir leapt over the cold fire and wielded his sword.

Ignore the whirling and the blur and heat. You had to move fast, even if you could not see what you were striking: you had to slice and hack without stopping because the darkburn would not stop.

When he sliced off a limb it was like slicing through burnt wood. The same sharp jarring crack. The limb flew through the air and landed somewhere unseen. He slashed again: the thing did not slow down, but flailed and lunged towards him. He had to jump back, feeling the heat from it fiercer than the sun, a dark sun already burning its way through his clothes and singeing his hair. Pain flared across one hand. As he leapt forward to strike again, he felt his face scorch and thought of Huldarion.

More pieces of the darkburn fell and still it flailed and spun. Yaret threw something over it which instantly began to glow red, smoking with the odour of burnt wool. But for half a second the darkburn was caught: and Rothir hacked and slashed and smote, hearing the harsh smack of the sword and his own grunts of effort, until finally the dark shape crumpled to the ground. There it lay still.

Chapter 11

They both stood there gasping. Somewhere a donkey snorted. Rothir stepped forward to prod the hard remnants of the darkburn with his foot: it did not move. Gathering the corners of the smouldering blanket, he tried to drag it away. The blanket disintegrated into ashes, releasing bits of darkburn that fizzed and hissed against the dewy grass.

He waited: above him in the huge sky, the Shieldholder waited: still nothing moved.

Rothir had not heard of darkburns regenerating from their shattered limbs, but he would not put it past them. Too much about them was still mysterious.

This one, at least, seemed fully dead. The smell of decay was already waning – proof that it was an artifice, he thought – and the terror was sliding down from reality to memory. He walked back to the fire, where he could just see Yaret standing like a statue in the moonlight, clutching her bow.

He wanted to reassure her: but what reassurance could he give? He did not even know if the darkburn was alone. All too often another attack would follow. He was listening carefully for the sound of stonemen but heard nothing. None the less, they were likely to be around.

“Eled slept through that,” said Yaret. “I would not have thought it possible.” Her voice was hoarse.

“I’ll watch for the rest of the night,” said Rothir. “Dawn will come in two hours or so.

We’ll leave as soon as it’s light enough. How long will it take you to pack up and be ready?”

After a few seconds she replied. “About a quarter-hour. But it may take us longer to get Eled awake and up onto the horse.”

“We must do it as quickly as we can.” He sat down in front of the cleft, facing west, the direction from which the darkburn had come; while Yaret sat down facing east.

“I’ll watch too,” she murmured. “I can’t sleep after that.”

“It was not the same as the creature you saw chasing Poda?”

“No. Quite different. The smell this time was not so bad, I think. This one was taller. But it felt different as well. The sense of – what shall I call it? Grief. Horror. Dismay. That was worse this time. There was grief in the other one too, but more hatred – a whole world of hatred; and less fear.”

“I do not distinguish so many shades of feeling in them as you do. It is all horror and despair.”

“Yes.” After a pause she added, “This one felt like a thing in torment.”

“They are things designed to make us feel torment.” He spoke into the night. “Don’t take those feelings as real. They are imposed on us by the darkburns, and they disappear when the darkburns are destroyed. But this one is powerless now.”

“Will there be others?”

“It’s possible. If you are going to stay awake, we may as well sit back to back. It’s easier.”

They shuffled together.

“So you think it may not have been alone?” Yaret muttered over her shoulder. “Do these creatures travel in packs, then?”

“Occasionally,” said Rothir. “And also…” He thought of telling her about the stonemen, and decided against it. Stonemen did not usually, in his experience, attack in darkness. And the darkburn was enough bad news for one night.

“Are they alive?” Her voice was small in the shadows. “How can such a burnt thing be alive?”

“They’re not alive in the way that we are.”

“But they feel. Only living things can feel.”

“They make us feel. That’s not the same.”

“Is it not? They smell like death,” said Yaret, “like decaying flesh. A burnt tree does not smell that way.”

“Yet they are burnt through and through. There is no flesh in them to decay. They are made of ash and charcoal. The stench too is designed, I believe, to cause us horror.”

“Made? Designed? By who?”

Rothir was silent. But a moment later Yaret answered her own question.

“By wizardry, I suppose... Or something like it.”

Assuredly, he thought. And he thought the wizard’s name, as well; but he would not speak it.

Yaret said nothing more until a donkey wandered over to them, a heavily breathing shadow that snuffled in enquiry. She reassured it with a few quiet words in her feathery language. Rothir hoped the horses had not fled too far – particularly Poda. If she had been badly frightened it might be back to the starting post with her.

However, there was no use worrying about that until it was light enough to see. Once the donkey wandered off Yaret was silent, her back tense against his own. He hoped his presence would give her some feeling of being shielded, at least. He was confident that he could protect them against another darkburn, even against two.

But if a horde of stonemen followed… No, that was unlikely. Stonemen could see in the darkness no better than himself. To cross this land they would need torches, which would give them away. Even if they were close by, they would wait until the morning to attack.

Listening carefully, he heard nothing but the ordinary small noises of the night.

Slowly the eastern sky turned from black to a thickening blue, as heavy as a velvet cloak, before fading to a wan, exhausted grey: the rich velvet was transformed to worn-out wool, threadbare and thin. He stood up and looked for the horses.

There they were, only a few hundred yards distant, Narba close up to Poda with the donkeys by her other side. The male donkey – Dolm – stared east belligerently as if he had spent the last hour watching too.

Rothir looked down at the shattered darkburn. It was hard to tell what shape it might have had. The fallen shards of limbs were twisted like charred branches. It might have been the remnants of some old burnt-out tree that had been hacked up and strewn around.

He did not touch any of the pieces. As he went to fetch the horses Yaret began to drag her packs out from their shelter in the cleft.

It took a quarter-hour, as she had predicted. The raincover was rolled; the waterskins were full. The packs were strapped onto the donkeys and to Poda, because Narba would have a heavy enough burden. Eled was hoisted up onto the horse, and his leg made secure with its support of bark before Yaret climbed up behind him, wincing slightly. She had handed Rothir a slice of porridge to eat as he rode. They set off well before the sun rose, through the thin grey dawn.

He led the way on Poda, restraining himself to keep her to a steady walk. The land seemed changed now, no longer empty and benign but full of ominous hints. Every breath of the wind seemed to carry a warning. Things flickered at the edges of his vision, unresolved. The sense of something watching had returned although there was no watcher that he could detect.

Annoyed at himself for being so suggestible, he concentrated on the path ahead.

They walked for two hours, Rothir leading, and the donkeys trailing in the rear. They were heading east by northeast along the length of the empty region for which he had no name and which Yaret called the Loft. His heart sank as he noted how slowly they were travelling and calculated how far they had to go.

By the time they took their first halt, Eled was already slipping sideways in the saddle.

Yaret’s face was tight with the effort of keeping him – and herself – in place. It was beginning to rain.

“Rain is good,” Rothir assured her as he dismounted and then lifted Eled down. “It may reduce the power of the darkburns. It certainly won’t help them.”

Yaret looked as if she wanted to ask something; but she withheld her question until Eled was lying on the grass with his eyes closed. They had agreed to give him half an hour’s rest.

Then she addressed Rothir in a low voice.

“What else should I know about the darkburns?”

He considered what to tell her. “They take many shapes; but can be hard to make out.

They seem to spin and blur somehow.”

“Smoke?”

“Not just smoke. I think perhaps they distort the vision as they do the mind. Some seem to have no limbs, and some have many. A few look vaguely human, although often smaller, and headless.”

“The first I saw was almost serpent-like. But shorter and with legs. Closer to a giant lizard, perhaps. What else?”

“They come singly, as a rule; although occasionally others follow. They seem to not like heavy rain. They don’t avoid watercourses, but do not cross them easily, it seems.” Although the stonemen evidently had ways of getting them across water, he would not go into that.

“They attack humans unerringly, but not animals.”

“The first one I saw was, I guessed, hunting not Poda but her rider. So that means they can see; and have intelligence.”

“A dog can do as much,” said Rothir. “And the darkburns have no eyes. They may use scent or some other sense to find us.”

Yaret looked around. They could only see for about a mile in any direction before the landscape drooped into an indeterminate grey canvas. The drizzle was light, but hemmed them in with blank walls of mist.

“The name you give them. Do they originate from the Darkburn forest?”

“Probably.”

“And these things are always… burnt?”

“Entirely. Some are brittle. The thing this morning broke in pieces easily enough, although your arrows just bounced off it. Others are tougher; but can still be broken, if you have the strength.”

“Why do they attack?”

“That I cannot tell you.” There was no point delving into a complicated account of his people’s history. In any case it did not concern her.

She studied him and nodded. “Very well. I have two observations.”

“Yes?”

“Firstly, the lizard-shaped thing that I saw was not just burnt, but actively burning.”

“So you said.” Even though Eled had suggested the same, Rothir was not sure if he believed them. How could she be sure about that inner glow when she had only glanced at it for a second before hiding her face? And Eled might merely have picked up what she said to sharpen his own hazy memory. “Your second observation?”

She hesitated. “The darkburn this morning, Rothir. Was that attacking us?”

“Yes, of course.” He was puzzled by the question. “What else could it be doing? It didn’t come across us by chance. That wasn’t random. It sought us out.”

“Exactly. And felt like a thing in torment.”

“I told you – those are feelings created to cause terror and confusion.”

“If you say so.” Yaret sighed. “You burnt your hand in fighting. I’d better bind it up for you.”

He looked at his left hand, which he had been ignoring until now. “There’s no blistering.

It’ll do without a bandage.”

“No, it won’t. It needs something to protect it,” she said firmly. “Why risk damaging it further? Your face too. Though I suppose you won’t let me bandage that.”

“Indeed I won’t. You sound like my sister,” said Rothir, without thinking about it; until he saw the reproving look she gave him at this careless admission of her gender.

She dressed his hand with star-moss and bandaged it in green-striped wool without a word.

Although he was very aware of her proximity and touch he decided to think nothing of it.

By the time she had finished, Eled was struggling to get up.

“I’m ready,” he said.

“You need to eat first,” said Yaret, and Rothir was reminded that it was still better for Eled to believe her male while she was performing much more intimate tasks for him.

They gave Eled some dry biscuit and a drink. Before the half hour was up Rothir mounted himself on his horse behind Eled, with his cloak covering them both against the steady drizzle.

“Narba will bear our weight for a little while,” he told Yaret. “You ride Poda.”

“I’d rather ride a donkey.” But Poda allowed her to mount with only the faintest twitching of her haunches. Rothir thought that the mare might be becoming inured to darkburns to some degree. All their horses had suffered repeated exposure to them this last year. Even his own stoical Narba had, on his first encounter, tried to rear and bolt; but slowly Narba was being trained to bear the stench and horror, just as Rothir was training himself.

Perhaps the hatred emanating from this one had been less fierce than some. Yaret’s question recurred to him. Had it been attacking them?

Of course it had. Why else would it rush upon them in that way, except to bring them death by fire?

“Leg hurts,” mumbled Eled.

Rothir was immediately alarmed. The leg must be very painful for Eled to have said anything about it. He adjusted the bark support carefully until Eled sighed and said, “Better now.” Possibly he was lying, but Rothir would take his word for it. They had to move on.

To distract Eled and to keep him awake, he began to talk to him in Vonnish, secure in the knowledge that anything Yaret overheard, she would not understand. Even so, he stayed off the subject of their recent mission, and kept to a more soothing theme by talking about their home – if you could call Caervonn home. The Vonn had many homes, and none. Their headquarters, Thield, was a town of tents, always temporary, always moving. But Caervonn was the home they still aspired to, despite their twelve-year exile. Rothir had not been there since he was a young man. He no longer considered himself young.

Eled was young, though; he had been only a boy when they had left Caervonn. To him it was still a place of dream and hope despite the threats that now assailed it. Or probably assailed it – for in truth no-one was sure how things stood there at present. Much would have changed.

But he knew that Eled saw Caervonn as a shining place of half-remembered legend; so as such he described it. The young man listened with unusual concentration as Rothir spoke of the city’s six high towers, its long streets lined with ancient cobbles; the odd, appealing angles given to its structures by their hexagonal design. It was supposed to be a tribute to a bee-hive, but since Caervonn had been built twelve hundred years ago there was no way of being sure if that was true.

None the less it was part of Rothir’s own shining legend. As he spoke of the warm summer evenings when the terraces were full of music and the clear deep sky above them full of swifts, he was filled with a terrible sense of grief and loss so strong that it made him feel physically sick.

Eled sighed with a different sort of pain. “The women are beautiful in Caervonn, they say.”

“As beautiful as anywhere,” said Rothir. “And courteous and cultured.”

Briefly, he allowed himself a glimpse of his own dream, the one that had accompanied him on several particularly cold and lonely journeys. The dream of one day entering Caervonn, riding triumphant in the line behind Huldarion, and seeing the people cheering from the balconies. They would be smiling, welcoming: one would throw a handful of petals, catching in his hair, and he would look up to see a woman as dark and lovely as a rose… She was a woman entirely of his imagination, but the promise of her brought him comfort.

Rothir was aware that such hope was essentially illusory. He did not indulge in these dreams often. Nonetheless, it was important to keep Caervonn alive in his mind. He pitied the younger man whose teens and adulthood had been spent in exile. As a wandering Rider of the Vonn, Eled had been a patroller, hunter, and warrior, as Rothir had himself, yet a citizen of nowhere.

At times the Vonn had hired out other skills; in Rothir’s case, blacksmithing. But at least he had had a life in Caervonn before this one, even if it had been a life of increasing strain and conflict and finally battle, before Huldarion and all his kin were driven out of paradise…

Although Caervonn had been no paradise those last two years.

All too soon, Eled’s questions and attention lapsed. Rothir held him upright on the saddle for as far as he could before he had to call a stop.

“Another half an hour to rest and then we’ll switch horses again,” he told Yaret. She nodded mutely underneath her dripping hood.

And so it went for the remainder of the day: crawling, crawling across the empty landscape like ants across a vast barnyard. They spoke little, for the weather was not conducive to conversation and Eled seemed to need all his energy to stay upright on the horse. The stops became increasingly long and the spells on horseback shorter.

At last, before he really wanted to, Rothir called a final halt. It was not yet even dark and his heart urged him on; but he knew he must not risk exhausting Eled on this first day of travel.

So they camped in a dryish hollow sheltered by a lonely tree. Eled was asleep almost as soon as Rothir laid him down; he had to wake the young man up again to make him eat.

Yaret said little. She merely nodded when Rothir told her, “We will set no watch tonight.”

Despite the slowness of their travelling – or perhaps because of it – he felt drained of energy.

They both needed sleep after the previous night’s disturbance.

Yet for all his tiredness he lay awake, listening, unable to relax. The donkeys will warn us, he told himself; they did last night, after all.

But he would not have been surprised to open his eyes in the morning and find the donkeys and their owner gone. Why would Yaret bother to continue on this thankless journey? She could easily take her own route north from here.

In the end he made himself sleep; and woke to find the donkeys were still there. Yaret was already attending to Eled, who looked a little better than he had the previous night.

“Which horse shall I be on today?” he asked Rothir.

“Still Narba,” answered Rothir. “With Yaret up behind you.”

“Ah! She clutches on to me too hard,” said Eled, and then tried to smile at Yaret to show it did not matter.

“Do I? Sorry,” said Yaret contritely. “I’m just trying not to fall off myself.”

“That’s all right,” said Eled. “Shall we start? I’m ready.”

Initially he seemed strong and they made good progress. Soon they left the high grassed plains behind, and began to cross the Hayle. This was a land of boulders, huge inexplicable rocks that dotted the ground and hindered any rider. The travellers could not have galloped here even had they wished to do so. The boulders had sat there for centuries or longer: trees grew from some, and had split them into smaller flocks of jagged stones.

Rothir noticed that Yaret kept looking around, wary and puzzled.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s only… I keep thinking that there’s something here.”

“There’s something everywhere,” said Rothir. “We just don’t spot them. Plenty of rabbits: maybe antelope. Fangols. Moorhounds. Hares. The odd wolf, but not too close, I hope.”

“Is that still the Darkburn forest to our right?” She pointed to a shadow marching parallel to their path, indistinct through the continuing thin drizzle.

“Yes. Our route runs parallel to it.” The forest was perhaps two miles away. He would have preferred to take a route away from it, but that would mean a longer journey with no benefit of easier ground, and he did not have the time. The Darkburn river and forest would not begin their long curve round to the south and then the west for another fifty miles or so.

They were stuck with it.

“So we are still on the Darkburn Loft,” she murmured.

“We call this area the Hayle.”

“It still feels like the Loft. A habitation.”

“Whatever else is here with us, is harmless.” He had been watching his surroundings carefully, and there had been nothing to perturb him on the field of boulders. The only lion spoor he’d seen had been weeks old. No sign of wolves – nor, thankfully, of darkburn trails.

In the afternoon, as they struggled over the uneven ground, Eled’s strength began to wane.

His leg was obviously troubling him; so they took another long halt to let him rest.

While the other two shared some biscuit Rothir climbed the highest of the nearby boulders to look out from its top, five yards above the ground. It was not high enough to see any great distance even though the rain had almost stopped. He observed no darkburn trails.

No distant Riders of the Vonn either… But then he had not expected that; he had merely hoped.

Hope, he thought as he gazed out towards the mountains, which seemed hardly closer than before. So many years trying to live on hope, and for what? When will any hope be fulfilled?

When will we come into our own?

He shrugged the thought away and slid back down the boulder. He had asked himself that question so many times, and the answer had always come back the same: don’t think about it.

Put it in a box. You have a job to do. The nature of the task before him had changed over the years, but the necessity had never gone away. Right now his task was to get Eled to the rendezvous in safety.

He had less certainty about what it might be best to do with the injured man after that.

Farwithiel, perhaps… But that was a problem for the future.

The day dripped past them and fell imperceptibly into dusk before they halted for the night again. In spite of his worries about Eled, and his half-expectation of the donkeys disappearing, Rothir slept soundly. He awoke to the rasp of donkeys grazing; to a sky thick with clouds but free of rain: to a land of dull, washed stones, and a clear horizon that was still too far away.

Chapter 12

The certainty that they were not being followed was Rothir’s only consolation for their slow progress. Time was so short…

He knew that he could leave the other two behind if need be, and gallop onward to the rendezvous, but he was reluctant to abandon them. Yaret’s bow would be of little use against the darkburns; and Eled could not fight.

Yaret evidently felt she had a duty to Eled as well. While she was mounted behind the injured man, she copied Rothir’s example in trying to keep him awake by chattering about this and that.

“The other day you talked about Caervonn, I think?” she said after a while, quite casually.

“I’ve heard about the city of Caervonn.”

“And what have you heard?” Rothir demanded. He knew he sounded stern. The history of Caervonn and the expulsion of the Riders was in itself no secret; yet he hated to hear it spoken of lightly, as an idle rumour.

She shrugged. “I’m told it’s far away down south, towards the sea. There was a battle, or a civil war, or something. Now its people are split in two. That was just a bit of tavern gossip in Outer Kelvha. They said the Vonn who had no homes would sometimes aid the Kelvhans in their battles, or send wolf-hunters to the north.”

“That much is true.”

“So you are one of the homeless ones? The ones they called the Riders of the Vonn?”

“We are.” He hoped his tone was sufficiently forbidding. Perhaps it had been a mistake to mention Caervonn in front of her, even though the conflict there was common knowledge.

But it was more important not to mention Thield or Huldarion – or rather, their current location, which was secret.