They had moved twice in the space of a week. Fief Lord Darnel proved tenacious in his pursuit, sending more hunters with slave-hounds and Varitai in escort, seemingly having exhausted his supply of slave elite. Frentis ordered false trails laid and traps set. At night he led small bands of the more stealthy fighters forth to cut throats and sow confusion in the ranks of their pursuers. Varitai were easier to kill than Kuritai, but they could still be formidable, especially if allowed to form ranks. He would strike in the small hours of the morning, seeking to kill as many dogs and hunters as possible, then withdrawing at speed to a pre-prepared ambush. It worked the first few times, the Varitai marching blindly into arrow storms and spiked pits. But whoever had command of the hunt soon became wise to the tactic, keeping his men together in four solid groups each numbering more than three hundred, whilst Frentis lost people every time they launched another attack and there were no more caravans to raid for recruits.

Their pursuers had evolved an unpleasant tactic of their own, loosing packs of slave-hounds at the slightest hint of a scent, thirty or more of the beasts running unfettered through the forest killing anything they could catch. Yesterday had brought them close enough to the camp to force a battle, the faith-hounds meeting their relatives headlong in a morass of tearing claws and flashing teeth. Frentis led half the fighters against their rear whilst Davoka took the others into their flank. She seemed to have a particular hatred of the slave-hounds, killing without restraint or fatigue as she cut a bloody trail through their swirling ranks. Frentis found her finishing the pack leader with a thrust through the rib cage, an ugly grimace of distaste on her face as she turned the spear to find the heart.

“Twisted,” she said in answer to his frown. “Made wrong and smell wrong.”

“We saved some for you, brother,” Illian said, offering him a bowl of the porridge.

He resisted the urge to ask if she had made it and accepted the bowl. “Thank you, my lady.” He ate the gruel and surveyed the camp. Aspect Grealin sat alone, as he usually did these days, seemingly lost in thought. Davoka and Ermund were practising again, hand-to-hand combat this time. He noticed her occasional grin as they tumbled together and wondered if he should offer some warning to Ermund, then noticed the knight’s own grin and decided it was probably redundant. Where did they find the time?

Thirty-Four, still undecided on a name, sat practising his Realm Tongue with Draker, although much of the lesson seemed to consist of the correct use of profanity. “No,” the big man shook his shaggy head. “Pig-fucker not fuck-pigger.”

Janril Norin was sharpening his sword, face impassive and eyes empty as he worked the stone along the edge. Beyond him Master Rensial tended their two remaining horses, the veteran stallion and the mare. Recently he had expressed his desire to breed them, providing a new blood-line for the Order’s stables, the state of which drew his constant criticism. “Too much straw on the floor,” he tutted. “Walls haven’t been whitewashed in months.”

“We were wondering, brother,” Arendil said, breaking into his reverie. “About the Volarians.”

“What about them?”

“Where they come from. Davoka says you’ve been there. Her ladyship thinks they all come from the same huge city, whilst my grandfather said their empire covered half the world.”

“It’s a big place,” Frentis said. “And Volar is said to be the greatest city in the world, though I’ve never seen it.”

“But you saw their empire?” Illian asked. “You saw what makes them into these beasts.”

“I saw cities, and roads of marvellous construction. I saw cruelty and greed, but I’ve seen them here too. I saw a people live a life that was strange in many ways, but also much the same as anywhere else.”

“Then why are they so cruel?” There was an earnestness to the girl’s face, an honest desire to know.

“Cruelty is in all of us,” he said. “But they made it a virtue.”

He returned his gaze to the camp, forcing himself to count every soul in sight. Forty-three, and eight hounds. This is not an army, and I am not a Battle Lord.

He stood up, hefting his sword and bow. “We’re leaving,” he said, loud enough to draw Davoka’s attention.

“Moving camp again, brother?” Arendil asked with a note of weary reluctance.

“No. We’re leaving the forest. There is no victory to be won here. It’s time to flee.”

? ? ?

Janril stood with the old Renfaelin sword resting on his shoulder. He carried no pack or canteen, nothing that would sustain him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Frentis told him. “I would hear you sing again, my friend. This land was always richer for it.”

The onetime minstrel just cast an impassive glance over his face then turned to walk away. He went a few yards before pausing to turn back. “Her name was Ellora,” he said. “She died with my child inside her.”

He resumed walking, soon lost from sight in the trees.

? ? ?

It wasn’t easy, the master’s eyes seemed about to birth tears as Frentis explained, but eventually he managed to persuade him to loose the horses, sending them north in the hope the hunters would follow the trail. “Too easily tracked, Master,” he said. “They have horses at the Pass, and I’m sure Master Sollis will have need of the finest stable master in the Realm.”

He ordered a westward course, intending to hook north having left more false trails for their pursuers. Frentis and Davoka brought up the rear whilst Ermund scouted ahead with Arendil and Illian, the girl’s ear now as well tuned to the song of the forest as any brother or huntsman. They covered at least twenty miles by nightfall, a good day’s march in the Urlish.

They made a silent and fireless camp, huddling together for warmth. “Stop fidgeting!” Illian hissed at Arendil as they lay side by side next to a fallen birch trunk.

“Your bloody dog keeps licking my face,” the boy returned in a sullen whisper.

Frentis sat watch beside Grealin, eyes and ears alive to the forest’s song. The forest appears black at night, Master Hutril had said years ago. An endless void. But it’s more alive in the dark than the daylight. Still your fears and know it as a friend, for it’s the best watchman you ever met.

In the tree tops an owl hooted at its neighbour with trustworthy regularity. The wind brought only the scents of the forest, free of man’s sweat or the sweeter tang of dog. The void was empty of any telltale gleam of metal in moonlight.

“Open country to the north, brother,” Grealin said in the softest whisper. “And near a hundred and fifty miles of Renfael to traverse before we reach the pass. The risk is great.”

“I know, Aspect. But it’s greater here.”

? ? ?

They kept a westward course for the next day, Frentis ordering a turn north come evening. He spent an hour continuing west alone but for Slasher and Ermund, laying a trail of broken branches and conspicuous boot and paw prints. They kept at it until nightfall then moved north to find the river, following the bank to a shallow ford. The others were waiting on the other side, Davoka stepping from the shadows with spear ready and Illian rising from a bush, crossbow in hand.

“We move on at dawn,” Frentis said, slumping at the foot of a pine trunk and letting sleep claim him for the few hours left until daylight.

Morning brought a new scent on the wind, musty and acrid. Frentis called to Illian and nodded at the pine trunk. The girl handed Arendil her crossbow and began to climb, scampering from branch to branch until she had reached the highest point.

“Fire,” she reported on returning to earth. “Lots of fire.”

“Where?” Davoka asked.

“Everywhere. All around. The largest one is burning to the south of us though, just a little ways from the city.”

Frentis exchanged a glance with Grealin. Darnel burns the Urlish just for us?

“What do we do?” Draker asked, unable to keep the old whine from his voice.

“What every other living thing is this forest is doing.” Frentis slung his bow across his back and began to throw away anything that might slow him down. “We run.”

He ran them for an hour at a time, taking the lead and setting a punishing pace. Some of the fighters flagged, collapsing from the strain, but he allowed no lingering, setting Davoka to haul them along, promising direst punishment if they fell out again. All the time the smell of smoke grew thicker, the first columns rising to stain the sky through breaks in tree cover. Predictably, Grealin found the pace the hardest to bear, huffing along behind with sweat streaming over his fleshy face. But he voiced no complaint and kept on his feet until nightfall.

Illian climbed another tree as the sun waned, her slight form black against an orange sky as she surveyed the forest. “It’s just one big fire to the south now,” she said. “You can’t see the city for it, the flames are so high. There’s another one almost as big to the west.”

“Ahead of us?” Frentis asked.

She gave a grim nod. “Still patchy. But it’s growing.”

“Then we can’t linger. Move in a line and stay together. When the smoke gets thick join hands.”