Quentin could now name thirty different kinds of tree and shrub. He could tell the tracks of every forest creature that stirred in the dead of winter. And he could read the weather signs with some small degree of accuracy. Quentin considered this far more useful information than anything he had learned in the temple, although he had to admit his temple training was useful in other ways.

For these and other reasons, arising mainly out of the kinship formed of a group dedicated to a common purpose, Quentin felt a deep sense of joy in the rigors of the journey, forgetting easily the innumerable discomforts of living on the trail. He had also quite nearly forgotten the danger dogging their every step-the Harriers. Yet, there seemed to be nothing to indicate the presence of the hated trackers.

Theido, however, continually dropped behind the group, leaving it for hours at a time to watch and wait, scanning the forest for any sign which might indicate they were being followed. Each time he returned to report that he had seen nothing of the Harriers. But each day he grew more worried.

“I am afraid they are waiting for us to run out into the open,” Theido told them one night. The sun had just gone down and they sat around the fire wrapped in their cloaks and thick robes made of animal skins which Durwin had furnished.

“You don’t think we might have eluded them?” asked Trenn hopefully, “that Voss and his rangers put them off the trail…”

“No,” Theido replied gravely, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “I fear not. Voss may have put them off for some short time, and by the fact that we are still awake and moving, I’d say that was likely.”

“But, each day I feel their presence stronger. I seem to sense the fingers of their minds reaching out for us, drawing closer. They may not have found our trail as yet, but they are closing upon us.”

“Why do you think they will wait for us to break and run into the open?” asked Alinea. “Why would they not take us in the forest?”

Theido again shook his head. “That I do not know. There is something preventing them, though what it is I cannot say. But once we are free of the forest, which we shall be in two days’ time, they will have no trouble seeing us. The hills beyond offer little cover in the summer, and less in the winter, for those who need shelter from preying eyes.”

“Yet, if we can but cross the hill country as far as the Great Wall we will then have a chance,” interjected Durwin. He alone looked hopeful.

“We still have to find a way to cross the Wall,” reminded Trenn. “That could take many days. Unless my horse sprouts wings I do not see how we are to cross.”

“There must be a way,” said Alinea. “The Wall is old, perchance there is a breach…”

“Pray there is no breach, my Lady,” said Trenn. “Any advantage we receive, our captors will benefit the more.”

“The Harriers are not our captors,” said Quentin oddly. The others stopped and looked at him, raising their heads from the fire to see his face. He wore an expression of fear and wonder, his dark round eyes looking beyond the circle of light thrown out by the campfire. “These men are.”

Theido was the first to follow Quentin’s gaze outward and to see what he saw: a ring of faces-almost invisible in the darkness but for the firelight glinting in large eyes-circled them in. They were surrounded.

THE JHER village, if that word could be applied so loosely, was as nearly invisible as could be made. Shelters for fifty or more people had been erected out of limbs and branches, bark and leaves. Each was dug into the earth and was shaped like a shallow dome. If there had been no people standing in front of these simple abodes, or peering from the narrow slits of doorways, Quentin could have passed right through the rude village and never had an inkling he had been there.

The footprints in the snow on the ground told a different story.

The snow had been compacted by the constant trammeling of many feet. It appeared that the Jher had been living in this part of the forest all winter, as indeed they had. Hunting and trapping in the northernmost reaches of Pelgrin, they had established a winter camp in the forest. They would move again in the spring when they returned to their usual habitat-the Wilderlands of Obrey.

Seeing them now in the full light of day, Quentin wondered what he had feared from them in the long night when they had stood at the edge of the campfire’s light. All night they had held their strange vigil, faces shifting only slightly as one would go and another appear to take his place. He had imagined all sorts of horrible tortures at their hands. But looking now at their broad, brown faces, their finely formed yet sturdy features with their clear, untroubled brown eyes which seemed wise and all-knowing, Quentin was ashamed he had thought ill of these simple folk.

When dawn had come, the leader, who called himself Hoet, had advanced to the campfire where Theido and Durwin stood waiting to receive them in whatever manner they presented themselves-in war or in peace. Then, quite inexplicably, Durwin had startled everyone, not the least the Jher tribesmen who hooted in amazement, by speaking a few halting words in their lilting, sing-song tongue.

Durwin had turned to the others then and addressed them sheepishly. “I am sorry, my friends. I should have told you all sooner that we had nothing to fear from the Jher. But I thought it best to remain on our guard, for it has been long since I encountered any of them about in this part of the forest, and many changes have taken place in the world. I could not be certain what reception we faced. But it is as I hoped-they welcome us as friends.” He then faced the Jher leader and spoke again in that strange tongue.

Hoet signaled excitedly to his companions, about a dozen in all, and they had advanced murmuring together in astonishment at the strange wonder they beheld-a member of the white race speaking their language.

And wonder it was. The Jher were a wandering people. Simple, uncomplicated, their ways had not changed much in a thousand years. They built no cities, erected no altars, neither read nor wrote their own language. They were older even than the hated Shoth; older than the land, for all anyone knew. Where they had come from was a mystery long past discovering-one of the many which, like bark grown thick around an ancient oak, surrounded these shy people.

They were seldom seen in the region of Askelon anymore. Civilization forced them further and further north and east into the Wilderlands. Few city dwellers ever encountered the gentle Jher, but the peasants living close to the northern edges of Pelgrin glimpsed them on rare occasions. Sometimes they would not be seen in a region for a generation or more, and then suddenly appear just as before.

The Jher were a peaceful, timid people who had no enemies, except the brutal Shoth whom they hunted like the deer they lived upon. It was a marvel these unassuming beings could fight at all; they did not seem capable of conflict. But they had among their surprising traits an inbred hatred for the last of their ancient enemy.

Durwin sat in consultation with Hoet, the Jher chieftain, in the midst of the small clearing. Quentin could tell the going was very slow. The same words were repeated over and over, with many gestures and lapses into confused silence. But Durwin seemed to be making headway. He nodded more frequently and seemed to ask questions less often. All this Quentin wildly inferred, since nothing in the Jher speech seemed like words in the ordinary sense. It was more a random uttering of forest sounds and nature imitations than real language. And yet, to Quentin’s ears it was strangely beautiful and even moving, for in it he heard the gentle sounds of the earth as it moved through the seasons, of trees in the wind, of water slapping stone, of animals playing. The language of the Jher was filled with the beauty of the forest and its creatures.