He saw the Bear slide on the soft, slush covered ground, striking upward into a soldier’s thigh. Before the man could bleed to death Bourninund pulled his legs from under him, taking a glancing blow in his side.

He ran to help, but two soldiers blocked his way suddenly. He had little experience of facing more than one soldier. Even the odds, came a gruff, old warrior’s voice in his mind.He spun again, his axe flying round at head height. Two bright arcs of blood filled his vision as he came to rest. Or stack them in your favour, he told himself and grinned wildly.

All discomfort was forgotten. He blood boiled. He raged.

As he ran to the Bear’s side, he was only just raising himself from the ground. He faced a soldier, but the soldier’s back was turned to Renir. He could not hear his approach over the wind.The soldier’s sword point hovered above the ground like a serpent poised to strike. Bourninunds swords — shorter than Shorn’s, designed for thrusting rather than slashing, swung. The Protocrat Tenther fell from the power of the blow, and the Bear’s sword, stuck between his ribs, pulled Bourninund’s arm from its socket.

“Goddamn!” he cursed. Renir could hear him over the raging storm. The Bear’s other sword, still clutched tight in his hand now trailed its point on the floor.

Renir crashed his axe overhand into the helm of a dark eyed man and watched him crumple to the ground.

“Renir! Quick, grab my hand!”

He was at Bourninund’s side, and took hold of his friend’s arm in a two-handed grip, twisting the arm straight against the elbow joint.Shorn covered them, pointing his sword perpendicular to the ground at the next attacker.

“Quick, now, when I say, twist and push it up!”

Renir needed no instruction. For some reason the knowledge of how to return the shoulder to its socket was suddenly large in his mind. He took Bourninund’s hand in his, putting his left against the elbow to hold the arm straight, twisted and pushed upward hard.

“Araagh!”

The Protocrat fell to Shorn’s sword.

Bourninund’s fist crashed into Renir’s nose.

Wen walked calmly to their side and returned his sword to his scabbard, which he had dropped on the beach when they landed.

When Renir came too again Shorn was looking down at him. He turned his head gingerly to Bourninund. “What is it with mercenaries?” Honestly, you lend a hand.”

Shorn was still laughing at him, but Bourninund looked sheepish. “Sorry, Renir.” His face didn’t look like his apology was heart-felt. “I should’ve warned you. I tend to hit things when I’m hurt. Self-defense.”

Shorn nodded. “Not to worry, Renir, first time I did it — he did the same thing to me.”

“Fair enough. Next time you can put your own damn shoulder back in. Did we win?”

Shorn pulled him up, and looked pointedly around at the bodies strewn across the cove.

“Guess so,” said Renir with a nod, and suddenly his legs felt very weak.

“Let’s get out of this wind,” said Shorn, and together, they walked to where Drun was waiting, unscathed, with a new pair of dead man’s boots on his feet.

How am I going to fight this? Reih thought to herself. They would come for her if she didn’t kill herself. But if she fled, like a coward? What secrets would eternity hold for a coward?

They were close. Not close enough to run though. So, the Protocrats wanted the Kua’taenium dead? They’ll not find it so easy while she could still change her fate. Come. Kuh’taenium, show me the scene:

Reih standing alone on a platform. Surrounded by her peers. Among them stood the Hierarchy. Above them stood the Protectorate.A seat. On a stall. A heavy spice smell hangs in the air. Heat. The Kuh’taenium expresses…gratitude? She turns to look and there, not a man, but a view.

A flash and she was back. The visions were stronger. She felt stronger. She looked out from the top of her owner and slave, looking out to the city below, across its great expanse, and up, rising up. The colours garish in some places, grim in others, lavish nowhere. The slum.

A knock came at her door.

“Enter,” she called.

Her bodyguard, Perr, spoke in clipped, military tones. She would have to have words with him. He was a new addition, but already his manner was grating on her.

“A petitioner, my lady. Should I send him hence? He has the look of a ruffian. He says you sent him a letter.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Send him in. And Perr?”

“Yes, my lady,”

“I will see him alone.”

“But…!”

“Alone!”

A sour look crossed his face, but he left her.

The door was left ajar, and an old, gnarly man with the strength of back to shame a century-oak strode in. Gurt entered with an ancient grace, and the first smile in such a long time broke Reih’s stony face.

Light, at last!

The builders are on our side now…I remember the old days. Give him your trust, and we may yet live.

The words were like a balm to her soul, as was the sight of Tirielle’s old companion.

It seemed a shame to waste it. There was a camp set up in lee of the wind, where a sparse coastal tree of a kind not seen on Sturma battled against the weather, stripped bare, perhaps dead, perhaps just dormant, like a bear slumbering through the winter, but Renir didn’t think this winter would ever end.

The wind pulled at the sides of the tent — they had taken the largest, and shared it together — but the snow was blissfully silent, piling up around them. In the morning they would have a job to clear the snow away, and head on their way, wherever that may be, but for now there was a brazier with hot coals and provisions. Evidently the Protectorate’s bowels were happy with the same fare as any man’s. There were cold meats, frozen but after some chewing tasty, nonetheless. Pickles vegetables floated in some liquid which did not freeze, despite the biting cold, and brandy sloshed back and forth between them, warming the insides even if the extremities remained a bit frosty.

They had left the bodies where they lay. With high tide, they would be carried out to sea. If not, they would freeze, be covered by snow and ice, forgotten for eternity in the wastes.

There was no one left to care. They had slaughtered them all.

Renir tried hard, but he found no compassion for them either. They would have killed him, and while he had compassion in abundance, he was no saint. He would save it for those who also loved. To him, they seemed more deserving.

Drun professed a different view — those who hated needed love more than most, for hate lived inside them, too, and tore away all humanity. Pity them, he said.

Renir was of a mind to put them down before they could harm the undeserving. He had seen enough good men worn down and killed by adversity and hate to try all in his power to save them that fate. He would shed no tears for the Protectorate. From what he knew of them, they had not even the smallest kernel of love within them to grow, no matter how much sunshine and water they were fed. They were born to hate, and malice. It was their sunshine. Creatures, in short, he could not understand. Neither did he have any desire to save them. They could rot in hell for all he cared.

He snuggled his feet closer to the welcome warmth of the brazier. Philosophy was not for him. He leaned toward the simpler understand of life. In short, he was becoming a warrior.

He had come to realise, as had Shorn, Bourninund, and Wen (although Wen seemed to entertain deeper thoughts on the subject, which Renir had trouble understanding but which Drun seemed to approve of, in some indefinable way), that in battle there was no room for thought, or compassion, or quarter. Strive to live, and fight for the man at your side.