Simply elegant.

Drun had made his head ache — to do good was the same, he claimed. It made perfect sense until you realised that not everyone held the same philosophy.

It tired him to think of it, so he took another swig of the jug offered him by Wen, and drained the last drop. Shorn popped the cork on another. Wen sat cross-legged, and delved into his waxed leather pouch which nestled against his hard gut.

“Is that wise?” asked Drun, not unkindly.

“It is my way. Even for these scum, I must commune. And it is essential, too. We have no other means to discover where they hailed from. We must follow them. As you had promised, your fellows have not arrived. We do not even know where to begin. As distasteful as you might find the grass, it is our only means.”

“I do not find it distasteful, not at all. I am concerned, though. It seems overly morbid to me.”

“And you seem soft, yet you battle well, Drun. A man is complex, and cannot be understood fully. I have my way, you have yours. Let it be at that.”

Wen spoke not harshly, but with a kind of respect that was earned in battle. For some reason Drun’s willingness to use his magic in aid of them had softened Wen’s stony attitude to the priest. It was a relief to them all. They could not afford division, not when their very survival depended on them working together, and risking their lives for one another.

Renir would have shed a little tear, had he not been afraid his eye ball would freeze.

Wen stuffed some of the sweet smelling grass into his pipe, and lit a small taper from the coals. He tamped the weed with a finger as he puffed, until the smoke began to fill the room — it was not an unpleasant smell, but Drun’s nose wrinkled as though smelling someone’s doings on his shoes. Wen’s eyes reddened, watering — not frozen yet, thought Renir. Smoked joined that of the coals, and Renir felt lightheaded, as he had in Rean’s Player’s Emporium (that night seemed like an age ago, but it had only been two months or so). Smoke swirled on the drafty air, and to Renir it seemed as though they were more than random patterns — he saw that Wen’s eyes were following the patterns, a distant look on his face like he was seeing something beyond.

The tiny scar on Wen’s shiny forehead stood out in sharp relief, a reminder of a misjudged head butt. Renir realised that the giant’s teeth were sallow, a peaky kind of yellow — no doubt a result of his addiction to the grass.

“Close your eyes, Renir, or you too will drift into places you do not wish to go.”

He took Drun’s advice, and while the wind seemed especially sonorous, he no longer felt adrift.

“You always did have a predilection for stupidity, Shorn…it sings when in presence of beautiful magic — it only whines near evil magic. You’re so accustomed to using it in battle you’ve never seen it…”

“It takes a while to get where you’re going. Sometimes a mind gets caught up in the past, sometimes the future,” Drun told him, by way of explanation for Wen’s sudden meanderings.

Renir nodded in response to Drun’s whispered words.

“Will he talk like that all night?”

“No, just kept your eyes closed and listen.”

And as if in response to Renir’s questions, he realised that Wen’s internal compass had found what he was looking for.

“And where do you hail from? Where is the hunt centred?”

Renir kept his eyes closed, but he listened carefully for any information that might come of the encounter. He wondered if the other half of the conversation was being held with someone he had slain, or if he was a victim of Wen’s blade.

“You may as well.”

“Most of the dead don’t worry about the past. I don’t know about Protocrats, though. Perhaps they hold onto their hate,” said Drun, quietly, so as not to disturb the dark warrior.

“For the fire mountain? Is there such a thing?” asked Wen, then fell silent for a long time, occasionally breaking the silence with only a murmured ‘yes’, or to bark a laugh. It seemed the dead were garrulous.

“…what of him? How powerful is the blight?

“I have it. Thank you. Go in peace. Follow the path.

“Yes, the path is all there is. One day we will meet again. Do not stray. I wish that on no man…I hold no hatred for your kind. Take my advice. Follow the path.”

The smell had gone — the pipe must have gone out. Renir risked a glance at his companions. Shorn’s eyes were closed tight. His scar was bright red — a reaction to the cold, or the smoke, he didn’t know. He noticed that the hairs peeking out of Bourninund’s long nostrils were greying.

All huddled round the stingy warmth of the fire. Wen found another to commune with, a picture of formed in Renir’s mind. He made sure to keep his eyes tightly shut this time.

Time passed slowly, drawn out behind the storm, the time of the dead seeping through. The snow plains were blanketed in the silence of stone. Except for Sybremreyen. Or the Kuh’taenium. Or the groaning of Thaxamalan’s saw to the south, stretching up to cut the bough of the sky.

Outside, unaffected by the cold, the Teryithyr watched the tent, and the slowly swirling snow, with the patience born of winter.

Cenphalph Cas Diem wheeled his horse round and left Briskel, singing his doeful tune to the forest, at their backs. The song rose on the air, drifting lazily through the dark trees, laying unsuspecting night owls to an unaccustomed rest. Badgers slumbered peacefully beneath the earth — come morning their bellies would grumble and they would not know why.

The hounds at the Sard’s heels barked snidely in the distance.

For two days now, aided by the paladin’s subtle magic, their horses had kept a good lead, but they could flee blindly no longer. It was time to turn and fight. The bayers, the Protectorate’s war hounds, would be the vanguard, rushing ahead of the main force, tireless and swift as the wind; biting, snarling dervishes. They would not stop the hunt now they had the scent. It would be folly to continue a race they could not win. The horses needed rest, and watering, and while faster on flat, care was needed in the woods. A lame horse could spell the end of one of them.

Briskel paid no heed to Cenphalph as his companion departed, leaving him and Yuthran alone on the back trail. His singing continued, superseding the usual forest symphony, cajoling its denizens to sleep with gentle imprecations. His magical helm reverberated with his subtle power, enough to make those too close to him ache in the jaw from clenching their teeth too tight. But at a distance it was soporific, deceptively gentle.

The bayers’ howling was nearer, now. Perhaps a mile, and closing fast. Yuthran drew his sword and stood still, his legs and shoulders loose, should the bayers prove more resilient to Briskle’s song than the creatures of the night.

It was a ploy that would only work now that the bayers had a good lead on their handlers. Yuthran prayed that it would work. They needed to buy time.

A crashing sound broke the peace that now lay on the forest. The bayers had hit the edge of the wave of sound, and fought against sleep as was their nature. These might be a different breed of bayer than that which they had met before, but still they would not be able to resist the allure of sleep. One reached their clearing, foaming at the mouth, its wild teeth snapping on air even as its eyelids drooped. Another broke through the wall. They should have fallen as soon as they hit the waves of sound, but still they fought to reach their prey, snarling with the last of their energy. Even for bayers, such dedication to the hunt was unusual. Yuthran, approaching a hound, could see the reason of it now. He felt a tear form on his beardless cheek — their collars were spiked, but with the spikes pointed inward. Driven by scent, their blood up from the hunt, they could no more stop than rest. Only when they captured their quarry would their handlers release them from their pain.