Outside, he headed south. His breath plumed in the cold night air. He wrapped cloth rags about his hands as he ran, Svalthbrul clamped under an arm. Once he reached the forest and the steepening descent into the first of the lower valleys, he stopped and peered about the dark woods.

‘Eithjar!’ he called. ‘I am searching for Jass! Which way?’

He waited, but none came. Well, I guess they don’t come when called …

He started down the trail.

When the sun rose above the lower ridges of the Salt range he was crossing a valley. A runoff stream churned down its middle, no deeper than his shins, but frigid as it splashed and hissed among the boulders and rocks of its naked bed. Across the stream he stamped his sodden feet to bring feeling back into them. He raised a hand to his mouth and called: ‘Which way?’ His shout echoed among the steep valley walls.

He almost missed it then, in his impatience and disgust. A thin ash-grey shape flickering at the treeline far to the east. He frowned at the indistinct visitation, uncertain whether his eyes were playing tricks upon him. Then the shape raised an arm pointing to the east and was gone.

Orman rubbed his gritty eyes, blinked them. Gods, the east! This high that would be … No! The little fool! Bain Holding! What could he possibly mean to …

He set off at a run the way the shade had pointed. He smashed into the dense brush, limbs snapping and lashing. He vaulted from rock to rock. The way steepened as he approached the valley side. Ahead, past the trees, the ridgeline climbed bare and rocky. Snow yet lingered in the shadows and capped the highest shoulders. The air was frigid, yet it seemed to burn his lungs as he panted onward. And all the while, Svalthbrul’s keen knapped edge sang as it cut the cold air.

Chapter VII

CHAPTER VII

FISHER KEL TATH sat in the gloom of the cave lit only by the small sputtering fire. With his fingertips, he massaged tiny circles over his temples. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You wrecked on the coast while you were returning home?’

Coots and Badlands, both of the Lost clan, nodded vigorously. ‘Aye,’ Badlands answered.

‘And you’ve been down here for how long? Months?’

The brothers shared guilty glances. Coots started counting on his fingers, frowned, shrugged, then scratched his ridged bald pate.

Fisher stared his disbelief. ‘Why haven’t you escaped? You could climb out, couldn’t you?’

Badlands waved a hand. ‘Oh, yeah. Might fall to our deaths any time, though.’

‘But you don’t intend to stay down here for ever, do you? Don’t you want to get home?’

Another quick guilty glance shot between the brothers. Fisher looked from one to the other. ‘What is it … what aren’t you saying? That is, if it’s any of my business.’