She smiled at him. ‘Yes, we must. We have another half-day’s ride before we reach the harbour town of Muslvik. There we will seek passage on a ship bound for Stromgard. Time is against us if we are to save Erik Rivengeld.’

‘We are not going the entire way by land?’

Fleya let out a small laugh. ‘Certainly not. The mountains north of us between here and Stromgard are too dangerous to cross. We will go to Muslvik and find a captain willing to take us across the Gulf of Rikkor.’

Excitement rose in Lann; he couldn’t hide the delight in his voice when he spoke. ‘I have always wanted to see the ocean.’

Muslvik

13

Muslvik was like nothing Lann had ever seen or experienced. The place had an unmistakeable odour to it – sharp and metallic. When he asked his aunt what it was, she smiled and told him it was ‘the smell of the sea’.

Leading his mount on foot, Lann stared about in wide-eyed amazement, trying to take everything in at once. The noise of the place had a disorientating effect on him. The clamorous din of those thronging the streets – human and animal alike – was punctuated with the cries of street merchants calling out to anyone and everyone passing, imploring them to come and look at their wares. And the people! The sheer number of people jostling for space made him feel uncomfortable. Men and women, boys and girls, passed each other in a constantly moving procession that was almost too much to take in. It reminded Lann a little of watching the salmon during spawning season, the fish cramming every inch of the river with their bodies in an effort to reach their destination.

Sensing his unease, Fleya led them off the main street, towards a livery yard where they might sell their ponies. They had almost reached their destination when a man standing in front of an empty stall, set apart from the others, urgently beckoned them over.

The trader looked like no Volken that Lann had ever seen. Broad features were set into a face that was the colour of honey and he wore a long, black drooping moustache that had been waxed into neat tips at the ends. He was a barrel-shaped man, as if he’d spent his entire life eating and drinking with no time for exercise of any kind. ‘My friends,’ he cried in a strange accent. ‘Come over here. Come speak to Almer.’ There was something about the man and his broad smile that caused Fleya and Lann to pause in a way they hadn’t for any of the previous hawkers they’d passed.

‘Why?’ Lann called over to him. ‘You have nothing to sell.’

The man spread his arms and then gestured at himself with his hands. ‘On the contrary, young sir. You are looking at what I am selling. Come.’