He had not crawled far from the basin where his horse had died. The hills had seemed too vast, too threatening to venture deep into. If he lost sight of the basin, he’d lose sight of the road, and then he’d be lost. The truth was, his courage had failed him and he felt ashamed. The smell of his own urine mocked him. He could taste his own betrayal, bitter and sickening, and again and again the shudder of the horse echoed through him – the feel of life leaving it as he hugged its neck. It did not deserve that kind of end, driven forward in fear, pushed into exhaustion, guided by a foolish boy. What would he tell Wreneck? He would rather the bandits had cut him down instead.

He gave up on his fear of the night and closed his eyes. He’d stopped shivering and that was good.

A footfall on gravel dragged him awake. His heart pounded hard and seemed to swell inside his chest. He struggled to breathe.

From over his head, atop the boulder he leaned his back against, a voice drifted down. ‘There you are.’

With a soft cry, Orfantal tried to lunge forward, but his legs gave way beneath him.

‘Easy! It’s me, old Gripp.’

The man edged down into the hollow, alongside Orfantal. A hand settled on his shoulder. ‘You’re chilled as the Abyss. I made up a camp nearby, scavenged some bedding. Can you stand?’

Tears were streaming down from Orfantal’s eyes, but apart from that first cry no sound would come from him. Shame was flooding back into him. He tried to get up but failed again.

‘You wouldn’t have lasted the night. Good thing I found you. That thing with the horse, that was a smart move – no way they was going to follow you out there.’ As he was speaking he gathered up Orfantal in his arms. ‘Lie still. It’ll be all right. I got to move slow, got a hurt back and a wrenched knee.’ And now Orfantal could feel the man limping as he carried him; a rhythmic sagging to the left as Gripp tried to put weight on that leg. The old man’s skin was slick with sweat, a detail that Orfantal could not understand. ‘Just a little further. Can’t have no fire, though.’

Orfantal found that his eyes were adjusting and he could now make out the looming shapes of rocks and sheer cliffsides as Gripp worked up along a narrow trail. He then angled left, off the path, wending slowly between boulders, his breaths growing harsh.

There was an odd echo to those gasps and Gripp settled down to one knee. ‘We’re here.’