The dull glow of the embers provided just enough illumination for him to see his way to the entrance of the hut. Easing the furs back, Marcus warily rose into a crouch and padded across to the leather curtain. He paused and listened, but there was no sound of movement outside. He took a breath and eased the flap aside to peer round the edge. The open space beyond seemed empty apart from a single sentry bending over a small fire, building it up with some fresh logs. The rest had gone out and the dull glows around the valley indicated that most of the other campfires had been allowed to die down to avoid any tell-tale smoke come the dawn. Overhead, the sky was mostly obscured by cloud and there were only a few clear patches sprinkled with stars. It was likely that more snow was on the way, Marcus realized. A fresh fall of snow would help to hide his tracks.

He watched the sentry squat down and hold his hands out to warm them over the flames flickering about the newly added logs. The man appeared settled for the moment so Marcus slipped out of the hut and, staying low, followed the wall until he was out of sight. Then he paused to remember the layout of the valley he had seen after his blindfold was removed. He retraced the direction from which Brixus and his men had joined the crowd, then saw a distinct dip in the wall of the valley against the lighter background of the night sky. That seemed as likely a spot as any to find the secret entrance.

Checking that all was still, Marcus crept away from the hut and cautiously made his way through the camp. The sounds of snoring and occasional coughs and muttered words issued from the crude huts and shelters that had been constructed. These were accompanied by the shuffling and snorting of penned animals whose warm odour mixed with the slowly fading smell of woodsmoke. Marcus edged stealthily from cover to cover, pausing to make sure he had not attracted attention, while straining his eyes and ears to ensure that nothing stirred ahead of him before risking the next move. Once he had to throw himself flat when a man stumbled from a goatskin tent to relieve himself, waiting until he returned to his shelter with a half-awake grumble.

At length Marcus reached a track at the edge of the camp that meandered down a slope towards the cliffs. He realized that it was the dried-out bed of a small stream and guessed that many years before it had flowed through the chasm in the cliffs that now served as the entrance to the valley. The stream must have found a new course, or had one made for it by the first settlers in the valley.