“Down!” Nessa commanded sharply. They obeyed, tongues lolling, dark eyes gleaming expectantly in the shadowy chamber. The second creature was skin and bone, its ear torn, its coat filthy. It seemed friendly enough. She should be able to coax it out without much difficulty.

“Come on, then,” Nessa said encouragingly. “Good girl. Come on, then.” She backed toward the passageway, clicking her fingers. The dogs stood still as carven images, watching her. She’d have to go out and get the bread. “Come on. Good boy.”

She took another step back, trod on something, lost her balance and fell to one knee, putting out a hand to steady herself. Still grasping the flickering lamp, she looked down. There at her feet was a bundle of old cloth and fur and bits of metal, a large bundle that didn’t belong here, for this was a secret place, where only she and Rona could come, a place where nothing was left without a purpose. The dogs padded closer, quite silent now. Nessa looked again. There was an axe. It was a very fine axe with patterns like shimmering water on the blade and a handle of oak. She held the lamp nearer, and her heart lurched. There was a fist clutching the handle. The fist belonged to a man, a man who lay curled on himself in a ball, knees drawn up, one arm over his face, the other protective around this great weapon of death. He clung to it even in what seemed the deepest sleep, a sleep beyond dreams. He was not dead: those clutching fingers showed that. Perhaps he would wake suddenly and the arm would come up and the axe would strike her down where she knelt by him. Perhaps. But the dogs were quiet, sensing no danger. Nessa reached out her hand and, taking a corner of the woolen cloth that covered his face, peeled it gently back.

She had seen this man before. He was the big one, the silent one who watched the sky. His eyelids were heavily closed, his chin rough with a stubble of new-grown beard, his skin pallid and dry. He had dark shadows around his eyes, and a sunken look to his features. Still, she knew him. His hair gleamed dull gold in the lamplight. He was shivering, she could feel the trembling through the woolen cloak that lay over him. Under his head was the wolfskin he had once worn on his shoulders. Everything was damp; cloak, fur, tunic, hair, everything. He looked as if he’d been a long time without food and water. Rona had been right. They did indeed have a problem.