AN UNLIKELY EVENT

AS SOON as they left camp, Wynter pulled Razi aside and anxiously told him about the necklace and its possible effect on the Wolves. He swung to Christopher, appalled, and Christopher, shameless and defiant, simply sucked his teeth, pulled his horse onto the trail and kept going. Razi was left staring after him, speechless. After a moment, Sólmundr edged his horse past and fell into place by his young friend’s side, and they forged on.

Razi and Christopher barely spoke to each other for three days.

The trail brought them higher and then higher still: up beyond the majestic pines into hard-country woodland; above that again into wind-twisted scrub; and then, finally, up into the shale-strewn wastelands and rock that would be their landscape until they reached the other side.

This high into the mountains, the wind was tremendously strong. Slicing across loose beds of shale and rubble, and blasting down the black faces of cliffs, it cut through Wynter’s many layers of clothes and ripped the heat from her body. She took to travelling with her cloak and blankets wrapped around her, her head ducked against the incessant gale. For the first time since she’d met him, Sólmundr covered his arms. Eventually he gave in completely and shrugged his wiry body into a heavy, felt-lined jacket and wrapped his head in a scarf. Only Boro didn’t seem to feel the cold, and he ranged the barren landscape with cheerful, snuffling enthusiasm, his tongue lolling, his fur flattened in the wind.

On the third night, they plundered a copse of straggling furze bushes for wood and lit a guttering fire in the shelter of a rock. Sólmundr drew his covers around him and lay back, his eyes shut. He was quiet, as usual, content to let the others set the tone. Wynter huddled by his side, Boro stretched between them, his head resting warm in her lap. She scratched the hound’s bristly ears and watched her men as they stewed in their silence.

Christopher, swaddled in his cloak and blanket, sat cross-legged by the fire, gnawing a strip of dried venison. His blanket was pulled, cowl-like, over his head, and only his mouth and chin were visible as he doggedly chewed the last of the meat. Razi sat with his shoulders hunched against the cold, his eyes fixed on the flames. The wind gusted through a narrow gap in the rocks, flinging his curls across his face, and he shoved them back, pulling his scarf tight and binding it hard under his chin.

Behind them, the mountains rose black and featureless against the dusky sky. It would be dark soon. There would be no moon. Wynter scanned the sharp outline of the cliff edges for movement. The wind shushed slyly in the rocks around her and skittered through the loose shale.

‘What can you possibly have been thinking?’ cried Razi suddenly.

Christopher’s jaw stopped moving for a fraction of a second; then he recommenced chewing.

‘Úlfnaor told you he would protect the boy! Did you honestly think you’d help matters by exposing my intentions to the Wolves?’

Christopher swallowed his chunk of meat. He said nothing.

‘You are an unruly chard, Garron!’ said Razi, kicking a stone into the fire. ‘You have no more sense than a child!’ He tucked his hands into his armpits and huddled deep into his cloak, his eyes roaming the uneasy shadows. ‘You are enough to kill me with exasperation.’

‘What done is done,’ murmured Sólmundr. ‘If they come for us, we fight. That all it is.’

‘I cannot help but feel that, had the Wolves been intent on harming us, they would have attacked by now,’ ventured Wynter. ‘No doubt David was loath to risk everything Alberon has offered him on so vague a threat as a finger pointed to a necklace.’ She glanced at Christopher, hoping he would agree, but he stayed silent, his face still obscured by his hood of blankets. ‘I should think that after all this time we are safe,’ she said.

Sólmundr slit his eyes and looked at her. ‘They sick anyways,’ he reassured her. ‘I not see them able to follow us. Even as Wolfs, they be too ill to journey this trail.’

Razi huffed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘David is certainly no fool. And I suppose Wyn is right, he would be unlikely to jeopardise his future based on a story brought to him by Jean.’ He settled back against his saddle. ‘Perhaps you are both right,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps all will be well. But I still should have you pilloried, Christopher Garron. I am beyond words with anger.’

Wynter smiled. She found it unlikely that any emotion could put Razi beyond words for long, and, to tell the truth, he didn’t sound particularly angry now that he’d actually had his say. She looked to Christopher again, glad it was out in the open, hoping for a smile.

‘The truth is,’ said Christopher softly, ‘I didn’t even think about it. If I had, even just for a second, I wouldn’t have done it.’ He looked up at Razi, the firelight finally illuminating his face. ‘I’m sorry.’

There was something in the way Christopher said ‘I’m sorry’ that sent a blade of fear slicing up Wynter’s back. Sólmundr raised himself onto his elbow and waited solemnly.

‘David may not act,’ said Christopher. ‘But if Jean thinks we threaten his life, he’ll find a way to send the lower pack. They’ll travel as Wolves and attack as pleases them. We can’t outrun them, not even on horses, so when they come we’ll have to fight. There’s six of them, and there’s four of us, plus Boro. If we’re lucky, the animals will smell them before they sneak up on us and we may get the chance to shoot.’

If we’re lucky, thought Wynter.

‘How fast can they travel?’ asked Razi. ‘Will they be here soon?’

Christopher glanced at Wynter and lowered his head without answering. Razi sat back again, his face grave. ‘Shit,’ he said.

The Wolves attacked on the fifth day, in broad daylight, out of nowhere. The wind was gusting steadily in from the top of the pass, howling into their faces, and there was no advance warning from dog or horse. Wynter wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of an attack. It was too cold, the wind too wicked and the trail too narrow for her to be thinking of anything other than just getting by. She was looking up at the scudding grey sky, hoping that it wouldn’t rain, when something darted across the top of the bluff above her. It flew down the slope so fast that she thought it nothing but a cloud shadow. Then it leapt past her, momentarily cutting off the breeze, and Wynter felt heat and smelled a Wolf ’s musty scent as the shadow hit Razi and carried him over the edge of the path.

She registered sky and rock where only moments before there had been man and horse. Then the screams of Razi’s mare cut into her shock and Wynter twisted in the saddle, staring downwards while Razi, Wolf and mare tumbled away from her. Razi was tangled helplessly in his tack, and he appeared and disappeared from view as his horse rolled over and over, all the way down the steep slope to the bottom of the hill.

Christopher yelled: ‘They’re on the ridge! They’re on the ridge!’

Wynter looked up to see a Wolf launch for her, its jaws gaping. A crossbow thwack ed. The bolt whined past her ear and the Wolf jerked in mid-flight, as though yanked on a chain. It fell to the ground at Ozkar’s feet, Christopher’s arrow jutting from its chest. But it was not dead and it writhed an agonised circle on the rocky path, screeching and struggling, neither animal nor man in its distress.

Ozkar reared in panic. Wynter almost came unseated as he tried to back away from the creature thrashing at his feet.

‘Corral your horse!’ yelled Christopher. Then he, too, screamed. His cry was cut abruptly short, and there was a heavy thump and the rattle of something big hitting the gravel behind Wynter’s horse.

Sólmundr bellowed in Merron, fury clear in his voice.

Wynter twisted in the saddle, trying to see Christopher. But Ozkar chose that time to turn on the too-narrow path. His hooves slipped on the shale, and Wynter was sent lurching forward as his front legs slid over the edge of the bluff. She grabbed his mane to keep from sliding headfirst down his neck and into the chasm below. For a moment she swung dizzyingly over the drop. There was a brief, distressing glimpse of Razi, his red coat a vivid splash of colour on the rocks below, then Wynter pulled herself upright and leaned back in the saddle, giving Ozkar a chance to gain his feet.

Once turned, the horse dropped his head and lashed out with both hind legs. With a solid whump and a brief howl, the shot Loup-Garou was kicked from the path. It sailed far out into the air before plummeting into the gully below.

Christopher’s riderless horse reared and lunged on the perilous track between Sól and Wynter. Between its trampling hooves, Christopher was locked in furious combat with a third Loup-Garou. Wynter drew her sword. She heaved Ozkar into line, intent on stabbing the Wolf ’s back. But before she could act, Christopher and the Wolf rolled to the edge of the path and plunged down the slope. Wynter caught a glimpse of Christopher, his eyes yellow, his teeth bared, and then he and the Wolf slithered from sight in a rattle of stones and debris.

Sólmundr yelled hoarsely. Wynter spun just in time to see a Loup-Garou land on him, then Sólmundr was hidden beneath the Wolf ’s massive body. His mare threw her head, her eyes wild, as the Wolf ’s hind claws scrabbled great, bloody tracks into her shoulders and neck. The poor horse slid and slipped about on the loose gravel, almost brought to its knees by its struggling burden of rider and Wolf.

Wynter urged Ozkar forward, trying to pass Christopher’s maddened horse and get to Sól. She saw the warrior’s fist jerk back, and Sól punched the Wolf ’s head away from his throat. His knife flashed and there was a spray of scarlet as he stabbed at the creature’s neck. Boro leapt, snarling, and caught the Loup-Garou’s hind leg in his huge jaws. There was a bright snap of bone and the Wolf arched, screaming. Wolf and hound fell away from Sól. Tumbling to the ground in a growling frenzy of teeth and fur, they engaged each other in battle.

Sólmundr, dazed and painted with blood, slid sideways in his saddle. Wynter cried out to him, certain that he would slip to the ground, but at the last minute he righted himself. He clung blearily to his horse’s blood-drenched neck as Boro and the Wolf tore into each other on the ground at its feet.

In an effort to escape the savagery of Wolf and dog, Christopher’s horse launched itself off the edge of the path. It slid down the loose surface of the hill in a barely controlled panic of flying stones and grit, then tumbled head over heels on the unmanageable slope. Ozkar mindlessly tried to follow, and Wynter yanked him round and yelled, ‘Stay easy!’

Another Wolf breasted the hill, heading for Sólmundr. Wynter opened her mouth to shout a warning to the dazed warrior. A shadow crossed her, and as the fifth Wolf hit Sól, the sixth fell on Wynter from above.

Her sword flew from her hand as a Wolf ’s weight flung her back, and she sprawled, helpless, under the creature’s hot and reeking body. She twisted. The Wolf ’s teeth missed her throat by a fraction, snapping the air by her cheek. Ozkar went down on his haunches under their weight.

Still in the saddle, Wynter felt the Wolf ’s hind claws rake her belly as he tried to gut her. Her many layers of clothes saved her from immediate evisceration, but her jacket fell open with a gasp of torn fabric and she knew that the next raking pass of his feet would expose her guts to the air. She fumbled for her knife with one hand and shoved frantically with the other, trying to push him off. He reared back, half-wolf, half-man, and glared down at her with his not-quite-human eyes. He opened his distorted mouth for the killing bite. Then Ozkar began to struggle to his feet.

Wynter clung to the Wolf and the Wolf clung to her. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, then they slid from the saddle and down Ozkar’s rounded backside in one sudden uncontrollable rush. All at once, Wynter was upside down and dangling, one foot caught in the stirrup, trailing headfirst down the treacherous slope.

The Wolf shot past her with a howl. He grabbed Wynter’s cloak to stop his fall, and swung to the end of it, dragging it tight. Wynter gagged. The fabric cinched closed around her neck, and she found herself completely incapable of drawing another breath. She turned bulging eyes to look back at the Loup-Garou. He grinned up at her and rolled in the gravel to twist the cloak tighter on her throat. Ozkar surged to his feet. Wynter was dragged up with him, her foot still caught in the stirrup. The world grew dark as she was stretched between Wolf and horse.

Wynter kicked and thrashed and scrabbled at her neck. She was horrified to feel her hands grow numb. Her arms grew weak. She was being strangled to death with her own cloak! Then the Wolf ’s weight lifted. The fabric loosened. Her lungs filled with cold air and she was jerked violently onto the rough path as Ozkar heaved her up.

Wynter’s foot fell free of the stirrup. She rolled to her side and lay gasping at the edge of the path. There was a storm of angry snarling on the slope below her; then a flurry of stinging shale blasted her in the face as the Loup-Garou flung himself back over the edge. Wynter groped blindly for her knife. The Wolf ’s weight squashed the air from her as he rolled across her body. Lashing out, she sliced him on his thigh. His weight left her. Then another Wolf scrabbled its way up the slope and lunged after the first.

Wynter swung at this second Loup-Garou, aiming for its eyes. But it dodged her, and to her amazement, it threw itself at its companion, locking its jaws against the other Wolf ’s throat. The creatures twisted away from her, rolled beneath Ozkar’s plunging feet and slammed against the base of the bluff wall. Confused, Wynter jerked to her knees as the new Wolf – small, sleek and jet black – took on the grizzled might of the one who had tried to strangle her.

On the path behind her, Sólmundr staggered to his feet. He had won his fight against the fifth Wolf, but had been dragged to the ground in the process. Boro was still battling the Loup-Garou that had first attacked his master, and the two animals now collided over the headless body of Sól’s opponent, their feet skittering and slipping about in its pooled blood. The wind whipped ribbons of gore from Sól’s arms as he lifted his sword high above his head. He yelled a command to his dog. Boro leapt back, and the warrior brought his sword slicing down, cleaving the Wolf ’s head from its body. The corpse fell at Sólmundr’s feet with two separate thuds.

‘Stay still, Iseult!’ cried Sólmundr. ‘We with you now!’

He attempted to slap Ozkar aside, while Boro, his hackles raised, crowded impatiently at his heels. Wynter rose to her feet, her dagger in her hand, her eyes on the smaller, black Wolf who still had his teeth locked around the throat of the one remaining Loup-Garou.

The black Wolf ’s lips pulled back from bloody fangs, and his eyes met Wynter’s as he dug in and held firm. Wynter nodded, and the black Wolf shook his head, his teeth digging deep. Blood sprayed up. The Loup-Garou howled in pain. Its fierce claws gouged at the black Wolf ’s belly. Its teeth snapped at his shoulders in an effort to break free.

Wynter advanced in a crouch, her dagger out. Sól, still struggling to pass Ozkar, shouted at her to stay back. At the sound of his voice, the Loup-Garou twisted, and Wynter saw terror rise in its eyes as it took in the blood-soaked warrior and his gigantic warhound.

Desperate, the Loup-Garou slammed the black Wolf against the bluff wall and tried to shake him from its throat. The black Wolf clung tenaciously on, but the Loup-Garou was bigger and stronger, and it once again slammed the black Wolf hard against the bluff. Blood scattered in big drops against the rocky walls. The black Wolf ’s frightened eyes met Wynter’s as the Loup-Garou shook him like a rag, and Wynter knew he could not last much longer.

She reared up and plunged her knife between the Loup-Garou’s shoulders. With a howl, it surged abruptly to its hind legs and shook its entire body, dragging the black Wolf and Wynter with it as it rose. The black Wolf fell away, taking a great chunk of his opponent’s throat with him. Wynter, her hands still clenched around the handle of her knife, felt the Loup-Garou’s muscles ripple beneath her. Then she was clinging to a man, tall and broad-shouldered and unbelievably strong. He flung himself backwards and slammed Wynter against the rocks, knocking the air from her. But it was the last desperate act of a dying man. The strength left his legs almost immediately, and he slid to the ground with a sigh, his throat gaping, his torso scarlet with blood.

Finally able to dodge past the horses, Boro flew for the black Wolf, his teeth bared. The Wolf sped past Wynter, yelping and crying in fear, and Wynter lurched from the rock and flung herself after them. Catching a handful of Boro’s fur, she clung on, trying to slow him down, but her weight made not one whit of difference. The warhound swerved beneath her, trying to get a grip on the black Wolf as it dodged and twisted to avoid his snapping teeth.

Behind her, there was a sing of metal on stone as Sólmundr separated the dead Loup-Garou from his head. Boro swerved beneath her again, doubling back on himself as the black Wolf made another attempt to bolt. Wynter screamed, ‘Sól! Call him off! Call him off!’ Boro’s huge jaws closed on flesh and fur, ripping a scarlet gash in the black Wolf ’s leg.

‘Sól!’ screeched Wynter. ‘It’s Christopher! Call Boro off! Call him off!’

‘ Frith an Domhain! ’ Sól yelled. He called urgently to Boro. ‘ Tar anseo!

’ The hound broke off immediately and Wynter fell to her hands and knees, face to face with the black Wolf, who was cowering by the base of the cliff wall. His hackles were raised in a spiky ruff around his snarling face, and his teeth and fur were red with blood. For one moment, staring into his slanting yellow eyes, Wynter was certain that she had made a mistake. Then the Wolf dropped to his belly with a whine, his eyes filled with pain, and he blinked around him in confusion and despair.

‘It’s all right, Christopher,’ she whispered, shuffling forward on her knees. ‘It’s all right.’ She put her arms around him, pulling him in. He trembled against her, and as if in echo to his trembling, Wynter’s entire body started to shake. Sólmundr staggered over, his bloody sword trailing in the dirt, and he sank to his knees by her side, all his strength gone.

Wynter felt the numbing blanket of shock settle down around her as she scanned the headless bodies, the gorespattered path, the quaking horses. In her arms, the black Wolf whined, and she felt his body shudder as his human nature struggled to the fore. As the changes began to take their toll, Sólmundr drew off his bloodstained cloak and laid it across their friend’s shivering body. Wynter held on while Christopher came back to them, and as she waited, her eyes fixed on the slope and the motionless patch of red at its base.

VIGIL

‘I NOT BE long,’ rasped Sól. ‘The mule will not to have gone far, then I ride to end of pass, try find good way down for to bring the horses.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Wynter, her eyes on Razi’s body far below.

Sólmundr glanced at Christopher, who was just finished buttoning his jacket. ‘You all right for slope, luichín?’

Christopher nodded and pulled his cloak around him, tying the stays with shaking hands.

Sól grunted uncertainly. ‘I be with you soon,’ he said. ‘You not do nothing till I with you, tá go maith? You not move him or nothing till I get there?’

Satisfied with their compliance, the warrior heaved himself painfully into the saddle and clucked Ozkar on. His own horse limped behind at the end of a lead line, and Boro ranged ahead, following the scattered trail of goods left by the fleeing pack mule.

Christopher pushed himself to unsteady feet. Wynter glanced back, then put her foot over the edge. ‘I’m going ahead,’ she said. ‘You take your time.’

She started down without waiting for him to join her, dropping almost immediately to her arse and angling her descent to try to maintain some control. It was hellishly unstable. She scrabbled crab-wise down the slope, digging her heels and hands into the harsh ground in an effort to control her speed. Rocks and loose pebbles showered down on her from above as Christopher began his own descent. Wynter forced her attention from Razi and scanned the narrow gully, looking for the horses, and the Loup-Garou that Christopher had felt certain he’d left wounded but still alive among the rocks.

The Wolf that had carried Razi over the edge lay sprawled and unmoving on the opposite side of the gully floor, its neck twisted unnaturally, its long dark hair covering its face. Even dead, even naked and vulnerably human, it frightened Wynter by its presence. She wished that Sól had gone down ahead of her with his sword and taken this Wolf ’s head from its shoulders, the way he had all the others. Her eyes kept switching anxiously between it and Razi.

Halfway down, there was an abrupt increase in the hail of rocks from above, and Christopher yelled as he lost control of his speed. He hurtled down the hill towards her, and Wynter turned her face away as he sped past in a stinging spray of stones, trailing dust and a fluid litany of curses behind him. He tumbled once, starfished frantically onto his belly, and spun a slow, lazy circle as he reached the lower slopes. Wynter scrambled after him, only slightly more in control of her descent, and they both slid to a halt in a drizzle of stones and dislodged soil.

They got to their feet, sand and small rocks dribbling from every fold of their clothes, their bloodstained faces now white with dust. They stood stock-still for a moment, gazing at their friend’s motionless body. Then Wynter bolted for Razi.

Christopher ran to the Loup-Garou, drawing his katar as he went. He swung the sword above his head, and Wynter turned her back as he brought it down. She had had enough of blood for today, even Loup-Garou blood, and though she wanted the creature disposed of, she could not witness the deciding blow. As Christopher’s sword separated the Wolf ’s head from its shoulders, Wynter knelt at Razi’s side. He was breathing, but her heart squeezed at his lack of movement. She hesitated, desperately wanting to help but not knowing where to start.

‘Help me fix his cloak,’ she whispered as Christopher’s scuffed boots came into view. ‘It’s all twisted around his head.’

‘Is he alive?’ he said, his voice curiously flat.

At her nod, Christopher fell to his knees as if his legs were unhinged. He flung his sword onto the gravel behind him and knelt over their friend, his hands poised. ‘What do we do?’ he cried. ‘Sól said not to move him!’

Wynter tugged Razi’s cloak from its uncomfortable tangle around his neck and pulled it down to cover his body, tucking it in around him as if he were a child at bedtime. He was utterly limp, his dark face slack. Apart from some raw patches on his cheek and jaw, he seemed otherwise unharmed.

‘What do we do?’ cried Christopher again.

Wynter looked up at the empty path, praying for Sól’s return. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. Clenching her hands in the fabric at Razi’s chest, she forced herself not to say the words that sprang most easily to mind in such a situation: Get Razi. Call Razi. He’ll know how to fix it.

‘He not wake at all?’

Wynter shook her head, watching while Sólmundr pushed his fingers into Razi’s hair, palpated the back of Razi’s head, pressed Razi’s temples, squeezed his skull.

‘He not bring up sick?’ murmured the warrior. ‘He not move? He not make sound?’

Again, Wynter shook her head. Sólmundr ran his hands down Razi’s ribs, felt along his arms, squeezed the bones of Razi’s legs. Then he sat back, gazing down into Razi’s unresponsive face. ‘He not broken,’ he said quietly. ‘He seem good.’ He smiled reassuringly at Wynter. ‘You not to worry, a luch. We must just to wait. Soon Tabiyb will to wake.’

‘It’s getting on to dark,’ said Christopher. ‘We need to take shelter. I can’t find the other Loup-Garou body. I’m fair sure it’s dead, but still, it means there could be two of them out there.’

Sólmundr nodded gravely. ‘Come on,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘You help for to carry him.’

Sól insisted on a fire. He insisted on hot food. He made antiseptic tea and washed out their wounds. They huddled together in the cramped space between leaning boulders as the wind moaned and growled its way down the pass and the light seeped from the sky. Razi did not so much as stir. He seemed dead, lying there swaddled in his cloak, and Christopher sat with his hand on his chest, staring out past the tiny circle of fragile light as the gritty dusk turned to night. Wynter sewed her jacket. Sólmundr bound the terrible bites on Boro’s legs.

‘Tomorrow you help me tie up the mare,’ he said softly, his face intent as he tended the hound. ‘I must try burn shut tear in her shoulder.’

‘It will abscess,’ murmured Christopher. ‘I’ll sew it up for you and we can pack it in mud to keep the flies off.’

Out in the restless night, something big came clattering down the rocky path, and the three of them froze, their hands reaching for their swords. The sound of hooves echoed from the gully walls and they heard Ozkar whinny in greeting as horses approached the camp. Wynter crawled to the edge of the firelight and peered around the rocks. Razi’s big mare came trotting from the shadows, Christopher’s sturdy little horse at her side. Their saddles sat crooked on their backs, their tack and equipment trailing behind. Wearily, they joined their herd-mates at the highline, their shapes merging in the semi-dark.

‘ Jesu Christi,’ she whispered and crept out to check their condition.

Christopher came out to guard her, his eyes on the shadows, his sword in his hand.

‘They are in rude health,’ breathed Wynter in awe, releasing the poor creatures from their tangled burdens. ‘They have hardly a scratch!’

Christopher nodded tightly and gestured that she hurry up. The wind had died to a gusting breeze and a narrow moon cast ink-well shadows from rock and crevasse. His eyes roamed this darkness constantly, his bruised face grim.

As Wynter hoisted the saddles from the horses’ tired shoulders, a howl rose up from the rocks above them. Long, protracted, filled with loss, it was the lonely call of the remaining Loup-Garou. There was no threat in the sound, only sorrow, only pain, and as Wynter laid the saddles on the ground and backed carefully to Christopher’s side, the Wolf ’s voice fell to a sobbing moan and died away. The horses trembled and huddled a little closer but showed no greater signs of fear than that. Boro did not even growl.

Christopher took Wynter’s arm, tugging her backwards, and they edged their way slowly to the fire. The howl rose up again, moaning its hurt to the moon.

‘It’s wounded,’ whispered Christopher. ‘It won’t attack.’ And he pulled her back down between the leaning rocks and into the warm radiance of the firelight.

The night turned to morning. The morning spun towards noon.

Sólmundr hunkered down in the opening between the rocks and laid his sword across his knees. He squinted against the midday sun as he scanned the bluff above, the breeze tousling at his loose hair and tugging his cloak. ‘We not find them,’ he rasped. ‘There is signs of at least one, moving about in the rocks, but I not find body of other. It might to be still alive but I doubt it. It fall very far.’

‘It likely fell down between the rocks,’ said Wynter dully. ‘It’s nothing but meat for crows by now.’

Sólmundr ceased his restless scanning of the skyline and peered in at her. He didn’t ask how Razi was; any fool could tell that the young man’s condition hadn’t changed. Sucking his teeth, the warrior met Wynter’s eyes, the obvious question clear in his face. She sat beside her motionless friend and stared back at him.

‘We wait,’ she said.

Sólmundr sighed, and his eyes dropped to the diplomatic folder lying across Wynter’s knee. For a moment Wynter thought he would speak; that he would be the one to say the very thing she was thinking. But the warrior just nodded, rose to his feet and went to help Christopher tend to the horses. Wynter frowned in misery and squeezed her eyes shut, her hands closing around the leather covers of the folder.

This was day six of their ten-day journey. Alberon was at this very moment travelling the lower slopes somewhere with his entourage of men, already five days into his own trek home. Every moment that they delayed here was a moment stolen from Alberon. Regardless of their circumstances, the unheeding clock of their plan ticked relentlessly on. If Razi did not get to the castle in time to appease the King, if Alberon turned up in advance of his brother – the consequences would be catastrophic.

We can afford one or two days’ delay, thought Wynter bleakly. Certainly we can afford that! Even if Razi took two full days to recover, they would still make it home three days ahead of Alberon. Three days would be plenty of time for a man like Razi to persuade the King. Wouldn’t it?

Beside her, Razi breathed on, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was alive. Wynter clutched the diplomatic folder to her chest and willed him to wake.

Noon passed. The sun set. Night crept in once again.

‘It’s just a suggestion,’ said Christopher softly. ‘I think you should consider it.’

‘No.’

‘But it makes perfect sense! Why must you be so damned exasperating?’

‘In what way does it make sense, Christopher Garron? Tell me how, by any stretch of anyone’s fertile imagination, does it make sense for you to turn up at the castle bearing papers from the Rebel Prince?’

Presumably in some kind of effort to prevent his brain exploding, Christopher clutched his head between his hands and squeezed. ‘I will explain that the Lord Razi is wounded in the hills and that I am speaking on his behalf,’ he grated. ‘Sól and Boro will protect you and Raz until the soldiers come to find you. It’s. Perfectly. Reasonable.

’ ‘The Wolves will kill you.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’

‘The Wolves will kill you, and if they do not, the King’s men will.’

Christopher scrubbed his face with his hands and muttered darkly in Hadrish. Sól sighed and threw some dried horse dung onto the fire. The moon was dark, the sky heavy with clouds. Beyond their little ring of firelight, the night pressed thick and impenetrable, the air made unbearably cold by the wind.

The Loup-Garou howled low and mournful in the rocks above, and Sólmundr grimaced out into the darkness. ‘I going to kill that cac!’ he hissed.

The damnable creature had remained hidden all through the daylight hours, but as soon as darkness had fallen, it had resumed its melancholy song. Boro growled, but Sólmundr refused to let the big dog be drawn out into the rocks. He did not trust that the Loup-Garou really was alone.

‘Iseult,’ persisted Christopher, ‘look at me. Lass, look at me!’

She looked at him, her face set.

‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘we can’t let him down. What will he say if those papers don’t get through? What’ll he think if we continue to just sit here on our arses and let precious time dribble through our fists? At least if I go ahead there’s a chance of setting things straight. At the very least, it might make their da think twice about shooting off arrows when Alberon rides into sight.’

Christopher waited for her reply, his face earnest in the unsteady light. He was so utterly convinced that he could make it past the gate guards and into the King’s presence that Wynter wanted to kiss him. Razi’s chest rose and fell beneath her hand, their friend as still and as silent as the day before.

‘If Razi has not woken by tomorrow,’ she said, ‘we will strap him to his horse and finish the journey together. None of us goes on without him.’

Sólmundr glanced up at her, but said nothing. He didn’t have to point out how risky that journey might be for Razi; they all knew it.

‘It’s the only way,’ she said. ‘Regardless of what the people may think of him, Razi is still his Royal Highness the Prince, heir to the Southland throne. In his company, no one will prevent our access to the King. Without him, what are we? Nothing but a Northern savage, a gypsy thief and a disgraced murderess, carrying between them the incendiary papers of a rebel prince already declared mortuus in vita. Forgive me, but if any of us attempted entering the castle without Razi by our side, we would be dead before we set foot on the moat bridge. Even if Razi...’ She paused, the words too hard to articulate. Then she forced herself to go on. ‘Even should he die, we shall still have to bring him with us. Without him we have no hope. With him, there is at least the slimmest of chances that our story will be heard.’

She could not look into their faces, though she could imagine Christopher’s expression well enough.

‘That’s what you want to do?’ he said. ‘You want to strap Razi to his horse like a bundle of luggage, and offer him up to his da as if he were goods being exchanged for favour?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want to trek him across these mountains, regardless of what it does to his health?’

‘Yes, Christopher.’

There was a long, bitter silence, and she finally glanced up. ‘Please don’t look at me like that,’ she said softly. ‘Please, Christopher. Don’t.’ He shook his head and tightened his jaw, and she set her face against his anger. ‘Tell me something,’ she said, her voice harder than she would ever have wished it to be. ‘If the choice were given to Razi himself, what would he do?’ She looked from Christopher to Sólmundr, challenging them to tell her anything but the truth. They dropped their eyes and she nodded. ‘We leave tomorrow,’ she said, ‘all of us. So get some sleep, it is my turn to watch him.’

DAY SEVEN: BOTH SIDES
OF THE COIN

‘COME HERE and eat.’

Wynter gave the pack mule’s straps one last tug and followed Sólmundr to the fire. Christopher handed them a bowl of porridge each and they ate in silence. On the path above them, buzzards squawked and scuffled, their huge wings rustling as they fought over the dead. More circled in the sky overhead, scanning for predators before spiralling down to join the grisly meal. Sólmundr had dragged the nearest Loup-Garou corpse up into the rocks, flinging its head after it like a shot-put. There, too, buzzards hopped and quarrelled as they ate their fill. Wynter tried not to listen; she would be happy to leave those sounds behind.

‘I’m done.’ Christopher threw his bowl to the ground. ‘You clean that.’ He got to his feet, snagged a waterskin and headed for Razi, who still lay within the shelter of the rocks. ‘I’ll see if I can get him to drink. Call me when we’re ready to go.’

Wynter and Sólmundr exchanged a glance and went on with their breakfast. It was the most their friend had said all morning.

‘Oh!’ cried Christopher. They both turned to see him drop to his hands and knees and peer into the shadows of the rocks. He smiled broadly. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ answered Razi.

Wynter and Sól flung their bowls aside and ran to crouch at Christopher’s side. Razi was sitting against the rocks, his covers tangled around his legs. He seemed so startled by their abrupt appearance that Wynter couldn’t help a shaky laugh.

‘Hello, Razi,’ she whispered. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Fine,’ he said.

‘Your head, it not pain you?’

Razi turned his dark eyes to Sól. He thought for a moment. ‘My neck hurts,’ he said. ‘I feel stiff.’

‘Come out of there, man!’ cried Christopher. ‘Have something to eat!’

Razi emerged, blinking, into the sunshine and they guided him to the fire, supporting him on either side as if he were an old man. Wynter sat him down on a rock.

‘You want to drink?’ asked Sól. ‘You thirsty?’

‘I’m thirsty,’ said Razi.

Sólmundr offered him the waterskin. Razi took it, but then just sat with it in his hand, gazing at it. Sól flickered a glance at Wynter. ‘You not thirsty, then?’ he asked.

Razi just kept looking at the waterskin, as if uncertain what it was.

‘Um... are you hungry?’ asked Christopher, snatching away the water and thrusting a bowl of porridge into Razi’s hand. ‘You must be hungry.’

‘I’m hungry,’ agreed Razi, but he made no effort to touch the food.

‘Then eat it,’ said Wynter, her heart beginning to flutter in her chest. Razi gazed up at her, his eyes wide with uncertainty. ‘ Eat it, Razi,’ she cried.

Razi ate the porridge, scooping it mechanically into his mouth. When he was finished, he left his fingers in the bowl and sat there, puzzled, food on his lips.

‘Razi...’ ventured Wynter, but his look of strained confusion stopped her from asking, What is wrong?

There was a moment of silence between them. Then Christopher took the waterskin, dampened the corner of his cloak with it and wiped Razi’s face and fingers clean.

‘Come on,’ he said hoarsely, helping Razi to his feet. ‘We’re going.’

When Razi saw the horses, saddled up and ready to go, his face lost all its puzzled vacancy and he broke away from his friend and went to his mare. She whinnied and stamped, happy to see him.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said, stroking her noble face.

Wynter got slowly to her feet as Razi confidently went through his usual pre-ride check. Apparently oblivious to the terrible scratches and cuts on the poor animal’s skin, he ran his strong hands down her legs and checked her hooves. He made a careful examination of her horribly scuffed tack, tightened the girth and checked the balance of the saddlebags. Satisfied, he patted the lovely animal on her bruised neck, murmured in Arabic that she was ‘a wonderful beast’, then swung smoothly into the saddle.

Backing the mare from between the other horses, Razi drew her around and smiled at Christopher with the same politeness that he would give any groomsman in any tavern stables.

‘Thank you, my man,’ he said. ‘She’s in fine form.’

‘Yes,’ whispered Christopher.

‘You took good care of her.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

At his friend’s bleak stare, Razi lost his certainty for a moment, and his eyes hopped from Christopher to Wynter and back.

In the ensuing silence, Sólmundr gathered up the breakfast things and roughly scoured them clean. ‘Let us to go,’ he said, and crossed to stow the equipment and take to his horse.

‘Are you joining us, young lady?’ Razi asked Wynter. ‘This seems a bleak enough place to linger. It might be wise to stick with us for a while. At least until we’re somewhere more hospitable.’

‘All right,’ she whispered.

Razi frowned in sympathy. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, ‘we shan’t let anything happen to you.’ He smiled – Razi’s warm, encouraging smile, now completely devoid of any trace of recognition – and gestured for Wynter to get onto her horse. ‘Come along, it will be all right now. We’ll look after you. Pretty soon you’ll be home and safe, and all this will seem like a bad dream.’

Wynter took to the saddle. Everyone waited, as usual, for Razi to take the lead, but he simply sat there. After a moment, he glanced anxiously at Christopher, and there was some small hint in his expression that he knew something wasn’t right.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but I’m not too certain where we are headed.’

Christopher’s face creased for just a moment; then he nodded, cleared his throat and pulled ahead, leading the way up the gravel path to the head of the gully. Razi’s expression cleared of all doubt and he fell unquestioningly in behind Christopher’s little mare – absolutely content to allow someone else lead the way.

Christopher led them from the relative tranquillity of the gully back into the unrelenting gales of the mountain passes. The wind snatched all attempts at communication from them, and for hours they travelled with their heads down, their eyes squinted against the blasting air.

Fear and shame vied in equal measure for dominance within Wynter. Her reaction to Razi’s condition was a gall in her heart. Battling the gale and her own anxious thoughts, she was appalled to find herself dwelling more on the effect that Razi’s confusion would have on the kingdom than on Razi himself. Had her friend been limp and unconscious, it would have been easier to fret for him. But there he was, strong as ever, guiding his mare with his usual skill through the harsh mountain terrain – yet he was completely useless.

Useless? My God! When had she ever judged Razi by his uses to her? Yet she was incapable of weighing her joy at his apparent health over the damage that his condition might do to Alberon’s delicate negotiations. Even her hope that Razi would soon recover was overshadowed by fear that he may not recover soon enough.

They turned a corner – quite literally the path took a sharp branch left and down – and suddenly the wind was gone. It was as if someone had shut the door in a quiet room, blocking the storm outside, and for a moment the effect was almost stunning. Wynter straightened, blinking. Behind her, Sól’s saddle creaked as he turned to regard the path behind them. The wind could still be heard there, moaning past the narrow mouth of the ravine, rushing like water through the pass they had just left.

‘ Frith an Domhain,’ murmured Sól, unwrapping his scarf.

It was much warmer without the breeze, and Wynter quickly divested herself of cloak and scarf. As they rode on, the men did the same, though it was not clement enough to do without jackets.

The further they ventured into the ravine, the quieter it grew. This sudden silence made Wynter feel vulnerable somehow, as if they were the only prey in a darkly shifting world of silent predators. Unease settled on the party and they rode with heads swivelling on tense necks, eyes searching the loose gravel slopes and precipitous bluffs overhead. The horses’ footsteps echoed from watchful cliffs, and Boro’s skittering expeditions onto the shale sounded horribly loud.

Christopher scanned the jumbled slope below them, his eyes hopping from rock to rock, while Razi’s attention seemed focused on the rough landscape that loomed to their left. Boro repeatedly tried to run up into those same boulders, his hackles raised, but Sólmundr kept him firmly to heel. Wynter, however, kept her eyes on Razi, and as soon as the path widened she kicked forward to ride side-by-side with him.

‘There is someone up there,’ he murmured, ‘my horse can sense them.’

‘It is a Loup-Garou,’ said Wynter, regarding him closely. ‘He is tracking us. I suspect there is another in the rocks below.’

Razi seemed more surprised than disturbed. ‘Loups-Garous?’ he said. ‘I have heard that they are vile creatures. Your friend is right to keep his crossbow strung.’

He went back to scanning the rocks. His calm acceptance of the situation was terrifying; his lack of questions bizarre.

‘Razi?’ asked Wynter.

He smiled, and glanced kindly at her. ‘You should really call me my Lord,’ he said. ‘My knights might take offence otherwise. Though in private you may call me Razi; I shall not mind.’

Who does he think I am? thought Wynter in despair. ‘Razi!’ she cried, drawing his full attention again. ‘Where do you think we are?’

Wynter saw confusion rise up in his face.

‘What do you think we’re doing here?’

Obviously neither question had occurred to him, and he looked about him as if for the first time. ‘I...’ he said. ‘We...’ Not finding an answer readily to hand, Razi’s confusion rapidly turned to panic. ‘I should know that,’ he said, the knowledge that something was wrong suddenly very clear in his face. ‘I should know that!’ he cried. ‘I do know that! It’s here!’ He clutched his forehead, as if to capture a black shadow there. ‘It’s right here! OH!

’ Razi slammed his fist into his temple, startling his mare and causing her to throw her head in fear. He hit his temple again, very hard, as if trying to dislodge something within his brain, and Wynter grabbed his arm, appalled.

‘Don’t!’ she cried.

‘But I should know!’ he shouted, his horse pawing and dancing beneath him. ‘I should know. ’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ called Christopher.

Razi reined his panicked horse to a standstill and stared at his friend with anxious hope.

‘It’s all right,’ said Christopher.

‘You are sure?’

‘Yes. You know your name, do you not?’

Razi nodded. Christopher did not ask, as Wynter would have done, Do you know what it means? Do you recall who your father is? Instead he waited patiently while Razi turned to look at Sólmundr. The warrior smiled sadly and raised his chin in greeting.

‘I... I am the Lord Razi Kingsson,’ murmured Razi, turning to scan Wynter’s face, ‘al-Sayyid Razi ibn-Jon Malik al-fadl.’

‘There you have it,’ said Christopher, and he turned his horse without meeting Wynter’s eye and set off up the trail again. ‘That is all that counts.’

Razi relaxed instantly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Good.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Good. That’s very good.’

But it’s not all that counts! thought Wynter. It’s not all that counts at all.

Up in the rocks, something snickered. Wynter and Christopher crouched in their saddles, reaching for their swords. The sly, dirty sound skittered from rock to rock around them and slithered its way in echoes from the cliffs above. Boro tried to bolt after it, but Sólmundr snapped at him, ‘Tar anseo,’ and the warhound came reluctantly to heel.

Razi did not crouch. Instead he straightened indignantly and glared into the rocks with absolute disdain. ‘Loup-Garou vermin,’ he hissed. ‘Surely there’s something that can be done about the damned things?’ And with a tut of disapproval, he swung his horse around and nodded for Christopher to lead the way.

They journeyed until late into the evening, when the waning light made the uneven ground too treacherous and the danger of Wolves too dire to continue on. Still deep in the heart of that silent, echoing valley, they set up camp in a sheltering alcove of rock.

The horses tended to, the equipment checked, Wynter once more took Alberon’s folder and sat with it across her knee. She ran her hands across its plain cover and contemplated the impact it would have upon the kingdom. Glancing at Razi, she wondered how he would have tackled presenting this to his father. Certainly he did not believe in Alberon’s plans. In fact, they seemed to go against his very nature. But, despite his very great difficulty in seeing Alberon’s point of view, Wynter was certain Razi would have done his best to represent his brother’s argument. She could not fathom how he would go about defending a plan so contrary to his own personal beliefs, but if anyone could have managed the task, it would have been Razi.

Now, as her friend placidly watched the sun withdraw its dismal light from the valley, Wynter hugged the folder to her chest and fretted over what was going to happen. Razi had not recognised these documents when she had shown them to him, and he had simply gazed curiously at her when she had tried to explain his mission. The urge to grab him and shake him and scream What are we going to do? had been almost too much to handle. But, despite her frustration, Wynter did not want to cause another of Razi’s horrible panics, and so, faced with even this mildest of confusion, she had risen to her feet and walked away from him. Razi had been sitting, ever since, with his back to the cliff wall, completely still and passive. Wynter thought he had never looked so serene, and to her shame, that infuriated her.

Sólmundr hummed as he cooked the supper. Boro lay at his side, his chin on his paws. Now and again, the giant hound’s ears would swivel upwards and he would growl at something unseen in the rocks above. But he was used, by now, to Sólmundr calling him back, and he made no attempt to run off to what Sól was convinced would be a fatal encounter with not one but two Loups-Garous.

Christopher was fussing with the mule-packs. He too was driving Wynter mad, though it was hard for her to understand why. It was not really that she blamed him for the terrible encounter with the Wolves. It was more, oh God forgive her, that she wanted him to blame himself. At least a little. At least to the extent that she could then hug him and tell him, This is not your fault. But Christopher’s reaction to Razi’s condition was so calm, so hard-faced and practical, that it left Wynter with no room for anything – not anger, not forgiveness, not even affection. Christopher had become remote and as brittle as ice. He cursed quietly to himself, tugging at the luggage, and Wynter was just about to ask him to stop fiddling and to sit down when he strode past her, something in his hand.

‘Here,’ he said, crouching by the fire and plopping the doctor’s bag at Razi’s feet.

Sólmundr tensed. Razi frowned uncertainly, and Wynter sat straighter, clutching the folder to her chest. She waited for Christopher to demand, Do you know what this is? Do you recognise it? But instead, he snapped the catches on the bag and opened it.

Razi jerked forward, as if tempted to stop him.

‘It fell off the mule,’ said Christopher, peering inside. ‘Some of the vials are broken.’

‘Be careful!’ Razi shot out a hand and grabbed Christopher’s wrist, stopping him from reaching into the bag. Gently he pushed the young man’s hand aside. ‘If you cannot tell the contents of the broken vial, a cut could prove disastrous.’ He smiled reassuringly at his friend. ‘I should like to check it for myself.’

Christopher watched as Razi took the bag and began an expert survey of its contents. As their friend sorted through the tools of his trade, Wynter saw Christopher working himself up to speak. As he struggled to articulate his question, Christopher’s emotions seemed to worm their way to the surface of his composure, so that when he finally spoke his expression was achingly raw and vulnerable. It stabbed Wynter to see all the hurt and all the guilt that he had been hiding from her. She almost cried at the knowledge that Christopher had chosen not to share with her his pain and grief.

‘Is anything important broken?’ he finally managed.

How would he recall? thought Wynter bleakly. He barely knows who he is.

But Razi answered without hesitation. ‘There is not much damage. Just a few tonic vials and a crushed pillbox.’ He glanced up, smiling, and it almost broke Wynter’s heart when he said, ‘Everything is just as it is meant to be. Nothing of any importance is lost. What happened to it?’

‘It fall when Wolves attack,’ said Sólmundr.

Razi made no response to that, but his attention focused on Sólmundr’s bruised face as if noticing the wounds for the first time. ‘That cut on your cheek is quite inflamed,’ he said. ‘I can treat it for you, if I may?’ He must have mistaken Sól’s silence for reluctance, because he smiled again. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘Did you not realise that? Here, come over and I shall see what I can do.’

As Sól submitted to Razi’s care, Christopher gazed at Wynter. The knowledge of what had been retrieved was written large in his glittering eyes. Wynter tilted her head and smiled sadly, the knowledge of what remained lost written in her own.

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