The next morning when they resumed their journey the ground was dusted with frost. It fled when the sun peered over the mountains they had crossed the previous day, but the air was chill and the breath of the horses steamed from their noses.
Kronithal lay on the banks of the great river Cop-sen that they had seen the previous day and their first task was to cross the river. The water flowed sluggishly here and it was dirty yellow with desert silt carried hundreds of miles from the wide plains of Anthor that stretched far to the west. There was no bridge, but moored on the near bank was a barge large enough to carry their whole company. Two ropes stretched from a post on the bank beside it out into the water and away to the far side where, presumably, there was a similar post holding the other ends. It was too far away for Azkun to see.
The horses allowed themselves to be led onto the barge but they were clearly unhappy about it. When they were all aboard the ferryman untied his barge from the post and pulled the boat out into the stream.
It was not an easy way to travel. They all hauled on one of the ropes and so the barge moved. But the river was more powerful than it appeared. The yellow-brown water swirled about them, tugging at the barge, trying to pull it away down stream. This was the purpose of the second rope, it was slipped through the framework of the barge and held it on course. The rope they pulled on was knotted for better grip while the other was smooth so that it would slide through the barge.
The barge itself was a curious affair. A wooden platform with a rough railing around it appeared to be all there was to it at first glance. But Azkun noticed curious balloon shapes tied beneath the platform. Drinagish cheerfully informed him that they were the inflated skins of cows, the odd protrusions that poked out from beneath the deck were the stumps of legs. Azkun felt bile rise in his stomach.
He felt as if he had unwittingly eaten meat. He could refuse food, but by floating on the dead hides of animals he had taken on part of the guilt for their deaths. He did not realise what his boots were made of, nor the skins he had slept on the night before. But this he did know. For a brief moment he wanted to throw himself into the water, to reject the guilt they would lay on his head. Was this what Vorish had meant when he had told him that just by living he was guilty of murder? But he calmed himself. Throwing himself in the river would achieve nothing. He had tried that path before.
On the far side of the river the road wound back up into the hills and an icy wind found them with its chill fingers. They spent the rest of the day wrapped in their cloaks, grateful for the warmth of the horses between their knees.
Before the afternoon was over they came to a line of camels trudging slowly along the road. The camels walked with a curious, lurching motion, swaying their heavy bundles with each step and protesting loudly at the folk who walked beside them. Some were led with harnesses, others were simply prodded with sticks from behind when it seemed necessary. It was all done with what appeared to be the maximum amount of noise and confusion. Children and old folk alike trudged along beside their camels, only a few rode on the backs of the beasts, for each one that did lessened the saleable load the animal could carry.
To add to the confusion of camels protesting and men shouting came the gallop of horses. The caravan was escorted by a troop of armed horsemen who rode wildly up and down the length of the caravan for no apparent reason, except, perhaps to frighten the camels and stir up more dust.
As soon as Menish and his company were seen a detachment of horsemen broke away from the others and rode towards them. Menish told Althak to unfurl his standard and waited for them to arrive. The caravan horsemen careered towards them at full gallop, pulling their horses to a halt at the last minute. It was not until the dust cleared that they could speak to each other.
“Greetings,” said Menish. “We travel in peace and do not raid.” It was a formal greeting, not quite necessary for Menish to give but polite anyway.
“We also do not raid. You're welcome, Sire.” The captain of the horsemen was a big man for an Anthorian, a northerner by the look of him. His fighting gear was in good condition, a polished bronze helmet and a jewelled sword hilt. Guarding caravans paid well.
Menish did not recognise him until he removed his helmet, even so he only knew the man vaguely. His father and Grath’s were cousins, members of the same clan anyway. He could not think of his name.
“You're travelling to Meyathal?” Menish nodded.
“Any trouble on the roads?”
“Not this trip, Sire. The raiders rarely attack a guarded caravan these days.”
“Raiding caravans is, of course, against the law,” said Menish.
“But we all know it happens, Sire. There's the fine point as to what defines a caravan and what defines a herd. I've seen a clan chief throw a caravanner’s objection out of court because the raider claimed it was a herd, not a caravan, he was raiding.”
“I'm aware of the difficulty. I suppose it keeps you well enough fed, although I hate to think what the Relanese merchants must think of us.”
They travelled with the caravan for the rest of the day and camped with them at nightfall. Like most Anthorian caravans, it was owned by Relanese merchants. There were many of these nowadays. Many aristocratic Relanese left alive after the battle with Gashan had fled with their families to Anthor when Sinalth invaded Relanor. Most did not adapt well to the Anthorian ways, having little skill with herding animals, and they could make no sense of the raiding laws. A generation had grown up of homeless folk who wandered between Anthor and Relanor trading animal hides and medicinal ambroth for Relanese luxuries.
The caravan folk certainly looked more Relanese than Anthorian. They were taller and finer boned, and they wore colourful clothing. The women wore brightly coloured tunics like those Relanised Vorthenki they had seen in Atonir. At first they were shy of the newcomers. Menish introduced himself to the caravan master, a grave-faced man named Drinamuz, but the rest of them continued about their business, casting covert glances at Menish’s company.
When evening came, however, Keashil brought out her harp and they all drew close around the fire. Drinamuz and the other men laughed and drank with Menish’s company, though they preferred warmed ale to ambroth. Their women, who otherwise stayed around their own fire a short distance away, served them hot bowls of mein with dried meat stirred into it. But there was a sense of loss among these displaced Relanese. They spoke of Atonir as a city of lost grandeur and fallen greatness, though they approved of the Emperor. For them, even though many of them had been born since the invasion, there could never be anything like the good, old days again.
The caravan was travelling north, carrying Relanese goods into Anthor, and, being merchants, they drew out the wares they carried. There were swords and shields, rhinoceros hides to be made into battle jerkins, and silver bracelets for the Anthorian women, the only ornament they would wear.
Menish looked through the hides. Several were very good, thick and tough but still pliable. They had been well cured. He bought two of them, one for Drinagish and one for Hrangil. Hrangil’s present jerkin was worn and cut, Drinagish was still using the one he was given two years ago and he had grown since then. While he was buying presents Menish could not forget Althak who had saved his life so recently during the fight with the pirates. But hides would not do. Althak wore a metal breastplate not a fighting jerkin. The curved swords Drinamuz hoped to sell to the Anthorians would also not suit him. But Menish noticed a jewelled belt among the traders’ goods. It was a garish thing studded with gold knobs and sparkling with red enamel. It might have been Relanese but it looked Vorthenki. He bought it and Althak was delighted.
They left the caravan next morning. Their horses could travel much faster than the walking pace of the camels and they had no desire to slow their pace. Azkun was sad to leave them. They reminded him of the deer he had seen in the forest when he had run from the death of the pig. It seemed long ago now. Unlike the Anthorians these people’s answer to violence was to run from it. He did not have a chance to tell them about the dragons.
The day was cold until the sun rose. They were now skirting the edge of the wide plains of Anthor where the nights were cold and the days hot. It was a land of open spaces where they could see for miles and miles and the sky was vast and blue over their heads.
Twice that day they saw distant herds moving across the plains and once they saw a thal, a group of tents pitched in the lee of a low rise. They were almost too distant to recognise and Azkun could only make out that they were round and white. He supposed they were similar to the tents the merchants had pitched the night before.
In the afternoon a chill wind rose from the east which made them clutch their cloaks around them tightly.
As dusk approached they found a hollow in the ground which was sheltered by a rocky outcrop from the worst of the wind. A copse of trees, one of the few they had seen on the empty plains, stood not far away and Althak suggested it might be warmer under the trees. Hrangil snapped at him and Menish said nothing so they made a small fire in the hollow and ate. It was very cold. A frost stole across the plains. They wrapped themselves in their blankets and made themselves as comfortable as they could on the rocky ground.
It must have been several hours later that Azkun awoke, for the moon had risen high in the sky. It was full tonight and it shone with an ice-cold light. To Azkun it seemed larger than usual. The moonlight that filled the night was intense, almost dazzling to him, but it was no more than moonlight.
He sat up, expecting the whole plain to be alive with white light. It was not, of course. The white frost had dusted the ground, glistening fairy-like in the moonlight and a thin mist drifted in the hollows, confusing his vision in the dimness.
But there was more. Something in the air that tasted like menace, or a promise. Like a distant melody that haunted him from afar. It was so like music that he glanced to where Keashil lay. But Althak’s harp lay silently beside her filled with moonlight.
Movement caught the corner of his eye at the same moment he realised that Tenari was not beside him. He could see her, or a figure that must be her, gliding silently over the frost towards the group of trees.
A chill that was more than just the frost ate into his bones. He pulled his blankets around him tightly and shivered. It did not occur to him to follow her at first but as she disappeared among the trees that strange feeling grew stronger.
Silently he rose, still clutching his blanket around him, and followed. Her path was clearly marked out on the frosty ground. Frozen grass crunched under his feet and the cold could be felt through his boots.
The strangeness grew into an exquisite pain that was not pain as he approached the trees. They loomed darkly ahead of him, and among them the moonlight was reflected off something.
Under the trees it was warmer, as Althak had said it would be. What had Hrangil said about this place? He could not remember. The frost had not come here but it was still very cold. He pushed his way through a brake of undergrowth, following Tenari’s clear path of turned leaves and broken twigs.
Beyond the undergrowth he found himself in an open space where the trees crowded darkly against the sky. A ring of pale stones, each as tall as a Vorthenki, gleamed whitely in the moonlight and in the centre of the ring stood Tenari gazing at him dumbly.
Other than her blank gaze she gave him no acknowledgement. The strangeness in the air intensified here; the very stones were haunted by it. He stepped towards her, wanting to speak but hesitating, as if his voice might break some deep magic.
Magic was almost tangible. It swam in the moonlight and lurked in the shadows. The ring of stones was alive with it.
With a sudden clarity of vision Azkun realised that the stones were indeed alive. On each stone was carved an eye, and each eye was looking at him with silent inscrutability. He could feel their minds, or the moonlit shadows of their minds, as they surveyed him with an awful depth of vision, as if they looked into his very soul.
He felt suffocated by their gaze. They seemed to be dissecting him. When he tried to cry out no sound came from his throat. His limbs were lead weights. He tried to run, grabbing at Tenari’s arm to pull her with him but his legs buckled, pitching him forward. His head struck something and darkness blotted out the moonlight.
He awoke just before sunrise stiff with cold and sore from lying on the hard ground. His blankets had rolled off him in the night. No one else was awake yet so he rose as quietly as he could and walked away from the hollow to stretch his legs. His dream bothered him. Not far away the copse of trees hunched like a crouched animal. He wondered if he should go and see if there was a ring of stones, but he was too uneasy at the thought. It was just a dream, Hrangil had said something about the copse yesterday and he had built it into a nightmare. His head had no injury from his fall. Tenari still lay in the hollow. It was just a dream.
But he found footprints in the frost that matched his own leading to the copse. None returned and Tenari’s footprints were nowhere to be seen.