‘Who’s there?’ Ventos said. ‘Come out now, where I can see you. Or I’ll set my hound on you.’
Corban stepped away from the shelf. ‘What are you doing?’ he said. ‘Who are you writing to?’
Ventos stared at him, none of the open friendliness Corban was used to showing now. He looked cold, calculating, weighing up the situation. ‘Someone who’s interested in you.’ He drew a knife of his own.
He’s made his decision, then. If I shout, will anyone hear me? How far have I walked?
The hound Talar stepped out of the shadows. He was still snarling. Saliva dripped from his teeth.
There was the sound of movement above, the rattle of stones falling down the rock face. A blur of white fur hurtled out of the darkness and crashed into the hound. Storm. The two animals rolled towards the edge of the path, the hound yelping. Ventos ran at them, knife raised, and Corban hurled himself at Ventos. They went down in a bundle of limbs, Ventos gasping sharply, stiffening, arching his back, then flopping limp.
Corban struggled free, saw that his knife was buried in Ventos’ torso, beneath his ribs, a dark stain spreading about the blade.
Ventos put a hand to the knife hilt and groaned.
Snarling behind him. Corban turned to see Storm kick with her back legs, hurling the hound through the air. It crunched to the ground, skidded, rose unsteadily, dark gashes down its shoulder, blood dripping from its belly. Storm braced and leaped, crashing into the hound again and in a scrabble of earth and stone they both disappeared over the edge of the path. There was the sound of scratching, claws on rock, then a silence, followed by a splash.
‘Storm!’ yelled Corban, running to the path’s edge.
He couldn’t see anything, just the glimmer of water here and there, a fast-flowing stream by the sound of it.
‘Storm,’ he shouted again, thought he saw a flash of something white moving fast – in the stream’s grip. There was no way down so he turned, began running along the bank’s edge, following what he thought, hoped, had been Storm carried in the flow of the stream. He left Ventos lying in a pool of his own blood, didn’t even know if the man was alive or dead.
He ran in the dark, tripped and fell, pushed himself back up, feeling panic growing in his gut, a pressure building.
He heard something – the scuff of feet? He looked about wildly – had he been heard from the camp, missed? Then he heard a sniffing, the whine of dogs, more than one, and figures were appearing out of the darkness. Two, three, more movement at the edge of his vision. A man strode towards him, tall, a scar running down his face. Memories flared, of the Darkwood.
Braith.
Then hands were grabbing him.
Corban felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He jerked his hands, but they were bound tight and there was a cloth over his head.
‘I’m going to take your hood off now. Make a sound and it’ll be the last thing you do. Feel that?’ Whoever it was poked him harder with the blade in his ribs.
‘Yes,’ he said inside the sack.
The sack was pulled off and Corban blinked in the light. It was early, the sun weak and pale, but it still made his eyes water.
He had been walking half the night, it seemed, or stumbling, hands before and behind pulling, dragging, steering him onwards.
Braith stood before him, leaner than Corban remembered him, deep lines in his face, around his mouth and eyes, almost matching the silver of his long scar. Around them men were sitting, drinking from water skins, chewing on biscuit or strips of meat. A few hounds sat close to Braith’s feet.
‘I know you,’ Corban said, his voice a croak.
‘And I you. You’ve grown up a bit since the well at Dun Carreg.’
‘Last time I saw you, you were running away,’ Corban said. ‘In the Darkwood.’
‘Oh aye,’ Braith said. ‘Are you sure you want to be reminding me of that? Angering me, right now?’
Corban shrugged. He felt angry himself, more than anything else right now. His journey through the night had been filled with other things – panic, worry, fear. For Storm, for the people he’d left behind.
‘Was it you that shot Queen Alona in the back?’ He took a deep breath, hearing Gar’s voice in his mind. Control your emotions. Use them; don’t let them use you. That’s a quick way to getting killed. Could he rouse Braith enough to get him to make a mistake?
Braith stepped closer, twisted his knife a little. ‘That’s enough, now. Think I’ll put that sack back on your head.’
‘Camlin told me about you,’ Corban said.
‘Did he now? How is Cam?’
‘He’s well. A good man.’
‘Good? He was a thief and murderer, last time I saw him. And a turncoat.’
‘He chose to do the right thing. He still does, unlike you,’ Corban said.
‘Right has a habit of changing, depending on who’s paying your wages,’ Braith said with a frown. ‘Eat this. You’ll need your strength.’ He put a biscuit in Corban’s bound hands.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Corban said.
‘Someone wants to see you,’ Braith said.