Not the best time of year to decide to go camping in the Desolation, Drem thought, not for the first time, as he woke to find ice in his growing beard. He cracked it free and scraped more ice from his eyebrows, then crawled from his makeshift tent, a bearskin propped up by branches, only to see that it was covered in another layer of fresh-fallen snow. He regarded the sky through a canopy of pines, saw a clear bright blue far above. Breaking camp was a swift affair, Drem taking comfort in the routine of it, all the little practices that his da had drummed into him over countless years. Soon his bag was across his shoulder and his thick-shafted spear in his fist and he was walking on through the snow.
He’d been following the trail of the bear that killed his da for over a ten-night, now. Twice he had lost its tracks completely, fresh snow masking everything, and he’d had to retrace his steps, searching not just the ground but all that grew, shrubs and bushes and trees, until he’d found the bear’s trail again. And once he’d seen two sets of boot-prints, one uncommonly large, but it could have been a big man wearing snow-boots.
The trail had led northwards, into the foothills of the Bonefells, though in a looping arc, and Drem had found a number of pits and traps along the trail, as if the bear followed a trapper’s trail, returning to collect its prey. And now the trail was circling back, southwards. Drem paused as he stepped onto a plateau, open and free of pine trees. He walked to the edge, stood on a ridge and looked south onto a world of white that seemed to go on forever. The only blemishes were Starstone Lake, directly south of him, its waters dark and glittering in a winter’s sun, and Kergard, further west and south.
And that, he thought, eyes narrowing. A few leagues ahead of him, beyond the tiered roll of foothills and forest, there was a small village, smoke rising from hearths and fire-pits. It was built upon the edge of Starstone Lake, a pier jutting into the dark waters.
‘The mine,’ he said to himself, feeling something shift in his gut.
Somehow he knew, sensed, this was the place he would find his answers. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he stared. Then he gripped his spear and walked on.
Drem crept through the last patch of bush and scrub and crouched in the snow.
It was twilight, the sky a mixture of purples and pinks, and he was situated at the top of a gentle slope, looking down upon the mine spread before him, a squat, sprawling mess of buildings. Even from this distance Drem knew something was wrong about the place. Barns, huts and barrack-like cabins were scattered around the enclosure with no seeming logic to their positioning. All of it was ringed by a palisaded wall that curled around to the lakeshore, gates on every side. And most of it was in darkness, a few torches belching smoke on the wall, some lights flickering inside huts. He could see no signs of life, no movement on the walls, no voices, singing, not even the rhythmic crack and crunch of miners at work, carving their living from the rock.
Then an animal noise rose up, part roar, part mournful howl, and ice skittered through Drem’s veins.
He’d spent many years in the Wild, hunting, trapping, and thought he’d heard all there was to hear from an animal’s throat, but this sound . . .
Drem sat and waited, watched as the sun became a thin line on the horizon. He shrugged off his kit bag, pulled out a roll of rope and hooked it on his belt, and then he stood and sprinted, bent low, straight towards the wall. His heart pounded in his head, waiting, expecting a voice or horn to ring out the alarm.
Thirty paces left, he looked up, saw the wall was empty.
Fifteen paces. Ten.
And then he was there, back against the timber, sucking in air.
He was close to a large, double gateway, a smaller, single door beside it, a simple latch on the door. He’d planned to loop his rope around one of the timber beams of the palisade and haul himself up, but thought he might as well try the latch first.
The door opened.
He slipped through, closed it behind him, and moved along the wall. It was near dark, now, the solid buildings and shadows in between merging. Stars flickered into life. He looked about, unsure what to do, where to go.
What am I doing here?
A pang of fear, threatening to overwhelm him. He took a moment to remember.
The bear. My father’s killer. The Starstone Sword.
He took a deep breath, focused on those three things, stiffening his resolve, and moved on. Ran across the gap between wall and a building, slipping deeper into the enclosure.
Then the smell hit him. First the clear smell of animal dung, but there was more to it, not sweet-scented like a horse, something acrid in it.
A meat-eater.
Voices. He followed the sound, found himself in an alley between two long buildings, what looked like sleeping barracks, and beyond them a larger building, longer and wider, timber-walled with a grass-sod roof. Lights flickering in shuttered windows, the murmur of voices. One man’s rising in laughter.
He moved close to a shuttered window and carefully peered in.
A long table, a score of shaven-haired men around it, a wooden board, one man standing, grinning as he tossed the bones onto the board, watching them roll.
Playing knuckle-bone.
The man barked a laugh, punching the air, turning so that Drem could see his face.
It was Wispy Beard.
Conflicting emotions at seeing him, anger and fear mixed as he remembered the noose around his neck, being hoisted into the air. Wispy laughing.
Drem scanned the others, recognized some, though he didn’t see Burg there, the leader with the scar on his face. In the gloom someone else sat, the firelight and darkness making him look too big, longer and wider than a man, legs outstretched as he leaned back in his chair, arms folded, seemingly asleep.
The animal-roar again, a sad thing, closer, louder, vibrating through the snow-slush and into the soles of Drem’s boots. Most in the room ignored it, the big man’s legs twitching, but nobody moved to tend whatever it was that made such a sound. The stench of excrement was stronger, too, insinuating itself into the back of Drem’s throat.
He moved on, a lifetime of trapping having taught him silence and patience. He knew instinctively when to wait, when to move, and how to tread as silent as a fox. But there was no light-footed trick in the world that could avoid footprints in snow. He tried to follow well-used tracks, his footprints mixing with a stream of others.
A stable block stood before him, a torch burning outside it, fixed atop a post. Drem froze in the shadow of a building and stared. In time a head loomed over the stable-door, but it was no horse. A bear, dark-furred, huge, its eyes baleful. It opened its jaws and let out a sound closer to groan than growl.
Is that the bear that killed my da?
Drem’s fist tightened on his spear, the urge to run over and plunge it into the creature’s chest sweeping him.
Wait. The hunter is patient.
In answer to its mournful groaning another sound echoed around the encampment, a chorus of howls and whines.
‘Shut your row,’ a voice called out. Drem’s head snapped around to a dark hollow, dense and thick behind the bear pen. He crept along the building’s wall to get a better view and saw an open space, a long table set within it, legs of timber thick as trunks. Shapes were scattered upon the table, unclear in the darkness.
Strange, a table out in the open.