As they came in sight of the croft, they saw Lute waiting for them. He raised his hand, then mounted and came trotting back.

Bai huffed impatiently. He’d known there would be nothing civilized once they got into the hills, but knowing it and seeing it were two different things. The hills loomed behind the low-built steading in the distance; grey shadows crept like searching, greedy fingers eager for men to crush. It was a poor-looking dwelling, its stones slimy with moss and its thatch dulled to grey. A scant few sheep milled in a dry-walled pen on the house’s Eastern side. The tiles to one side of the house were missing and the soggy grey pelts of several wolves were left to rot underneath the eaves. Someone had painted Ward Runes in blood on the damp fur. Bai hoped the Ulthvár didn't venture far enough from the hills to see that. The crofter and his family would find their own skins hung alongside the wolves' if they did.

He glanced at the two women. Sanna sat her saddle like a queen, much to his admiration, her spine rigid and her head high. She’d bundled herself in a fur-trimmed cloak against the chill. It was still a full three hours until sundown but the day had turned grey and cold, and a dull wind roared through the grasses. He didn’t like it. That sort of wind carried omens with it. 

Lute didn’t like it either. The young man clung to his horse’s head with a sort of defeated misery Bai had never seen in him before. Blazes, what was the matter with him? They weren’t even into the hills yet! Once they were, they had a full six or seven days of travel ahead of them before they could count themselves in Vartjastafel, and safety. 

But rock and fog loomed, and sapped mens' spirits and rendered them small and full of terror. He dropped his hand, halfway to forming a Ward Rune over his own chest.

Lute stared at him. 'You feel it...'

Snap out of it, he tried to tell Lute with his eyes. I need you!

Lute’s eyes held his, then slid away.  He appeared to give himself a little shake and sat up straighter. ‘They don’t have much. And I did not like to ask for water for us; he has only two young daughters and a boy less than ten summers old to help him.’

Bai sighed. A fool could see it was a poor enough dwelling. ‘Well, let’s get up there then,’ he said, and urged Lezhnaiáth forward. ‘We’ll give him gold Moons not silver, for all the food he can spare, and if he has iron, I’ll need it. A horseshoe, a handful of nails, arrowheads – anything. Come and ride with me, Lute.’

Lute slumped in his saddle, mouth turned down and eyes hooded.

Bai waited until they were ahead of the women then kneed Lezhnaiáth close to Lute. He spoke low. ‘What is it?’

‘The hills.’ Lute’s voice was terse, his mouth tight at the edges. ‘I hate it here. I won’t forgive you this journey.’

‘Kachu húk! Only the hills? Will you see omens and strange hosts every bloody mile, or should I look for another shield-bearer?’

Lute’s eyes flew wide at that. ‘Have I let you down? Have I said I will? I said only that I would never forgive you for what you’re about to put me through, but I won’t ever fail you, Bai penvarzhavoy!’

‘Hmph.’ Bai gritted his teeth, hating that he sounded just like Naza. ‘Well, if it’s only grey geese on your grave, keep it to yourself. I don’t want you turning everyone skittish!’

He looked at the hills, half-shrouded in mist, low fog obscuring the sky. He suppressed a shiver. The fog felt as heavy as a blanket of stone, the silence unnerving.

Lute said nothing, but looked ahead, resolute in his terror. Bai almost felt sorry for him – for them all – but remembered that much of what was told about the hills was rumour and exaggeration. He didn’t believe in the tales of shades and wights. Nor did he give any real credence to the tales of Lyr Celain, the blood-drinking monsters that the Lyr Blaed became if they didn’t take the witchbane and wear the silver that supressed their magic. Those tales were just silly fancies, told to frighten children into behaving.

He did believe in the Ulthvár though. They would be a problem, if they discovered human travellers in the hills. They were wont to allow Tethiri and Lyr Blaed unhindered passage when it suited, but even that couldn’t be relied upon. And Sanna was human.

‘Pleasant looking place,’ remarked the Lyr Blaed woman. She’d ridden alongside him and was staring at the hills with keen interest on her face.

Sanna looked less enthused. ‘Have you taken this road before, Bai penvarzhavoy?’

‘Once,’ he said, curtly. He didn’t care to repeat that journey. It had been before he’d taken over the rhón, and too long ago to remember anything but the hush, the fear, and the endless oppressive grey of both sky and land.

He had to get them all through as fast as possible, as silently as possible. It was said that the Ulthvár could hear a pine-needle drop in the forest a mile away.

Lute’s look said he’d rather slit his own wrists than endure a week in that terrain. ‘The Ulthvár won’t tolerate human trespassers, Bai. Even if we’re with her.’

‘Manners, boy,’ Bai growled. ‘And they won’t know we’re there! Go: ride up to that farmhouse and tell the farmer to get us a full supper on the table and water heated for the women, regardless of what he says about his situation - and remember to promise him five gold Moons for his trouble and a store of iron!’

Lute thundered away without a word, and Bai bit down on a curse.

He turned back to look over his companions. Sanna sat straight as an arrow, her eyes still scanning the hills, and the Lyr Blaed woman hunched in her cloak, her pale eyes glittering.

He had to get them through. Not just for the sake of being rid of two colossal nuisances and his obligation fulfilled, but for Lute’s sake. The lad could never take over a rhón’s command one day if he couldn’t venture into places he feared. Blazes, a war-rider had to be prepared to go to the seven levels of hell for his people if he had to! The Lyr Blaed woman leaned sideways and spat, then stuffed another finger of tobak between her teeth.

She jabbed a finger North. ‘You’re going to kill that boy doing this. An idiot can see he’s frightened rigid of those hills. Who knows how stupid men can get when they’re frightened?’

Bai held his hand out for a pinch of the tobak, and pushed it under his tongue when it came. The herb was tangy and fragrant, a stimulant he badly needed. ‘I don’t intend to kill him, but to strengthen him. Do you want to reach Vartjastafel safely?’

‘He’s barely a man. I have a son his age, thereabouts. Time enough for him to learn how to be strong. He needn’t do it in those hills. They’re enough to terrify anyone. I’m terrified.’

He doubted that. He swore and slammed his fist on his knee. ‘Do you not trust me to know my shield-bearer?’

‘Of course,’ she stuttered, taken aback at his vehemence. ‘I didn’t mean that…’

‘Do not question me! Remember that I don’t explain myself to you, or Lute, or anyone but the gods and my ancestors!’

She nodded, chastened, her cheeks a bright burnished rose on her pale skin. ‘I am sorry.’

Bai gestured her forward, and put his heels to Lezhnaiáth’s flanks, and rode after Lute, a dire misgiving gnawing at his gut and a headache pounding the inside of his skull. Worse than that was the icy fist around his heart.

He had no idea if he was doing the right thing.