He didn’t allow them much time to rest, just enough to take the edge off their fatigue. They didn't have the time. Every movement on the horizon, every rustle in the heather had him on edge, taut as a strung bow, as jittery as a doe when the wolves howl.

He hoped Lute had found them somewhere to stay for the night; somewhere more comfortable than the open country, anyway. A barn would have done, if there was nothing else. A pig-sty, a manger, anything. He chewed his nails down to the quick, and wondered why he was taking it all so badly. He'd harboured fugitives before. 

Not like these two. One is on the run from a murderous despot and the other is Lyr Blaed with no silver to restrain her.

We could all meet our deaths in our sleep, at her hands.

Bai eased into a trot, and noted with approval that Sanna did the same without complaint. Some colour had returned to her cheeks and her green eyes seemed brighter.

He looked at the Lyr Blaed woman, who rode straight-backed and alert. She and Sanna had both been clothed in the Tethiri style, with linen shirt over an ankle-length, finely-woven wool tanshán split to the hip at sides, front and back, for riding. Over it all was a thicker wool coat with high collar and leather hood attached with bone toggles, the skirts wide and flared. Trousers too, with high boots, the cuffs turned up over the knee. If the weather grew colder - and it would, over the hills - there were sheepskin-lined cloaks in the packs.

He thought the Tethiri style particularly suited Sanna. Her coat was a muted moss-colour, edged in deep gold-ochre and lined in oak-coloured silk. Her green eyes sparkled with the colour, her brown skin enhanced by the rich tones. She’d coiled her black curls in braids atop her head. It reminded him of a crown, almost.

In his head, the sharp sting of Koth’s fly switch on his shoulder jerked him out of his rapt observation. ‘Don’t be a fool, Bai penvarzhavoy.’

‘Her people are not our people,’ added Siris.

‘And if they are not? Many among the tribe were not born on the grasses. Your father, for one.’

Koth snorted, and Siris laughed.

‘So, who is being a fool?’

‘Your grandmother won’t be pleased with you, Bai,’ Siris said. 'Neither will your shield-bearer. Will he?'

Bai drew a breath and cleared his throat. ‘Nothing to be displeased about. Where do you get these ideas?’

‘Whispers in the grasses, voices on the wind,’ said Koth with a sad little smile.

Bai twisted in his saddle and squinted into the sun, rapidly heading toward the Western horizon.

If they did have to camp, he was tempted to raise a thorn-hedge around them, but he preferred not to: it took too much energy and he would need to conserve that for the hill pass into Vartjastafel. There were worse than wolves in those hills.

A week would see them through, six days if they rode hard. He sensed that keeping their pace would be difficult. He hoped that the twenty riders Sanna had said would be sent after them would find it just as hard, if not worse. None could match Tethiri horsemen, not even through those hills.

The two women are not Tethiri horsemen, and their pace will set yours.

He chewed his lip. Could he lose their pursuers in the hills? Or could he lead them into traps? Now that was a risky suggestion. He’d be putting his charges at great risk. No, it was better to ride straight through, stopping as little as possible, and hope that their pursuers’ inexperience would be their downfall. It would take them six days to get through the hills. They only had to evade them for six days.

But there were the Ulthvár too. He would have to use magic to evade them. Brute force would be enough if he had thirty Tethiri men with him, but he had only one.

And that one was someone who didn’t want to go through the hills in the first place. If Lute kept his head under an Ulthvár attack, it would be a miracle. Still, if the lad couldn’t earn his spurs that way, then how could he?

If we get through, it’ll be a miracle and I’ll sacrifice my dogs to the Archer in thanks if we do! Blazes, I’ll even give her my own bow-hand!

‘Is that Lute?’ Sanna pointed. A dark shape was riding towards them from the distance.

Bai squinted, his hand shading his eyes. ‘I think it is. Wait here. I’ll go and meet him.’

He spurred his horse forward.

‘Nowhere,’ said Lute, reining in and breathing hard. His horse’s flanks were flecked with foam and the beast’s eyes rolled, showing the whites. ‘Not even so much as a hunter’s hovel. There is a sort of hollow, under some blackthorn…it might do...’

‘Far?’ Bai reached his hand to Lute’s and grasped it. ‘If it isn’t, we’ll camp there.’

‘Three miles,’ said Lute. ‘But…I’ll have to walk back. I can’t make Hálana carry me further today.’

Bai nodded, and went back for the women, while Lute turned around and began the slow walk back to the thorn hollow.

They made it just as the moon rose, casting an eerie silver light over the plain. Bai didn’t like it, and it was obvious Lute didn’t: the young man was on edge, and so was his horse, picking up her rider’s tension. He felt exposed there, despite the thorns. He’d have to raise that hedge after all, and risk the effects.

Lute came to stand at his shoulder. ‘You should have gone with the caravan,’ he said. ‘You could have disguised the women among us. Going through the hills is a disaster waiting to happen.’

‘It’s time we carved a route through,’ Bai said. His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. ‘We can’t always rely on our right to travel the Cherndorozh, and we’ll need a new route.’

‘At least do it with more men!’

Bai let Lute lean into him, but resisted the urge to wrap his arms around him. There was no comfort to be had that way. He was the leader, the war-rider: if he could not remain strong at a time like this, then he had no business at the head of his tribe.

A cold wind rose from nowhere. He shivered. Lute felt it, and hesitated, then leaned away. 

'Don't see omens in everything, Lute.'

'It's not everything. You think I'm a child, to be frightened of tales of bog-wights and old shades? Out here on the grasses?' Lute frowned, reproachful. 'I don't frighten so easily as women and children, Bai penvarzhavoy. You know that. But I know that whenever I look to those hills, my soul shrivels. My fate lies there.'

Bai went cold. 'Why do you say so?'

'Because I can read omens as well as any crone!' Lute wound his arm around Bai's and breathed deep. 'I know without reading anything at all that if you make me go through those hills, I won't come back.'

'You will, and I will bring you back!'

Lute’s silence blew away on the wind. Bai was not surprised the lad made no answer. He often didn't; he'd state his piece, then he'd say no more. No argument, no protest, no persuasion. Just a wounded, silent compliance. 

It is good he should not challenge his war-rider. Is it not so?

The thought was an empty one, though. Bai rolled his shoulders, stiff and weary, and wished Lute would argue, and never stop arguing, until he ground Bai down and wore all other arguments away.

It would never happen. Just as it would never happen that Bai would give into him. 

'We're going through the hills, and we'll get to Vartjastafel safely,' he said quietly. 'I've promised all three of you that this will happen. So go to bed, and rest, because tomorrow we ride harder than we've ridden before.'

Lute said nothing, but went to unroll his sleeping mat and blanket. After a while, Bai went to raise the protective hedge of thorns around their little encampment, and tried to get some sleep.