Ganthe stopped.

He thought he’d heard someone ahead, concealed amongst the rocks and overhanging ferns. If he hadn’t been expecting it, he would likely have missed the sound:  a sniffle.  The deluge almost drowned out every other noise but the rain itself.

For almost an hour they had crept along the trail, climbing steadily higher toward the top of the ridge.  At the waterfall they had spotted another trail, diverging from theirs: to a narrow ledge that led into a fissure behind the cascade of water.

Ganthe had begun following the offshoot, but Heric had called him back.  He’d pointed up the main trail. With some reluctance Ganthe had returned and led them up the steep incline.

Ganthe didn’t like taking obvious routes into places.  They were always watched.  Just like their current one was, if he had actually heard a sniffle and not some other noise. There was only one way to find out.

He had a knack (some say a Gods-given gift), for finding the  discreet and the hidden.  That was why he had proven so useful in the war, especially at Rauhoffen, Attenbach and Adburh. And afterwards at Tastow and Arthleah.  He’d been ordered never to reveal those last two to anyone.  He wondered, if now that he had been dismissed, whether he still had to follow that order.

He glanced back, but couldn’t see Ifonsa or Heric behind him.  The darkness hid them.  There were just the three of them this time, sent ahead to surveil the mine site.

Since departing the waterfall, they had crested the ridge, then they followed a winding trail leading down the other side.  Every now and again, Ganthe thought he heard distant shouts coming from below.  However, the rain made it hard to be certain.

He and Heric both wore the bandit armour they had acquired in Harnsey.  If the bandits were involved with the mine, it would allow them to move about more easily like they had in Harnsey.

“What about Ifonsa?” Ganthe had asked.

“I’ll make my own way,” she had answered.  Which sounded fair enough.  He found her quite remarkable, although sometimes she scared him.  He didn’t entirely know why. Her eyes made him quail whenever she stared at him, as though she didn’t have a soul.

About two hundred paces from the top of the ridge, Heric sent Ganthe ahead to scout.  He warned him there was likely a sentry station ahead. 

Ganthe had his doubts.  Not only was the area too steep and overgrown, any guards would be scrimshanking in this weather, and therefore heard from far away. 

Then he heard the scrape of a boot upon wet stone.  

There was no doubt now.  He had been wrong.  

 Ganthe drew his knife, and crept toward the sound.

 

Ifonsa tensed.

Just at the edge of her hearing, penetrating the constant patter of the rain, she could hear harsh voices. It was too indistinct and  far away to discern specific words, but she knew the speech, its cadence and stresses.

“I can’t hear anything,” Heric whispered beside her.

“I’m certain,” Ifonsa told him.

“Let’s wait until Ganthe signals.”

They hadn’t seen their companion since he had left the trail, creeping into the trees with his knife drawn.

“No,” Ifonsa said.  She reached under her sodden cloak, right behind her back.  Her hand grasped the hilt.  She slowly withdrew the weapon from its sheath.

“What’s that?” Heric ejaculated.  

 Even in the  darkness, she could see him eyeing the knife in her hand with both awe and fear. The blade glistened, almost as though it was able to reflect the starlight, despite the heavy clouds above.

“Déollisé,” she hissed.

  She had never revealed her most sacred possession to him before.  She’d never revealed it to anyone beyond her family, except those that felt its wrath.

“What are you going to do with that, Ifonsa?” he asked.  His hand crept close to his own knife.

“Röaita,” she murmured.  She could feel the spells that had been laid upon the blade flowing through her. “Toith déollené ta thoa sëo íche .”  She shuddered as the glamour reached its zenith. “Care for these,” she told Heric.  Then she darted into the trees. 

 Her hunt had begun.

 

Heric swore.

“And she just left those behind?”  Ganthe asked.

The two of them were in a secluded area just off the trail. It had been designed as a  makeshift guard house, but the ramshackle wooden roof did little to prevent the rain from streaming through it.  That proved to be a blessing.  It washed the blood away towards the surrounding trees.

“What am I supposed to do with them?” Heric asked.

“You could try using them. Or let me.”

“You won’t be able to draw.  I can barely manage six shots.”

“Then I’ll just carry it.”

“Why?”

“Because you have that stupidly big sword, that you refuse to use a scabbard for.  Even Falduin isn’t that foolish now.”

“I use one when I’m riding.”

“Just give me the bow and arrows.”

“Keep the cover on the bow,” Heric said as he handed Ganthe the weapons.

“What do we do now?”  Ganthe asked.

“We complete the mission.”

“And Ifonsa?”

“Let’s hope she’s wrong, and returns quickly.”

They continued down the trail, moving cautiously as it wound down the hillside.  Ahead, they began to see a soft, lambent glow beyond the trees to their right. Broaching the droning cadence of the deluge, they heard other sounds: the rapid chugging of a waterwheel spinning; the groan of ropes, straining under a great load; a commanding voice, shouting instructions.  The mine was operating, despite the rain and fall of night.

Ganthe stopped, as the trail separated into two: a wider path, arcing down toward the noise and lights; and a narrower, rarely used one.

“Left,” Heric whispered. “We’ll check, then come back and head right.”

Ganthe nodded, and moved off down the wider path to the left, toward the sounds of activity.

They hid in the trees watching as the camp bustled with activity.  The site had grown since the last time Heric was here. There were more huts around the perimeter, as well as other buildings he did not recognise. They had opened up an entire new section, on the opposite side of the stream. 

Most of the work was now being done there.  A wooden bridge crossed just upriver from the waterwheel, which spun freely - the gears not engaged.  Workers hurried  about, carrying tools, or rolling wooden barrels into the open mine.  

Heric could see three guards standing watch around the perimeter, each isolated from the others.  They wore the same gear that the bandits had worn, which answered the question of the bandits involvement.

The tunnels that had been in use during Sir Helmund’s raid, remained silent.  However they were still well-lit, and one of the guards stood watch just outside the main entrance.

Heric’s memory returned to that night, of eight years ago.  Most of the fighting had taken place inside the tunnels, but he remembered what this area had looked like then.  So many bodies. It seemed like such a dreadful waste.

A pair of men left the mine dragging a large barrel across the bridge.  Straining, they lifted it up and and emptied its contents into the waiting wagon.  The harnessed donkeys shied at the sudden noise.  The animals look miserable.  They did not like being out in the cold rain.

As the pair of workers returned to the mine, Heric peered at the wagon’s contents.  It didn’t appear as though they were digging out iron.  Amongst the rocks and dirt in the wagon Heric could see something glimmering in the lantern-light.

“Can you work out what they’re digging?”

Ganthe shook his head.

“Let us get closer.”

 

Ganthe returned from the wagon bearing a rock. It glistened, even in the dim light reaching them in their hiding place.  The rock appeared as though veins of gold streaked through it.

“Luggold,” he said handing it to Heric.  “Why would they be mining luggold? It’s useless.”

“Perhaps they’re stupid?” Heric offered halfheartedly.  His attention was drawn towards one of the huts.

“They think its real?” Ganthe grinned.

Heric shrugged, “Let’s investigate that hut.”

“Why?”

“It looks new.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s clean.”

Ganthe nodded.  Heric was right.  All the other buildings showed signs of weathering and being well-used.  Some had been patched up multiple times. 

In comparison, the hut was simple, but pristine.  As though it had been built in a hurry recently. Located slightly away from the others, the hut also differed by being smaller. It looked only big enough for two, perhaps three, people to reside inside.  It also had no side walls, the roof sloping down to the ground.  A narrow door opened in the middle of the front face.  A lit lantern hung from a hook beside the door.

“What are you doing?” Ganthe hissed, as Heric stood up and strode towards the door.

“What you taught me,” Heric replied, stopping, “I’m just a guard now.”

“Nobody is going to believe a guard would carry that sword.”

Heric snorted and said, “Come on.”

The two of them strode to the door.  Nobody appeared to notice.  They’d only seen a few people on this side of the stream.  Most of those were on the far side, moving to and from one of the larger huts.  Ganthe guessed it was a workers dormitory.

Heric knocked.

There was no answer.

He knocked again.

Still no answer. He opened the door.

Inside the hut was lavishly furnished, at least for a mine site.  There was a cot, complete with clean linen, and a heavy woollen rug.  A table and two chairs, were placed against the far wall, a shuttered window above it.   Bouquets of pink and yellow flowers hung, tied to the sloped roof.  They provided a very subtle aroma.

“She’s here,” Heric said, entering the hut.

“It looks like a whore’s.”

“They’re her colours,” Heric said, placing his hand upon the bed. “The bed is still warm.  We’ve only just missed her.”

“What do we do now?”

“We search for her.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“The plan has changed.”

“What are you two doing in here?”  The voice was harsh, guttural. The accent thick, almost unintelligible.

A figure stood in the doorway.  It sent a chill through Heric’s belly.  

Ifonsa was right.