The nights were beginning to draw in again and Kit felt the September breeze nip at his bare hands as he pulled down the door to the furnace, shutting away the warmth, and began to gather up his tools. His father's hands were too bad now to help with much around the smithy but he could at least heave the sack of iron ore back inside now that the day's work was done. Occasionally, when Kit couldn't persuade one of the younger men from the village to act as a striker, his father would do that too. But it was becoming less frequent now; with the dexterity in his fingers, the strength in Bran's shoulders was slowly being ebbed away and soon would come a time when he would only be able to watch his son perfect the craft he'd practised for forty years.

As he disappeared around the side of the sturdy wooden frame that was set a little way away from their house, Kit called out to him.

"I'll come inside soon; I just need to get that leather from Lief," he said, locking the hemp sack of tools away in the outhouse. A sergeant of militia from a nearby town had ordered a half-score of short one-handed swords and, the blades finished, all that was to be done was to wind a length of leather strip tightly around the wooden handles, binding it with sticky resin, and they would be ready for him when he came tomorrow. Although some older smiths might have passed such a dull and unskilled job onto their apprentice, Kit was happy to do it himself. For a number of reasons; firstly, he didn't have a proper apprentice and secondly, letting his hands work unconsciously gave his mind time to wander. He could sit in front of the hearth with his mother quietly sewing to his left and his father snoring to his right and he could think of whatever he wanted.

He might think of the sea, perhaps. He'd never seen it himself, though one of the travelling sellers who'd passed through the village the previous week had told Kit of it and laughed at his child-like amazement when he described it to him and told him stories of the monsters that lurked in its depths. He'd told him about the mermaids that were said to rescue sailors swept overboard too. He imagined they'd be dark-eyed and fair-haired, like Ysmay the baker's daughter, who'd he knew his parents had hoped he'd marry. But, as ever, it had only lasted a few months and she'd married Borin, the pig-keeper, instead a little while after. He didn't mind much; she'd held his interest well enough but he knew that wasn't the way it should be, at least for yeomen who could afford (if that was the proper term) to marry for love. He was in no rush; Kit rarely rushed anything. If one went too quickly, one tended to miss the most interesting things...

The rest of the village was quiet and most of its inhabitants were packing up for the day or already inside, crowded around cooking pots or hearths. Kit nodded to a neighbour and made his way to the little hut on the edge of Finshaw where Lief, who sold hide and game meat from the forest, lived. He'd almost reached the row of frames over which skins were stretched, waiting to be scraped down and tanned, when he stopped.

"Cýtastan the blacksmith," said someone behind him. It was a statement rather than a question and the directness of the tone in which it was uttered made Kit raise his eyebrows even as he turned around.

"People call me Kit," he corrected automatically. The man who'd spoke to him was a stranger- certainly not one of the small number of inhabitants of Finshaw- and he seemed almost to have emerged straight out of the fabric of the oak forest that darkened the edge of the clearing. He was older than Kit by several years and he looked wild; his dark hair was tangled and knotted into the odd narrow braid here and there. He clearly hadn't shaved for days and there was a faint sheen of perspiration of his forehead as if he'd just run a great distance. Kit wondered vaguely if he should call for Lief or someone else but then, why would a bandit or a mugger bother to ascertain his name. "The smithy is closed for this day but tomorrow-"

"I do not require your services as a blacksmith," said the stranger, looking at Kit keenly then swiftly moving to the edge of the hut to scan the darkened lane beyond. "People call me Faulkner. I'm here to save your life."

Finshaw was neither the largest nor the smallest village Egil had ever been sent to. Certainly, it was not the most memorable. The same little shops, the same little huts, the same stench of mud and peasants. By all appearances, there was nothing in Finshaw that made it even the slightest bit worthy of the attentions of a noble. And yet here Egil had been sent. Somewhere, under the sleepy-eyed locals who wandered back home or off to the tavern--for every town had one, no matter how small--there lay a threat to Egil's master. He didn't know what the threat was...he never did. All he needed to know was a name, a place, and a sentencing for whatever crime he was meant to prevent.

As the sky darkened, Egil readied himself, shedding his armor and hiding it with care beneath some gorse bushes. Then he remained hidden off the rough road that led into the village. He did his best work when the human eye would be most strained. When the moon was high, and the stars shuddering. He would seek out this blacksmith in Finshaw, collect him, end him, and be on his way. He would be back in the wings of the castle, awaiting the next request, in a matter of days.

At last it was time. The blacksmith would be in his home now. Sleeping, or at least resting after a long day of smithing. With a family, perhaps. Maybe a young wife, even children.

Egil shook his head. His orders were to smother the threat that lay with the blacksmith. Any who saw him would have to go as well, but it was always best when the problem was dealt with as singularly as possible. With luck, no one would even be awake to see. Without luck...



The doors of the tavern opened, and two figures stumbled out, laughing uproariously, scarcely standing on the four legs between them. One leaned heavily on the other, and slurred through a retelling of the same joke, which set them off laughing again so that they nearly fell. Five feet from the doors, the narrower figure was practically dragging the other.

"Come, come, Master!" Gwyneira wheezed, adjusting her new friend's arm around her shoulders. The shawl wrapped around her mouth and the hood draped about her head kept the stuffy heat of the tavern with her, but she could hardly remove them now without dropping the very drunk man she was attempting to escort home. She laughed again as he snored, still on his feet, and shook him awake. "Come! We must have you back to your wife for a flogging. I fear if I do not return you I shall share the punishment. Come!"

"Nearly--nearly threw you 'twixt the tables, did I!" The man chortled, and wiped his chin, and found his feet again.

"Aye, and a merry time we'd have had then," Gwyn agreed cheerfully. When she'd first met the man a day ago, he'd attempted to get a dog after her when she'd asked for the use of his hayloft. The dog had been too lazy to chase, though, and Gwyn had won over the woman of the house by offering two fat geese in exchange for an easy shelter. She'd been gone in the morning, then surprised her hosts in the afternoon with a small boar. The scrawny man had been begrudgingly delighted. When one could count the ribs on each of their family members, free meat was never turned away. Pride had kept them from becoming as friendly as they were now until recently, however. Gwyneira was accustomed to such hard-won friendliness, though. Were she the one rooted to an unforgiving spot with a family to feed, she might have been a little testy about strangers without faces, too.

"Father!"

Thoughts of too-skinny family members seemed to have summoned one of them. The farmer's eldest, a boy with more freckles than there were stars and large brows, appeared out of the dark like a phantom. He skidded to a halt directly in front of them and bent over, hands on his knees to catch his breath. Gwyn managed to prop the farmer up on the horse post and frowned at the boy. "What news, lad? You've a face like the devil's loose."

The young man gulped a last breath, then stood up straight and shook his head. "Mother sent me to collect father as 'tis growing late, but on my way over I spied a wolf!"

Gwyn felt her brows raise. Wolves tended to shy away from settlements like this one. They were not stupid creatures. If ever they were to stray into man's camps, it would be out of desperation during a miserable winter, or out of sick confusion. And certainly there would not be one alone. More likely it was a large, wild dog that had appeared more like a vicious creature in the imaginative, frightened eyes of a youth. Still. Gwyn patted the boy on the shoulder and gestured towards the again-snoring farmer. "See that he gets inside, then. Let those inside who are able to walk a straight line know that there is something in your village. I'll look to this wolf.

"Nay, sir!" The boy protested, even as he went to help his father up, "You've never seen such a beast! Large as a horse it was!"

"I've my bow with me, and I've not met an animal too grand for a properly placed arrow."

"But its eyes burned, like coals!"

"All the better to take aim at," Gwyn replied, beaming. "Now, which way did you spy this wolf? I'll only have a look. Perhaps scare it off."

With great reluctance, the boy gestured. Gwyn followed his pointed finger, in the direction of the shops. She meant to stop by the leather worker in the morning, and perhaps the backsmith's, and it simply wouldn't do if they were all frightened off by a horse-sized wolf beforehand. Gwyn grinned at the thought and shook her head, drawing her cloak closer to herself to stave off the cold.



The smithy was abandoned, but hadn't been for long. The wolf sniffed at the air, and caught many different scents. Heated metal. Burnt wood. Leather. Men. The long nose twitched, and the black lips curled upwards over curving teeth. He was close. It would have been more convenient if he'd still been working--or even come back for some forgotten tool--but he was close enough.

The wolf followed the scent back out from the smithy, and around the corner. Its massive padded paws made scarcely any sound, sinking pleasantly into the cool earth. Not far from the smithy was a house. Quaint little thing. There was a glow in the window. The scent drifted out of the window, so distinct it might have been a color drifting through the air. The wolf allowed itself a soft growl, and crept closer.

Kit looked dumbfounded for a moment then backed away from the man who had introduced himself as Faulkner.

"From who?" he said, warily. "I am but a blacksmith, I do not think- I have no enemies, you must be looking for another..."

"Another? Another foundling left wrapped in furs by the long-stone of the Pendle Circle? One also named after the bird that was sat on the stone when he was discovered?" Faulkner stepped after Kit impatiently, still looking beyond his shoulder into the darkness. "And the question is not 'who', but 'what'."

Kit felt a jolt of fear flash through him. He'd never been nervous about going out at night before, not even when he'd been a boy. The woods were familiar to him and, light or dark, he knew every winding path, every low branch, knew that the screech in the darkness was only a ghostly barn owl over the fields and that the rustle in the undergrowth was just a vole nuzzling through the leaves. But there was something in Faulkner's tone that he couldn't ignore.

"Come to the inn, we can sit and you can explain-"

"No! There is no time," said Faulkner. His impatience got the better of him and he grabbed Kit's arm and hauled him bodily away from the lane into the trees. "We must get down-wind. We shall go to the stones; I'll tell you what I know there, when we are safe."

Kit struggled against Faulkner's grip until the other man flung him away and stalked deeper in the forest. Kit froze, unsure of what to do. He cast a final glance back at the lane before stumbling after him. Faulkner smiled grimly as he heard Kit follow.

"Quiet," he hissed, in response to the blacksmith's inelegant stomping through dried leaves and bracken. They might be heading down-wind but it would be all be for nothing if they were heard instead. And he was not far now, Faulkner could sense it; a black skulking shadow somewhere to the east that weighed heavy and foreign in the quiet domesticity of Finshaw.

To Kit, they crept through the woods for what seemed like hours but in reality couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. Faulkner seemed to barely have to look where he stepped even though he walked through the crowded trees, stooping beneath branches and avoiding bracken, with ease. He wondered if the older man had been to Finshaw before; he seemed to know the way to the Pendle Stones as if he'd walked it before. And yet Kit was sure he'd never met him. Finshaw was not a large village and any newcomer would provide a welcome source of gossip that would briefly entertain most of its inhabitants for a day or two; he wouldn't have passed through the village unnoticed.

Eventually the trees began to thin and the lichen-patched backbone of the hill began to poke through the bracken until they were free of the woods and out onto the bleak moon-lit grass of the moor. The Pendle Stones jutted out from the fell like ragged teeth and it was towards them that Faulkner strode, stopping only once he'd reached the tallest one, called the long-stone by the villagers. Kit half-walked half-ran after him, narrowly avoiding tripping over a clod of thick grass and paused outside the circle, unwilling, for some reason, to accompany Faulkner inside.

"You will tell me, now?" he said, a little breathlessly, trying his best to look irritated. In reality, his irritating and discomfort was far outweighed by his curiosity. "What all this was in aid of?"

"I will tell you," said Faulkner. "Sit down and I'll tell you."

Gwyn reached the shops quickly, ready to search the ground for the tracks. Near the leather worker's shop, she found some, but they were nothing like the padded feet of a wolf.

Mostly lost in the mess that showed the leather worker saw good business, the tracks of two people set off from the path and into the woods. Gwyn frowned, her eyes tracing the length and depth of the tracks. One had moved quick and sure, the other much less so. Would a pair of men struggling look like a massive wolf to a farm boy? Possibly. And there were no wolf tracks in sight.

Slipping one hand under her cloak to rest over her largest hunting knife, Gwyn set off in the direction of the freshly laid footprints. The path through the trees wasn't difficult to follow. Either someone had come through with the intent of leaving a trail, or someone wasn't used to tripping through branches and sharp foliage in the dark. To someone who had been hunting in one forest or another since she was old enough to string a bow, the trail was almost eerily clear. It made the fine hairs on the back of Gwyn's neck raise up in anticipation of a trap of some sort. It was a ridiculous thought, of course, for no one in the village had reason to do her harm, and certainly not with such an outlandish bait as a boy who cried that he'd seen a horse-sized wolf. Still...

She shook her head. Sending a final glance back to the village, Gwyn pressed deeper into the darkness. Her eyes were accustomed to the dark, vague shapes of trees and shrub at night, and she followed the trail with relative ease. Her fingers gripped the edge of her cloak to keep it from catching on any twigs and making unnecessary sound. She timed her breaths to the faint breeze that ruffled the trees. The need for silence impeded her progress, but the path of the 'wolf' led her on. Once it intersected with a boar's trundling trail, but a branch which had been stripped of its leaves, far too high for any boar, corrected any confusion and Gwyn kept on.



There were two people inside the house; both elderly, and one smelling strongly of the forge. There was some meal being prepared, too. A simple fare, similar to any other being made in the village--in any village--at precisely that moment.

What threat could an elderly blacksmith pose? The very faint scent of nettle and juniper berries suggested he was not in the prime of his health, even. Given enough time, the man might simply lay down and sigh out his last breath without a fuss.

The wolf wasn't there to grant anyone time, though. And the longer he stood outside the window, breathing in the scent of his prey, the greater his chances of being sighted and caught.

He tread back three feet. Massive muscles coiled under dark fur, and with a brief snuff the wolf lunged. The powerful legs tucked up into the body, and the wolf leaped in through the window, disappearing into the house.



The woods ended, opening up onto the moors. The night air seemed more brisk out here, and there was more of a bite in the wind. Gwyn felt a shudder run down her spine as she peered out from the trees. The Pendle Stones, as the locals called them, filled her with a sense of awe and dread. They reminded her too much of faded, dying, dead rowan trees. Who knew what purpose they served, really? Or what would happen if something damaged them? She didn't dare to so much as think on it, and had had no intention of coming within a stone's throw of the circle. Now here she was, following two strange men--well visible in the moonlight--out to the stones to prevent or partake of who knew what.

Uncertainty ruled her for a moment. She didn't know what these men were doing. Perhaps they were friends, perhaps one of them was being attacked by a stranger. The time for following their footsteps had passed: barging out into the open was out of the question. Nor could she simply return the way she'd come--not when one or both of the men might be in danger. And besides that, curiosity was tugging at her like an impatient child.

Biting back a resigned sigh, Gwyn slipped a little further back into the trees and worked her way around. She tread through the sparse foliage until she deemed herself far enough to one side that the men--embroiled in conversation as they were--shouldn't be able to see her slipping back up closer to the stones with them.

Coming at a different angle from the men, there was a small dip in the hill leading to the stones. Gwyn lowered herself as much as she could into the heather, and inch by precious inch worked her way up. It took far longer than she would have liked, and really by the time she reached the back of the long-stone to hide and listen one of the men could have killed the other, but at last she was there. Her hand found the hunting knife again, just in case, and then she waited, listening with baited breath.

As Kit hesitantly took a seat on one of the stones that had long-since fallen over onto its side as Faulkner began to speak.

"You are aware that the King of Dunoting has ruled this kingdom for over forty years," he said, not looking at Kit but across the circle to where the grass met the edge of the forest, as if expecting something to emerge from its darkness.

Despite his inattention, Kit himself nodded vaguely. He did of course know of the king but here in Finshaw, the political machinations that went on in Ebrauc, the capital of the kingdom, had little effect on the lives of ordinary villagers. They paid their tax and occasionally talked about some distant conflict miles away in The Peak or further north along the border with Bernaccia but that was all, really. The king might have been replaced with an imposter but as long as he kept the local militia funded and the traders well-stocked, the people of Finshaw might never have known.

"He has no known heir and is, of course, not willing to give up his throne just yet," Faulkner went on. "So when it was foretold that the closest kin of a blacksmith from a small village in the south of Dunoting would be the one to bring about the end of his reign... He sent one of his soldiers to look for him."

Kit's jaw dropped open and he laughed in disbelief.

"Me? There is some mistake. There must be! I have no desire to overthrow the king, I am like anyone else in this village! Who is said to have 'foretold' such a thing?" he said, shaking his head. This Faulkner, whoever he was, must be a madman. A convincingly lucid madman but a madman nonetheless.

"That does not matter now. What you must do is-" Faulkner cut his own sentence short as, out of the dimness of the trees, a shape soared on silent wings towards the stone circle. Automatically, he held his arm out and it settled, with a few precisely-timed flaps, onto it, claws gripping the leather gauntlet. The falcon twitched its head in agitation then turned to watch Kit, its breast pale in the moonlight and its black gaze unnervingly steady. Faulkner frowned before continuing. "You must not wait. We could easily be tracked, even here. You are still in danger."

Suddenly, he turned and darted with unexpected speed around the side of the long-stone and in an instant, he had seized the intruder's cloak at their throat. He dragged them out from behind the granite and into view of Kit who had immediately retreated back a few paces, behind the partial safety of one of the fallen stones.

"But not, I think from this-" he said, through gritted teeth. The falcon, which had leapt back into the air as soon as Faulkner had moved, watched the scene from the top of the long-stone as he pulled back their hood and paused in surprise to find that it was a woman, not a man, who had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

Gwyn strained her ears, her mouth pulling into a slight frown. Overthrowing the king? There was talk of such things in many of the towns Gwyn had stopped in. Taxes were too high. Punishment was too severe. Soldiers and guards were afforded too many liberties. Too many mysteries floated around the castle...and concerning the fates of those who openly opposed it. But that was all closer to the capital. Out here, there was hardly a reason for anyone to even know the king's name. There couldn't be any reason--and judging by the younger man's response, interest--for a rebellion to start here. But then, had there been any reason for one to start in Rowan Range?

Or was that, too, the result of some prophecy?

Curiosity was overtaking caution. Combined with the ale consumed with the farmer, that was not a recipe for good sneaking. Though she should have known better, she crept just a little bit closer. Gwyn's frown deepened when the man who spoke of the king paused. She leaned in, hoping to hear more.

When a hand seized her cloak, Gwyn had only enough time to curse herself for letting her guard down. She stumbled, nearly going to her knees as she was dragged into the clearing. Even as her hood was drawn back, she turned her gaze on the younger man,who looked on with moon-wide eyes. This was to be the over-thrower of kings? There was a solid form under his humble clothing, no doubt from his toils at the forge, and his ash-dusted face was handsome enough. But the lines of his face were too...gentle. There was no hellfire in his eyes. He was nothing to make the castle walls tremble.

Gwyn slowly looking away from the blacksmith and up at his companion. This man had the appearance of trouble. He looked like a sprite who had almost been tamed--once. The light in his eyes was keen, immediately reminiscent of the fierce bird who watched on from the stones overhead. Whoever had foretold of the blacksmith ending the king's reign may have gotten their runes crossed.

"You speak true enough," Gwyn said. She relaxed, though her grip remained firm over Faulkner's around her throat. "I tracked you with ease, assuming you to be the 'wolf' a boy in the village cried of, and listened long enough to know that yon blacksmith ought not to speak to any of the king's men for a while. Is what you say true? Does he really have the mark of change about him? I would hear more, if you would tell it. But pray, sir, first release me..."

Gwyn's other hand gently pressed the long blade of the hunting knife against Faulkner's belly. "I would have us be friends."

Faulkner felt the edge of the knife through his tunic and grinned viciously at Gwyn before letting go of her cloak and shoving her back a few paces. Like himself, she looked as if she'd been on the road for weeks, perhaps longer; her clothes were well-used and practical, her boots mud-entrenched and her fingernails dirty. In short, she was obviously not an inhabitant of Finshaw and there was no hint of recognition in the astonished expression on Kit's features. She might be some travelling salesperson or beggar, she might be a bandit. All unusual for a woman but not impossible. Except Faulkner knew better than to assume that she'd happened upon their trail entirely by chance. The Randulfrs might not be the only mercenaries working for the king.

Behind him, Kit's brain had caught up with his ears.

"Wolf?" he spluttered. "There is a wolf in Finshaw?" He turned his gaze upon Faulkner, almost dreamily. "Wolves rarely come this close to the moors and never into the village..." Not 'who' but 'what' he'd said. "Surely you could not be- This is no ordinary wolf, is it?" The other man glanced at him then turned back to Gwyn, still wary of what she would do next.

"Is it?!" shouted Kit suddenly, his voice echoing across the fell. Somewhere in the nearby trees, a few birds took flight from their roosts.

Faulkner grimaced then shook his head shortly. "No, all the more reason we must-"

"My parents are there!" In an instant, Kit turned and ran, stumbling over the rocks that studded the coarse grass but managing to stay upright and dart, loose-limbed and panicked, towards the tree-line. A fire had been stoked inside his head, evaporating all the confusion and disbelief that was pooling in his mind and replacing it with burning fear and anger. A thousand images flickered in front of his eyes and all he could do to stave them off was to keep running, jumping over wandering strands of bracken and tree roots, pushing his way through over-hanging branches. Keep running towards Finshaw.

Faulkner cursed and, after a moment's hesitation, set off after him. Whoever the woman was, if a hunting knife was the only weapon she'd felt fit to threaten him with then he'd run the risk of turning his back to her for the time-being. Kit was more important; even if she simply disappeared and brought news of his escape and Faulkner's involvement back to the king, it didn't matter so long as Kit still lived. He'd find a way.

He caught up to the blacksmith after about fifty yards but didn't bother to try to stop him until they approached the outskirts of the village, where he'd first approached him. With a hand on Kit's shoulder, he signalled for him to slow down and quieten his steps and Kit, breathless with anger and apprehension, did. Together they crept around the back of a wattle-and-daub outhouse towards the green clearing at the centre of Finshaw. Faulkner took a moment to look back to see if their eavesdropper had thought it best to accompany them before staring back into the dimness in an attempt to make out the shape he'd seen so many times before.

Gwyn caught her balance and offered the other man a small, sly smile. She held up her hands in a peaceful gesture, the flipped the knife in her grip and deftly tucked it back under her cloak. She kept a safe distance between herself and the man who actually seemed to know what was going on, for much the same reason as he was. All of this could be some elaborate trick. Maybe what he said about the blacksmith was true, but he was going to his own lengths to make sure the foretold upheaval didn't occur. The king operated in unusual ways, after all.

Then the wolf came back into the conversation, and Gwyn frowned. "I was under the impression that the lad had seen you two fellows and imagined you to be a wolf. Else I wouldn't have followed-"

Suddenly the blacksmith was gone, charging back towards the village. Gwyn stood, puzzled, and watched the other man follow him. No ordinary wolf. Could the king control a beast, sending it to slay his future enemy? She'd heard of stranger things. And if the blacksmith really was destined to do something about the king's rule, then Gwyn wanted to be sure he wasn't mauled to death.

She might have wondered if it was really worth sticking her nose in. Since she'd taken to traveling, Gwyn had maintained idle dreams about returning Rowan Range to its former glory. Of returning home. She knew that to do so would mean facing a man who held all power while she held none. She knew that to even attempt such a feat would surely lead to an untimely end. But here, now...it seemed there was a chance. Was it really coincidence that she'd come across these men whilst they were discussing such matters?

Gwyn paused to adjust her quiver around to her front, then held it against her side so she wouldn't lose any arrows as she jogged after the two men.

The path back was even clearer--a desperate man was not a subtle one. If he was going to be making any sort of escape, they would have to work on that. Gwyn caught up to the men about sixty yards in, and came to a silent stop beside them at the outskirts of the village. She pulled her hood back up and allowed her gaze to sweep the area. For a moment it seemed that all was well--Finshaw didn't look any different from when Gwyn had first trekked out to the Pendle Stones. Still a collection of sleepy homes and a few souls wandering back to them after a long day's work.

The moon was a mere sliver, and the lighting was terribly dark. If Gwyn hadn't already spent a fair amount of time out tonight, her eyes adjusting to the lighting, she would have completely missed the shape that slunk away from the village and back towards the trees. It was only when the shape stopped, and raised its massive head to peer back towards the village, that Gwyn noticed it.

Her heart caught in her throat. A wolf the size of a horse. Eyes that gleamed like coals. Her fingers shook until they closed around her bow, and she glanced briefly at Faulkner to be sure she wasn't the only one seeing the beast.

Frozen, Kit found himself unable to drag his gaze away from the shape, blacker than the shadows, that slunk past familiar houses. Suddenly he knew what it was to be prey to the predator, hunted to the hunter and it was petrifying. There was something in the way the beast moved that spoke straight to the primal heart of any animal, from human to mouse, and said I am your death. He could hardly believe that such a shift in his world could occur here in Finshaw, where he'd always been so content, where life had been so domestic and carefully cultivated out of the relative wilderness of the surrounding landscape. It was as if a crack had opened up in it and the wilds were pouring in. And this was just the first wave of the flood.

Beside him, Faulkner silently shook his head as he saw the woman from the Stones instinctively reach for her bow from the corner of his eye. He kept his gaze fixed on the wolf, watching it as steadily as his namesake until it leached back into the darkness of the tree-line and the village was returned to its usual appearance of pastoral peace. It had been a close call; if they'd been up-wind...

"You see why I cannot allow you to stay here," he murmured to Kit, his voice barely louder than silence. "We must leave. Now."

Kit turned to stare at Faulkner, having barely heard what the other man had said. Hesitantly, as if he'd forgotten how to use his limbs, he stood up from where he'd been crouching and began to walk shakily along the little line of houses. Every instinct in his body was telling him to get as far away from the direction in which the wolf had gone as possible but he tried desperately to ignore them as he edged towards the house.. The flicker of the fire in the hearth was still visible through the thick glass window panes and from this side, it looked exactly as he'd left it when he'd set off across Finshaw just a short while before.

For some reason, the presence of Faulkner to his right and the woman just behind lent him a little strength as he steeled himself and lifted the latch to open the door into the house he'd grown up in. His chest tightened as he stepped inside and his boots crunched on broken pottery.

"What manner of creature was that?" Gwyn breathed as they started moving again.

Though she would never admit it, Gwyn was beyond relieved at the sign that she should leave the wolf--if it could even be called that--be. She had been hunting and trapping in one form or another since before her legs were steady enough to run, but that beast? Part of being a successful hunter was in knowing where to draw the line, what your limits were. No arrow, no matter how true its flight, would be much use against a creature that may not have a heart. Such things were to avoided at all costs.

There were enormous tracks all outside the house. She wouldn't have believed them to be real, if she had not just seen their maker moments ago. Gwyn paused, crouching down on the ground and spreading her hand with her fingers splayed as wide as they could go. The tracks still dwarfed her hand. A shiver coursed down her spine, then she stood and ducked in through the door after Kit. Splintered wood cracked further underfoot. The wood had come from what must have once been a bed--now a mass of destroyed craftsmanship. She could only imagine that it was where the blacksmith would have been sleeping that night.

The rest of the house was equally destroyed. Blankets were strewn about in shreds. A pitcher lay shattered, pieces covered in damp that was soaking into the floor. And there were two bodies lying on the ground, motionless.

But no blood.

Gwyn tugged back her hood once more and shot a questioning glance at the older man. He seemed to know something about all of this, after all. Rather than ask, she stepped across to the woman. The woman had hair of dark gray and near-white, and the lines in her face suggested a hard but good life. Much like any other woman her age in this village, no doubt. Her eyes were shut. Her form was completely still. Gwyn touched the woman's cheek, and found warmth. She pressed her head to the woman's mouth, and swore she felt breath. There was a rhythm, however impossibly slow, in the woman's neck.

"I don't understand," Gwyn said slowly, laying the woman's head back down. "They...they sleep? What happened to them?"

"One of the Randulfr..." said Faulkner quietly as Kit moved towards the cottage, urgent but hesitant for fear of what he might find inside. Faulkner knew he had good reason to be afraid and his heart grew heavy with the thought of what the younger man might discover.

As he stepped over the threshold, Kit let out a strangled cry at the devastation of the place that had been his home- as well-worn and warm as ever just an hour ago- and a terrible chill shot through him. But where were they? His feet followed his racing mind as he ran a panicked circuit of the house, skidding to a halt in the remains of his parents' bedroom. There they were. He fell to his knees beside his father and mindlessly his hands felt for a pulse, for warmth. Where was the blood? He thought dimly as the tears that were welling in his eyes were arrested by his confusion. There was a thud-thud of a slow but steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Kit exhaled in relief but his frown remained as his father did not respond to his attempts to rouse him.

"Papa," he said. The elderly blacksmith's head simply lolled to the side as his son shook him gently. "Wake up, I am here. Everything is all right now..."

A few yards away, his mother was no different. The woman who'd been eavesdropping on them at the stones was holding her cheek over her mouth; the expression on her face told Kit immediately that she could feel his mother's breath.

"What-? What is wrong with them?" he managed, looking up at Faulkner who was still standing in the doorway, his expression somewhere between relief and grim pessimism.

"The wolf has spared them, for now," he said. "I've seen this only twice before but your parents will not wake up, Kit. There is no use in trying. Their sleep is an enchantment and it will take something more to wake them..."

"What? What will it take? And why did it spare them?" demanded Kit, standing up uselessly then starting towards the door before coming abruptly to a halt. His parents were as motionless as ever.

"I don't know..." said Faulkner, truthfully. The Randulfr were not usually afraid to kill. "I do not how it can be reversed either... But I am sure that if it can, the answer will lie with the royal court."

"Randulfr," Gwyn repeated slowly, squinting at nothing. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn't for the life of her think where she had heard it before. Whispered fearfully in some inn, perhaps, or maybe just in one of her own nightmares. It was no wonder any whispering against the king remained just that. If this was what he did to his enemies, and to their families, it was no wonder he had reigned undisturbed for forty years. "That creature did not look the type to extend mercy, if that's what this might be called."

More likely, the blacksmith and his wife were bait. Meant to draw out their son, to make him vulnerable. That was more the way of a wolf. But what of a Randulfr?

At Faulkner's suggestion, Gwyn stood up, unable to stifle a quiet snort of laughter. "The royal court? So what would you have him do, friend? Allow me to guess: once he has finished fleeing for his life, under your guidance, he has only to appear on the king's parapets and beg for a means to unwind the enchantment. Perhaps he will be given it in exchange for a promise not to fulfill his destiny. Or perhaps he shall sneak in under cover of night and evade all of the king's men in a brief search for a cure. Surely you jest, sir."

Gwyn frowned, glancing back at the blacksmith. He was lost. Grief, helplessness, anger. Gwyn recognized the look on his face with a degree of empathy that cut into her heart. She looked back at Faulkner, and furrowed her brow. "You said that he was foretold to end the king's reign. How is he to do this? And...how do you know of it?"

Faulkner looked at Gwyn sharply at her mention of mercy but did not reply. Privately, he did not think what had happened to Kit's adopted parents was anything close to mercy and knew their hopes were slim. Of course, he did not utter such thoughts out loud around Kit.

Gently drawing Kit away from the prone forms of his unconscious parents, he flashed a look of fire at Gwyn for her laugh, which sounded harsh and out of place in the carnage of the little house. Kit, however, had barely blinked at her comments and continued to stare at his mother and father motionless on the flagstones.

"What I would 'have' him do is no business of yours," he said sharply. "Neither is how I know of the prophecy. Kit," he added to the younger man. "We must not linger here; the beast may return for you. We shall alert your neighbours to the plight of your parents and I have no doubt they will take care of them, am I correct?"

Kit nodded mutely, casting the briefest of looks to the other houses visible just beyond the jagged teeth of broken glass that framed what had once been the window. The tears had stopped coming now and all that was left was a yawning hole that seemed to be widening, eroding away the thoughts that teetered on the edge of it. Only the immediacy of Faulkner and the woman seemed to exist now and he could think of nothing else to do but do as Faulkner said. At least for now.

"Then we must go. I am sorry, Cýtastan but we must go," said Faulkner firmly, guiding him out of the bedroom, through the main living room then across the threshold into the fresh night air. Kit barely remembered what happened after that but what must have been a few minutes later, found himself beyond the tree-line, numbly stumbling after an urgent Faulkner who, if anything, seemed even more on edge than before they'd seen the wolf pad away from the village. Behind them, the echoing call of a falcon sounded high and clear through the trees from the village and somewhere in the distance a door slammed and was followed by voices.

"The others will take care of them," Faulkner repeated to Kit. The younger man remained silent. "Is there an inn nearby?" he said, reluctantly addressing his question at least in part to the woman who was persistent in her presence. Kit needed sleep and a chance to process what had just happened- Faulkner understood that- but the fact remained that they could not be more than a few miles from the wolf and they would be safer, for now at least, in the relative safety of an inn or tavern. Provided the Randulfr had not taken his human form and sought somewhere similar, that was...

Gwyn nodded, sneaking a glimpse of kit out of the corner of her eyes. She had passed a place that smelled heavily of smoke and salt on her way to Finshaw. She had elected to sleep in the trees that night because she hadn't liked the look of the place, and the coin in her purse was getting scarce. The little bag was even lighted now. Along with the game she had traded to the farmer and his family, she had hidden a few silver coins in the heavily used pots in the kitchen. There were two gold coins left. The last remnants of her toils outside of the village she had rested in before Finshaw; gifts from a passing coach bearing the taxes from her hosts. Faulkner and Kit didn't need to know that, however.

"Come. There's a feel of rain on the wind," Gwyn adjusted her hood and tugged Kit's arm to get him moving again. The poor man looked wretched. His body was a with them, nearing the glowing windows of the tavern, but his mind was far off. Back with his heart, which no doubt lay dormant with his family. Gwyn said nothing to Faulkner, who seemed to be tolerating her presence with a restraint born only from his preoccupation with his recently acquired ward. She wasn't going to leave them alone, though. Not unless she was convinced that nothing would come of this prophecy. And even then...what better things did she have to preoccupy herself with?

Gwyn widened her steps to beat the men to the door, where she handed the door keeper the two coins, nodding her head back towards Faulkner and Kit. The keeper breathed through the corner of his mouth and held one arm up to prevent them from entering. He turned, and flipped the coins one at a time onto a taut drum's head. The coins bounced, landing neatly in a box that was immediately cleaned out by the watcher once more. He gave his monolith of a head a curt nod and lowered his other arm. Gwyn offered him an exaggerated, gallant bow, and stepped inside.

The hearth was crackling away at several mighty logs. The warmth of the fire permeated the great room, making the rumble of the storm outside seem miles off. The stool closest to the fire was occupied by a man wearing what looked to be every rag in the kingdom. His face was a mess of scruff and crinkles, and his mouth moved with a wealth of expression that was mesmerizing. He wove some tale or other, with a plate full of food lying somewhat forgotten on his lap. The other occupants of the inn were gathered around the old storyteller, men large and rough and unmerciful, drawn in and captivated for that brief while at least.

Gwyn caught Kit's arm again and steered him towards a table that had been left available by the exodus of listeners. She picked up an empty bowl and waved it at a sleeper woman leaning on the counter that kept staff away from clients. The woman nodded and disappeared. Gwyn focused back on Kit and set him firmly on a chair. "Sit there and lie down your head, lad. Breathe through your teeth. We'll have some food in you. It will help, I promise."

He wouldn't feel like eating anything. He wouldn't feel like doing anything, except perhaps to scream and to cry and to rail against anything. But if he lost his head here, now, and when some creature might still be out there looking for him...it wouldn't end well.

Gwyn leaned her forearms against the table and edged forward until she could fix Faulkner with a determined stare. She tugged down her scarf. In certain elements, it was better to be thought a scrawny man than any sort of woman, but it seemed this conversation called for a show of faith, however tiny. "We met under unusual circumstances, but I swear I've no harm planned for you. If you speak the truth, I would gladly lend my hand to your aid, whatever use that may be. My name is Gwyneira. I am of Rowan Range. Does this mean anything to you, sir?"

The woman from the bar delivered the bowl back to Kit this time filled to the brim with a steaming stew that, for all the mystery of its ingredients, looked distinctly appetising. But Kit barely glanced at it before turning his gaze back to the fire that flickered in the hearth. The woman and Faulkner were somewhere in the corner of the tavern, he knew, probably talking through his immediate future. As much as he resented the events of the last few hours, especially when he thought back to how normal everything had seemed when he'd packed up the shop for the day, he felt unable to do anything but let them take care of such mundane tasks as booking a room for the night. Even something as simple as that seemed unachievable when he felt so... Numb.

At the table a few yards away, Faulkner waved over two beakers of a burnt-red spirit that smelt strongly of mulberry and met Gwyn's stare with a more guarded one of his own. He'd removed his jacket, which hung over the back of his chair, and a few green polished beads and speckled feathers gleamed on the leather cord that hung to the base of his neck.

At Gywn's long-delayed introduction, Faulkner raised his eyebrows.

"It does," he said, regarding her, if not with sympathy, then at least in a new light. Of course he knew of the Rowan Range, knew more about it than Gwyn did herself, probably. But he'd not met one of the Range in... So long. He'd assumed they'd all been lost, somehow. Disappeared or assimilated themselves into the villages and towns that dotted the kingdom to become something new. It appeared he'd been wrong; there was at least one who still retained their identity, even if they lacked a memory of it. And a Ranger would have no reason to be working for the king.

If she was telling the truth, that was.

"How old are you? One score and five? How did you come to be near Finshaw after leaving your homeland?" he said, in an attempt to gauge the feasibility of her story. It would have been far easier for a would-be spy to pretend to be an ordinary person as the king, if he knew of Faulkner's involvement, knew of his familiarity with the people of the Range. But he would also know that any trust, if won, would run all the deeper for his belief that she was a Ranger.

Two earthenware bowls of stew soon appeared in front of them and Faulkner picked up a spoon, still waiting for Gwyn's answer.

"I cannot be certain," Gwyn answered slowly, toying with her own spoon. Her eyes lingered on the grain of the table, drifting back to the blurred memory of trees and the way the wind whispered through them. Her eyes clouded over for a moment as she tried to grasp onto that time, but as always, it slipped away. She gave her head a quick shake and looked back up at him. "Of my age, that is. I know I was young, but old enough to be hunting on my own, when the rowans died. I know I had family. Parents, I think, and siblings. But I cannot remember their names and I scarcely remember their faces. Whenever I try it's as though they are pulled a little further away."

She almost looked away again. Instead, she lifted her chin and tightened her jaw. "The farther I got from Rowan Range, the better my mind could breathe. Once I could hear myself again, though, I was lost, and without direction. Who will welcome in a stranger into their fold these days, much less one who carries the mark of the king's displeasure? And even when I find myself welcome, the longer I stay in one area, the more I forget the range. And I do not wish to forget...not any more than I have been forced to. So I travel, linger as long as I am able, and then move forward again."

It wasn't a subject Gwyn spoke much on...with anyone. Most of her briefly lived friendships didn't see much discussion about her origin. Anyone who knew didn't care to discuss it, and anyone who didn't know, she didn't wish to tell. It was surprising how easily the story came out now. Feeling oddly at ease, Gwyn dug into her stew. She glanced over at Kit, who was still sitting where she had left him, dead to the world. She frowned, and looked back at Faulkner. "Who are you, then? How did you come to know about the lad? Kit, you called him."

Her eyes rested briefly on the tokens around Faulkner's neck. She didn't believe she had ever seen that manner of decoration. It could have been the answer to Kit's prophecy or it could have been a gift from some village child. Faulkner didn't look the sort to make friends with many village children, however.

"And you said that...that creature," Gwyn didn't care to repeat its name. The Randulfr. For all she knew, it could be listening, "its curse may have a cure. At the castle. How often...how often is that beast used? Do you really believe there is a cure?"

Faulkner listened and found himself believing her. For the moment, that instinct would be enough. Later, the closer they got to the castle, he might have to think of some other way of testing her story; the coincidence of her appearance at the stones was too much to be just that, coincidence. And considering the damage something other people called 'fate' had wrecked on his life thus far, he was not predisposed towards that either.

"Older than that, then," said Faulkner. "The Range was cursed twenty-five years ago."

He thought for a moment before answering her first questions, deciding how much information to impart.

"I heard of a prophecy that told how the youngest kin of the blacksmith of Finshaw would soon come to dethrone the king," he said. "I knew that, even if I did not believe in such things, the king did and that Kit's life would be in danger when he was found. I do not like to see men killed for something they have yet to do, Ranger. In fact, I don't like to see men killed at all."

He shrugged and ate another mouthful of his stew. It was hot and had though the cut of meat was cheap, the hours in the cooking pot had softened it nicely; it was better than the meagre game he'd caught on the way to Finshaw.

"And I? My name is Ayden, though most call me Faulkner. That is what I used to be- I kept the hunting birds for the royal court. But that was a long time ago and now... Well, the king is not fond of me, nor I of him. It would not trouble me to see him overthrown, however unlikely it is that Kit will be the one to do it. So perhaps I have an ulterior motive after all."

Over Gwyn's shoulder, Kit was still staring at the fire, apparently oblivious to the discussion that was going on between his two new travelling companions. Even so, Faulkner lowered his voice before replying, glad that there was no one in the inn who was the right age to be the human form of the beast that had stalked through the village.

"The Randulfr are the king's bodyguards, a vanguard of shape-shifters. There is a cure- the one who cursed Kit's parents can undo it- I do not believe there is any hope for them," he said quietly. To lose not one but two sets of parents... A deep pang of sorrow resounded in his chest on the younger man's behalf. But all the more reason for it not to be in vain. "But you know I cannot tell him that..."

Gwyn felt herself sit up a little straighter, her jaw half-clenched mid-chew. Twenty-five years? Was that even possible? Her eyes drifted slowly back to her hands. They were rough hands, and the fingernails lined with dirt, but they weren't old. She knew she had been hunting alone when the rowans died, though. That meant she had to be at least fifteen. It just didn't seem possible. Certainly she hadn't been wandering for twenty-five years...had she?

"Can it have been so long?" She murmured, mostly to herself. She had no answer, and she snapped out of her reverie (surely Faulkner was mistaken) when he returned her introduction. Ayden, known as Faulkner. A former servant to the king, no less. How interesting.

Gwyn nodded at Faulkner's final statement, the corners of her mouth pulling downwards. Her eyes flickered over to the form of the blacksmith's son, as gone from the world as the blacksmith himself. "I know more than anything how soothing a silly, false hope is, Faulkner. I also know that to take it away now may push him beyond repair. Let him have it for now."

She leaned forward as well, pursing her lips. "But is it really so false? These Randulfr...must they choose to release their victims? Perhaps, if Kit follows through with the king's prophecy..."

Then she reclined in her seat again, furrowing her brow. She took a deep pull from the mulberry-spiced drink that made her ears tingle. There was so much that relied on the actions of a man who should have been murdered that night. How did the Randulfr remove the king's enemies? Did it maul them like any other beast?

Eat them?

"I do not see how one man, without any inclination, can accomplish such a task." Gwyn shivered. She fixed her eyes back on Faulkner. "You say you don't wish to see any man killed, much less for that which he had yet to do, and I can respect that...But you intend to guide him through it, don't you? It is your aim to push him towards this foretelling. With his family taken...What is it he is meant to do? How is he to dethrone the king?"

Faulkner watched Gwyn's reaction to his comment, strangely affected by her apparent confusion at the passage of time. So she didn't even realise that the Rangers were one of the Five Peoples... Perhaps none of them did. After all, it might only be now, after so long, that they would start to wonder why time hadn't affected them as it had done the people around them. If any of them had stayed in one place for long enough, that was. The Gleda did not have that problem: although Faulkner was the last of his kind, at least he'd known the history and qualities of his kin all his life.

"Maybe there is another way. But if there is, I do not know of it," he said, letting her have her hope on behalf of Kit. In Faulkner's eyes, Kit's parents were dead and the presence of a heartbeat- slow as it was- in the chests of his parents did not signify any different after what the Randulfr had done to them.

"I do not see it either," he admitted. "And prophecies do not tend to be exact in their foretelling," he added, with a smirk that betrayed his own scepticism. "Or else I suppose fulfilment would be impossible and the seer out of a job. But the King believes it, clearly. Or at least thinks that it is possible. And that is good enough for me. The details will come later; for now, I shall content myself with getting him to the castle."

Faulkner sat back, resting against the fire-warmed plaster and looked across at the subject of their conversation. He'd barely moved in fifteen minutes.

"Bed," he said, gesturing to the serving woman who nodded and pulled out a ring of keys from her apron. Faulkner stood up and picked up the pack that held meagre collection of things that were his own possessions for the moment. "We will be on the road by the time the sun is up tomorrow."




Ten hours later and it was obvious that Kit had not slept, even in the purple shadows before dawn. His eyes were sunken, his face drawn and although now he was more willing to speak that he had been last night, his replies sounded as if they were coming from a long way away from someone who hadn't quite heard Faulkner's gentle questioning. In the end, he gave up and made sure that his jacket- which he'd lent to Kit for the morning chill- was firmly over the other man's shoulders before pacing the boards outside the front of the inn whilst they waited for Gywn to appear.

At some point, jumbled in amongst all the other thoughts that spiralled around in his head like a whirlpool, Kit had wondered why Faulkner had not just left without her. After all, he had not seemed happy to have her along with them the previous night. He must have changed his mind, he thought. Perhaps she had proven trustworthy after all. He didn't bother to consider the matter any more or ask Faulkner about it. It didn't really seem important. Nothing much did any more.

"She comes when she is unwanted but disappears when she is," Faulkner was muttering as his Lanner falcon watched him, head cocked, from its perch on the wooden fence that surrounded the little kitchen garden at the side of the inn.

The castle. Gwyn remained in her seat long after Faulkner disappeared with his newly acquired charge. She watched them go, tapping the side of her bowl with the spoon, thinking.

If Faulkner got the blacksmith to the castle, would things simply unfold? Would the details arrange themselves to prove the king's fears well founded, or...was this Rowan Range all over again? Maybe Kit's destiny been nipped in the bud when he lost his parents.

The stew slowly disappeared from her bowl and the tankard was slowly drained. Gwyn remained at the table, alone, until the sounds of snores and grunts and mutters filled the room. In following the two men she'd stumbled upon, Gwyn had been given far more new questions than answers. She couldn't walk away now--not when there were so many possibilities for change. She couldn't go back to simply wandering aimlessly, musing about the future.

Her mind made up, Gwyn tip-toed around the patrons who had fallen asleep on the floor, and at last retreated to a room of her own.



The hint of the sun's rays hadn't quite made it through the morning sky, but Gwyn knew she was already late. Assuming she hadn't been left behind, she believed she had an adequate excuse, though.

To her relief, the men were still standing outside the inn when she arrived. Sidling around the edge of the inn and quick-stepping after them, Gwyn paused only long enough to catch their arms and tug them into step alongside her. "My apologies, Master Faulkner. I was overhearing a most intriguing conversation between two gentlemen from Thain."

She said no more until they were well beyond sight of the inn. A collection of coins had been borrowed from one of the men she'd been listening to, and now occupied the briefly empty space where the two gold coins had been kept. There was a merry little clink in her step, but that wasn't what she wanted to inform Faulkner and the king's over-thrower about. As the edge of the town and the start of the treeline came into view, Gwyn continued, raising her brows at her two new companions. "The gentlemen from Thain were escorting some wares back to the castle. It seems they met with one of the king's men on their way into this town, as they stopped off in Holding to exchange a wheel from their carriage. The king's man was on business he would not discuss. He had come from the East--the direction of your little town, Master Blacksmith--and was traveling alone."

She fixed Faulkner with what was almost a grave look. "Holding is not far from here. It is a more direct route to the castle from Finshaw, but still not far. Do you suppose he considers himself a success? Or do we need to worry about being followed?"

Faulkner frowned as Gwyn related her story.

"Master? I think I have been alive long enough not to be subjected to that title," he said, then paused to consider her question. Next to him, Kit felt his veins burn with anger through the numbness that still lingered from the events of the previous day. The thing that had done that to his parents might be within a mile, maybe two, of here.

"I do not suppose anything. But that he is travelling in the form of a man for the time being tells us that if he is following us, he does not think it sensible to come in amongst people in his other guise for the time-being," he said. Privately, Faulkner did not imagine that the Randulfr would be content with what he had done to Kit's parents. The prophecy had clearly told of the 'youngest kin of a blacksmith from Finshaw', unless Faulkner's source of information had not been as accurate as he'd thought, and Kit's adopted father was not the young by any stretch of the imagination. For this reason, a little of the tension from last night became against caught up in his muscles.

"We'll take the Bier Pass across the Lyftan Spine," said Faulkner. "And head to the castle from there. It's three days out of our way but perhaps it will guarantee we do not have an unwanted companion..."

The Lyftan Spine was a high ridge of hills that ascended into craggy mountains to the west of the little hamlet where the inn was situated. The Bier pass was one of the few safe routes that enabled travellers to traverse the Spine rather than go around it, which would take yet longer than Faulkner's proposed three days. The teeth-like peaks of the mountains would become clearly visible once the forest dissolved into the boggy marshland that lay between them and the Pass.

It was a risk, of course; the Pass was a notorious spot for ambush by bandits, especially after dark and it was so-named for the wooden platforms that dotted the hillsides, used by the nearby villages as a temporary resting-place for their dead until the ravens had picked clean the bones and they could be taken back down for internment in their crypt. But it was better than coming face-to-face with the Randulfr.

"We should fear this creature so much?" Gwyn whistled softly at Faulkner's proposition. She had traveled through the Lyftan Spine before. Several times, in fact. She knew what lay in waiting across the Bier Pass. To take a shell-shocked blacksmith who was possibly being hunted by a demon along that path was a risk indeed. "Very well, then. Sharpen the old eyes and quicken the old ears, eh?"

Gwyn nudged the blacksmith with her elbow. She had sympathy--empathy, even--for his plight, but keeping him alive was going to be much easier the sooner he came out of his fog. She had no idea how to go about awakening him, though. If she'd known anything about him before she'd first seen him, terrified and confused, in Finshaw, then the task would be more approachable. And discovering who he was, hiding inside the gaunt-eyed man walking next to her, whilst trying to avoid bandits and king's men was going to be...time consuming.

"Faulkner," Gwyn said after they had walked in silence for a few minutes, "does this creature know of you? Of your involvement?"

Though she knew better than to say so out loud, in front of Kit, Gwyn could imagine the blacksmith and his wife's ailment being a sort of trap. Wolves were hunters, after all. How much easier would it be to destroy unsuspecting prey if he was busy fretting over the fate of his parents? But Kit hadn't stayed to mourn them. He had disappeared. That, assuming the attack had been a trap, would be signal to the Randulfr that something or someone else was involved. If it didn't know about Faulkner before...

"And do you know what human form it takes? If we are headed to the castle, we may as well know which faces to avoid."

Faulkner shot Gwyn a glare and didn't answer her first question. What had happened to Kit's parents was answer enough; she should know that and know better than to ask it in front of him.

Kit glanced over at her as she nudged him gently. He hadn't heard what she'd said, too busy lost in his own head once again.

"I've never been over the Lyftan," he observed, his voice sounding rough with disuse from the previous day. "I've only ever seen them from a distance."

"No," said Faulkner. "But it might recognise me if it sees me; I was well-known at the court once upon a time... But it will look just as any man would in its human form. Perhaps I'll recognise it but if it is a young Randulfr then likely not." He let out a bitter laugh. "If the creature does not know Kit's face but does know mine then I may be what alerts it to his presence. But I can't risk leaving you alone, Kit," he added, to the younger man. "We'll put the Spine behind us and once the castle is in sight, then we can think about what you'll do without me so close by."

Kit nodded his head mutely. He had no objections; at least this plan gave him a purpose. What else could he do but follow Faulkner now? To go back to Finshaw would mean death or whatever had happened to his parents should the wolf-like beast come to hear he had returned. And his whole life had been centred around the village. He'd barely travelled thirty miles beyond it in his entire life...

"Good," said Faulkner, shouldering his pack. He'd bought supplies for the trek that he could easily supplement with a few caught rabbits if necessary. And there was something about Gwyn that told him she would have no trouble living off the land if need be. "Now let us keep onward. I want to make the bottom of the pass by nightfall so we can cross it in the light of day..."

Three and a half days into the trek through the pass, and trouble had not yet found the three travelers. Gwyn's voice had followed them nearly the entire way--she spoke of past adventures on this same trail, and of sights she had seen far away, and how she had learned the method for cooking a particular scrumptious stew, and impossible beasts and strangers she had encountered that she may very well have made up as she went. In fact, perhaps the only time she was silent was when her mouth was full or someone else was speaking.

She imagined the diatribe was grating on the serious Faulkner, but Kit could use the distraction. For all she knew, these were his first nights spent outside of his bed in his family's home. Even before Rowan Range had died, Gwyn had never kept a proper home. More often than not the stars had been her roof and the branches of any given tree her mattress. Even given that, she felt some empathy for the blacksmith. More than once she caught him staring at his hands, no doubt marveling at how useless they seemed now and how pointless it was for them to be attached to his arms when they hadn't been useful in landing him in this situation.

That, she could relate to.

So she rambled on (when there was no risk of detection from animals or other, more unsavory creatures) and hoped her prattling stories could offer at least some small point of focus beyond what was happening in his heart.

Now, the autumnal sky was beginning to turn into shades of pink and purple, signalling the turn from afternoon into evening. If there were ever to be trouble, now would be the time for someone to start it. Broad daylight not only made it easy for potential victims to get away, but it left them plenty of time to go and seek assistance if need be. Striking near night, though, when the striker was undoubtedly accustomed to the dimmer light and any victim that escaped had a greater chance of getting lost and confused than anything else...Gwyn shook her head to clear it of such thoughts, and switched the snap root from one corner of her mouth to the other. They would have to make camp soon, but covering as much ground as possible during the daylight meant a shorter journey to the castle.

Over the past three days, Faulkner had borne Gywn's chatter with only the occasional snap or darkly-sarcastic comment and had, for the most part, been occupied with the task of leading the threesome towards the Lyftan Spine as inconspicuously as possible. To an outside observer, he would have seemed paranoid for all the winding routes he took them down, crossing and re-crossing streams, skirting hills only to turn back and climb right over their rocky faces and rejoin the well-used road below. Whilst they walked, he rarely spoke and concentrated on the landscape about them with the same fierceness as his Lanner falcon regarded it when it grew tired of circling on up-drafts and landed with disconcerting silence on the gauntlet on his arm. Instead, it was up to Kit to do most of the talking, or at least whenever a break in Gywn's near-constant monologue demanded it. He'd begun to look a little more like himself over the past few days and he'd even begun to smile at Gywn's jokes or talk even when he wasn't spoken to first. And yet, whenever Faulkner disappeared into the trees as he sometimes did whenever he was looking particularly harried that old look of dull fear passed over his features again.



They stopped to camp just short of the highest narrowest point of the pass. As the evening light faded, it could be seen in the distance by the lazy flap of carrion crows as they hopped from rock to bier to peck at its unseen offering. The wind up on the Spine was harsher than down on the plains and it cut through Kit's cloak as he drew it around him and ducked down into the welcome shelter of the large standing rock Faulkner had chosen as their campsite for the night. It was a little way off the road and nestled in the crack where some seismic event had caused a splintering of the mountain beneath their feet, rending open its skin and exposing the flecked layers of rock that made up its bones. There was just enough room to string up some canvas (Faulkner had forbidden a fire this close to the top of the pass) and huddle down on the balding grass and rocks to wait out the night.

Kit set about tying one length of rope around a nearby jagged piece of rock as Faulkner disappeared up above to take one last look about. He'd been gone twenty minutes and the tent was nearly as much of a tent as it would ever be when he came running quietly down the path, forcing his arm into the sleeve of his jacket.

"We're going over the Pass tonight," he hissed, ripping down Kit's handiwork and stuffing it into his bag.

"What is it?" said Kit immediately, wrapping his arms around himself inside his cloak. "Is it...?" He couldn't yet bring himself to refer to it directly.

"Down on the slopes- yes. Maybe. We cannot risk it. We'll go over the Pass tonight and camp on the other side. We'll not be followed through before morning," said Faulkner. "Now, hurry!"

It took them less than two minutes to pack away their meagre would-be campsite and they were soon back out on the road. Faulkner led the way in silence, sticking close to the shadows at the edge of the narrow road and looking more tense than ever before.

When the arrow missed him, it missed only by inches. The sound of it clattering on the rock behind him was joined by the screech of Kay high above and instantly, Faulkner's sword was in his hand. The falcon made a dive for the unseen assailant on the ledge above as four more leapt into the road.