Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

Snowflakes drifted from a pearl-grey sky, gently settling on Simon’s face. He walked carefully, concentrating on each slow, painful step. Rags stuffed into his boots were no real replacement for missing toes. He leaned on a stick for balance, digging it into the icy crust of the snow to steady himself.

Yet today, walking was slightly easier than yesterday, and much easier than the day before. He tried to think only of that, not the cold horror of Andra’s knife — so sharp, he hadn’t felt it at first — nor the sizzle and smell as the wounds were cauterised with the blade hot from the fire, nor the nightmarish agony. All that was past. The black rotting flesh was gone. His wounds were healing and the pain would ease and every day, he would be stronger. But for now, he was very slow, and at this rate, they would take days to reach the road, let alone Athanor.

The night of the amputations, they’d eaten the remaining food, and since then, nothing. Yesterday he’d been so hungry, he’d felt his body was devouring itself from the inside, but this morning he felt only light-headed and hollow. His stomach, it seemed, had realised no food was available and resigned itself to the inevitable. His hand bothered him more. He flexed his remaining fingers inside his gloves. The ache in the stumps constantly reminded him of what was lost, of the skills he could no longer rely on. If he couldn’t hold a stylus, he was not an Earth Adept, and what other work could he do?

But then, a fews days ago, he had made up his mind to die. Even now, it seemed unlikely he’d live to see Athanor. Worrying about his future work prospects was optimistic, to say the least.

No, he should be worrying about the children, not himself. Lorie, for instance—

Too deep in thought to keep track of his feet, he stumbled and fell to his knee. Andra laughed. A strange, harsh laugh—he hadn’t thought lasker could laugh, but she did. Not at him, he realised.

This morning, while everyone had been waiting on Simon, Sam had found a long straight branch and borrowed Andra’s knife to sharpen one end to a point. As they walked he was jabbing his crude spear into snow drifts and menacing imaginary enemies. Andra found this hilarious, though her amusement didn’t seem to bother Sam. He grinned back at her.

Something else to worry about: Simon hadn’t told the others she was lasker. He’d only said she was a hunter, and that she’d agreed to guide them to Athanor. Nana, perhaps, guessed what she was, though she’d said nothing. Lorie and Sam had no reason to suspect, for neither of them had ever seen a lasker. They would have heard stories, though, the kind of stories that ended with dismembered corpses buried in the snow.

If he told them, they’d be scared. Perhaps with good reason, but under the circumstances, adding to their worries wouldn’t help. They already had plenty to go round.

The snowfall thickened. Simon squinted at the dark clouds overhead. Already the hills were grey-shrouded and indistinct. With Lorie at his side, he trudged on. Even Nana moved faster than him—she was a vague grey blob some yards ahead. Sam was still further ahead and out of sight. Andra loomed through the snowfall, heading for Simon. She stopped and watched his painful progress for a few steps.

‘Too slow,’ she said.

‘He’s doing his best,’ Lorie said. ‘He’s hurt and he’s tired. We’re all tired.’

Andra gripped Simon’s arm. ‘Come. Fast now.’

Her more-than-human strength brooked no argument. She half-dragged, half-carried Simon through the snow, while he did his best to keep his feet. When they caught up with Nana, Andra dropped him and looked back, her face lifted to the wind. She frowned.

‘Something wrong?’ Simon asked.

‘Wolf,’ she said. ‘Sick, hurt. Hunts us.’

Alarm pulsed along Simon’s sluggish nerves. A lone wolf wouldn’t usually attack humans, but if it were injured, starvation might drive it to look for an easy meal. He and his family were an easy meal.

‘We’d better keep together then,’ he said.

Andra nodded. ‘Come. This way.’ She loped ahead into the flurrying snow.

They followed, huddled together. Sam gripped his spear with a new seriousness. Shadows lurked at the edge of vision: every bush and hummock loomed from the snowfall, a stalking predator. Fear helped Simon ignore the pain in his feet. He and Nana and Lorie pulled and pushed each other on.

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Snow fell in billowing white curtains. The hills vanished in the murk; Sam was invisible only a few yards ahead. Simon plodded on with his head down, letting Lorie guide him. The fog of pain and fatigue crept over him. He drifted, growing numb and distant from himself, and he knew that was bad, but his thoughts whirled into whiteness.

Everything was far away, and he had shrunk to smallness, labouring through deep snow in clothes like iron. His father strode beside him, a pillar swathed in black-and-white formal robes. Simon was dressed to match in new clothes stiff and uncomfortable: white shirt embroidered with the black Oryche Labyrinth, black half-cape, new boots so shiny he saw his dim reflection in them.

It was an event of some kind, though he didn’t know what. Something serious, and not many women were present. He hoped it would finish soon. His feet hurt in the tight new boots and he was hungry.

Men approached, one by one. They took his father’s hand with deferential nods and smiles, and he smiled back, and said: ‘My son, Simon vai Oryche.’ And they bent, and offered their large hand to his small one, and said: ‘Honoured.’

He should reply, but his tongue was tied. It was all he could do to stand his ground and not duck behind his father’s legs. His shyness embarrassed him, and he eyed his father, fearing the usual sharp rebuke for his mistakes. On this occasion, though, his father smiled with rare indulgence, and Simon smiled too, basking in his approval.

His father was Idan vai Oryche, Lord of House Oryche, and he was very important. Young as he was, Simon saw, and understood, this was the measure of that importance — these serious men bending to greet a small boy who was not important to anyone at all.

He stumbled and sharp pain in his toe-stumps wrenched him back to the present, to swirling snow and cold and Lorie holding his arm.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Sorry. I was dreaming.’ A strange dream — a memory, he supposed, from when he was very young. It must have made an impression for him to have remembered the scene in such vivid detail.

‘I hope the dream had food in it,’ Lorie said. ‘I like those ones. Pies and baked potatoes and hot porridge…’

Simon groaned. ‘I’d settle for Nana’s pea soup, even.’

‘The really thick one, like glue?’

‘When we get to Athanor, we’ll eat roast peacock and spice cakes.’ As a child in Athanor, Simon had eaten meals like that without a thought. In Sark, he’d grown used to plainer fare — bread, potatoes, salt cod. Fresh vegetables were available in the short months of summer, and meat was a rare luxury, saved for festival days.

A grey figure emerged from the blizzard: Andra, waving them on. ‘Fast. Run.’

Run? Simon could barely walk. He couldn’t run. He certainly couldn’t out-run a wolf. Still, as Lorie and Nana staggered forward, he ignored the pain and forced his legs to greater effort.

The ground sloped upward. He bowed his head and climbed, digging his stick into the snow to pull himself on. The others were ghosts, vague grey shapes vanishing into the swirling whiteness.

Lorie came back for him. ‘Take my arm. I’ll help you.’

‘No.’ He shook her off. ‘I’ll be fine. You go ahead.’

A sound came from behind, a shush of shifting snow. Simon half-turned. A shadow hit his side like a hammer. He tumbled down the slope, falling over and over with yellow teeth snapping inches from his face.

He grasped fur, skin loose over bone, and for a moment, he wrestled a demon. One of its eyes was red and weeping blood, the other a pool of pus surrounded by raw meat. It writhed in his grip, jaws striving for his throat. He couldn’t hold it. His arms buckled.

A burst of flames bathed Simon’s face in blistering heat. The creature yelped and turned on Lorie, who stood with her arms out-stretched. The beast snarled at the fire dancing in her shaking hands.

Lorie seemed frozen in terror.

Simon scrambled toward her. He snatched his walking stick from the snow and charged headlong. ‘Run,’ he screamed.

He swung the stick. Slow, too slow — Andra stepped between them, jabbing with her hunting spear. The animal snatched at the spear shaft. Wood splintered between its teeth.

Screaming a war cry, Sam ran at the creature and stabbed it with his sharpened stick. The point glanced off its ribs. The beast released Andra’s spear and wheeled on the boy. Sam stumbled backward and fell. His mouth stretched in a soundless scream. The wolf leaped.

‘Sam,’ Simon shouted.

Andra drove her hunting spear deep into the beast’s flank. The creature turned and snapped, unable to reach her. She stood over it, pushing the barbed spearhead deeper and deeper. Even pinned and dying, it struggled to reach her, until finally, it collapsed on its side, panting, its blood-filled eye dull and staring.

Simon steadied himself. His heart pounded. The energy lent by terror drained away, leaving him weak and shivery and exhilarated to be alive. Lorie was nearby, clinging to Nana, and Sam sat up, apparently unharmed.

A lifetime ago, Simon had drilled with a staff in the House Oryche weapons yard, alongside other boys his age. Hour after hour sweating in the summer sun, tired and bruised, master-of-arms Ellis screaming about footwork — and he’d remembered none of it, when it might have been of some use. Without Andra, he would have died, most likely. They would all have died.

‘That’s not a wolf,’ Sam said.

Simon climbed to his feet. The downed beast still breathed, just, and Sam was right. It wasn’t a wolf, or a demon. ‘No. It’s Chase’s dog.’

He rubbed his face. Obviously, the dog had survived their last encounter. He wasn’t sure how long ago that was. The days had blurred together, but it had been many days, and the dog couldn’t have followed them all this time. And if it hadn’t, that suggested its owner must be closer than he’d thought.

Andra drew her knife and cut the dying animal’s throat. Then she started skinning it.

‘You’re going to eat it?’ Sam said.

Andra ignored him.

‘It’s meat,’ Nana said. ‘I’ll eat it, if you won’t.’

‘Can I have the teeth?’ Sam asked.

Simon gazed down at the dog. Death had shrunk it: no monster, no demon, just a sick, gaunt animal. Starving. Like us. Its pelt was thick with scars laid on scars, some strangely shaped, almost like... He swallowed, realising what he was seeing. Not all the scars were the result of injury. Someone had deliberately put a knife to the beast, cut a sigil, and then erased it. Enhanced by a flesh-worker, the better to fight and kill.