MARK led Michael, first of all, to the place where he’d seen the elderly Inuit couple being attacked. He warned Michael that it might be an ugly sight. Sure enough, both of the couple were lying dead in the street: several passers-by were eyeing the bodies curiously from a distance, but they scattered when they heard the horses’ hooves. And there was indeed a broken dray nearby, but both wheels were smashed beyond repair and Michael said, no. So they went on searching.

It was at the fifth overturned vehicle, in a quiet street on the northern outskirts of the city, that they had better luck. A four-wheeler, broken in two, and two of the wheels looked serviceable. Michael quickly set to work with his hammer and saw and had the two wheels off in a few minutes. They slung them across the back of the unencumbered horse—much to its dislike—and were in the act of mounting and setting off when a burly man appeared from a doorway.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” he shouted, waving his fist and pointing at the mutilated wagon. But Michael and Mark were already cantering away, leading the horse bearing the wheels, and the angry man did not show any signs of pursuing.

“Hopefully he won’t know where we’ve taken them,” said Mark. “I feel a bit bad about stealing things, but this is an emergency.”

“We stole quite a lot of stuff from a deserted farm, when Stephanie and I came back from the Fringes,” remarked Michael. “One gets used to it.”

When they reached home, they learnt that the others had remained dutifully in the cellar, but had heard no sounds of horses and no-one knocking at the door. That was a relief. So Michael and Mark set to work at once, sawing, planing, nailing and screwing; and by the end of the third day they had produced a workable cart, capable of being drawn by one horse—although a second horse could be hitched to it if the need arose. The plan now was, Stephanie would drive the cart, with Laura sitting next to her, and Rachel and the children in the back. Mark and Michael would ride the two remaining horses and scout ahead when necessary.

There had been a couple of visits from the Blueblacks but they had seemed less aggressive than before. They merely asked to see identity tags and did not enter the house. Michael was not recog­nised: he had taken the precaution of preparing forged papers for himself. Mark, not having given his name to anyone, could produce his own, and Stephanie’s (forged) documents. Rachel, Laura. and the children, of course, hid in the cellar.

On the third day Stephanie felt bold enough to slip out to the shop: the news-sheet which she brought back proclaimed that Ruffer was ordering most of the Blueblacks in and around Rigo to return to barracks.

“They’ve achieved Ruffer’s main objective,” muttered Mark, angrily and cynically. “So he’s calling them in before the people of Rigo set upon them in earnest. I reckon there’s not a single Black or Inuit person left alive in Rigo now. So Ruffer will be declaring Rigo ‘Mutant-free’, will he? I wonder what his plans are for the rest of Labrador…”

“Ben told me, there used to be men like that in the Old People’s day,” remarked Laura.

“Well, we can’t raise an army against him. He’s pulling all the strings. All we can do is get away, for Ragnarok.”

So it was on the fourth day that they set out, having laden the cart with as much food, blankets, tent, and warm clothing as it would bear, along with its passengers. It would be a heavy burden for one horse to pull, but Michael had balanced it well: the going would be fairly easy on the level. But he had no way to fit springs to the cart, so it would be an uncomfortable ride if the road became rough. The girls didn’t seem to mind: it was as much as Laura could do to stop them bouncing up and down in the cart. Rachel, meanwhile, had fashioned a sling, Inuit-style, to hold little William close to her chest to give him a smoother ride—which also meant that she could nurse him without interrupting the journey.

The weather was fine and fairly mild for January: very different from the conditions when Mark and Benjamin had set out for Palukaat. This was lucky for them: Mark, especially, was fearful as to how the children would fare if the cold weather returned. But as it was, the party trotted along at a fair pace on the main road out of Rigo, meeting no-one.

“It took us about ten days to travel from Ragnarok to Rigo, on horseback,” remarked Michael later in the day, remembering their earlier trip. “Do you think it’ll take us as long this time?”

“Should be quicker,” replied Mark. “Inside a week, so I reckon. Remember, you made a detour via Palukaat; also you kept to rough tracks, which we can’t use with the cart. At least it seems to be running smoothly so long as we’re on the road. And, so far we’ve met no-one: at least, none of those thugs.”

But their luck did not hold for long. On the morning of the second day they heard what they had been fearing: the sound of horses’ hooves galloping fast behind them. Michael and Mark both drew back, to place themselves between the cart and the newcomers.

Sure enough, it was a trio of Blueblacks. When they met with Michael and Mark, they reined in.

“Papers, please!” ordered one of them, the leader apparently, in a perfunctory manner.

Mark drew out his tag, and Michael reached for his forged document to showed it to them, but the leader was examining his face carefully, and he smiled.

“You can’t fool me! I know who you are: you’re the one that testified against me in that mockery of a trial! And what’s more, I remember you from earlier: that Blasphemy I’ve been after, ever since Waknuk.”

At that instant Michael recognised the leader. It was Simon Skinner. In a panic, he reached for the gun slung across his back, but Skinner was quicker. He whipped out his revolver.

“Now I’ve got—” but he never finished his sentence. At that moment two arrows swished through the air: one of them pierced Skinner in the neck; the other struck one of his companions in the chest. Both fell to the ground, gasping. The third Blueblack drew his revolver and fired, but missed: then he panicked, turned his horse and galloped off, back in the direction of Rigo.

Michael and Mark both dismounted and examined the fallen Blueblacks, just as Stephanie ran up, still holding her bow with a second arrow ready on the string. A little way behind her Rachel was approaching, more slowly, also armed with a bow and arrow.

Skinner was gasping for breath and trying to speak, but no sound came—then blood came welling out of his mouth, he convulsed and became still, with his eyes glazing over.

“I’ve killed him, haven’t I?” wailed Rachel. “After all the fuss I made about not wanting him hanged: I have to be the one that kills him! But we’re well rid of him, aren’t we?” And she burst into tears.

“It may have been Stephanie’s arrow that did for him,” said Michael, comforting her.

“No: I aimed for him: I’m sure it was me.”

Meanwhile, Laura had drawn up with the cart. She jumped down and examined Skinner’s body, confirming that he was quite dead. Then she turned her attention to the other fallen Blueblack. He was in a bad way, blood poured from his wound once Laura had withdrawn the arrow. She listened to his chest for a moment. He was still groaning.

“This one’s done for too, I’m afraid. Arrow clean through the heart. That was some good shooting by you two!” But neither Rachel nor Stephanie smiled. They both stood there, stony-faced, shocked at what they had achieved.

Laura reached for one of the revolvers and told the others to look away. There was the sound of a shot. The horses were startled but didn’t bolt. “I feel sick having to do this, but it was for the best. He would never have survived.”

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“Yes, but we’re in trouble,” Mark pointed out. “That third man must have gone back to Rigo to fetch reinforcements. We’d better move on quickly. At least we’ve gained two good horses.”

They had no time to bury the bodies, but they dragged them some distance from the road, hoping they wouldn’t be seen. Then they hitched one of the spare horses to the cart, in tandem with their own horse, while Stephanie mounted the other. Laura, in her turn, took the reins and set about driving the cart: she soon became quite adept at this and, with the new arrangement, they made rapid progress. After a couple of hours they came to a junction in the road. There was a signboard with the word ‘Curkajak’ roughly painted on it, indicating the road to the right, and a similar board with ‘Ashapi’ written on it, indicating the left-hand road.

“ ‘Curkajak’! I remember that name, don’t you, Michael?” shouted Rachel. “We stopped there, at the inn, just before we got to Ragnarok. Where I copied the map. This must be the right turning for Ragnarok.”

“Fine,” said Mark. “Now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll cover our tracks. Luckily the road is quite dusty hereabouts, so we’re leaving a clear cart-trail as well as hoofprints. So we’ll take the left-hand road, as if we were making for Ashapi and Kentak. The Blueblacks will reason that we’re trying to get back among our folks. But of course, we’ll cut across towards the other road as soon as we find a good place—where we can do it without leaving a trail.”

The others couldn’t help but applaud Mark for his clear thinking, and they duly set forth on the Ashapi road. After about two miles the road became hard and stony, and Mark declared that from then on they would leave no tracks. But it was another mile before he found a suitable place where they could cut across country to the other road. A dried stream bed, often a good place to turn off.

“We’ll try this way, but it’ll be hard work with the cart. So everybody out.”

Mark did not dare to harness more than three horses to the cart, for fear of damaging it. The children, of course, were thrilled at the ‘adventure’, and spent the time dancing around the cart and turning somersaults, whilst Michael, Mark, Stephanie and Laura all joined in heaving the cart over the boulders and up the stream bed. Rachel, with baby still in the sling, was leading the horses which were harnessed to the cart. In about half an hour they had progressed about two hundred yards, and reached an area of somewhat more level grassland which looked like it might be negotiable. Before they went any further, however, both Michael and Mark did a thorough inspection of the cart, and to their relief it appeared undamaged.

They did not want to risk any passengers in the cart until they’d reached the road, so they walked, leading the horses, for about three miles until the ground dipped and they saw the road ahead of them. Evening was already drawing in so they decided to camp on the grass.

During the night they were awakened once or twice by the howling of wolves—which made Mark and Stephanie, remembering their earlier disaster, especially anxious—but luckily the wolves did not approach the camp. Mark, who had some experience of wolves, judged that they were probably in the hills on the far side of the road. At any rate, next morning they reverted to the earlier arrangement, with Mark, Michael and Stephanie on horseback and the others in the cart.

They made good progress for several days without any sign of pursuit. They met several travellers on the road, but did no more than exchange the odd ‘Good day’ with them: it appeared that many ordinary folk of Labrador were preoccupied and fearful—and wary of strangers. As well they might be. It was clear that news of Ruffer’s new agenda had spread far and wide across Labrador.

On the fourth day, however, they again heard the sound of horses galloping from behind. They drew the cart over to one side and waited. But the Blueblacks dashed past them with barely a glance: they were clearly on some other errand.

On about the sixth day, Mark reckoned that they must be near the turning for Ragnarok, so Michael and Rachel tasked themselves with trying to re-discover the path which they had followed more than a year earlier. It was not easy: there were several trails off to the north and twice they took a wrong turning, wasting much time and effort. But finally, late in the afternoon, Michael spotted a trail which was the right one, he could swear to it, although there was no sign-post.

But to their dismay there were hoof-prints leading along the path. Many hoof-prints, fresh ones.

“It could be nothing,” Mark reassured them. “We’ve no choice anyway, we’ve got to follow the trail.”

So they made their way with all speed towards Ragnarok. Michael risked putting out a thought-shape, trying to summon up Peter and the others, but there was no response. This looked ominous, but they could only press on.

At last they drew in sight of Ragnarok, and made their way to Peter’s and Justin’s house. But they could see at once that all was not well. The front door seemed to have been forced, and the furniture inside was in disarray, with books torn and scattered about. Stephanie volunteered to stay in the cart with the children, while the others cautiously ventured inside.

They had searched around the living-room and then went into Peter’s study, where an alarming sight met their eyes. Peter was lying on the floor on his back, unconscious, with bruises all over his face.

Laura at once knelt at his side, and to their relief she pronounced that he was still alive and breathing, although obviously he had been badly beaten. They gently lifted him up and carried him to his bed, where they attempted to pour some brandy between his lips. After about an hour he opened his eyes which focused on Laura first—then his eyes appeared to catch sight of Rachel. He seemed unable to speak, but a weak thought-shape came through:

“Rachel? Michael? Is that you? Where am I?”

“You’re all right: you’re at home, in your bed. But what happen­ed? Where’s Justin? And is Benjamin here?”

“Benja—I—he’s—a—” But Peter got no further with his thought-shapes: he seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness once again.

Laura stayed, tending to Peter, while the others searched the house top to bottom, looking for Benjamin wherever he might be, alive or dead. Suddenly Rachel shrieked:

“The cellar! Of course, if Benjamin was here, Peter would have hidden him in the cellar if the Blueblacks showed up. Quick! He might be suffocating down there!”

As quick as they could they had the desk pushed to one side, the carpet rolled up and the trapdoor opened. They heard a groan down below. Seizing a lantern, Mark and Michael went down the steps. Benjamin was lying on the floor: there was a foul stench in the foetid air. With some difficulty, because he was a heavy man, they hoisted him up into the study and laid him on a couch. He was clearly alive, though in a distressed state: Laura joyfully sprang to his side and examined him tenderly. His lips and tongue were blue and his eyes were bloodshot, but he was breathing. She pronounced that he was suffering from anoxia—lack of air—from being shut up in the cellar for anyone’s guess how long—but he would recover. “He’s a tough guy, my Ben, he is—he’s been through worse than this. Oh, it’s so wonderful to have him back again. Tell Stephanie to bring the girls in.”

When the girls appeared and saw Benjamin on the couch, they screamed “Daddy! Daddy! and rushed towards him, but Laura stopped them. “Daddy’s not well, you must be gentle with him—but he’ll be better soon.”

Sure enough, within half an hour Benjamin was more or less recovered and sitting up. In the meantime the children had been give a light supper and put to bed, not without protests: “We want to see Daddy when he’s better again!” But Laura was firm: it was late in the evening now and there’d be plenty of time with Daddy tomorrow.

“So how long do you think you were down there,” she asked Benjamin.

“I don’t know, but it must have been at least a night and a day. I thought I’d die down there. It was those wretched Blueblacks again: they were after me, I spotted them on the road behind me, so I barged in here, explained as quick as I could, and Peter shoved me down the cellar without ceremony. He must have had just enough time to push the desk back. Then I heard noises and shouting above, but I couldn’t tell what was happening. And I couldn’t lift the trapdoor, what with Peter’s desk on top of it. Peter! Where is he? Is he all right?”

“Peter’s all right, he’s alive, though he’s been badly beaten. We’ve put him to bed. You’d better take a look at him when you feel up to it,” said Laura. “And do you know where Justin might be?”

“Peter told me he was away on a hunting trip. He might be back any time. If he’d been here, he might have been beaten up too. There must have been at least six of them, the thugs. Beating up a defence­less old man like that!”

“There’s been worse in Rigo,” put in Mark. “People being beaten to death, houses and businesses torched. I’d never imagined anything like it would ever happen.”

Benjamin was not at all surprised at this news. “We’ve been living in a false paradise too long. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.” He staggered to his feet, a bit unsteadily. “I really must look over Peter before I go to bed. Laura’s a great nurse, but she’s not a doctor: that’s my job. Please take me to him.”

He spent a long time examining Peter, then he came out. “No bones broken, but lots of bruises all over and some concussion. I’d say he’s a lucky man. And now I could do with some rest—and so could the rest of you, it seems.”

They found some food and made a quick supper, then they distributed themselves on beds, couches and blankets, as best they could for the night, only interrupted by little William’s waking and crying from time to time. He had been a remarkably well-behaved infant during the journey, but now for some reason he became fretful.