Once enough pleasantries were exchanged, the newcomers parked their behemoths in a circle just outside the village and set up a fortified camp with practiced ease. The Hawk Nation Brennai gathered around the longhouse at the village center, lighting bonfires and preparing a feast to honor the visitors. Still, the atmosphere was far from festive. What had been killing the Brennai was still at large somewhere in the Weald, lurking. Hunter had the tendency to forget that. The village people, understandably, did not.

Hunter and Fawkes returned to their tent, where Fyodor had been hiding out all day. The young direwolf, a massive bundle of fur and pent-up energy, immediately barreled into Hunter upon their return, showering him with deafening barks and slobbery affection.

“Down, you furry oaf!” Hunter said, fighting not to lose his balance. “Alright, alright, I missed you too. Biggs? Wedge? Everything alright?”

The two raven familiars, who in the last couple of days had been assigned permanent guard duty, gave him their report through the mental link the three of them shared.

“All quiet!” Wedge projected.

“No nosy people coming close!” Biggs confirmed.

The Brennai, not exactly fond of outsiders, gave Hunter and Fawkes a wide berth. Hunter didn’t really mind it, as long as it didn't turn to outright bigotry and aggression. It suited them.

“So, what now?” Hunter turned to Fawkes. She was sitting just outside the tent’s entrance, keeping an eye on the preparations from afar.

“I’ll take the mutt for a walk into the woods, give him a chance to stretch,” Fawkes said. “Poor thing’s been cooped up for too long. How and why he’s so well behaved, it’s a mystery to me. You go on and take a breather. Pop off to your side of things for a few hours, do whatever needs doing. Be back by sundown. We have an obligatory appearance to make at the festivities, such as they were.”

***

Hunter did just that. He did his business, took a quick shower, and headed down to the cafeteria to have a quick bite. Carpenter was there, fixing herself a cup of coffee. She offered him some too. It was strong, black, and bitter - which, he supposed, was to be expected of her.

Good old Penny. If she could find a way to chew nails and spit rust, she would.

“You’re not running yourself too ragged again, are you?” she asked him.

“No ma’am. Scout’s honor.”

That drew a glower from the woman.

“Rulin, I’d bet dollars to donuts you were in the boy scouts as much as I was Miss Kansas.”

“You hurt my feelings,” he said and finished the rest of his coffee in a couple of gulps. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Gotta go, see you later.”

He went for a walk to stretch his legs around Happy Motel’s courtyard, which took him a grand total of five minutes, then back to his room for a power nap. Caffeine did not affect him much. He could slam two espressos and go right to bed. A decade of drinking two energy drinks a day would do that to anyone.

By sundown, he was ready to put the casque back on and return to Elderpyre.

***

“You’re back,” Fawkes said, opening one eye. She sat cross-legged on the tent’s floor, meditating. Fyodor, sprawled beside her, rested his big head on her knee.

“I am.” He poked his head out, peered at the longhouse. A handful of bonfires were burning high around the longhouse. Small crowds of people were already gathering around them. “So, what’s the game plan? See everything, hear everything, say nothing?”

“More or less. The wise woman wants us to make an appearance, mingle with the Brennai, give them a chance to get accustomed to our presence. She told Elder Wroth he’d have to work with me to train four Aspirants now, not two - and one’s a Transient.”

“His reaction? Did he push back?”

“Worse,” said Fawkes with a deep sigh. “He was thrilled.”

Hunter frowned, perplexed.

“Isn’t that… good?”

“I don’t know, lad. Is it? Overenthusiasm rarely translates to good mentorship.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

For a while, nobody spoke.

Fyodor stood up, yawned, stretched, and nuzzled Hunter’s hand. Hunter scratched him behind the ears just how the direwolf liked, but his mind was elsewhere.

“What about your master?” he asked finally. “Was he like that? Or was he like you?”

He held his breath, knowing he'd crossed a line. If there was one thing he knew about Fawkes’s master, it was that she didn’t like to talk about him. Or was it a she?

It took Fawkes a moment to answer. Hunter prepared himself for a non-answer, a dismissal.

“He was neither,” she finally said. “He was… hard on me. Demanding. I hated it, but in the end it did me good, I guess. Sometimes I think I should have been more akin to him.”

Hunter saw something in her eyes that made him instantly regret opening his mouth. She looked somber. Haunted. It had been days since she’d last looked like that.

‘“It’s alright, Hunter,” she said, as if reading his mind. She stood up and grabbed her saber belt. “Come. Let us go. The festivities are bound to be starting anytime now.

***

As far as festivities went, these were barely festive. The guests of honor, the forty-or-so Behemoth Nation men and women were the only ones in the mood to celebrate. They did so in an aggressive, warrior-like way, with drum groups and war dances. Some of the younger Hawk Nation Brennai, Inago included, also got caught in the enthusiasm. Most of the locals, though, were too grim and tense to enjoy themselves, and with good purpose.

The women passed out bowls of corn, mushrooms, beans, and squash, along with wild berries and wineskins filled with some kind of mild corn beer. There was goat meat, too, but no wild game. Nobody was allowed to go into the Weald to hunt. The Behemoth Nation men passed around a few glass bottles filled with a light amber drink - some kind of plum brandy. Fawkes warned Hunter not to drink too much of it, if any at all. Not that she needed to; his friend Packman had family in Eastern Europe. Hunter had already learned that lesson the hard way.

Hunter and Fawkes remained at the back of the crowd, away from the center of attention. With nothing better to do than eat squash, drink corn beer, and look around, Hunter sat back and studied the Brennai.

He could tell the Hawk Nation from the Behemoth nation apart at a glance. The former were hunters, gatherers, farmers. The latter were nothing if not warriors. Even now, as they danced and celebrated among friends and kin, they still wore their nomad warrior garb - reinforced hide, boiled leather, bracers, knee pads, weapon straps, riding boots, feathers, facepaint.

“Do you think they know about the killings in the Weald?” Hunter asked Fawkes. He didn’t have to specify who he was talking about. She understood.

“They do. That’s why they are here. The wise woman told me. Wroth agreeing to train the Aspirants is just making the most out of a bad situation.”

“And they still eat and drink and dance like that?”

“Yes,” she shrugged. “To them, it’s just business as usual. If it’s not killings in the Weald, it’s bandits in the south. If not that, it’s direwolves preying on herds up in the north. Or do you think I’m too gobsmacked by it all either?”

“I mean-”

“Or are you, perhaps?” Fawkes interrupted him and went on. “How shaken are you by the horrors the Brennai face, Hunter? Do you lose much sleep over them?”

A shadow crossed his face.

“Is this about me being a Transient again?”

A slow anger was beginning to smolder in his gut.He didn’t recognize his own voice. Fawkes saw it too. She turned and took a good look at him, as if surprised.

“No,” she said. “I was just saying. You, me, the Behemoth riders… We’re used to a different kind of life than these people.”

“Oh,” said Hunter, simmering down.

They didn’t talk a lot after that. Fawkes got lost in her thoughts. Not feeling especially talkative either, Hunter got back to watching the festivities. A throng of children and youths, having sufficiently stuffed their faces, had joined the Behemoth riders in their dances and songs. Soon, more of the young folken of the Hawk Nation followed. Someone waved at him - Inago. He waved back, but he wasn’t in the mood for joining the celebration.

Neither was the alderman’s son, as it turned out. Hunter spotted him across the crowd, giving him the stink eye. Yuma, Hunter recalled. A man roughly his own age, tall and broad and stern-looking. He’d tried to give him trouble the last time he’d visited the Brennai village, and the two of them had ended up roughing each other up a bit. With all that had gone down in the Ghostbarrows, Hunter had almost forgotten about that. Something told him Yuma hadn’t.

Hunter turned his attention to the elders of the two nations, who were gathered near the entrance to the longhouse. Dwarfing the rest with his seven-foot physique, Wroth was by far the most lively of the bunch. Not that he had a lot of competition. Vanchik was too preoccupied with staring daggers at Brother Marten - who, Hunter noticed, again sat with the elders, not bothering to hide his disdain for some of the other celebrants. Hallara was looking serene, a harmless little old lady dressed in white. Looks could be deceiving, though. It was probably thanks to her occasional disapproving glances that Vanchik and Marten weren’t at each other’s throat even now.

And then there was that other Behemoth elder, Rook. As if he sensed Hunter's gaze, the old warrior turned and looked directly at him. For a long moment, they locked eyes. Rook, without taking his gaze off Hunter, beckoned over someone who looked like his bodyguard. Drawing him close, Rook whispered something in his ear while casting a pointed glance at Hunter. The bodyguard glanced at Hunter, measuring him, then nodded.

Apart from Fawkes and himself, this bodyguard was the first person he’d met in Elderpyre that didn’t look of Brennai descent. If anything, he looked vaguely Mediterranean. Like the rest of the Behemoth riders, he was dressed in sensible, practical warrior garb.

“Transient,” said Fawkes, her curiosity piqued enough for her to break her silence. “Or something of the sort?”

“What?”

“That man over there, the one eyeing you like he's sizing you up for a fight. He’s Transient.”

Hunter furrowed his brow.

“How can you tell?”

“I just can,” Fawkes said.

“Can everyone?”

“Oh, no. Not right away. But there are signs. Besides, the wise woman mentioned something about Elder Rook having a Transient in his retinue. That’s why Wroth was thrilled to hear about you. As I understand, there’s a bit of a friendly rivalry going on between those two.”

As if he could hear the conversation, the man smirked and gave Hunter a mock salute, his narrow eyes glinting with amusement.

“Are you sure we can’t just pack up and go?” Hunter turned to Fawkes, almost entirely serious. “I mean it. It’ll be late morning before they even know we’re gone.”

Fawkes chortled, a lopsided smirk spreading across her face as her eyes swept over the group of elders gathered outside the longhouse.

“You asked for an adventure, lad, yes? Well, next time be careful what you ask for.”