“Are there really none left? Maybe you can find one who’s kinder, who can help you?” Oli questioned Kastor further as they journeyed.

Kastor shook his head. “He was the last. Now I am, I suppose. What a sorry end to the line.”

“How do you know he’s dead already?” Oli asked. Kastor ignored the question, and they continued quietly until, though Oli could scarcely believe it, they arrived at the far side of his old fishing spot.

“The raft I used is gone,” he commented in surprise. “Even the rope that tied it there is missing.”

Kastor frowned. “Who knows what’s happened since you left? It’s ok though. We’ll put the pack on your back, then you climb onto mine.”

Oli recalled the sight of Kastor, the first time he saw him, slithering under the water like a river serpent crawling along the bed. He hoped this time he'd stay near the surface.

“Is swimming like a fish something you learned from the medicine man?”

Kastor rearranged his cloak and pack and tied them to Oli’s back.

“There’s a great lake near my old home that spits warm water up from the belly of the mountain. I learned to swim in there. But the old bastard taught me to command the water. It’s one of the few lessons I picked up easily. Water is so... Willing.”

When Kastor was ready, Oli shouldered the heavy pack and lowered himself onto Kastor’s back. He clung to his neck and felt as though he were lying down on his own raft. The river carried them across, with Kastor making only a gentle effort with his arms. On the other side, Oli tried to squeeze the water out of his sleeves and trouser legs, shivering as he did so. Kastor took the pack from him, apparently unconcerned by the cold or water.

“People have been searching for you,” Kastor noted, pointing at boot prints which churned the bank. “Lead the way. I’ll follow.”

Beneath the flutters of excitement, a fear moved in Oli’s stomach. Why is the raft missing? I left it bobbing in the stream but still tied up. Why let it go entirely?

They followed the landmarks that Oli used to guide himself. One after another he marked them off in his mind. Seven more and I’m home, six more and I’m home, there’s the knotty trunk, five more and I’m home. And yet the closer they drew, the more that feeling pushed the excitement aside. He moved faster, racing against the encroaching sense of doom as though he could prevent it manifesting before he arrived.

When they were just beyond hearing of the village, Oli felt Kastor’s hand on his shoulder.

“Come on!” insisted Oli. “We’re nearly home!”

“It’s too quiet.”

“We’re too far to hear – Oh, I suppose you can...”

He looked at Kastor nervously. What did he know? Kass gave him a weak smile and started walking again, slowly. He pushed Oli behind him.

“Just be quiet. And listen.”

As they drew nearer to the village, he understood what Kastor meant. He heard the usual forest sounds – what people called silence. The whispering of the leaves as the breeze brushed them against each other, the distant chirping of birdsong and the fluttering of wings. But he heard no human sounds. He strained, searching the air for the crack of an axe or children shouting. A part of him listened the way he had under Kastor’s cloak, and he felt an empty space where there should have been life.

Oli hurried as they neared the border and, distracted, stepped on a branch. Kastor winced as the snap resounded through the woods and birds nearby took flight.

No sooner had the sound died away, a jovial voice rang out from the clearing ahead.

“Here they come! Here come our noisy friends!”

Kastor turned to Oli and grinned, relieved to have been mistaken. Oli hesitantly returned the smile. He did not recognise the voice. Had they come under a bout of Kastor’s madness and gone to the village of another clan? No, there was the Hallin’s symbol, hewn into the marker stone ahead: three circles with winding arrows snaking toward the centre. Cautiously, he stepped forward, following behind Kastor.

They broke into the clearing and Oli’s face fell. He had feared to find the village changed or looted, or occupied by soldiers. He had imagined, for a terrible moment, beholding the dead bodies of his loved ones. He had not imagined this. The village was simply gone.

The long, tall perimeter fence was gone. The watchtower was gone. The sheep, and every hut and all the people - gone! Even the fire in the centre was not there. And yet, there was evidence of a fire, if not the fire. A thick layer of ash coated the whole clearing, carefully and evenly raked across it. A great black mark, like a writing mistake blotted out with a glob of ink.

But that was not all. A tall man, his own face a reflection of Oli’s surprise, stood at the edge of the clearing. He wore his long, blonde hair braided in a style that reminded Oli of Heridan. He was bedecked from neck to toe in black leather armour and a long sword poked up from behind his shoulder. Two other men, similarly dressed, stood beside him. For a moment, none of them moved, then the shock melted from the blonde man’s face so smoothly you could have forgotten it was there. He stepped forward into the empty space that separated them and held out his hand. His boots crunched across the ash and charcoal.

“Fellow forest kin! There you are indeed! You must be one of the lost children. And you...” He beamed a smile at Kastor that seemed, to Oli’s eyes, to hold a little fear in it. “You must be the outsider.”

Softly, so that only Oli could hear, Kastor asked:

“Do you know this man?”

“No,” Oli whispered.

The three armoured strangers glanced at one another. One of them started to feel for the handle of their axe. The tall man glanced down and the hand withdrew. He closed the distance between them.

“My name is Erlends of the Sullin. Don’t worry,” he smiled, “we’re in alliance with your clan. The Hallin have hosted us since our fort was destroyed. They have left already for the South. Go quickly with Carl here. He’ll explain everything on the way to them.”

“If everyone has left,” asked Kastor, edging back and pulling Oli with him, “what are you still doing here?”

“We're gathering the last few Sullin. We were scattered when our fort was destroyed. We stayed to meet some final stragglers before catching up. It’s a good job too! Everyone’s worried about this boy. His parents are beside themselves.”

Oli looked to Kastor, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Why, though? The story made sense. At least, Oli wanted it to. He wanted his mother and father. The man’s comment ‘his parents are beside themselves,’ made his chest ache and he longed to put an end to their fear.

He stepped forward. Kastor stopped him. Then a flicker of self-doubt crossed his face, and he allowed Oli to move to the Sullins’ side. Oli was about to thank Kastor but before he could speak louder footsteps than theirs tramped from the side.

“Quickly, Carl,” said Erlends. “Take the boy to his family.” There was something in his eyes as he spoke. A strange emphasis on the words. A message between the lines. The man took Oli by his hand and led him across the ash of the abandoned village. His feet made neat, sharp prints as though he were walking across fresh snow. He looked back over his shoulder. He saw the other man’s hand wander to his axe again, but his eyes were not turned in the direction of the footsteps. They rested on Kastor.

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Oli stopped and tugged.

“Wait. I need to say goodbye.”

“No time!” hissed the man, now pulling Oli with force. Oli dragged his heels and the man pulled harder, almost lifting him off his feet. The trees parted and two red soldiers pushed their way into the clearing. Two more appeared behind them and two more again. Oli could not tell how far the column went because they stopped suddenly.

“Halt!” called the soldier in front. One of them wore black leather armour, like Erlends. Like the man who held his arm and pulled him toward the trees. The lead soldier removed his helmet and Oli recognised him.

“Erlends! You see, we are travelling better through this – Wait, who’s he? I saw him by the river! He’s the one I saw!”

“He killed Tristor’s men!” yelled one of the soldiers, pointing at Kastor. “Kill him before he can speak!”

The Sullin men pulled their weapons free.

Kastor backed away and glanced from the soldiers and Sullin warriors to Oli, perhaps wondering how to save this hopeless forest boy again. Oli met his eyes and tried to convey the full force of his apology. These Sullin were meeting with soldiers of Dombarrow! Kastor’s mistrust of them had been correct, but he had not trusted his own instinct. Neither had Oli.

Oli bit the hand which held him. It squirmed and a palm slapped his head, then wrapped around and held him fast. The man with the axe moved. Oli dreaded to watch but could not tear his eyes away. Kastor was unarmed! The warrior leapt at him, whirling the curved blade in a high arc at his skinny chest.

Something about Kastor changed. Not his form or size, but his bearing. In a smooth movement, as quick as it was casual, he reached up to a branch and ripped it from the tree. It came away easily, as though it were only a leaf. As he brought it down, it transformed in his hands. The smaller offshoots lengthened and thickened, growing in a heartbeat into a grasping, stretched out claw. The tips became as white as lit charcoal. As Kastor thrust it with both hands, the weapon itself appeared to reach forward. The man stopped with his axe still raised. His scream died with a hiss as the awful spear burst out through his back. He fell to the ground.

All stared dumbly at Kastor. More soldiers entered the clearing. They outnumbered him twenty to one but hesitated to attack. Then Erlends swung from Kastor’s flank and Oli watched the field of ash turn dark with blood that fell like rainfall. From the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar spirit for the first time in daylight. As Kastor danced and thrust, he yelled too and the huge, winged creature burst forth into the bulk of soldiers. Those affected clutched their heads in pain and staggered back, but it did not disable enough of them. Some stumbled through the audible barrier and others, unaffected, approached from behind. Kastor felled two more with his spear before an axe found its mark on his right thigh. The circle closed tighter around him.

There was no way he could make it to Oli.

“Run!” Oli shouted, as the man who held him began dragging him backwards again. “Get out of here!”

But Kastor stayed. He threw himself forward, trying to thrust through the disoriented soldiers. He let out another scream. It had less power the second time. The soldiers thrust back and Kastor jumped, then spun around to block a strike from behind.

Oli closed his eyes. He could not watch this man fall because he had chosen to trust another.

A burst of cold air brushed his face, and he felt a thud beside his ear. The grip on his arm sprang loose. He opened his eyes to see the man who had held him keel to the ground. A black, lacquered javelin protruded from his chest.

“Oliiii! To meeeee, boy!”

Oli recognised the clear, deep voice. It was Elder Joturn! No, surely this is too good to be true. Amidst this constant misfortune, Oli could not believe it. Yet, the old hunter himself emerged from the eastern trees. His legs whirled furiously, and his long hair trailed in the air behind him like a silver banner. He sprinted to give his second throw speed. When Elder Joturn threw, he did not miss. The next javelin lodged itself above the chest plate of a red soldier who had moved to intercept Oli’s escape.

Oli ran toward Joturn and called out:

“Kastor! This way!”

Joturn reached him as he threw his last javelin. He aimed it at the one called Erlends, who had turned to face the new threat. It sailed on a perfect course to strike the Sullin’s heart, but the blonde warrior twisted just in time and the javelin lodged itself in another man’s stomach.

Kastor barged through the distracted soldiers. He dropped his weapon and ran, limping, for the trees now closest to him. The familiar swooped through the path of two soldiers in pursuit, who groaned and fell to their knees. Then it turned, red eyes blazing, to follow Kass.

They ran together, but Oli fell back as Kastor slowed. Joturn turned and saw that he had fallen behind.

“Come on, Oli. Faster!”

“We can’t leave Kastor behind!” Oli called.

Joturn bounded back to join them. They heard shouts behind as the men recovered and resumed their pursuit. Joturn grabbed Oli by the shoulders.

“Do you want to live, Oli? To see your parents? He can look after himself.”

Joturn shot Kastor a look. The wounded medicine man understood. Bent over and panting, one hand grasped the top of his thigh as he waved with the other.

“Go. I’ll be fine. Go!”

The shouts of the men drew nearer, and the winged spirit took flight to delay them.

“See? Move!” Joturn tugged Oli’s arm.

“No.” Oli stood firm. He heard a man shout: “Fan out, that way!” alarmingly close. Joturn looked angry, then rubbed his forehead and appraised him. Oli had never defied an elder before. But he would not abandon this man who had helped him. He would not abandon his friend. Joturn looked to Kastor, who had almost slumped to the ground.

“Can you run for three hundred yards, medicine man?”

Kastor looked up in surprise. “I could manage that.” His eyes narrowed in concentration and Oli watched him rise, as though wires pulled him from overhead.

“Then follow,” the elder whispered and pointed at Oli. “He’s stubborn. He won’t leave without you.”

“Follow where?”

“The mountains, for now. I might have a way to get us there safely.”

They followed Joturn down a new path. The distance they had gained in the moment of surprise had all but closed. The screech of the demon and the shouts and snapping behind them grew louder. Oli knew how far the mountains were. He knew they could not make it at Kastor’s pace before the soldiers caught them. Then, Joturn stopped.

He picked up a stick and thumped the ground.

“Stamp!” he commanded, pointing down. Oli followed his finger and saw glistening black strands stretching through the undergrowth. He understood Joturn’s plan and trembled. They could not be certain to survive this ruse, ingenious as it was.

Oli and Joturn kicked the earth and jumped on the strands until several had broken. Kastor used the moment to rip a strip from his shirt and tie it round the gash in his thigh. Joturn shouted, and Oli heard a soldier call: “Over here!” He noticed that he no longer heard Erlends' voice.

“Now,” said Joturn, his dark eyes glittering, “follow as lightly as you can!”

They dashed north, jumping on tiptoes like dancers, toward the caves that Ingo so often visited. The soldiers gained. Then Oli heard another sound – a hiss. Shouts and screams rent the air as sleepers, drawn by the noise on their tracks, now closed in upon the loud, heavy booted footsteps of the soldiers.

The sounds of struggle grew quieter until they leapt free of the treeline into the low, grey foothills of the southernmost mountains. Are these the ones that Kastor called the Highhomes?

Joturn pointed up, toward the yawning mouth of the lowest cave, which squatted some thirty yards above them.

“It was empty when Heridan woke those sleepers before. Let’s hope it still is.”

Oli looked back at the woods. Perhaps the sleepers had taken their fill. Wouldn’t they be better to stop here, than go into a place so dangerous as the caves? As though reading his thoughts, Joturn said:

“These are only the foothills. The earth is still soft and damp. They’ll follow us out of the forest, unless we can reach firmer land.”

“But the hoarders live there!” Oli replied. Kastor’s pace quickened, as though the word gave him new life.

“Between sleepers and hoarders, I’d rather face the latter,” Joturn said and turned to climb.

“We can’t fight either!” exclaimed Oli, looking up in terror at the caves that for all his life, he had been told never to go inside.

“No,” replied Joturn, “but hoarders give you a quicker death.”

The old man paused, then turned to Oli. His face was red and his lips tight. He spoke in a low voice.

“We could have escaped, you and me. We could have followed the clan’s trail while he fought them behind us.”

He pointed to Kastor, who had passed them and climbed, holding his right leg in both hands.

“We’re risking this for your friend. Now climb.”

Oli looked down. Should he feel ashamed of what he had driven the elder to? He looked up at Kass, struggling towards the mouth of the cave. No, he was overjoyed that his friend had survived. He took a deep breath and raced up the short distance to the first cave. Kastor groaned in agony and fell to the ground the moment they entered. Joturn went to his side and inspected the wound, ignoring the yelps as he prodded the gash. In his thoughts, Oli willed Kastor to heal himself and almost said something aloud. Then he remembered the story, and the taunts of his mentor. He left his friend to Joturn’s ministrations and looked back at the forest from which they had fled. A plume of smoke rose from the trees a few hundred yards away. Apart from that, everything was still. His gaze dwelled upon the empty space where his village had once been. It looked so small in the sea of green that surrounded it, pressing in to devour the small mark it had left behind. Next year, the spot would be gone.

Kastor quietened and Oli looked round to see him lying on his back. As Joturn finished tying the bandage, Oli saw a shadow limping around the body, circling it as though looking for a way inside. The creature turned to look at him. Oli whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear:

“Why do you follow him?”

Joturn rose and crossed the floor to sit beside Oli. His eyes had dark rings beneath them, and his weathered cheeks were pink, with little darker lines where blood vessels had burst beneath the skin. Oli knew that Joturn was only human, but the sight of the elder exhausted struck him almost as hard as the ashes of his village.

“Elder Joturn, are you ok?”

Joturn smiled and shifted towards him. He did not come as close to Oli as he would have liked. He did not quite embrace him. He glanced back at the body of the medicine man and looked again to Oli, as though trying to understand what thread connected them. He placed a hand on Oli’s shoulder and squeezed it.

“My boy,” he asked. “Do you have anything to tell me?”

“You called him a medicine man,” said Oli in reply. “Don’t you also have something to tell me?”