The canoe edged across the stream to the far bank. Vigir could pick out figures darting from cover to cover along the shore they had left and an arrow hissed into the water. One assailant came into clear view for a moment as it sprang from behind a tree with spear poised to throw. It was man-like, grey-green of skin, long-armed, garbed in scraps of stiff leather. The skull of some horned animal adorned the head. Axe-woman snatched up a crossbow and the creature dropped the spear to throw itself into cover. Vigir picked up her paddle and dug deep, sending the light craft rocking along. It was near full dark when she touched his arm, took the paddle and steered them into the still water at the tail of an eyot. The bow ran into soft mud, axe-woman stepped up on to a root, reached to haul the canoe higher, packs and basket were handed across and Vigir could follow to stand again on firm ground. Again that irritating touch on the arm, and he was guided to a small clearing. He could make out little in the dim starlight, but it seemed that this was to be where they spent the night.

Vigir expected cold food and a sleep on bare ground. He had fared worse, far worse, in his time. He had spent days in the marshes along the Vilayan Sea, eating raw musk-rat and sleeping on piled reeds, and endured through frozen nights in the wastes of Tibri. He would clean his sword and rest against a tree. Here again he was confounded, for again the women dealt in wonders. One un-shuttered a small globe which gave light and hung it from a branch. The other set a round flat stone on the ground, tapped it twice and placed a kettle on top. Shortly the water was steaming and she offered him a cup of some herbal concoction, flowery and slightly astringent. He sipped, letting it wash away the lingering sweetness of the ball, and watched as the same stone heated a sauce thick with vegetables and that was poured over balls of some sticky grain. There were only two bowls, but the magic woman cleaned hers with a word and a swirl of the fingers and then handed him a serving.

When he put the bowl aside axe-woman came and sat in front of him, legs neatly folded under her. She moved her fingers in a complicated pattern, then spoke.

“Shchiale,” pointing to herself. “Gheinne,” pointing to the other woman. She pointed at Vigir and lifted an eyebrow. He gave his name and she repeated. There followed pointing and naming, at parts of the body, clothes, any objects in easy reach, the sky, water, a stone he toyed with and more. He would give the name, she repeated and moved on. Actions were mimed. The woman never hesitated or forgot a word and it was not long before they could begin to talk. Slowly, with frequent interruptions to find new words, but talk nonetheless. Vigir found it bizarre that he should converse with this woman in his own birth-language, left behind years before and seldom used since.

Where had he come from? She knew not Zangier, nor any place he named, whether of his home or any he had been to. It seemed he was far from any country he knew, perhaps as far as eastern Vendh. He had heard of that as a land of jungles and brown people, where the women were skilled in the erotic arts. Let them come to a city and he would surely test that.

What was this place? Her explanation was hard to grasp. A special forest? A place not for people? What was she doing here then? Perhaps this was a sacred forest, such as those where the Liettish tribes nailed their captives to trees and left them to the beasts. They had tried that with him and he had won free, splitting many a skull as he went. Were those man-apes the guardians? He had so many questions, and this child-talk wearied him. Shchiale must have sensed his frustration, for she rose and signed that she would sleep. Vigir settled back, sword across his lap and brooded for a time. The night was cool; a fire would lift his spirits, and there were leaves and dry branches. He scraped a patch of earth clear, laid twigs and leaves, took up a pebble and struck sparks from his blade. A small flame blossomed and he fed it a few small twigs. Before it could grow Shchiale was there, furious. Her booted foot came down, sending dust and sparks into his face. Vigir surged up.

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“No! Fire bad!” she told him. Vigir’s hand raised to slap her silly was suddenly caught by a vine, while a sharp point pricked his neck. He tore free with a startled oath and dodged away, sword poised. A dozen needle-sharp branches pointed at him, poised like spears thrusting from a shield-wall. Shchiale stepped forward, laid a hand on the tree and uttered soothing words. The branches quivered, relaxed, then withdrew into a more usual form as she calmed the tree. When it was again quiet she turned to shake her head and repeat that fire was bad. Vigir cast about for somewhere else to sleep. After a minute Shchiale sighed, drew a light blanket from her pack and tossed it to him. Gheinne had stood watching. Now she spoke to create a low blue dome, into which she and Shchiale retired.

The blanket was warm and proof against the damp ground, but sleep did not come easily to Vigir, worn though he was. The light glow of the dome reminded him that he was in the company of witches and every rustle of branches brought him alert. This land did not offer honest enemies, whether men or beasts or eldritch beings from the outer darks (all of which he had bested), but slimes and rats and insects and stabbing trees. He catnapped through the hours of darkness to came fully alert in the grey dawn. The women packed with efficiency and led back to the canoe. This time Vigir was seated facing Shchiale and the language lesson resumed as they paddled downstream. By mid-morning she had enough grasp to answer some of his questions.

Was this land near Vendh? She had never heard of that land. This was – again that hard to translate term. It was the Pia-Pia land, not for people. They would come this day into the Haghar lands, to the town of Gshener. It was on the sea, and ships came there, people from all lands. What did Vigir do?

“I use my sword,” he told her. In truth he had spent time as a mercenary, but also as a thief, bandit and, briefly, as a pirate. Mercenary would do for now.

“You have sword-magic?” she asked. Vigir flexed a bicep and drew a hand-span of blade. Shchiale shrugged and went on to give him some Haghakin. When the first smell of salt water reached him he had a small vocabulary and could count to a score. The language lesson was discontinued while Shchiale and Gheinne concentrated on guiding the canoe along the inshore channels. From over the sandbanks and grassy dunes to one side came the ceaseless plash of waves and the cries of shorebirds. To the other side, the shore was dreary mud-banks decorated with worm-eaten logs, rotting weed and other flotsam. The water was a mix of riverine brown and sea-blue, doing credit to neither. Vigir was greatly cheered when the towers of a town came in sight across a stretch of open water. A bout of paddling and they were gliding past wharves and slipways. The canoe hissed up onto a short stretch of shingle and Shchiale pointed him ashore.

“Gshener Town – that way. Go,” she said, and Vigir went with a light heart. He was free of the witches. Let him but find a rich, inattentive merchant or some noble pup, and then the wine would flow and the wenches attend.