Chapter Twenty: The Road to Caerlon

“Just as all rivers lead to the ocean, all roads lead to the city.”

—Dagus Adem, The Adventurer’s Guide to the Continent

Garax walked across the snow in his bare feet, having given his shoes to Evaine. There were no signs of weakness in his stride—Garax the knobbly storyteller was gone, and in his place was Garax the survivor, strong and upright, a package of lean muscle and steel resolve.

“What in Hellheim was that?” Evaine muttered. Her skin was still sensitive, the furs rubbing against her like coarse stone. “Were they relicts? Draurig and Graendal?”

Garax gave her a puzzled look. “Draurig and Graendal?”

Evaine rubbed at the headache pounding against her temples. Of course Garax wouldn’t know them, she thought. I’m the only one who Draurig spoke to.

“I met a creature called Draurig,” she explained. “He knew songs from past Ages and seemed to be very old. He said there were more of their kind in the past, but Graendal—the cavern—ate them all.”

Garax’s face hardened. “The river children,” he said. “They walked Faengard long ago, just like the Treelocs and a myriad other creatures, though some say they’ve been around for as long as the gods themselves. They played tricks on men, pretending to be drowning children, luring them to the river and then feasting on their bones. It wouldn’t surprise me that one of them managed to survive for so long inside that… thing.” He looked behind them at the gorge in the distance. “They’re not relicts though, not the children nor Graendal. Simply creatures like us, though I don’t think there’s anything like Graendal anywhere else in the world.”

Evaine shivered at the memory of rotting teeth smiling at her from the darkness. She’d cried for a long time after their escape, the combined tension of everything that had happened since the relict pursuit and the sudden death of the troupers finally bursting free in a flood of emotion. She was glad to simply be alive, to be able to see the sky once more, as dreary as it was. A voice inside her mocked her, telling her she should have listened to Ein and Bran. That same voice told her there was no going back now, that she had locked herself onto this path. For the first time since they’d been separated, she was glad the two weren’t there. She didn’t want them to see her in this state.

“How did you find me?” she asked, drawing a shaky breath. “What happened after that night?” The storm had long since passed. It had been over a day since they’d been separated.

“We landed in the river,” Garax answered. “For those of us who survived the drop, we were washed into Graendal’s maw. It’s a clever position, right along the curve of the Brackenburg. I didn’t even know the danger existed until it was too late. I was lucky, though. I managed to stay conscious and find a place above the waterline. The troupers and the relicts were probably killed by the monster’s digestive juices and swept into its stomach to be absorbed.” He frowned at Evaine. “On that note, how did you manage to survive?”

Evaine thought back to the strange power she’d held over the water with her voice.

“I’m not sure,” she said at last.

As they trotted across the snow, winding their way along the Brackenburg and back to the higher ground, she told Garax everything that had happened. She told him about how she’d commanded the water, how Draurig had heard her singing, about her strange dream and the reflection that wasn’t hers. She tried to recall the lyrics, but she’d already forgotten them.

“It said I was a Tel'rahn,” she finished. “Just like Brackenburg, who had ‘Punished’ them somehow.”

Garax raised his eyes. “Brackenburg? The co-founder of Felhaven?”

“I’d assume so.”

“Interesting.” He hacked at a bush with his sword. “There are many stories about how Fel and Brackenburg slayed the monsters around the valley. You already know the one about Fel calling down lightning to kill Levine the Treeloc. There’s another one where Brackenburg summoned a flood of water to wash away a giant monster that slept at the base of the mountains. That was how the Brackenburg River was formed, though I wouldn’t expect you to know it.”

“Why not? Isn’t it an important part of the history of the Sleeping Twins?”

“It is,” Garax replied, “but few people know the story, and fewer still pass it on. Those types of stories started to die out after the Age of Magic. You’d hardly hear of people calling on the elements in this day and age.”

“But did magic really exist?” she pressed. “Even if it was a long time ago?”

“It did and it still does, though it’s known by a different name. They call it the Soulsong now, and only Songweavers can do it. Most of them work for the King, but some other people know bits and pieces of it, like the man that was with the troupers.”

“What about you?” Evaine asked. “Didn’t you call on fire to kill Graendal? Was that the Soulsong?”

Garax blinked. Then, he stopped and laughed.

“A classic example of how legends are formed,” he said, slamming the tip of his sword into the dirt with a chuckle. “Tell me, young Mistress. Have you ever been to a swamp?” He frowned at his own question, murmuring to himself. “No, of course you haven’t. What about a gas stove?” He frowned again. “No, people in Felhaven don’t use those…” Garax threw his hands up into the air and sighed.

“One time when it rained a lot, the area around the river became boggy like a swamp,” Evaine offered.

The storyteller shook his head. He scratched at his beard and then sighed.

“Certain types of gases are flammable,” he explained. “Normally, you’d find them in swamps or places where food or other organic material has had time to decompose. You can also find it in the digestive systems of most living things. That’s why, back there, the air smelled like manure. It was full of that gas.”

“So you ignited it?” she asked.

“I did.”

“I’m surprised you did it so quickly. Did you use a tinderbox?”

Garax shrugged. “I used two stones. It doesn’t take much; all you need is a spark.” He shuddered from the cold and pointed at the tree in front of him. “Can you do an old man a favour and climb that tree? Tell me if you see the main road or anything that might help us find our way. Hopefully we’re not too far off from Caerlon and the Royal Road.” He sat down and began ripping off pieces of his trouser leg, wrapping them around his feet. Evaine looked down at Garax’s shoes on her own feet. A pang of guilt ran through her.

She placed her hands against the bark of the tree and shimmied up it, using the furs as padding against her skin. She’d climbed trees more times than she could count back when she’d been ten or so, always reaching higher points than the other boys. She’d been as nimble as a squirrel back then, and whatever other animals were good at climbing trees. She could barely remember what wildlife had roamed the woods back then, during times when spring and summer were more than wishes on the wind.

She reached the top of the tree with great effort, gritting her teeth against the pain in her thighs and forearms. The treetop swayed beneath her, rocking back and forth under her weight. She poked her head through the snow-tipped needles and scanned her surroundings.

Green and white. Green and white all around, and in the distance a small rock structure that was the gorge they’d come from. The Brackenburg ran across it in a crooked line. She didn’t see any roads, any landmarks, any tell-tale signs of towns or villages that might be nearby.

Evaine slid her way back down the tree to where Garax was waiting. He had fashioned a pair of makeshift slippers to protect his feet and was wearing nothing else but a thin shirt and trousers ripped at the knees.

“Do you want your cloak back?” she asked, offering it to him.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been through worse.” He stood up and rolled his shoulders. “Well? Did you see anything?”

Evaine slumped her shoulders. “Nothing. Only the river behind us.”

Garax swore and knelt down. “Guess I’ll have to go off memory,” he said.

He picked up a stick and thrust it into the ground. Studying the shadow it cast across the snow, he looked at the sky and then drew a circle in the dirt around the stick, murmuring under his breath.

“We go this way,” he said, pointing into a patch of trees.

“How do you know that’s the right way?”

“I don’t. But it’s the best option we’ve got.” He stood up, hefting his sword in his hand. “Caerlon lies slightly north of the Brackenburg, and it’s a big place. I’m sure we’ll find it if we keep walking. As long as we reach the road, we shouldn’t have any problems. Roads are like rivers, anyway—they all lead to the city.”

#

By the time morning came, Bran’s fever was all but gone, the clouds in his head washed away like the storm. He could think clearly again.

Unfortunately, just as Rhinne had predicted, the medicine had no effect on Ein. Instead, while Bran readied the wagon and reassured Old Bess, Rhinne forced spoonfuls of water and honey down Ein’s throat.

“Tell your horse to start moving,” she said, settling down at the back of the wagon. Bess was looking uncertainly at Bran, flicking her tail back and forth.

“It’s okay,” he coaxed, petting the animal gently along its neck. “She’s a friend.”

Bess whinnied, but began to move. They took turns on the back of the wagon, one watching Ein while the other walked on the road. Bess always stiffened when it was Rhinne’s turn to walk, but she obeyed Bran’s commands. He’d never seen the mare like this before, not even when he’d taken her to Evaine’s farm following the massacre.

The road was long and dreary. Rhinne didn’t say much. Whenever she did open her mouth, it was to let Bran know that it was his turn to ride, or to pass her the waterskin. The rest of the journey was spent listening to Ein’s laboured breathing as the crows cawed on the winds above.

Bran’s curiosity burned like a penny in his pocket. Who exactly was Rhinne? There was a wild look about her, something fae about her edges. She wasn’t like Evaine, who always spoke her mind. She kept all her secrets inside her like a locked chest. She knew too much for her age.

They stopped at noon to eat. While Bess drank and snacked on some of their dwindling supplies, Bran wiped the sweat from Ein’s torso with a strip of cloth. Rhinne stood by the roadside, studying the ground.

“Do you mind me asking what business you have with the King?” Bran asked. It had taken a while for him to pluck up the courage to do so. Even now, his eyes were fixed on the blade by her waist, though he was sure she wasn’t so volatile as to kill him for asking a question.

“Why do you want to know?” she returned, though more out of curiosity than annoyance.

“I figure we’ll be on the road for a while,” Bran explained, “and there’s nothing else to do but count the amount of trees we’ve passed. Which is nearing three-hundred, by the way.”

“Do you think you’d be able to trust me more if you knew more about me?”

“I do,” he admitted.

Rhinne looked behind them at the way they’d come. “The King stole something from me, and I want it back. That’s all I’m willing to tell you.” She came to a halt in front of Bran. “I’d advise we get off the road, by the way. If we keep following it, we’ll run right into the bandits that ransacked that village.”

Bran blinked. “What?”

She pointed at the ground. Bran wasn’t learned in tracking like Ein was, but the mass of footsteps beneath him was so obvious that even a novice could have deduced that fact.

“We’re moving faster than they are,” Rhinne continued, “and if we keep going, we’ll probably run into them by nightfall. My advice is to follow the road from afar and hopefully overtake them. We’re a small group; the trees will cover us.”

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“How do you know it’s them?”

Rhinne frowned. “Can’t you smell it? The air reeks of their stench.”

Bran couldn’t say he could, but he nodded anyway. He was glad she was with them.

They took Bess and the wagon off the road, across the uneven grass to the stunted trees. Afternoon came and passed. Bran continued to turn Rhinne’s words through his head. Her claim at the High King having stolen from her only piqued his curiosity further.

Though Rhinne didn’t tell Bran anything more about herself, she started asking questions about him and Ein. What sort of place was Felhaven? How did each person earn their keep? What happened to people who didn’t? She seemed surprised that they’d remained in a state of peace for so long, having never suffered from bandit attacks or power struggles from within the community. Bran didn’t know how to answer that question. Felhaven had always been peaceful. The people just didn’t have it in them to commit crime.

“The place I came from was like that too, long ago” she said. “We lived in a secluded corner of the mountains, away from unwanted eyes. But that all changed when they found us.”

“Who?” Bran asked. It was the first time Rhinne had revealed anything about herself, and like a child cornering a stray cat, he was afraid to probe her too deeply.

“People, of course. Mankind will always conflict with each other. That’s simply how the world works.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he said. Rhinne’s eyes darted towards his, anger flashing for a brief moment. “If you want, I’ll take you to visit Felhaven sometime. You’ll see; not all people are like those bandits.”

“Maybe not on the surface,” she said, “but always on the inside. What happens when two men fall in love with the same woman? When disaster strikes a family and they can no longer carry their weight for the community? When a servant feels they aren’t being paid enough? Even with no external factors, it’s only a matter of time before something bad happens and the rules are broken. That’s why law and punishment exists.”

Well, something bad had happened, and it had taken the form of the Great Winter. No matter how much Bran refused to admit it, if winter continued for another year or two, Felhaven would crumble—though he remained persistent it wasn’t the fault of any individual.

But his home was far behind him now, and it would be a while before he returned.

Their conversation left them in a heavy mood, and silence settled over the wagon once more. Old Bess trundled onwards through the trees as the shadows engulfed them. Cold permeated through the air, settling along Bran’s face in the form of icy dewdrops. Rhinne remained barefoot, impervious to the temperature.

Then, as the last rays of light disappeared, she grabbed Bran’s arm and gestured for him to stop.

“They’re up ahead,” she said, pointing at the road in the distance. “We need to be careful.”

Bran squinted in the direction of her finger. He could make out the dim glow of fire and the sound of raucous laughter in the distance, and that was enough for him to believe her. Ein groaned as they rattled over a dip in the ground.

“Gag him,” Rhinne hissed. “Otherwise he’ll give us away.”

Bran complied and, whispering an apology, bound a strip of clothing across Ein’s mouth. Ein groaned again and was still.

They waded their way through the snowdrifts as quietly as they could, passing behind the trees whenever possible. They were shorter and more gnarled compared to those in the Sleeping Twins, a darker and broader cousin of the spruce he was familiar with. They cast black shadows across the group, their twisted roots forming a knotted floor beneath them, their whispering leaves masking the sound of their footsteps. Old Bess made no noise. She was an intelligent animal; she had never failed Bran, and she wasn’t about to do so now.

The bandits had set up camp off the side of the road, around a small circle of packed dirt. A bonfire crackled mirthfully in the centre, surrounded by tents made of stitched animal hide and crude wooden struts. Men and women laughed and sang by the fire, feasting on roast meat cooking over the spits, guzzling down mugs of wine. They wore patches and pieces, a smorgasbord of articles that were dizzying to the eye. Bran heard a sharp intake of breath beside him. Bess had taken a step away from Rhinne, who had her knife out.

“What are you doing?” he whispered. “Put that thing away!”

Rhinne unclenched her jaw and took another few steps around the camp. One of the bandits must have told a joke, as they all burst into laughter. It unsettled Bran. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Alend and Koth, Mistress Tamelyn, Mayor Walmsley and the rest of the Felhaveners around that fire—yet, these people were different. They had killed. The meat they ate and the wine they drank may as well have been flesh and blood, for they were no better than cannibals. Bran began to understand why Rhinne was so angry.

But Bran was a coward, and even if he felt the same, the thought of retribution didn’t cross his mind at all.

“I won’t let you run off and kill yourself,” he said, “not when you’re our best hope of survival. Think about it, Rhinne. There’s no way you can fight them all and win. Let’s keep moving.”

“I could have taken them on, once upon a time,” she murmured. Bran frowned, but she was already moving. The hand holding the knife made no attempt to sheathe it, however.

They’d scarcely taken three steps when Old Bess let out a frightened noise and stopped. The wagon lurched and Ein slammed loudly into one of its walls.

“Hellfire,” Rhinne swore, red hair blurring around her as she looked to the trees. Bran froze like a statue. Surely the bandits had heard them—they’d fallen deathly quiet. The only voice that spoke in the night was the crackling voice of the fire.

Then, a howl pierced the air. It was a howl that Bran had heard twice before, and it chilled his blood to ice. He looked at Rhinne and saw his terrified expression reflected in her eyes.

Old Bess whinnied, sharp and panic-laden, rearing back on her hind legs. Bran reached out a hand to calm her, but the mare tossed her head and threw her weight between two closely-packed trees, crashing the wagon into them. There was a loud crunch as it splintered. She raced off into the night, half of the vehicle still trailing behind her. The remaining half, no more than a large chunk of wood with a single wheel attached, clattered onto the ground with Ein on top of it. He groaned again.

Another chain of howls rang clear across the wood. The bandits were yelling now, arming themselves. The commotion Old Bess had caused had been completely ignored.

“Those aren’t wolves, are they?” Rhinne whispered. She sniffed the air. “They smell… wrong.”

“No, they’re not,” Bran affirmed. “They’re relicts. Worgals.”

“Worgals,” Rhinne breathed.

He bent down and heaved on the plank of wood with Ein on top of it. The lone wheel attached to it had caught on one of the roots and wasn’t moving. Bran swore and looked around for a stick, a rock, anything he could use to break it free, but found nothing. Then Rhinne was beside him, driving down hard with her dagger. It made a quiet thunk, wedging half-way through the axle. With a low grunt, she rammed her foot into it and broke it in half. The plank of wood fell to the ground, the wheel rolling away.

It quickly became apparent that they wouldn’t get far hauling Ein behind them, even with a makeshift sled to bear some of his weight.

“We can’t take him with us,” Rhinne said. “The best we can do is hide him.”

Bran grimaced, but he knew it was true. They dragged the plank with Ein atop it half-way into a bush and covered him with two branches. The bandits were screaming now, forming rudimentary ranks around the fire. They’d donned an assortment of armour and weapons—iron pot helmets, breastplates made from shingled metal held together by wire, crude clubs with nails hammered into them. Rhinne yanked on Bran’s arm, drawing him to one of the trees.

“Bran!” she said. “Do we run or hide?”

He briefly wondered why she was asking him. Then, he looked to the bush where they’d hidden Ein and made up his mind. He wasn’t going to run and leave him behind. There was no way he’d stoop that low. Bran began to climb.

The Worgals raced into the clearing shortly after he and Rhinne had reached a safe height in the foliage, hugging the trunk tightly, breathing laboured breaths. There were about ten of the wolf-men, far outnumbered by the bandits, but they charged with no inhibitions. No Celadons accompanied them, much to Bran’s relief. He didn’t know how sharp a Worgal’s sense of smell was, but from what he’d overheard back at the Sleeping Twinn, hiding would have been a fruitless endeavour against a Celadon.

The battle was clustered and chaotic, a tangle of flesh and fur and limb, of ringing steel and uneven growling and the roar of the bonfire. At first the bandits seemed to be winning, landing blows to the head and the heart, lopping off limbs. They laughed and jeered as they riddled the Worgals with holes, drenching the dirt with black blood. The battle was over, they declared.

But Bran knew better.

The bandits began to realize their predicament as the Worgals continued to swarm them, picking them off one by one with pack tactics. Cries of confusion rose through the air as the wolf-men fought on despite missing limbs, despite having steel pikes thrust through their skulls, despite spraying blood in the air with each movement. Bran longed to tell them to use fire, for that was what Ein had told him after Founder’s Eve—that he’d only defeated the relicts with the help of fire—but calling out would give them away, and he didn’t want to die.

So he watched as the bandits fell, one by one, overwhelmed in both body and spirit. What use was there fighting an enemy that wouldn’t fall?

When there were about five bandits left, their backs against the fire, the Worgals suddenly backed off. Two of them had fallen, impaled with so many wounds and missing so many limbs they were unable to move, but the other eight still looked fresh. Rhinne stiffened beside him, no doubt wondering the same thing he was. What were they doing?

Then it arrived. Another relict, but not a Worgal. A tall beast-man with a mane the colour of dried rust, a curved blade in one hand. It had the proud face of a lion, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a single pauldron on its left shoulder. There was an emblem of crescent moon and an eye upon it. It was the emblem of the Oathbreaker.

Bran’s knees began to quake. It was a Bloodmane, one of the creatures that had attacked Felhaven, the same species as the relict that had attacked the Tamelyn farm and destroyed Evaine’s home. Even by looking at it, he knew it was dangerous. It exuded deadliness, reeked of bloodlust and the smell of carnage. There wasn’t a single part of this creature that wasn’t made to kill. It was a creature that lived for war. What was it that Garax had said? A fully fed Bloodmane can match with some of the higher ranking generals in the King’s Legion. This one wasn’t fed, judging by its mane, but it still looked more than a match for a few paltry bandits.

If only Ein was in a condition to fight. He’d defeated one of them; maybe he could do it again. But Bran? Even if he had his bow, his fingers would be shaking too much from fear to do anything.

The bandits stared at the Bloodmane with a mixture of awe and apprehension. The Worgals had stepped back and were watching silently, their breaths ragged in the night, blood trickling down their bodies. They held their curved swords by their sides, waiting.

One of the bandits let out a hoarse cry and moved forward, swinging clumsily at the relict. The Bloodmane caught the club on its claws and sheathed its sword inside the man’s armpit. The blade emerged from his neck and he fell, dead before he hit the ground.

“Mmm.” The relict closed its eyes, inhaling deeply. Blood trickled along its blade, slick and scarlet. The rest of the bandits took a step back, looking between their fallen comrade and the lion-man in dismay. One of them dropped his rust-covered sword and made for the trees, screaming.

The Bloodmane was there in an instant, skirting around the fire like a dancer. It plunged its blade through a gap in the man’s armour, piercing through his spine, sending him screaming to the ground. It cut the lifeless man again, through the side this time, embedding its blade inside his body and leaving it there for several moments to soak. The other bandits looked on in horror as it fed, watching them with calm eyes. Then, governed by sheer instinct and terror, they rushed the creature as one.

It reared its head from its prey in one swift movement, catching the first club between its teeth. A scythe came at it next, passing through the gap between its elbow and waist. The Bloodmane clamped its hand around the blade and pulled its wielder forward. Blood sprouted from its fingers, but it didn’t flinch. With its free hand, it raised its blade from the ground and effortlessly flicked through the bandit’s wrist, following up with a deadly arc across his exposed neck.

The man whose club had been caught in its teeth released it and drew a knife, thrusting it deep into the Bloodmane’s chest. The last bandit, who had been watching the whole time let loose a roar and swung his axe at the relict’s shoulder with all his strength. It struck deep into the crook of its neck, almost taking its entire arm off.

The Bloodmane lurched to one side, throwing both men off balance. In one sudden movement, it slammed the pommel of its blade into the jaw of the first man and brought him to the ground. The bandit with the axe stumbled and tripped over his ally, falling on top of him in an unruly heap. Without missing a beat, the Bloodmane slammed its blade through the two bodies, shearing through iron and leather with a grating noise. A fountain of blood exploded and splattered the campsite, sizzling where it touched the bonfire.

The night was quiet as the bandit camp bled. The Worgals finally stirred, lumbering through the tents, pulling them apart with their claws and teeth. They took enough weapons and armour to replace their own and left everything else. The Bloodmane stayed next to the bonfire, dyeing its mane red. It made no attempt to eat its victims. It simply splashed their blood down its neck while its blade soaked in their bodies.

Once the Worgals had ransacked the place, they gathered around their two dead and ripped into them. Bran forced down the vomit at the back of his throat. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Rhinne was white-faced beside him.

They devoured their brethren in mere moments, stripped them down to the bone. Two of them had eaten less than the rest, so they turned to one of the dead bandits and continued to feast. All the while, the Bloodmane watched.

Once all the Worgals had fed, it sheathed its blade and strode off in the direction of the road. The Worgals followed, leaving behind bloody footsteps in their wake.

It was a long time before Bran felt steady enough to climb down the tree. Rhinne was waiting for him when he finally did, pulling apart the branches that had concealed Ein.

“So those were the relicts,” she said, watching the scene of carnage. “They’re just as bloodthirsty as the legends made them out to be. I can’t say the bandits didn’t deserve it though.”

“How could you say that?” Bran croaked. Just the thought of the half-eaten bodies made him feel sick. It was different to the sheep on Evaine’s farm. They’d only fought a single Bloodmane. They hadn’t been cannibalized. They’d only been killed.

These bandits, they’d been slaughtered by a full squad of relicts, by both Worgals and a Bloodmane, and they’d been eaten. Bran finally caved in, falling to the ground and hurling up what little left there was in his stomach.

“Those bandits had it coming,” Rhinne repeated, eyes smouldering. “They fed on that village, so the relicts fed on them. It was only nature taking its course.” She eyed Bran, as if daring him to challenge her. Bran wiped his mouth and stood up.

If anything positive came from that encounter, it was the food and supplies they took from the camp. Bran had never looted from a dead body before, but in the face of what he had just seen, it seemed a silly thing to hesitate over. He left the bandit pale and naked in the snow, donning his furs and leather armour, taking his bow and arrows for his own. Rhinne did the same beside him, and together they pilfered fresh blankets for Ein as well. They ate as much as they could that night, packed as much food as they could take, left the rest. Bran washed down the last of his medicine with his back to the scene lest he throw it all up again. Rhinne fashioned a basic harness with her knife, and they threaded it through the remains of the wagon to create a simple sled.

They took turns keeping watch that night, though Bran didn’t sleep at all and he suspected Rhinne didn’t either. They stayed as close to the bonfire as they could. There was no telling how many more relicts were out there; it was their only defence. When morning finally came, he felt like he’d been awake for an entire week rather than a single night.

They continued their journey before the sky had fully brightened, glad for any excuse to leave the area. Ein showed no signs of recovery as they hauled him along in his sled—in fact, he seemed to be in even worse a state than before, shivering and sweating, babbling under his breath. They found their way back onto the road, throwing caution to the wind. If they ran into relicts or bandits again, then so be it. It would be as the wind willed.

The trees continued to thin as they pressed onwards, until the surrounding countryside became a sprawling plain of frosted grass and dirt. Bran’s back and shoulders burned from dragging Ein behind him, but he fought on. If Rhinne could do it, then so could he. There was nothing for miles around except for the road stretching into the horizon in either direction. They were well into the Far Reaches now. The Brackenburg was gone, well behind them. The Sleeping Twins were gone.

Finally, as the invisible sun reached its peak behind the grey clouds, as the dreary daylight reached its brightest, he saw the tip of a rooftop in the distance, the curl of chimney smoke. Rhinne called out and they smiled at each other like children opening presents on Saint’s Day. The fatigue was gone in an instant, washed away by hope as square buildings emerged inch by inch from behind the horizon.

They’d made it to Caerlon. They’d reached civilisation.