Hurna's Hand

By GJ Kelly

Benmelo and Paj are alone in the Seventh wilds, recovering from their crossing of the Sixth Concentric. Their task? Find the Shadesmith sorcerer lurking somewhere in a mountain range, and destroy him. Where's the hardship?

With the three of Nerrenglade racing for the Barre Hills Turret in hopes of preventing the destruction of the fifth ring and all else besides, it's left to Benmelo, Master Hunter of Hurna's guild, to employ all the skills acquired in the mastery of his lore in order to fulfill this seemingly impossible quest.

Alas, nothing in the land of the Six Concentrics is ever what it seems, and finding the Shadesmith is but the first of many perilous steps on a path that leads to the Vargos Eyrie...

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Kelly
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370026111

GJ Kelly

GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

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Prologue

Surprise. Isn’t it what all hunters strive for when seeking their quarry, never mind masters of the hunter’s guild?

Surprise. Sneaking up on prey, and taking it without risk. And yes indeed, surprise was definitely the best way to deal with a wizard. Benmelo’s intuition, manifesting itself in the imaginary voice of his friend Kertis, had been quite right. You don’t bark about when it comes to doin’ a wizard. They got too many ways o’ doin’ you.

oOo

1. No Handy Signpost

It’s been three days, Ben, and not a sign.

Benmelo sighed, standing with his arms folded, gazing at the peaks of the Highbarre still rising tall and proud above the southern horizon, though far enough from them now not to have to worry about Griffelax or bloodbats attacking in the evenings. Not that Ben had seen any sign of those recently.

I’m only saying, Panjalgernon added hastily. And the hare is almost done. Another five minutes and it’ll be ready.

Behind him, the portly teacher from Stonehill Shade in the Fifth Concentric turned the roasting hare on its crude spit, fat dripping from the carcass and sizzling on the bed of embers in the shallow fire-pit beneath. Behind them both, and hissing over a bed of gravel, a broad and shallow stream meandered its way through a copse of silverbark trees, here in the northern wilderness beyond the Sixth Concentric.

Benmelo unfolded his arms, and fingered the knots on the string calendar in his pocket; September 14th, evening, and yes, Paj was quite right, three days since their former companions had departed, riding hard for the Barre Hills Turret.

Ow, pigginell! Panjalgernon gasped, and Ben turned to see the fat man sucking a wounded finger. Sorry. Just that these pignuts are piggin’ hot.

Ben snorted, allowing Hurna’s half-grip to slip away. What did you expect?

Paj shrugged, and gingerly lifted Trav Merryman’s ancient sword from where its blade had rested over the embers, pignuts balanced on top of the hot steel.

Didn’t think they’d be this hot, Paj mumbled, carefully tilting the sword and tipping the cooked pignuts into the sad wooden bowl which had once exclusively served to feed and water Bones the war-dog, but which these days generally saw service as a water bowl for the horse and mule grazing by the stream, and occasionally, as now, holding food for the two young men.

Hare’s ready Ben, sit and eat. You’ve been staring at those mountains ever since we made camp.

That’s where our quarry lurks, according to the Shreev.

Pfft, piggin’ Shreev. She’s so clever, how come she’s not here looking for the Shadesmith sorcerer herself? And how come she couldn’t tell us precisely where the bastard is?

Shreev, not a hunter, Ben sighed, crossed one foot over the other and sank gracefully to his blanket, sitting cross-legged. Or so she said to me.

She said a lot of things to me too, and all of ‘em a load of bollocks.

He continued staring at the mountains while Paj set about dividing the cooked meat onto two battered tin plates; plates which had spent weeks lurking in the darkness at the bottom of one of the bundles Mule had carried for many miles. Benmelo was certain he’d seen faded Glading markings stamped into the bottom of those plates when he’d taken his turn washing them in a brook, but had chosen not to embarrass Panjalgernon by asking how they’d been acquired, or indeed when and where. The former teacher was from the lawless fifth ring, after all.

Help yourself to the pignuts, Paj declared, passing Ben the plate, And watch out for small bones in the meat.

You’ve said that every time we’ve had a cooked meal out here.

And every time it’s been cooked hare, and every time there’s been small bones. D’you really still believe all the nuts and berries hereabouts have been poisoned?

I think it’s late in the season now for nuts and berries. And I only trust the pignuts because Ladyloon and Mule didn’t turn their noses up at them.

Paj sighed, and picked up his fork, stabbing one of the cooked roots and then gingerly biting into it.

Ooh! Ooh! Ih hoh! he gasped, waving a hand desperately in front of his mouth before conceding defeat and spitting the steaming morsel out onto his plate.

Yes, so you said when you burnt your fingers picking one up.

Nice and tender though, like the meat. D’you think Tharrin and the others are at the Turret yet?

No idea. It’s only a hundred and twenty miles or so east from where they left us, but we’ve no way of knowing what lies that way. Might be all sorts of obstacles in their path, or they might’ve run into Shades, or worse.

Aye. Worse, like them Urlakken. You really should be dead, y’know.

"Aye, like those Urlakken."

Pfft. Not a teacher any more, Ben, so I can piggin’ well speak the way I like. And that includes varkin swearing too, if I’m in the mood. Is the hare all right?

It’s good, Paj. Thank you.

It’s the wild herbs, and no, you needn’t look so worried. I only used the ones you examined before. I kept a stock of them. It’s wild thyme mostly though.

They continued eating, and in truth, after the horrors endured in their crossing of the Sixth Concentric and the poor diet they’d had to endure along the way, cooked food was still something of a novelty and still a luxury to be enjoyed, even so frugal a meal as this one might appear to casual observers. Not that they’d seen hide nor hair of any of those, either. Not since the gruesome and poignant discovery of fifty-six dead Caravellan nomads on the day they’d first arrived in the seventh wilds.

When the meal was done, Paj gathered the plates and bowl, and took them off to the stream to wash them, while Benmelo stood and stretched and gazed up into the evening sky. A waxing moon yet five days from full hung low in the southeast, stars beginning to peep through the blue-grey of a crisp, clear twilight. Seven o’clock, or thereabouts, the sun on the brink of setting. Days were becoming shorter, nights drawing in. And that had him thinking on the Shreev again, Tarla Sebateen, and her words to him in the dead trees of Sennenglade.

Here they were, Ben and Paj, precisely where the Shreev had intended them to be, north of the Highbarre mountains, beyond the sixth, hunting the Shadesmith sorcerer. Here they were, both of them bent upon putting an end to the horrors invading the Fifth Concentric, and silencing that evil mystic’s pounding upon the crumbling seal-stones of the inner rings. Here too, somewhere to the east, were the three of Nerrenglade, a trio so desperate to prevent the blighting of the fifth and thus most of the Glading forests along with it, that they’d crossed the sixth and put their lives in Ben’s hands in order to do so.

The master hunter adjusted his hat, and pondered events since the three of Nerrenglade had taken their leave of him. For the past three days, Ben’s course had meandered like the stream behind him, his eyes never still, his head swivelling, looking for signs on the ground and in the air, searching for anything which might provide a clue to the Shadesmith sorcerer’s whereabouts. And finding nothing.

He’s there all right. I’ve felt him... Oh I’ve sniffed ‘im and I’ve felt his power like the thrum of a harp’s low string fresh plucked. He’s out there, out there in the mountains o’ the Highbarre, somewhere, in the sixth or beyond it.

So had said the Shreev. But not a trace had Ben found in three days of scanning the ground and the skies above the mountains. What else had the Shreev said?

Protected, that one is, never comes to ground, no trail to be followed, and plenty of minions to watch for him.

Minions. Birds, most likely; birds used the way the Shreev had used her raven, Krokok, to watch the Vissinor in Nerrenglade. Or enslaved the way the Vissinor wizards had used birds as watchkeepers in Nerrenglade’s Lodgings. And that was why Ben had been scanning the sky with the same diligence as he’d scanned the land around him. But nothing had he found. Yet.

A clattering of plates told of Panjalgernon’s arrival back at the camp, and once the bowl and dishes had been safely packed away once more, Ben heard the rustling of paper.

I thought you said you’d given up teaching? Ben asked softly.

I have. Doesn’t mean I can’t add to all the blank spaces on my map. They might come in handy if we have to come back this way.

Come back? We haven’t left yet.

Aye well, I want to get the stream and the copse down as best I can before the last of the light goes. And all the other stuff we passed today.

All the grass, streams, hillocks and shrubs, you mean?

Aye, them. I don’t suppose we’ll meet any locals hereabouts with maps of their own I can copy.

No, that’s true.

It’s just such a shame none o’ them old wizards ever came this way in the olden days and made that map of yours a bit better.

They were probably only paid to chart the lands inside the sixth.

Or didn’t have the ballbags to finish the job.

Yes, that’s probably true too.

A silence followed, broken by sounds only Ben heard, and the scratching of Panjalgernon’s pencil. When the teacher’s efforts at cartography were done, and the light now a silver-grey wash of moonlight and starlight, the map was put away, and the big man sighed.

Want me to take the late watch? I know you like the daylight for studying the ground for signs and trails.

Thanks, Paj. It would help if I could rest my eyes.

Fair enough. Are you worried still? I thought you said we were beyond range of the Griff and such?

We are. And I’m not so much worried as I am concerned that I’ve overlooked something important.

About what? Apart from the diet, which I’m sure will eventually become a bit tedious for want of a change. We should’ve brought more food with us.

I don’t know what I’ve overlooked. If I knew, then it wouldn’t be overlooked, would it?

Sit down Ben. Mule and Ladyloon won’t settle until you do, and you know that loony horse of yours will want a song before bedtime.

Ben smiled, and flicked a glance over at the two animals. He still found it difficult to believe he’d managed to bring them safely across the sixth, never mind all the others too. But he acceded, and sat, hugging his knees and adjusting his floppy green hat again.

"So if it’s not bloodbats and Griffelax worrying you, what’s disturbing your calm so often? Did you think to find a handy signpost or something pointing at a certain peak yonder and saying this way to the Shadesmith sorcerer’s evil domain?"

"No, but I think I did expect to find signs of something hereabouts. Some kind of activity which might lend a clue to the bastard’s whereabouts. Otherwise the quest the Shreev sent us on would be as pointless as Misheera’s futile hope of finding another safe pass through the mountains."

Perhaps if you told me what you’re looking for, I might be able to help in some way? I’m still fat, but not entirely piggin’ useless, y’know.

I know. I’ve been looking for anything out of the ordinary, Paj. Spoor or scat which shouldn’t be found in such land as this. Birds behaving in a manner contrary to their nature, that kind of thing.

Contrary to their nature?

Aye, like songbirds or tree-dwellers flying back and forth to a distant summit.

Or mountain eagles living in a bush?

Ben shrugged. Not quite as unnatural or bizarre as that.

Why would that be important?

Ben blinked.

Trust me, Ben, it’s through such questions that former teachers o’ the fifth from a village that’s nought but a burnt stain eventually get to the bottom of things.

I suspect the Shadesmith sorcerer will use birds the way the Vissinor did, to watch for trouble. Birds acting out of character might suggest we’re within range of the sorcerer’s influence.

Ah. And if you also see such birds winging to the mountains where they have no business being, they might be carrying some kind of message?

Perhaps.

"I see. Now p’raps you’ll see my stupid questions aren’t always so stupid after all. Well then… how far d’you think such influence might extend?"

Eh?

Paj shrugged in the gloom. How near does the sorcerer need to be to be able to see through the bird’s eyes like the Vissinor did.

Ben frowned. I don’t know.

Only, the Shreev’s raven Krokok was in Nerrenglade and she was in Sennenglade. And that’s about a hundred and sixty miles as the raven flies. But she was quite powerful, and lit that fire without a wizard’s staff and all. And disappeared in a white mist.

She didn’t disappear. She just hid.

Paj sniffed. You don’t know that.

Benmelo shuffled on his blanket, the waxed cloth poncho beneath it bunching up a little.

I’m only saying, Ben, that if the Shadesmith sorcerer is as powerful as she was, then he might actually be sitting on the bones of his mystic arse over there in the Barre Hills Turret, and still be able to see us through birds’ eyes.

That’s not helping much, Paj.

I was just saying. Perhaps he couldn’t, anyway, not with all the mountains of the Highbarre in the way.

Good point.

And if he was, in the Turret I mean, the birds wouldn’t be flying up to the peaks or anything, so you’d need to look for ones flying east, not south.

True.

Besides, if he was so piggin’ powerful, why does he need the Carmbechs to send in his Shades and Urlakken?

I don’t know. Hunter, not a mystic.

Perhaps we should be looking for Carmbechs?

Why?

Paj shrugged, his bulk still considerable but noticeably diminished since leaving Nerrenglade back in August.

Don’t know, Ben. Ex-teacher, not a hunter. But I do know the sorcerer used the Carmbechs in the fifth to send in Shades and Urlakken. Maybe he has to do the same here. Maybe he needs the Carmbechs to gather all the ghosts of those poor people he poisoned to make his Shades? Like he would have done at home if people had eaten all those sloes or drank the poisoned wine made from the blackthorn grove?

Another good point.

Well, you’re the hunter, not me. I’m just the piggin’ bait. And I’m going to sleep, so wake me just after midnight.

I will.

Good night, Ben.

Good night, Paj.

The fat man settled, shuffling on his bedding and drawing his blanket tight. Then he suddenly announced:

Bit late to be thinking about all these things now, Ben. Now that we’re here.

I had a lot of other things on my mind out there in the sixth, Paj. And to be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d need to think about hunting the sorcerer at all, so I didn’t.

Oh. Piggin’ good point, and a sharp one at that. Night, Ben.

Night.

It was a good point. Getting two other men, two Gladings, four horses and a mule across the blight was something of a miraculous feat which Benmelo still felt really rather astonishing under the circumstances. That old wooden water bowl was a permanent reminder of the loss of Bones the war-dog too, and a mute testament to the perils they’d all of them faced together. Small wonder then that a Master Hunter of Hurna’s guild had elected to concentrate on the crossing, and chosen to worry about the business of hunting sorcerers once they were back on safe ground again.

A snort from behind announced the arrival of Ladyloon, and a sudden nudge in the back of his head sent his hat tumbling into his lap, and her whiskers brushing his right ear reminded him that he owed her a melody or two for her day’s work. With a quiet sigh, and a broad smile for the dopy-faced mare, he stood, took himself away from the camp a short distance, and began humming quietly, so Panjalgernon’s sleep wouldn’t be disturbed. The horse was more than simply a Hurna’s friend now, and Ben understood that. They’d travelled a long way together from their first meeting outside Garns Ham.

But now they were here, and Ben had been hunting in earnest, and so far, no trace had been found of the Shadesmith sorcerer who was their quarry.

Protected, that one is, never comes to ground, no trail to be followed, and plenty of minions to watch for him.

The Shreev’s words again, haunting him, goading him, challenging him. Everything left traces, no matter how nebulous they might be. Draw close enough to a recluse, and though you may find no footprints or other spoor to lead the way to the fellow’s retreat, a sensitive nose will serve to point you in the right direction.

Benmelo was a master hunter. The green-handled blade hanging at his right hip bore mute testament to the fact, and his proud lineage was indelibly etched into its steel. It was time for him to exercise all of his skills, and thanks to his conversation with Panjalgernon, more than a few ideas had taken root and were sprouting in the fertile field of his imagination.

They were here to hunt and to destroy the Shadesmith sorcerer, and that was what they would do.

You know, I think if I were him, I would start running now.

Tharrin Callardson’s words, recalled to mind as if borne on the night breezes fading slowly around him. Time, though, was fickle. Time and the season had been their ally while crossing the Sixth Concentric, storms and rains holding off just long enough to see them all safely into the seventh wilds. But time, like a tide, was turning against them now. Autumn was here, winter’s heralds blowing stronger each day.

In the east, Misheera, Vareen, and Tharrin Callardson strove now to find proof that no half-dead half-slave army existed here, and that no such force was preparing a mass attack against the hub. Unless they could send word to Nerrenglade that all in the seventh was well, and get that word to the Vissinor before winter’s first snows fell in the pass at the Vargos Eyrie, the fifth ring, and half of the fourth, was doomed.

And here, unless Ben and Paj could find the Shadesmith sorcerer and destroy him, the fifth would suffer more mystic assaults from Shades and Urlakken, and likely too the inner rings when all the ancient seal-stones finally crumbled. And hunting in the bleak Highbarre mountains in bleakest midwinter was beyond the pale even for a master of Hurna’s guild.

oOo

2. Good Point

I can’t help noticing, Ben, Paj announced the following morning while trudging alongside an infinitely patient Mule, That you’re making a bee-line straight for those hills.

I am, and well-spotted.

The one in the middle of them is quite tall and pointy.

Yes.

May I ask why?

Why is it tall and pointy?

Oh teehee titter. You know what I meant.

Ben shrugged, and Paj stopped.

Oh come on Ben, we’ve been going practically due north ever since we broke camp, and quickly too. You must have some kind of hunter’s reason for wanting to go that way more than in any other direction.

It was true; he’d been leading them directly towards those hills ever since he’d spotted them on the northern horizon almost an hour after dawn while they’d been ambling generally eastwards. He’d slowly arced around to the north, and then upped the pace, and at the speed they were travelling, they’d be there by mid morning. It was why they were walking, to rest Ladyloon and Mule after their earlier exertions.

The land here was fresh and welcoming, all green grass and undulating plains, dotted here and there with lush shrubs and stands of trees, water plentiful. No wonder the Caravellan chose to remain outside the rings, free to roam such a benevolent wilderness as Ben noted all around them. No wonder some master hunters crossed the sixth a third time, to seek out a domain here, far from the crowds and the noise and bustle of places like Gallows Cross and the Turretons.

Well? Paj pressed.

Sorry, Ben replied, and they set off again at a measured pace. I want high ground, so I can survey our surroundings. It’ll be handy for a certain map-maker too, I shouldn’t wonder.

Me? I’m content to mark a few scratches showing where we’ve been. Don’t intend to make an occupation of it, ta muchly. Got a sorcerer’s head to shove up a Shreev’s arse, if you hadn’t forgotten.

No, I hadn’t.

Paj sniffed. No, me neither. Nor the pie she’s going to make me. And then I’m going to breed big dogs. Great big dogs with great big teeth. Anyway, you could’ve done that back at the hills where we first arrived.

Breed dogs?

Surveyed our surroundings from high ground.

That place was poisoned, Paj. I couldn’t take the risk of Ladyloon or Mule eating something foul there. I couldn’t even trust the water there.

Aye, we could see you were upset. But I think you worried a bit too much, like I did about Mule being able to carry me.

Oh really?

Yes. You were upset. But you said the horrible things that happened there, happened last year. That’s twelve months ago. I know I’m not a mystic, but I can’t imagine there’s enough poison in the world to taint every bush and tree between here and wherever the sorcerer is. He probably knew the Caravellan would stop there. They probably stopped there every year. I’ve read that nomads can be almost regimented when it comes to their travelling.

Regimented?

Aye, means regular, controlled, got fixed routines and habits and adhere to them quite strictly. That poor tribe we saw probably travelled the exact same route at the exact same time every year of their lives, and that’s how the bastard Shadesmith was able to set a trap for them.

Ben frowned. As a hunter might set a trap for deer or boar on a well-trodden path leading to a watering hole.

Aye. Assuming of course the sorcerer knew the tribe’s routines.

He would have needed to observe them well for a long period of time. Years. Or got the information from one who knew them well.

Oh. Got it from a prisoner, you mean? Poor fellow. Oh… Oh.

Say it, Paj. It’s probably what I’m thinking anyway.

I was thinking of that other master hunter you killed, down near Sennenglade. The one who murdered Trav Merryman and the other two crystal hunters o’ the blue. Hawgan.

So was I.

D’you think it was him who left all those Griffelax skulls back at Marratham? D’you think it was him who betrayed the Caravellan?

I honestly don’t know, Paj. But it might explain a lot.

Well, it makes sense to me, though I’m only a fat ex third teacher o’ the fifth filled with nothing but book-learned chud.

Did you memorise every word the Shreev said to you?

Panjalgernon sniffed. Don’t know what you mean.

"The only time I’ve ever heard anyone say book-learned chud was in the dead trees of Sennenglade. Until now."

I hate that bloody Shreev, Paj conceded. But don’t change the subject.

I didn’t.

Bloody did. We were talking about Hawgan and how it makes sense to me that it was him who set out the Griffelax skulls as a warning to other hunters of your guild not to come here. And how it makes sense that he might’ve travelled with the Caravellan, or watched them, and learned their ways, and then betrayed them to the sorcerer. And then you changed the subject by going on about the Shreev, and you know how much I bloody hate her.

Paj?

Wot.

Are you nervous about something?

Why d’you ask? Aren’t I allowed to babble on like an excited child without being nervous about something?

Master hunter, remember? Spotting patterns in nature is one of the things I do.

Well if you must know, then yes, I don’t like the look of that pointy hill.

Why?

It’s too pointy. Look at it. Looks almost like a perfect triangle from this distance. Like the side of a pyramid or something.

A pyramid?

Bunch of triangles leaning together, and Paj stopped to prop his quarterstaff on his shoulder, templed his fingers to demonstrate, and then continued walking again. Apparently there was a golden one made on top of the old Emperor’s Palace in the Forbidden Centre yonks ago. Don’t know if it’s still there now or not. Probably not. Daft if you ask me, building a pyramid on the roof of a palace. But anyway, before you accuse me of babbling again, back to that pointy hill. Look at it. It’s not natural. It’s probably bad luck to go there.

Like it was bad luck to go near a Carmbech?

Just like that, yes, and a good point sharpened, Paj declared, and fished out the crystal to peer through it at their surroundings.

In truth, there was something rather too perfect about the distant hill. It was as Panjalgernon had said, almost a perfect cone seen from their vantage still some miles away, while the smaller hills about it were lumpy and smooth, with the kind of misshapen profiles to be expected of nature’s sculpting.

But, Ben knew, distance softens imperfections and the conical hill might be all lumps and bumps when seen closer to, and the triangular profile only to be seen from due south. Nature could indeed be strange, and so too could ex third teachers o’ the fifth.

Come on, Paj. Let’s ride on. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll find out about this bad luck of yours.

Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if we get there and find the hills full of Bay’ah monsters.

Ben allowed himself a smile, and then waited for Ladyloon to draw alongside before leaping up onto her back and settling, humming softly. He adjusted his walking-pole, tied to the bottom of his backpack, shifted the bow at his hip, and once Panjalgernon had climbed up into Mule’s saddle, they set off at a gentle trot, travelling rather more slowly than they had earlier that morning.

The hill remained distinctly and unnaturally conical even from a mile away, and the gap between it and the surrounding hillocks was larger than either of them had imagined when first the cluster had been sighted. Behind him and to his left, Ben could hear his friend shuffling in Mule’s saddle, leather creaking, fabric rustling. There was a vaguely unnatural air about the place, and Paj was becoming anxious.

We’ll dismount and walk the rest of the way, Ben declared, his voice flat in Hurna’s half-grip, and he slid from Ladyloon’s back nimbly and gracefully. If we do have to flee, then horse and mule will be slightly fresher for the rest from our weight.

Paj grunted by way of reply, and then with some kind words of thanks for Mule and a pat on the animal’s neck, drew his quarterstaff from its straps on the saddle and walked forwards to plod rather unenthusiastically beside Benmelo. After fifty yards or so, the big man spoke.

Looks like that thing was made and dumped right in the gap between those other hills. Deliberately.

Ben looked up from his scanning of the ground before them, and glanced at his friend.

Why in the rings would anyone deliberately make a hill? In the middle of other hills that are already there?

Why are you asking me? Paj squeaked in protest.

Master hunter, not an ex third teacher o’ the fifth.

"Third teacher, Ben. Third, not second or first. How’m I supposed to know what might possess a bunch o’ piggin’ nomads to stop their wandering and make a piggin’ great pointy hill like that? I’ll tell you one thing though."

Ben waited, and when Panjalgernon didn’t continue, asked the inevitable question.

What?

There’s probably a bloody great hole hidden behind that lot. Or those other hills were a lot taller before the loonies made that pointy one. That much dirt must’ve come from somewhere. And another thing, imagine how many people it would take to shovel that much soil and build a mound that high. Is it actually flat on the top now we’re closer to it, or it is my eyes?

Yes, it looks like it.

Looks like it’s my eyes or looks like it’s flat on top?

Flat on top.

Mad buggers.

Ben continued walking, eyeing the birdlife, listening to the sounds around them.

Honestly, it must’ve taken hundreds of people tens of years to make that. Or thousands of people just one year. But thousands of people would need somewhere to live, and food, and water, and would leave another hill of mess behind. Perhaps one of those lumpy hills is all the mess they left, now covered over with dirt and grass. But where would they go, all those people? And why would they make a pointy hill right here, in the middle of nowhere?

Paj?

Ben?

Peace. You’re making Mule nervous again. Keep that Shadebow handy too, just in case.

Oh piggin’ good point. Shadebow, yes, that’s what Tharrin Callardson called it. I wonder if that’s what its proper historical name was, or if he just made it up on account of it being a lot smaller than his proper crossbow…

Paj.

Aye. Sorry Ben.

On they walked, Ben’s senses alert, but Ladyloon and Mule apparently unconcerned and the mare occasionally pausing to rip the head off a wildflower along the way. At least they knew that those hadn’t been poisoned by a sorcerer.

It is a curious trick of perspective, perhaps, which makes distant objects appear much larger than they actually are when seen closer up, and the hills in this case were no exception. True, from afar, the conical pyramid had seemed immense, and in truth its size was still impressive from two hundred yards away, but its reality was considerably smaller than they’d thought.

It stood perhaps a hundred and thirty feet high, and its base was circular, close to two hundred yards in diameter, or so Ben judged from about the same distance away from it. Faint ripples could be seen in the grass-covered slopes, soil creep acting slowly over the centuries, and shrubs dotted the lower slopes. Ravens soared in the sky, crows flapped hither and yon, and a flock of pigeons made a wide circle around one of the lesser, misshapen hills away to the east.

Nothing nasty in the crystal, Ben, Paj whispered, gazing at the structure in obvious awe and no little dread.

It’s just a hill, Paj.

Aye and a Carmbech’s just a bunch of stones.

That’s true too. And the hill’s too far away for the crystal device to see anything up there.

Ballbag.

There’s trees beyond the hills. A lot of them, too.

How can you tell?

Benmelo nodded up at the birds, Hurna’s half-grip already beginning to squeeze. He set off walking again, altering their course and heading for the tree-topped hillock to the west of the man-made mound.

Perhaps the birds came from those trees up there?

No, those up there are silverbarks, and the birds are too large for nesting in such slender trees. Besides, I can smell pine, I think, and water, and there’s a lot more birds than there should be for the size of the copses on the hills here.

Well I’m glad we’re not going up Pointy Hill. The slopes are too steep for Mule and Ladyloon and I wouldn’t fancy slipping and rolling all the way down that. And that’s assuming I could get up the piggin’ thing in the first place.

At the foot of the gentler slope of the western hill, Ben paused again, eyeing the copse and tilting his head back a little to smell the breezes and the scents they bore. Panjalgernon left him in peace, even though the big man was becoming anxious; the proximity of the conical hill away to their right was worrying enough, but seeing Benmelo become the stone-faced master hunter again suggested a real threat might be rather more imminent than any superstition concerning ancient monuments and bad luck.

But then Benmelo started humming softly, and led the way, Panjalgernon and the animals following up the slope towards the copse at the lumpy summit. The hill was perhaps only eighty feet high, but they took the climb slowly and cautiously, and quietly too. At the tree line, Ben paused, sniffed the air again, and then turned to face the distant mountains in the south.

The vista was all verdant plains and rolling, undulating ground clear to the foot of the mountain range. East and west, more of the same, with distant woodlands thriving, silvery ribbons of streams and shallow rivers criss-crossing a rich, green and pleasant land. He drew a deep breath slowly through his nose, and let the beauty of it all seep into his senses.

Then he turned, and without a word, led the way through the copse, a very nervous Panjalgernon following close behind.

It’s not the sixth, Paj, Ben whispered. There’s no spongeweed or needlebush here.

Aye, sorry…

And behind him, Paj slowed, and the gap between them widened. Ahead, Ben knew from his senses, were a great many trees. Big trees, most likely, and mixed trees at that. A little over thirty yards through the copse, and they stepped out of the northern tree line into bright sunshine.

Ooh by the Barre! Paj gasped. Oh Ben I said that piggin’ ’ill was bad luck! Look!

I can see it, Paj, I have eyes.

Oh don’t let’s go down there, Ben! and Panjalgernon raised the crystal to peer around at their mounts and at Ben, looking for Shades.

Below them lay a grand valley, filled with trees, through the centre of which flowed a river, the watercourse fed by a deep yet narrow lake whose own multiple sources spilled out from the hills arcing around the southern end of that valley, the end where stood the two men looking down in wonder. It appeared to Ben as though some ancient giant armed with a trowel had scraped a vast gouge in the land, leaving behind a long trench which became progressively shallower towards the flatter, lower plains to the north.

But instinct, and perhaps experience of seeing the marks left in soft soil by an arrow or a stone from his sling, told him that it was far more likely that in ancient times some vast rock had left the signs of its demise here. A falling star, perhaps, skimming in low from the north, and coming to rest, throwing up the hills before it, and leaving the gouge of its journey behind. Time and nature had done the rest.

And men, too. For the Pointy Hill so named by Panjalgernon had been made to close the gap which had once existed in the middle of the arc of hills thrown up by that ancient cataclysm, and deliberately so. Whatever else its purpose might have been, Pointy Hill served to block the view of the basin, its lake, and its forest, from anyone passing to the south between here and the Highbarre range. It might also serve to obscure sight of the valley from higher up on the mountains themselves.

The reason for that might well also have been the reason for Panjalgernon’s exclamation; down there, close to the river and on its eastern bank, stood a circular clearing in the trees, and in the clearing, a familiar ring of standing stones girdling a trilithon. A Carmbech.

You’re going down there, aren’t you?

We’re going down there, Paj.

The big man sighed. I piggin’ knew you would. What do you expect to find down there? Shades?

Perhaps. Or worse.

Oh piggin’ wonderful that is. Don’t forget this time there’s no Misheera to bung flaming rocks at any Urlakken we might find lurking down there!

No, but there is a map-making soon-to-be dog-breeder ex third teacher o’ the fifth with a Shadebow to twang his iron bolts at anything we might find.

You’re mad as the loonies who made Pointy Hill.

Be sure to mark it on your map, Paj. A lot of people must’ve gone to a lot of effort to build it.

Aye, thousands of years ago, like them as built the bloody Carmbechs. Mad, the lot of ‘em. Mad and bloody dangerous too. What d’you expect to find down there?

I honestly don’t know. Perhaps signs of recent activity, a clue, some hint that we’re nearer to the Shadesmith sorcerer.

Panjalgernon’s eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. You expected to find something here didn’t you! That’s why we came all this way.

Yes. I thought we might, as soon as I saw the hill.

Pointy Hill?

Yes. It seemed entirely out of place alongside these others. And I think the only way we’re going to be able to find the Shadesmith, is to look for things that are out of place. Besides, it was really you who gave me a nudge in this direction.

Me? Paj squeaked in sudden alarm. What’ve I got to do with it?

Last night you said maybe the sorcerer needs the Carmbechs to gather all the ghosts of those poor people he poisoned to make his Shades.

Oh pigginell I did, too.

Well, there was a Carmbech close to where the Urlakken poisoned the blackthorn grove back near the Cascades and the hills in the fifth ring north. It made me wonder if there’d be one near to where those poor Caravellan were poisoned. There it is.

Paj sighed, and rolled his shoulders. Piggin’ ballbags. That bloody Shreev really doesn’t know what’s coming to her when we get back home.

oOo

3. And Another Point

The slope down the hill on its northern side was a lot steeper than the way up had been, and though Mule and Ladyloon had no trouble, Panjalgernon lost his footing from time to time and relied heavily on his quarterstaff. Benmelo too had his walking-pole strapped to his wrist and made good use of it, as well as using saplings and sturdier trees growing on the north side of the rim to slow the descent and provide occasional support. But still, as dramatic as that descent might’ve seemed to Panjalgernon, they made level ground close to the lakeside, and with nothing more substantial than pride being injured.

That’s piggin’ deep, Ben, look how dark it is in the middle.

Why are you whispering?

Paj shrugged. It seems to want me to.

And you called me mad.

Oh, Ladyloon’s drinking from it! And now Mule is too!

It’s just water, Paj, and the fact that our Hurna’s friends are drinking proves it’s good, clean and safe. How’s our water skins?

Filled ‘em last night from the stream while you were sleeping.

Good. No point hanging around here then.

D’you think there’s fish in there?

Ben shrugged. We’re not staying to find out. Got a Carmbech to look at, remember?

Ballbags. I wasn’t trying to delay us, y’know.

Really?

Well all right I was, but I haven’t had fish in ages. Not unless there really was fish in that Glading farsbrod stuff.

But Ben was already walking around the arc of the lake towards the mouth from which the river spilled out, eyeing the way ahead and looking for a safe crossing to the eastern side. Behind him, he heard Panjalgernon’s heavy step and quarterstaff on the soft and gravelly bank, and behind Paj, the two mounts following slowly and enjoying the new sights, sounds and scents to be found here.

But for the Carmbech and its associations with the Shadesmith sorcerer, this place would make for a fine hunter’s domain. Already Ben had noted the spoor of badger, fox, and deer, though perhaps not sufficient of the latter to sustain a family of timber wolves.

He suddenly found himself wondering about Hawgan, and whether or not that master hunter once perhaps of Mallowbridge had passed this way, or possibly even dwelled here for a time. Such a place as this would make a fine refuge for a solitary fellow fleeing the noisy world in the rings.

Nothing so far, Ben, Paj offered quietly, crystal in one hand, staff in the other. You’d think if there were Shades set to guard this place, they’d have come out after us by now.

They’re not like dogs, y’know. Perhaps they’ll wait until we approach close enough to the stones before putting in an appearance.

The first one we met didn’t.

True.

They kept walking, and Benmelo found his fingers unconsciously feeling the arrows in his quiver, noting again the differences between the shafts of those tipped with iron bodkin points, and those fitted with steel broad-heads. He still found himself annoyed from time to time that Panjalgernon’s anxieties could transmit themselves to him. He was a master hunter after all, fourteen years apprenticed, trained to observe and to adapt and to deal with whatever circumstances arose around him. And nothing around him was threatening.

Indeed, everything around him felt precisely as it should, the woodland rich and alive, thriving, full of the noises he expected to hear, and filled with all the scents he expected to detect on the breezes and in the air around him. Truly, he thought, had it not been for the dread association of the Carmbech with Shades and sorcerers, such tranquillity as this would be a welcome wonder given their recent travails in crossing the Sixth Concentric.

But every step along the west bank of the river saw Panjalgernon becoming increasingly anxious, and using the crystal more and more frequently. At a spot where the river narrowed, Benmelo elected to cross. It would, he hoped, take his friend’s mind off threats which hadn’t materialised yet.

Keep an eye on Mule, Paj. The flow’s not too deep but it is quite swift here.

Aye Ben. Looks to be a wee bit deeper than at the Cascades, and that was all flat rock. But yes, it’s gravelly and rocky, and I wouldn’t want the poor old chap to be lamed or anything.

Watch your own footing too, for that matter. I won’t be the one carrying you if you turn an ankle.

Ta muchly I’m sure!

C’mon then, Loony-girl, Ben clucked his tongue and started humming, and the mare stepped forward, eyed the water, blinked, and without further hesitation, stepped into the freezing water behind the hunter’s right shoulder.

Shin-deep, cold, rocky under foot, but narrow; they were out the other side in next to no time, and only a few splashes marking trousers above the top of their boots to show for the risk. The smile evinced by the trifling victory over nature soon faded from Panjalgernon’s face, however, and the crystal was raised to his eyes in moments.

Nothing, he declared, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Onward then, north along the eastern riverbank some considerable distance before Ben turned into the trees, weaving around brambles and bushes and picking his way through the undergrowth with care. Still he saw no signs of any recent disturbance by anything other than the woodland creatures dwelling here.

Gloomy, Paj whispered.

Ben gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, but said nothing. Autumn’s leaf-fall hadn’t yet begun in earnest here in the curious valley, though the leaves were turning in the mixed forest around them. It was barely mid-morning, around nine o’clock or so Ben judged from the shadows cast by a pallid sun still climbing low in the southeast. But then the way ahead brightened, and the broadly circular glade with the Carmbech at its centre could be glimpsed through gaps in the trees.

Still nothing, Paj whispered, as if reading Benmelo’s mind concerning mystic watchmen.

At the tree line they paused, gazing with profound suspicion at the ring of stones, and just as the hills themselves had seemed high and daunting from afar, seen close up the Carmbech was quite small, perhaps only sixty feet in diameter. It was the trilithon girdled by the standing stones which held their attention, poised ominously as it was slightly off-centre in the southern half of the circle.

Nothing, Panjalgernon confirmed again, and the relief in his voice was plain to hear.

I’ve seen no traces of anything out of the ordinary either.

What were you hoping for?

I don’t know. Footprints, perhaps. Signs that Urlakken might have strolled around here. I don’t know.

What shall we do?

Ben shrugged. I want a good look around, in the middle as well as in the trees around the glade. There might be something on the other side.

And if there’s nothing?

Then we’ll make something happen.

How?

I’ll think of something. Come on, Paj. We’ll walk straight across to the other side of the glade, through the middle of that thing. Keep the crystal handy, though, and if you see a Shade, don’t panic. Remember you’re wearing blue armour too, and they can’t get a hold of you through that. Plenty of time to stab the bastards.

Aye, good point I suppose. If I do see one though, can’t promise I won’t run screaming and leave a trail behind me a blind man could follow.

You’re a lot braver than you think, or you wouldn’t be here.

And with that, Benmelo stepped out through the trees, and strode across the grass towards the Carmbech. White quartz gravel crunched beneath his boots when he crossed one of two inlaid paths girdling the ancient monument, the same kind of white quartz they’d found forming the paths at the Carmbechs in the fifth. It seemed clear that the makers of this place likely made the others, or shared some common mysticism.

Glading-made, so it was said. The paths were channels cut into the soil and filled with white quartz pebbles, though for what purpose, not even the Gladings of today knew. Or if they did know, neither Misheera nor Vareen had said. Ladyloon’s hooves crunched across the path, and she uttered a quiet nicker of delight before turning and deliberately walking in the middle of the white gravel way, intent, it seemed, to follow the endless route and circumnavigate the monument. Her head bobbed with satisfaction each time a hoof scrunched into the pebbles.

She’s still a loony, Paj sighed. Look at her, she’ll probably walk all the way around, not a care in the world.

"It’s a good sign, Paj. It means she doesn’t have a care in the world save for the sounds she’s making. If there were anything nasty here, she and Mule would’ve told us by now, one way or the other."

Then I hope Mule and the Loon won’t be offended if I keep looking through the crystal, ‘cos I don’t speak their language like you do.

Across the second of the broad paths girdling the Carmbech, Ladyloon still happily bobbing her head and traipsing around the first, and then they were passing between two of the tall monoliths. No brigands here waiting to commit robbery and murder. No Shade-infected bandits filled with evil intent lurking. Just short grass, wild flowers, a few weeds, and the lichen staining the upright stones with blotches of dirty white and yellow.

It looks like a kind of gate, doesn’t it? Panjalgernon whispered, staring up at the lintel forming the top of the trilithon. How did they ever get such a huge stone up there?

Ben shrugged. It did look like a kind of gate or doorway, the two mighty uprights and the lintel atop them, and the gap in the middle of the frame large enough for Ladyloon to walk through. The mare, though, was still happily scrunching around that first path, and Benmelo imagined a melody or a song drifting through her equine mind in time with her hooves.

Bring Mule over to the trees, Paj. Then if you’re all right to rest for a while alone, I’ll scout around. I won’t go far, just around the trees circling the glade.

All right, Ben. I’m not totally girlish, y’know, I can be left on my own without pooping my pants at every rustling leaf or wind in the branches.

Keep the Shadebow handy.

Bloody right I shall.

Benmelo weaved his way in and out of the standing stones around the full circumference of the Carmbech, and found nothing. Then he jogged silently into the trees on the eastern side of the glade and began his slow and methodical circumnavigation of the entire clearing. Nothing. He found nothing out of place, no spoor or traces of any kind which should not be there, and all the signs that he knew should be there. If anyone had passed this way at all since the Carmbech and the curious conical hill had been made, no sign remained of their passing at all. It was something of a relief, of course, but also curious, and strangely frustrating.

Something of that frustration must have been evident in the set of his features when he returned to his friend, for Panjalgernon shook his head and asked:

Nothing then?

Nothing.

Nothing here either, except Loony finished going ‘round the outside path and is now going ‘round the inside one. Makes you wonder what she can hear that we can’t. Did you know, Ben, if you rub two bits of quartz together in the dark, it makes tiny bits of sparkling lightning?

Eyeing first the mare on her circular journey and then the stones of the Carmbech, Ben replied, his voice deadpan and a little distant.

I’d heard something of the kind at Martha’s Tavern. Kertis didn’t believe it, until Chas Cherryman went home and came back with two rocks, and everyone crammed into the storeroom to watch him banging them together. Kertis said it was just sparks, like firestone on steel.

Don’t hate me for asking this, but… Well, what’re we going to do now?

It was a perfectly reasonable question, and one which Benmelo had asked himself over and over on the way back from his fruitless scouting. Carmbechs were important to the Shadesmith sorcerer, he knew that. He’d seen that back in the fifth ring, when Shades and an Urlakken had been sent through one. Perhaps they were important to the Gladings once, he didn’t know and in truth, didn’t much care. What mattered now, here, here in the now of the seventh wilderness, the Carmbechs were important to the Shadesmith sorcerer, his quarry.

I’ve a mind to make something happen, Paj, he declared, his voice still flat, eyes still fixed upon the trilithon.

What kind of thing?

Something to draw the sorcerer’s attention. Something to make him sit up and take notice, and maybe to begin hunting us. At least if something is hunting us, it’ll leave a trail we can follow back to its lair.

Benmelo nodded to himself, remembering the wildcat which had raked his back and left the faded scars his flesh still bore. That animal, driven insane by the pain of its own wounds, might have lingered and suffered for days until provoked out of the rabbit-hole into which it had forced itself, hiding from the world. Now it was time to provoke the Shadesmith sorcerer, hopefully into putting in an appearance.

Let’s fetch wood, Paj. We’ll stack it all around one leg of that gate and then set it ablaze. Who knows, the heat might crack the gatepost, and bring the lintel crashing down.

Ben! You can’t do that! This place is some kind of Glading mystic thing!

Are you a Glading?

No of course not, but…

But nothing, Paj. We don’t know where the Shadesmith is. Maybe you were right, maybe that’s a gate or a doorway, and if so, then we’re about to knock on it and announce ourselves. If we can’t find him, then we’ll make him come and find us.

And with Panjalgernon gazing at the Carmbech with dread, and Ladyloon still happily crunching her way around the white quartz path, Benmelo stepped further back into the trees to fetch wood for burning.

It was an hour past noon by the time they paused to rest and admire their handiwork. One leg of the trilithon was now cocooned in carefully-stacked wood to a height of about four feet, some of the fallen boughs quite substantial. It would, they knew, make for an impressive blaze once all the dry leaves stuffed into the pyre were sparked into flame.

They ate, each munching on a slice of carefully-hoarded farsbrod left over from the supplies gifted by the Gladings during the crossing of the blight, and there was still an emergency supply of kaylen-oats in the bundles on Mule’s back for the mounts should a need arise. Food wasn’t yet an urgent worry, and water was plentiful hereabouts. Still, they would continue to eke out the farsbrod for as long as they could, though preferring by far a decent meal of cooked hare when Ben could provide it.

Getting cloudy, Paj muttered. Might rain?

Might do, Ben agreed with a shrug, brushing crumbs off his tunic with dirty hands.

When that lot goes up, the glow’ll be seen for miles, if we weren’t surrounded on three sides down here.

I’m hoping it’ll be felt rather than seen.

Felt how?

Again, Benmelo shrugged. Mystically, perhaps. You remember the Shreev said the seal-stone atop the hill overlooking your home was broken inside?

Aye. Crazed, she said.

Well that’s just a bunch of stones too. Maybe the fire will make the leg o’ that gate crazed. Maybe it’ll even crack the stone itself, and the weight of the lintel will make the whole thing come crashing down. If that doesn’t attract the sorcerer’s attention, I don’t know what else will.

Paj grimaced, and eyed the remains of his slice of farsbrod. Y’know, if someone’d told me three months ago I’d be standing in a Carmbech eating a slab of Glading’s dry-pressed fish and mice and about to poke a sorcerer in the eye while a horse daft as a brush kept walking in circles on a path around me, I’d’ve laughed in their faces and took ‘em for loonies.

It’s not fish and mice, Ben smiled, and turned his attention to the mare. And Loony-girl’s stopped.

Aye she has at that. Looking up there into the trees.

She was. Ladyloon was standing stock still, her ears and eyes fixed on the trees higher up the curved eastern wall of the valley. Ben strode away from Panjalgernon towards the centre of the Carmbech, and the fat man stuffed the remains of his lunch into his mouth and bent to retrieve his quarterstaff and Shadebow where they rested against the foot of the pyre.

Ffee ennyfnk? Paj spluttered.

Ben held up a hand for silence, watching the birds, and listening, moving a little from side to side for a better view between the standing stones on the rim of the circle.

Ladyloon blinked, and her ears twitched.

Ben blinked, and cocked his head slightly, tilting his hat back a little at the same time. What could the horse hear that he couldn’t?

In truth, he and Paj had made a lot of noise, rummaging in the forest for wood for the pyre, dragging heavier boughs out into the clearing, and stacking them neatly to form the rectangular framework running around and up the leg of the trilithon. In truth, perhaps they hadn’t paid enough attention to their surroundings while their heavy and noisy labours progressed.

Was there a hole in the forest sounds? Ben cocked his head again. Birds flapped here and there, crows and ravens vocal, pigeons cooing in their roosts. Deer, perhaps, Ben thought. Deer might be approaching through the trees, thirsty deer following some scent-marked path to the river off to the west behind him.

Boughs creaking in the breezes, leaves rustling. The distant river flowing out of the valley. Hurna’s half-grip tightened, and his left hand found the bow at his hip, the right resting lightly on the pommel of the Green Blade. Was that something, by the trunk of a broad-leafed beech? Time slowed, sounds becoming crystal clear, sounds and scents and sight.

Yes. Something… A paler something than the tree trunk, colours and shades wrong…

Ben actually saw the arrow streaking towards him, saw its rotation, caught the glint of the dull steel point as it span.

And then it slammed into his chest, knocking him clean off his feet.

oOo

4. Named

There were birds wheeling in the sky, black shapes drifting across pools of azure and puffs of gathering white clouds. One of those clouds looked remarkably like a duck. Ben blinked, Hurna’s Grip still tight about him, his left hand still on his bow. A moment’s confusion, then memory, crystal clear, and the knowledge that he was wearing blue armour passed down through generations like a song or a guildsman’s lore.

Blue armour which had snapped rigid like a steel plate when the arrow had struck, just as it had when Panjalgernon had demonstrated its remarkable qualities by stabbing it sharply with his dinner-fork.

Panjalgernon...

Ben! came a familiar cry, from behind and away to his left.

Get down, Paj! he heard his own voice command.

But it was too late. With a hiss that was almost a scream, another arrow fizzed from out the trees and through the stones, and slammed into Panjalgernon’s bulk. He went down, and then promptly crawled for cover behind the bonfire wood they’d stacked around the trilithon’s leg. Crawled, and lurched, and wallowed almost, and to the distant eyes in the trees it must have seemed as though the floundering man who’d crawled out of sight had been mortally wounded.

Ben simply lay where he was, waiting.

Ben! Paj called again, quietly, desperately.

I’m all right, Paj. Be still, keep behind cover. Can you see them?

No, nothing!

Be still and quiet Paj. They’ll move soon.

Another arrow fizzed between the standing stones and thwacked into the wood of the pyre.

They’re just trying to flush you out, Paj. Don’t move. They’ll think you’re dead, and come looking.

Aye Ben. Aye, I’m still here. Not moving.

Is Ladyloon still on the north side of the path?

Yes. But Mule’s looking a bit fidgety over by the trees!

Don’t call him! Not yet.

Ben lay there, staring up at the ravens and crows. His hat had tumbled from his head when he’d gone down, and his backpack had broken his unexpected fall. The arrow which had struck him had done so with great force, and he pondered this fact and his memory of the colours by the beech tree before the shot had been loosed.

Longbow, probably, he thought, and very slowly, very carefully, rolled his head a little to the right. A yard-long arrow, with a simple but effective hammered steel leafblade head, the point bent backwards upon itself. Did nomads travel with masters of forge and furnace? He doubted it. In the rings, steel came from the Third Concentric east, from places like Castingford and Melton, and as he’d learned recently, the raw material for the furnaces