Hurna's Vengeance

By GJ Kelly

The Six Concentrics Book 3

A week has passed since Benmelo stunned the Court of Nerrenglade by returning the sword of Elleese to the golden hand in the Great Hall. The road north is open, Orefield Head liberated, the power of Elleese is spreading throughout the Six Concentrics, and the Bandavinor's meticulous plans, centuries in the making, are in ruins. Yet, all is not well...

Rocked by revelations and shunned by Gladings, the master hunter abandons Nerrenglade, and together with his friends Paj and Sambal Arlock, rides for North Turreton. Hoping for military aid from Rickerd Erlson, Benmelo soon comes face to face with the harsh political realities of life in the six rings.

With few friends and even fewer allies, Benmelo rides for the fifth northwest to seek advice from the Shreev of Sennenglade, Tarla Sebateen. But there's a reason for a dream-seer's prediction that the hub would be girdled by fear, and the reason is far more terrifying than Bay'ah Shades or corrupt Bandavinor wizards fleeing the mist-light of Elleese...

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Kelly
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370090310

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

Book preview

Prologue

Night-terrors, they’re called. They seem real enough, but they’re not, not really. Want to know how to see them off? Once you know how, you can look forward to hunting them, if one ever comes back again.

Yes please, Master Tawn.

Move your eyes. It’s all you have to do. Move your eyeballs, just a twitch, and their magic is broken, and you’ll find you can move everything else, and jump up. They’ll fly away before you can see them, though. They die, if a person sees them. It’s why they never come out in the daytime. Only when you’re sleeping and your eyes are closed.

This one wasn’t dying, and Benmelo was staring straight at it...

oOo

1. Revelations

Long, long have the people of the Glading forests, feared thy coming, Elithene Tuammaneth declared in that thick and sometimes difficult to understand accent which Panjalgernon mimicked so well. Benmelo, Master Hunter, once of Breeyanshar.

Benmelo stood with his arms folded, senses wide in the gloom of the chamber of the Matriarch of the Kaldisserai. He seemed to understand quite clearly the phrase long heb de pee-pullob de Glading forests, but the Matriarch’s bizarre pronunciation of ‘Breeyanshar’ as Breen-chy-ire had left him slightly flummoxed for a moment or two.

But ye know not why, Benmelo.

No, he agreed. And but for the Shreev of Sennenglade, I wouldn’t have known that Gladings were frightened of me at all.

The wizened crone nodded, and waved a hand to dismiss the two Kalsangar officers who’d escorted Benmelo from Petitioners’ Lodgings to this inner sanctum; these were the private chambers of the head of that Glading mystic coterie, the Kaldisserai.

The pair of really rather frightening female warriors left, immediately and silently, and then the Matriarch pointed a bony finger towards a chair on the opposite side of the vast and highly-polished oak table behind which she sat.

Sit thee, master of the green guild, and learn. I have brung thee here to teach thee what thou art.

Benmelo unhooked his bow and sat, laying the compact weapon across his lap. The top of the table glistened like the surface of a pond in twilight, or like the marble floor surrounding the hand of Elleese when it had swallowed the traitorous wizard Currane. Currane, demon-corrupted, they said. Currane, one of many treacherous wizards bent upon dominion over all lands, one of several who’d taken it in turns to pose in the guise of decrepit Bandavinor, the Undying, of the Vissinor Council.

Pay no heed to the anger thou hast heard given voice of late, Elithene Tuammaneth declared. It is of no consequence and is born of fear.

Her phrasing was as odd as her accent, as if she could only speak a fixed number of words before pausing as though for breath, but Benmelo was nothing if not adaptable. Hurna’s lore demanded it, after all.

Fear of me?

The old Glading smiled, and chuckled, and Benmelo gaped, realising for the first time since he’d returned the sword of Elleese to the hand, that the Matriarch of the Kaldisserai was not wearing that expressionless, emotionless, dead public face all Gladings wore in the presence of anyone other than intimate friends or family. Nor indeed was she wearing that dread ‘angry face’ depicted in the artwork and statuary Ben had seen in Nerrenglade, and which was worn almost permanently by the Kalsangar warriors.

But for the cracks and wrinkles of great age, that face would be serene, smiling, feminine and feline, animated and alive with humour, and yet visibly powerful too.

Thou hast not heard before, laughter from one of the Glading forests, I see.

No. I’ve only seen two of the three faces Gladings are said to have.

I am old, Benmelo, she waved an airy hand, And being old, no longer do I care for the vanities and foolish customs to which the young adhere. Few are there who would chide me for failing to hide myself from the public gaze. None, in fact.

You are the Matriarch of the Kaldisserai, Ben declared.

"And knowest thou what that means? Did Elleese show to thee enough of Sheervanna to understand the ancient song, Ayerlath Kalsangar, sangar disserai…?"

For a fleeting moment, Benmelo felt a wave of sadness welling up within him, and then it ebbed away.

No. The memories have faded, like the dreams. I saw pieces of her, enough to know she found the tower in the Bay’ah Valley, killed Urlakken and a treacherous wizard there, and took the sword to safety. I saw her pursued, wounded, and I saw her striving for the ship which would bear her to safety across the lake at Marratham, almost reaching it, within sight of it...

The Matriarch gave a long, shuddering sigh. So close to safety, came she. So close to home. Sheervanna would have found healing and sanctuary in the forest, and then, with more of her sisters, returned to fetch the sword from that place wherein it was found by thee.

But Ullmahk, great thinker of the first ring, had a plan, to destroy by magicks and sorcery the Sixth Concentric, that it might consume the dark enemy gathering and growing in the west, Ben blinked, remembering the story told by Tawn, his adopted father, and former master.

For Sheervanna and the sword, the ship waited long. Too long it waited, but ever have the Kalsangar been loyal. Lost were all those who waited. Lost were all. So too the sword, for none lived who knew Sheervanna had found it, and none lived who might know she had hid it in the mountains. And again, the ancient mystic gave a shuddering sigh of sorrow and regret.

To the south, she continued, And to the west, advanced the armies of Bay’ah Shahtan. That time was deemed the best, an attempt for to make at recovering the sword, that time when fixed were the enemy’s eyes upon the rings, and they marching inward towards the hub. Sheervanna, best of them all, was sent…

Benmelo remembered the bones of the great boat at Marratham, and how Panjalgernon had rapped its skeletal ribs with his quarterstaff, the sound of the petrified wood ringing out across the blight.

I am old, she sighed, And seldom now do I travel. That ship remains still, waiting, at Marratham, I am told.

I have seen it, Benmelo affirmed. It does lie there still, chained to the wall of the pier in the harbour, and yes, though never shall it sail again, it’s still waiting there. Sheervanna and the ship were caught in the blast of the blighting of the Sixth Concentric, and the secret of the sword’s hiding place was lost with her. But for the mystic wound she received, and but for her horse dying beneath her… but for want of an hour, she would have succeeded.

Elithene Tuammaneth took a shiny object from a pocket of her robes, and placed it reverently on the polished table before her. Sheervanna’s silver belt-buckle, still slightly tarnished.

I thank thee for this, she said softly. I thank thee for bringing her home.

I didn’t know why I did. I didn’t know what drove me. It seemed important. It felt important.

"The sword it was, that drove thee. The sword it was, and the power of Elleese which showed thee glimpses of that which was, long ago. The mist-light of Elleese moves now through the Glades and fills our forests. Elleese now drives others to flee as Elleese drove thee to bring back the sword…

Ah, but I see thou hast not understanding of Elleese, and the power of Kal. There is much history thou didst not learn.

History always held little interest for me.

Thou art young. Thine own history is but the blink of an eye, what care the young for those distant days from which all our todays are made? Nor is the failing that of thy master, Tawn. It was Vinnglade made a mistake with him.

Benmelo frowned, and again, memory tugged. Wasn’t it the Shreev of Sennenglade who’d said much the same thing? Tawn, of Bryn. Know that name. Know ‘em all, but yes, yes, Tawn, of Bryn’s tutelage. Vinnglade made a mistake with him…

But the Matriarch spoke again.

"Kal, embodiment of disserai, the spirit, and sangar, the body and blood. Thou didst not learn the meaning of the song, Ayerlath Kalsangar, sangar disserai. In thy tongue: Stand tall, the body and blood of Kal, body and blood and spirit. Ayerlath Kalsangar, umdeen Kaldisserai… Stand tall, the body and blood of Kal, for ye serve the spirit of Kal…"

Benmelo frowned, remembering the sad melody he’d heard in his dreams while carrying the sword of Elleese hidden in his pack, the words to the song at once sad, and proud. For long moments, the ancient Glading sat lost in thought and in time, but then she drew a breath, and turned her gaze towards the young man.

The blood and the spirit, ever have they been joined in Kal. Sheervanna was the brightest and best of them, in her time. All Kalsangar wear such buckles as this upon their belts, their names to proclaim. Sheervanna held the sword when she took it back from the thieves and traitors in the north. Elleese knew her, and thus the buckle and the sword became bound. Thus the body and blood of Sheervanna knew the power of Elleese. It helped her to bear the pain of mystic wounds, long enough to reach the ship… but alas…

Her horse died. She didn’t reach the ship in time before Marratham was blasted.

The sword was made by us, a weapon, a symbol of the body and blood and spirit of the Kal, to hold back the demons yet lurking in the dark places of the land. Elleese worked through thee, through the sword and this silver buckle, to guide thee, to drive thee, to return the sword to the hand.

For Benmelo, many questions had been answered. From the time he’d discovered the well-wrapped sword of Elleese in a crevice high in the Highbarre Mountains, he’d been unable to express any sensible reason for the keeping of its discovery a secret, and for bearing it to the golden hand in the court of Nerrenglade likewise. His two friends, Panjalgernon and Sambal Arlock, were the only other folk who’d known of the blade’s existence in Ben’s backpack, and he’d only told them so that they could complete the task of returning it to its rightful place should Ben have failed so to do.

The mystic nature of the small and ancient artefact clearly explained his broken dreams while he’d possessed the rune-emblazoned blade; the shards of his dreams had been the memories of the last person to touch the thing, Sheervanna, lady Glading warrior of the Kalsangar.

Who is Kal? he suddenly blurted.

Ah. Thou seest the Kalsangar as the hand of Kal, commanded by the Kaldisserai, the spirit of Kal. The common force, wielded by the mystic. The hand, protecting the spirit. It is not so simple, in truth, but if it comforts thee to see it thus, then must thou do so.

And Kal?

And again the crone surprised Benmelo by cackling happily.

Thou knowest Kal, Benmelo! Ayerlath, Benmelo, stand tall, thou of the green guild of men. Kal is all things. Did not the one named traitor, Hurna, give to thee in his lore the wisdom of Kal? He did. Thou knowest Kal by another name, and the Green Blade thou bearest with just and great pride carries the mark of Kal, which ancient symbol thy people named Sahk. Kal is all around you, Benmelo. Kal thou knowest by the word, nature.

Benmelo blinked, and tried hard to keep his mind firmly anchored in the warm and surprisingly comfortable surrounds of the Matriarch’s chamber. True, it was austere, and there was little to commend it; the large and highly-polished table and chairs, dark wood floors and walls, the latter bedecked with tapestries of great age, their imagery faded. But it was warm, in spite of the chill and lashing rains outside. No books, no scrolls, no mystic devices, nothing at all on the table save for Sheervanna’s belt-buckle, and in the corner nearest him, rather incongruously, a vase of flowers. Winterblooms, and Ben knew each one of them by name.

I see confusion in thee, the Matriarch declared, not unkindly. Knowest thou not that all the magicks thou hast seen derive from Kal? Whether by hand or wand or stick or potion, by words or chants or symbols graven, it is Kal which those of us thou namest ‘mystic’ strive to shape and use to manipulate the world around us.

So I’ve heard it said. Master Tawn said sorcerers and wizards draw upon the energies all around us, which we do not see.

He spoke truth. Wizards and Serrameth summon to their needs the Kal and with their long sticks do they focus their desires. With potions and powders do sorcerers mix their sauces to strengthen what lesser powers they possess. And then, there are the us, the Kaldisserai, and the Shreevs, who serve the Kal… in different ways.

I think I know a little of the differences.

I think thou dost. And then, Benmelo, ah, and then. There is thee.

Me? Ben squeaked, the sound of his own voice alarming for its suddenly high and girlish pitch. Me? he cleared his throat and uttered again, in a somewhat more manly manner.

"Thee. Dost thou believe us blind to what thou hast done, and what our sister-daughter Misheera hast seen? Perhaps still thou believest falsely, that it is the dragon scales beneath thy shirt which shield thee from dark fire? They do not. Did not Currane exclaim, in the hour of his death, he cannot be?"

Again, Benmelo blinked, and saw with crystal clarity the memory of Currane, disguised as Bandavinor, lurching to his feet, screaming This! Cannot! Be! He! Cannot! Be! when the sword was returned to the hand of Elleese.

By Hurna’s Hand was the sword returned, Elithene Tuammaneth declared solemnly, as if reading Ben’s thoughts. The blood of the Kal flowed in Sheervanna’s veins. The same blood, in Hurna’s flowed. And the same blood, in thine. Elleese knew this. Thou couldst not have touched the sword otherwise. Didst thou not feel the creeping cold of death upon thee, stealing the warmth of life from thy flesh inch by inch? Ah, I see thou didst. But for the warmth given thee by the blood of the Kal, death would have been thy reward for returning the blade.

Ben’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he was sure the old crone would hear it trying to beat its way out through the bars of his ribcage. What did she mean? He blinked, and shook his head slightly, his mind suddenly blank.

Long, long have the people of the Glading forests, feared thy coming, the Matriarch asserted once more. For thou art he who cannot be, the Kalmandarath, who bears the blood of the Kal and the blood of Man. Hurna’s Blade thou bearest, Hurna’s Hand it is that wields it, and Hurna’s Blood in the veins of he who wreaks Hurna’s Vengeance upon the world. Thou art he who cannot be, a child of two worlds, and with thee comes the beginning of the end of the lights and fires of the Kal.

The master hunter’s mouth was dry as ashes and his tongue heavy, difficult to move.

What? he managed, eyes wide, heart hammering.

Already it has begun, Elithene Tuammaneth sighed, nodding sadly, gazing away through one of the tapestries on the wall. To the people of the fifth ring of Man thou gavest the secret of iron for their defence, against the demons of the darken deep, Shades, and Urlakken. Word spreads as word does. Soon iron will be all things to all the people of the rings. All the tireless industry of Man shall be bent upon its production, until, in time, its true power is forgotten, and all magicks like dreams shall fade from the world in a new age bereft of the powers of Kal. We too shall fade from all memory, lost save in dreams, the blood of Kal grown thinner with its spreading. In time.

Benmelo simply sat there, agog, speechless, and terrified. There was only one thing he now knew beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt: Elithene Tuammaneth, ancient Matriarch of the Kaldisserai, spoke truth. Not for her the half-truths, exaggerations, machinations and outright lies of ambition; hers were the serene eyes of Tawn, or Tarla Sebateen, or Trinyan of Gallows Cross, eyes filled with wisdom and entirely at peace with the world around her, and with her place in it.

With a sigh, and a weak but kindly smile, the wizened Glading mystic turned those eyes upon Benmelo; eyes that were far too young for the cracked and wrinkled visage they occupied.

But thou hast work yet to do. Evil flies now from the mist-light of Elleese. Some were trapped by it, and destroyed, as Currane was destroyed. Some were driven mad, and in their despair, with their own fires, ended themselves. Yet more slept, knowing not that the golden blade had been restored, and in their dreams did Elleese like a gentle wave wash over them, and slay them. But the power of Elleese travels slowly through the gates towards the hub, and some there are allied to demonkind who yet survive and fly for that Fifth Concentric thy friend wouldst have thee spare. Go thou must, and with Hurna’s Blade in Hurna’s Hand, Hurna’s Vengeance must thee bring down upon their heads, for deeply do they offend against the Kal.

But… Ben’s tongue floundered again. But what am I? The beginning of the end? How? How can I be the things you say I am? How!

Pfft, the Matriarch smiled and waved an airy hand, a dry and bony claw of a hand, and she shook her head. "Thou art Kalmandarath. Did not Hurna teach thee, behold the moment, for the moment is thy life; all else is history and gone, or future yet to be, and both of those are dreams? He did. That which thou hast done, cannot now be undone. The world is in motion. That which thou yet must do, must be done. Though some there are who say thou canst not be, thou art. Thou art Benmelo, Master Hunter of Hurna’s guild, once of Breeyanshar.

Hunt, then, and visit the vengeance of Hurna upon those who did treat with demonkind. But beware, Benmelo. Word has come as word does. Another Serrameth there was. Gallafane was not the only traitor of Gladingkind. There was another, named Magganath.

A Glading wizard?

Yes. Powerful. Dread powerful. He fled, without word, without reason, before the mist-light passed through the gates and came to Vinnglade. Traitor, then, he has been named. Traitor to the Kal. This news the council now possesses… The Matriarch sighed, looking suddenly tired, and suddenly very frail.

Benmelo said nothing, waiting, his heart hammering. Elithene drew a deep breath, and fixed him with a stare.

The shame of Gladingkind is doubled. The wounds to the people of the forests are twice deep, twice shamed are we, by open wounds inflicted through the treachery of Gallafane and Magganath. Beware him, Benmelo. He will know of thee. He will know thou art proof against dark fires. He will know thy strengths, and thy weaknesses. Beware Magganath. All others who escape the mist-light of Elleese are dangerous, but Magganath, he is dread.

oOo

2. Services Otherwise Unrecognised

And that’s it, Ben? That’s all she piggin’ said? Panjalgernon gaped, hovering on twin brinks of anger and frustration.

After the warmth of the Matriarch’s chambers, the alcove in the Lodgings of Nerrenglade was cold, hard, and bereft of any kind of comfort. Benmelo sat wrapped in a blanket, his friends Panjalgernon and Sambal Arlock likewise, their breath steaming in spite of the heavy canvas curtain sealing them in against the cold and sleet outside.

That’s all she said, Ben agreed, confusion and now a slight headache conspiring to cloud his thoughts. Two of the Kalsangar came back into the room as if summoned by unseen magic, and escorted me back here.

"So, you’re supposed to be what, then? Apart from he who cannot be, what’s this child of two worlds bollocks?"

I don’t know, Paj.

Arlock sniffed.

Wot? Panjalgernon demanded.

Nuffink. Just cold, Sambal squirmed on the barrel he was using for a seat.

Aye ballbags, and I’m the Fat Shreev of Stonehill Shade.

Arlock squirmed again. Don’t like to say. Generally, I leaves the thinking to them as can.

What, you giant goon? Ben’s sat there like the old bat whacked him between the eyes with a pig-iron brick and if you’ve got some idea what she meant, then say so, for fark’s sake. Bad enough us three been sat in these piggin’ cold Lodgings for the last week without sight nor sound of anyone else ever since Tharrin Callardson and that old bloke Kenard buggered off.

Aye that’s true, Sambal sniffed again, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. No idea what’s been going on in the world since they two left. That bloke, sir Kenard, once of the first ring? That’s noble-born, that is. It’s why he spoke so well and so clever. All them other blokes as came down the road with us have buggered off now too. Nerreston, maybe, or Lakeheath, or Mereside. Spent a year’s pay in all three, I have...

Pigginell, Arlock, you’re getting to be as bad as Ben at changing the subject. I reckon his bloody-minded ballbagginess has rubbed off on you!

Eh?

The child of two worlds bollocks!

Oh. That. And Sambal sniffed again. Just… well. It’d explain a lot, wouldn’t it?

Panjalgernon’s jaw clenched, frustration beginning to give way to outright anger at what he thought was Sambal Arlock’s reluctance to provide a simple answer to the conundrum. The huge former forge-master noted the impending threat, and shrugged at Benmelo apologetically.

See, he said softly, I seed you do things, Master Benmelo, and I seed a look in you like them wolf-eyes o’ Master Chard’s. You remember that story I told? How Chard o’ the green guild looked right through me, like he were reading the book o’ me life and seen that all the pages were empty.

I remember, Ben muttered, and leaned back against the cold bricks of the wall behind him.

I seed such looks in you, Benmelo, Arlock whispered. I seed you run fast, I seed you shoot fast, move fast, and I seed you move slow too, slow as dawn breaking.

Hurna’s Grip, Ben declared.

Aye, so you call it. But… I seed you on them stairs, at Vargos Eyrie, right afore I chucked that piglet up at the wizard on the balcony. Made sense to me then, though I kept me thoughts to meself afterwards on account of I’m an idiot, as well they all know wot knows me at all.

What made sense? Ben wondered aloud, as though he were drifting away from the world and needed something to grasp in order to remain here, in the now, and in the conversation.

Seed it in you, Benmelo, and signs of it, I reckon. And I reckon I know what it were she meant, that old Glading-witch. I reckon I seed Glading in you, Benmelo. Like you was half man, half Glading.

For fark’s sake! Paj gaped, first at Arlock, and then at the master hunter.

Benmelo closed his eyes and shuddered.

Sorry, Benmelo. But it do seem to make sense of it all. On them stairs up to the Eyrie, you looked… you looked a bit like you had a touch o’ they angry faces the Glading folk wear when summink upsets ‘em. Just a touch, mind, and it were far up them steps you were. Just a touch.

Ben’s vision swam, his headache began to pound, and he reached out a trembling hand for his pack and the medicines it contained.

Pigginell, Panjalgernon managed. Pigginell...

Sorry, Benmelo. Maybe it were just a trick o’ the light or summink, all them lights and fires going up and coming down like they were.

But while the master hunter fumbled with his bottle of Merryck’s strong pain relief powder, he remembered the staircase leading up to the Vargos Eyrie, and how his jaws and face had ached while he’d ground his teeth in fury at the sight of Master Herrick’s remains and the Shade coming down towards him… Was it really just grinding his teeth that had made his face ache?

And he knew very well too Hurna’s Grip, and how the moment of his life seemed to expand within it, all things slowing to his eyes, and how Gladings were faster and stronger than men, had faster reflexes, better eyesight and hearing… how many times in the past had he seen, and with such clarity, people and objects at great distances? How many times had he heard and almost felt the creatures of nature around him?

Hurna was a Glading… Benmelo was a foundling…

Best let me do that, Master Benmelo, Arlock announced softly, and took the bottle of powder from the master hunter’s trembling hands. Don’t want too much o’ that in yer cup, might nod off and not wake up again.

It’s all a load of piggin’ bollocks is what it is, Panjalgernon decreed, seeing despair in his friend’s eyes. And Glading mystic bollocks at that. Fark it all, says me. Ben’s Ben, always was and always will be. Ben’s Ben, and that’s that.

Aye, that’s true too! Arlock agreed, and filled a beaker with weak Nerrenglade wine and tipped some of the powder into it. Here y’are, Master Benmelo. This’ll help any thick head ye might have left over from whatever mystic shite you might’ve breathed in the company of Glading she-wizards and such. It’ll be that, I reckon. Them mystic mumbling chantsmiths breathe different air to the likes of us, filled with strange smokes and vapours.

And the bastards make it invisible! Paj agreed enthusiastically, So we can’t see they’re breathing it! Arlock’s right, Ben. Go on, drink up, and have a snooze maybe? And when it stops piggin’ raining, we’ll fark off down to Sennenglade, and I’ll kick that Shreev’s arse.

Sound plan, Sambal agreed. I’m up fer that too.

And, right, Paj sniffed apologetically, Don’t reckon you’ll get to shove that stick up Althane Farkweasel’s arse now. He’s probably still locked in the Vissinor’s outhouse, and still shitting himself after watching Currane get yaffled by the floor in the hall.

Benmelo drank the beaker dry, scarcely tasting the wine and the crudely measured dose of powder it contained.

You’re you, Ben. That’s all. And piggin’ bollocks to the rest of it!

He nodded miserably, and handed back the empty beaker, taking the bottle of powder from Arlock’s immense hand and stuffing it back into his pack.

I’ve been looking at the map, while you were away, Paj announced, seeing the misery in his friend’s face and desperately trying to change the subject. Been trying to work out where the bastards would go. You know, the Bandavinor wizards? Westwater, for sure, that’s a big place, where old Trav Merryman used to winter up? And Fourwells, and probably Peakpuddle. Don’t think they’d bother with places like Northbrush and Southbrush though, too small. And then there’s all those places in the fifth southwest and south. No names on the map, but there’s a fair few of ‘em down there.

Ben said nothing, but shuffled on the bench that served both as a seat and as a sleeping platform in the alcoves of the lodgings. He drew his knees up, and squirmed a little more until he was wedged into the corner of the walls behind him, wrapped in his blanket, green floppy hat on his head.

See, Paj pressed, trying to keep his voice enthusiastic and light, If we head around the fifth, down through Deadwood and the two Brushes into Sennenglade, then once I’ve booted the Shreev’s arse, we can carry on to Fourwells.

And then what, sir Paj?

And then, Arlock, we can see who’s who and what’s what, and if any farkweasel Bandavinor bastard is trying to lord it over the good folk o’ the fifth there, kick his farkin’ arse too.

Aye well, sounds good to me. And I’d get to see this Deadwood place along the way, and see if the forge is still what you said it was last time you were there. Though I’m not sure them dead trees you spoke of would burn, firepump or no.

If it’s still there, Paj mumbled, scratching his head. There was spongeweed creeping in from the sixth... And anyway, it’s not like we’re going to be bloody journeymen looking for work! We’ll be busy hunting Shades with the crystals while Ben’s hunting those farkin’ Bandavinors.

Fair do. Only I did think if I got the forge going at this Deadwood place, might be able to bang out some new iron bolts fer yer Shadebow.

Ooh good point, well made.

Not yet they ain’t.

Still Ben sat hunched in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees, blinking, only half-listening to the conversation. A child of two worlds…

"Y’know, when old Fenrik comes down with the food-cart for the Lodgings this evening, I think I’ll ask him if I can get some of those iron bolts made here. Don’t see why the piggin’ Gladings can’t give us something after all we’ve done, and they made the Shadebow originally, you said."

Reckon so…

We’re leaving, Ben announced.

Eh?

There won’t be time for the Gladings to make new bolts. We’re leaving tomorrow. We’ve got everything we need with us. We’re leaving for North Turreton tomorrow. You can get bolts made there if you really want them.

There was a long silence, broken finally by Panjalgernon’s really rather obvious questions.

Why are we going to North Turreton, and why d’you want to leave all of a sudden tomorrow?

Rickerd Erlson is at North Turreton, and we might need his help. And I want Master Herrick’s blade returned to the guildhouse in the hub. There’ll be a forge at the Turret and in the town too. Probably one in Nerreston on the way as well, but we won’t be stopping there unless we have to.

Is it the old Kaldisserai making you want to leave so suddenly, Ben?

There’s no point staying, Paj. Gladings have turned their backs on the world to hide all three of their faces from everyone, just like Tharrin Callardson said they would. The council is flapping about like a bunch of headless chickens sending messages to the hub and then fretting while they wait for replies. We don’t belong here. There’s nothing for us here. It’s October the eighth. A week we’ve been sat here, and not a word from Misheera or Tharrin since that first night. Tomorrow we’ll go to North Turreton, and if barkin’ Gladings want to talk to us, they can bloody come and find us.

Panjalgernon flicked a glance at Sambal Arlock, and then drew out his map, unfolded it, and traced a line with his finger.

Fifty miles as the crow flies from the Nerrenglade Pavilion to the Turret, with Nerreston town bang in the middle... Ooh there’s a lake to the northeast of the Turreton! They might have fresh fish!

Aye should do, sir Paj, Arlock grinned, folding his mighty arms. And pubs too. Though I ain’t got no coin fer fish ‘n’ chip dinners, much less a pint o’ decent ale.

Nor me. Ben?

Master hunter, Paj.

Oh that’s just piggin’ wonderful, that is. We’re off to a bustling Turreton, and not a brass farthing between us when only a week ago Ben was carrying a priceless mystic relic the Gladings would’ve gladly paid a farkin’ fortune for.

Well… Arlock began, and then fell silent, his face colouring beneath his freshly-trimmed but still voluminous red beard.

Well wot? Paj pressed.

Arlock squirmed.

Panjalgernon stared at him.

Benmelo’s headache was beginning to ease, but the misery of the Matriarch’s revelations still held him in a tight and unrelenting grip. Kalmandarath…

Well? Paj sighed, folding his arms and tapping his foot, as doubtless he’d done thousands of times in the past back in his old classroom. No-one’s leaving until you tell us, Sambal Arlock. Even if it means waiting all day.

The huge man snorted, and turned his gaze down at his immense, booted feet.

Well… he began. See, I thought, well. We got clothes and cloaks and blankies and all from the tower up north, right? Poky-spears and arrers and thregats and darts and such, right?

Right, Paj agreed sternly, conferring two syllables upon the word. And?

"And well, I could really really do with new boots. I mean look, these old things been torn up with slag-chips and legging it up the varkin road and down, in the Head, out the Head. You know that, right?"

Right, Panjalgernon repeated. And?

And well, see, on account of me needing new boots an’ all, and on account of all that work we done at the Head without so much as a ta very muchly even at the time an’ all… right?

Get to the farkin’ point, just plain Arlock.

Right. Well, I thought… I thought well… and reluctantly, blushing, and looking distinctly ashamed of himself, the huge man picked up his backpack from beside his barrel-seat, rummaged inside, and slowly, hesitantly, produced two silver ingots, each weighing about two pounds. They were small, tiny in Arlock’s massive hands, each bar about two inches wide, almost five inches long, and close to three quarters of an inch thick.

Pigginell! Paj gasped, and in spite of the close confines of the alcove, cast a furtive gaze around. Put ‘em away quick!

Arlock shrugged, and stuffed the ingots back into his pack. See, I reckon what with the back pay they owes me and all, and everything…

Ben? Paj asked softly, eyes wide and nervous.

The master hunter simply shrugged his shoulders at the obvious theft. The guilds owe us all for liberating Orefield. Gladings owe us too for Vargos Eyrie, but I doubt we’ll get anything more than the sacks of food from Fenrik’s cart tonight. Besides, Sambal’s right. He does need new boots.

Panjalgernon let out a huge sigh, and immediately, Arlock’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward to peer suspiciously at the portly and colourful former teacher.

What? Paj demanded.

"That was to be my question, sir Paj. That were a big sigh, and see, I don’t reckon it were on my behalf you sighed it."

Don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.

Arlock leaned back again, folded his arms, and started tapping his foot. Paj grinned sheepishly.

All right, all right, just plain Arlock. So p’raps a bit of something or two from the pig-waits near the counting-house might’ve found their way into one of the sacks on Mule’s back while we were there. So what? Like Ben says, the guilds owe us, and I could do with new boots too. And a hat. I want a farkin’ hat, a good one, a warm one to keep me ‘ead warm this winter. Reckon I at least deserve a hat. Warm, and furry, and waterproof.

Best we visit Nerreston then, Arlock sniffed. On account o’ that’s where a lot o’ the Orefield crew would winter up in the past. But best we don’t loiter there, too. Reckon we could change one brick fer coin in Nerreston, knows a place where such exchanges can be made and where they’re used to the crew being paid in bricks rough-cast, and not fussy about any guildmarks and stampin’s of assay.

Stolen, you mean, Paj muttered.

Taken in payment fer services otherwise unrecognised, sir Paj. Anyway, we’d have better luck changing brick fer coin in Nerreston than maybe in the Turreton. There’s good guildsmen in the Turreton, so it’s been said often enough. Them as might take umbrage at the sight of a rough-cast brick with nought but the Orefield clerks’ counting-stamp upon ‘em.

Ben?

Again, the master hunter shrugged. We’re none of us likely to trade what skills we have for bed and board any more, not in the fourth. And I doubt we’d get any of that, what did you call it, Paj? Blues dues?

Aye. Rewards and comforts for hunters o’ the blue.

I doubt we’d get any of that in the fourth. Probably not in the fifth either, since it’ll be wizards the folk will be more worried about than Shades now. The Matriarch said word about using iron against Shades was spreading fast. It soon might be that iron bricks would’ve been worth taking more than those silver ones.

Serious, Benmelo?

Aye, Ben nodded miserably. So she implied.

Panjalgernon lifted a pudgy hand and sat rather more erect, putting on his most imperious Matriarchal voice: Zoon, urn vill be orltings to orl peepullob de rings.

Good job I borrowed a few piglets too then, Arlock sniffed. Kept ‘em in case I needed to chuck ‘em at another beard-mumbling chantsmith bastard, or one o’ they Urlakkens.

Funny you should mention that, Paj treated them both to a cherubic smile, looking distinctly smug and conspiratorial.

They kept telling me the Fifth Concentric has become lawless, Ben declared, his voice flat. You two’ll fit in right well out there.

oOo

3. Iron

Silence, but for the sleety rain beyond the curtain, and Ladyloon’s breathing.

The mare had been evicted from Panjalgernon’s alcove when the portly fellow had returned there, and, unimpressed with the weather, she’d promptly shoved her way in through the heavy canvas curtain to stand dripping on the floor, gazing imperiously at Benmelo until he’d got up and shut the curtain behind her.

Now, in the dark of night, she was sleeping on her feet, and the master hunter lay silently embracing his misery beneath his blankets.

Kalmandarath… child of two worlds… with thee comes the beginning of the end of the lights and fires of the Kal... To the people of the fifth ring of Man thou gavest the secret of iron for their defence…

Iron. It had always been about that. Ever since the demondays of yore described in Helgrind’s history book, it had been about iron. Great fires from the sky, great meteors, had cracked open the Highbarre Range like an egg, creating the pass everyone knew as The Orefield Road. Up from the deep dark had risen the demons, despising the light. With iron borne by men new to these shores did the ancient alliance of Man and Glading drive the demons back. And since those days, Ben understood at last, Gladings had held the Orefield Road, secured it at both ends…

At Vargos Eyrie in the south they’d held it, controlling the flow of iron and other precious metals out of the mines at Orefield. With a watchtower and the Barre Hills Turret they had held the northern end of the road, lest another Bay’ah Shahtan rise up from among the Caravellan nomads of the Seventh wilds.

It had always been about iron.

Iron scattered within the circle of a Carmbech’s standing stones wrought catastrophe upon any mystic energies summoned there. Iron alone might penetrate the mystic armour tattooed into an Urlakken’s flesh. Iron destroyed Shades. Iron, in sufficient quantity, shattered a wizard’s mystic shield, as the traitor Astellan had discovered to his cost on the balcony of the Vargos Eyrie. Iron reflected and dissipated the enemy’s dark lights and fires.

And in all the twisted heads of wizards’ staves that Ben had seen, staves bearing shards of metal and crystals and more than a few pointed at him, never had the master hunter noted iron. Silver, gold, copper, steel perhaps, and possibly even fallstar, but never pure iron.

The Matriarch’s voice seemed to whisper in the dark, but it was just Ladyloon breathing...

Soon iron will be all things to all the people of the rings. All the tireless industry of Man shall be bent upon its production, until, in time, its true power is forgotten, and all magicks like dreams shall fade from the world in a new age bereft of the powers of Kal.

Did they know, in the hub, there in the old Forbidden Centre where the King o’ The Hub dwelled, did they know that iron broke all magicks? A sudden insight flashed; of course they did. They’d devastated the Sixth Concentric to keep Bay’ah Shahtan from taking the southern end of the Orefield Road. Ullmahk, great thinker of the first ring, had killed two birds with one stone in that series of mighty mystic detonations. Not only had he destroyed Bay’ah Shahtan’s armies in the west, but he’d also ensured that the southern end of that precious road remained in allied hands.

And so it had done, throughout all the long centuries of peace which followed the blighting of the sixth ring. Until traitors of the Bandavinor, working silently and secretly through the ages, snatched the Vargos Eyrie, occupied it, and stemmed the flow of iron along the Orefield Road. Iron, which was proof against their dark lights and fires, and proof against the demonic Shades and Urlakken summoned once more into the world by foul wizardry and sorcery …

And that one word, summoned, gave Benmelo sudden pause for thought. He was a master hunter, after all; had he not declared the fact so very often? In spite of his misery and in spite of his bewilderment and the shock of Arlock’s suggestion (as well as the Matriarch’s assertion) that Glading blood flowed in his veins, he was a master hunter, and fourteen years apprenticed.

Something was burrowing up from the depths of his despair, a memory scritch-scratching its way to the surface of his consciousness. Bandavinor… no, there was no such wizard, Bandavinor was a disguise, a fantasy, a trick, a name given to the cabal of traitors seeking dominion over all things… Ingriss. Ingriss was the name of the wizard who, in the Bay’ah Valley in the northern mountains, had held Benmelo pinned to the ground with his staff, before Taylee of the Caravellan had wrought justice for the Meladeen rove upon the traitorous mystic.

Ingriss, shouting, the memory completing its journey up from the depths of a mind soothed but a little fogged by Merryck’s strong pain relief powder.

You killed my creature! the wizard had cried, striding quickly past the remains of the Urlakken Ben had destroyed in the black sand of the Bay’ah Carmbech. Do you know how long it takes us to make such things of mortal men!

Ben didn’t know. But was it not Tharrin Callardson who’d said the Urlakken were an ancient evil, and one resurrected by Bay’ah Shahtan? Resurrected. Oh yes, there was a Shade within that hideous seven-foot tall tattooed body, but Shades alone were creatures mystic-made, unseen by ordinary eyes and insubstantial save to the touch of iron, yet the Urlakken possessed great mystic powers. Armed with a fallstar rod, the Urlakken could summon and loose dark lights and fires. Shades, and Shade-infested people, could do no such thing.

Resurrected. The Bandavinor conspirators had learned from Bay’ah Shahtan how to create from a Shade-infested man an Urlakken, an ancient demonic evil. Of course they had. It was treacherous wizards, long ago, who’d aided Bay’ah Shahtan, stealing the sword of Elleese to weaken mystic seals designed to keep his creatures out from the Concentrics. They would have learned the sorcerer’s secrets, how to make Shades from people, and how to make Shade-infested half-dead half-slaves of people. And how to summon from the deep dark the demon needed to make, from a Shaded mortal, an Urlakken, the deadly Bay’ah Warrior which struck fear into the hearts of all who had no iron for their defence.

The Caravellan had learned how to deal with Urlakken. Their heavy iron spears had been passed down through generations of the roves, to be employed by ring watchers like Taylee, Kort, and Talard whenever the need arose; that much of the Caravellan’s history had survived the long journey through their oral traditions to the present day. The people of the Six Concentrics had learned too; Blue Hunters, clad in dragon-scale armour and bearing mystic crystals with which to see Shades, had been armed with metallic crossbows shooting iron bolts, and then been deployed.

Unlike the Caravellan, though, the folk of the six rings had forgotten the hunting of Shades, and forgotten the power of iron, using it instead to make their pots and pans and bathtubs in the foundries of Melton and Castingford in the third, east. And using it to make steel, which availed men not against Urlakken, and protected them not against the dark lights and fires of corrupted wizards and sorcerers…

Ben sighed quietly, and shifted a little for his comfort on the stone slab of the sleeping-bench, moving slowly, not wishing to disturb the mare sheltering from the weather there in his alcove. He didn’t doubt that Mule, Panjalgernon’s loyal and ever-patient companion, was sheltering likewise in the next alcove along on this side of the first row of Nerrenglade’s Petitioners’ Lodgings. They had all travelled so very far together.

What had he been mulling? Oh yes. Iron. It was all about iron, and always had been. And then he’d remembered Ingriss, shouting, at the Bay’ah Carmbech. Yes. There’d been a cave there, a dark place, and deep, into which a slender river had disappeared. What was it Ingriss had said about that river?

Do you think to escape by the river? It plunges deep into the dark beneath the mountains where only ancient demons might dwell!

Yes, Ben thought, that was what Ingriss had cried to the trees where Ben had lurked unseen, back when they all thought they were hunting a Shadesmith sorcerer named Malakah Shahtan. But that name was false too, and like Bandavinor, a creation, a disguise, a false identity used to hide the truth.

Deep into the dark beneath the mountains… The Hag’s Back, the name given by the Caravellan people to the mountain peak overlooking the Bay’ah Valley, had broken and collapsed into that valley when the iron-salted Carmbech there had detonated. At the time, Benmelo had imagined a great sinkhole opening up beneath the Carmbech, swallowing the shattered remains of the tower and blockhouse whole, the way the floor in the great hall had swallowed the traitor Currane. A sinkhole, a vast cavern eaten away by the river plunging deep into the dark where only ancient demons might dwell…

And what did all this mean? To a young man, struggling to come to terms with his own identity and still reeling from the stark revelations uttered by an ancient mystic crone, nothing. But to a master hunter, everything…

Somewhere, Benmelo knew, closing his eyes and dragging his blankets up to his nose, was a cave or a crevice or a gaping maw leading to a deep, dark place, well away from iron in any quantity. And there would he find a mystic anvil, a mystic forge, and perhaps still a mystic forge-man, hammering out the Urlakken, summoning the demon from the deep dark and into the light. And doubtless a Carmbech nearby, for the sending of the creature out into the world of men, there to wreak havoc.

There was only one Carmbech marked on his map which he had yet to visit, and it was nestled in the foothills on the very edge of the Sixth Concentric, at the eastern end of the Highbarre Range. There may be others, he knew, and there might be any number out in the seventh wilds. But somewhere, far from iron and close to a deep, dark place, was a mystic Urlakken Forge, and a filthy demon-dealing wizard of the Bandavinor…

He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, to the sound of rain, and Ladyloon’s breathing.

The rain had stopped by the time he woke up, and it was cold and damp in the alcove. The mare had taken herself off to the lush grasses at the end of the Lodgings, and the canvas curtain had been left open from where she’d pushed through, explaining the chill.

Ben rose, stiff and aching from sleeping on the flat stone slab, and though he felt better for sleep, still he felt distant, slightly apart from the world around him while he rolled his blankets and tied them in place at the bottom of his pack. Kalmandarath, he thought, wishing he’d never heard the Glading word. He didn’t even know what it actually meant, and simply assumed that child of two worlds was Elithene Tuammaneth’s translation of it.

But thinking of her reminded him of that single pearl of Hurna’s wisdom which Tawn had taught so often, and which the crone herself had uttered: Behold the moment, for the moment is your life; all else is history and gone, or future yet to be, and both of those are dreams.

It was true. Blindingly simple but true nonetheless. He understood too why she’d said it, to stop him wasting his life wondering about the past and his birth, and to stop him wondering about the future, about Glading prophecies, and the Kalmandarath’s part, his part, in them.

There was only now. And he was Benmelo, Master Hunter, once of Breeyanshar. And when all else is said and done, he thought, that’s all that barkin’ matters!

Panjalgernon had hit the nail on the head with his assertion the night before. Ben was still Ben, that’s all. And piggin’ bollocks to the rest of it!

Yet, he still felt strangely tarnished, like Sheervanna’s belt-buckle. He was different. Perhaps he’d always known it or felt it, but he certainly felt it now. For all Hurna’s lore, he knew he’d never feel the same way about himself as once he had. The crone of the Kaldisserai had changed him forever, as though the uttering of the word Kalmandarath had been the chanting of spell…

With a final check on the contents of his pack, and the contents were mostly food and spare clothing, he slung it into place, and picked up his cloak. His? Well, he’d claimed it as his own, anyway. The cloak, like all the arrows in his quiver, his canister, and the other tubs on Mule’s back, had been acquired from the Barre Hills tower in the north.

And besides, like the small silver and iron bricks lifted along the way by Panjalgernon and Sambal Arlock, the cloaks and any other items of clothing had from the north were nothing more than guild-debt owed to the three men who’d opened the bloody Orefield Road. He was a Master of Hurna’s guild, after all, and guild law demanded payment or recompense in kind for a master’s services.

On the upturned barrel which served as both a seat and as a table there was a small sack, and a small bottle. Weak ‘glade wine in the bottle, and food in the sack. Enough for one mouth for one day, the alms doled out every evening to all petitioners on court business, or to the poor seeking charitable shelter and sustenance through the dark winter months. Ben hooked his bow to his belt, donned his cloak and secured it in place, and with his hat jammed tight upon his head, picked up the sack and bottle, and left the empty alcove behind him.

Oy, he called, before pushing through the curtain into Panjalgernon’s lodging and feigning good humour. Wake up, Fat-boy. Got a Shreev’s arse to kick.

Fark off, Paj groaned from under his blankets, which were many, and most of them liberated from the northern tower. It’s still dark! And who you callin’ Fat-boy, Cat-Mandrake?

Ben couldn’t help his sudden snort of genuine laughter at the surprising insult. What?

That thing you said the old witch called you, Paj yawned.

Kalmandarath. And thanks so very much for reminding me. I’d just about convinced myself I’d forgotten all that bollocks.

Aye, like I’d convinced meself I’d forgotten the Shreev of Sennenglade. I was having a lovely dream too. Tay made me a wonderful hat. Bright yellow and purple, warm and furry and waterproof. I was just getting to thank her properly for it too when you blundered in, farkin’ Cat-Mandrake ballbag.

Mule’s up at the well with Ladyloon, No-name, and poor old Two-socks. Get up, Paj. We’re leaving. I’ve had enough of this place.

Aye, me too. Go wake Arlock. I’m up, honest.

Ben left the curtains parted to let in the chill of the dank and dreary pre-dawn air, and strode to the next alcove.

Oy, Sambal.

Aye, Benmelo, I heard you, believe it or not. Pulling me manky old boots on now. Need the outhouse, so see you in a bit, aye?

Aye, then.

On the way up the slope and back past Panjalgernon’s alcove, Ben put the sack of food and the bottle of wine on the ground next to his friend’s supplies.

Stick that on Mule, Paj?

Aye, Ben. Back in a bit, want to get to the outhouse before piggin’ Arlock does! and with that, the portly Panjalgernon pushed past the master hunter and scurried away into the gloom.

oOo

4. A New Job of Journeywork

There’ll probably be angry faces all over the piggin’ place, Ben. You know what Gladings are like.

Yes I do, Benmelo agreed, mounted on Ladyloon’s back and leading the way down the greensward, heading for the gate to the path which led all the way to the Pavilion at Nerrenglade’s southern tree line. And I don’t care.

Arlock sniffed, riding alongside Panjalgernon.

What’s up with you? Paj asked. Ben wants to leave early, not wait around for hours for the Gladewatch to arrive and escort us out.

It’s cold! Can’t a bloke bloody sniff when it’s cold and manky and damp? Lucky it didn’t snow in the night. Might well’ve done too back there at the Eyrie.

Don’t care now, Panjalgernon sighed. Once I’ve got my new hat, weather can do what it piggin’ likes. By now Tay and the tower rove will be safe and sound in Norrestaven, winterfishing too most likely. Big fresh saltwater fishes. Fish as big as boats, roasting on a spit. Well, not quite as big as boats, obviously, but big. Big enough to go on a spit. Fish as big as a pig, maybe…

Paj.

Ben?

Babbling.

Sorry. Only this is Nerrenglade and there’s that gate where I got on Mule’s back for the very first time. What day was that, Ben?

August the thirteenth.

Hmm, thirty days hath September… It’s the ninth of October now isn’t it?

Yes.

Let me see, thirty… eighteen… Hmmfty… fifty-seven days. Fifty-seven days since I first rode Mule and here we are again. Only last time, we had that Gladewatch escort and them all telling us what would happen if we stepped off the bloody path. And here’s us, wandering off on our own, in the middle of piggin’ Nerrenglade.

As long as we stay on the path we should be all right. Besides, there were no raven-slaves on the roof of the Lodgings like last time. I think any wizards still here in Nerrenglade are too busy fearing for themselves to waste time watching the petitioners through birds’ eyes.

Birds eyes? Arlock muttered, eyebrows arching.

Aye, bloody feathered watchmen, Paj declared, Like that condor back at the tower. And he commenced to relating the tale of how Benmelo had discovered the poor enslaved minion-birds here in the Lodgings, and released each and every one of them.

He was still telling the tale of Krokok and Althane Scarface when Ben opened the gate and ushered his friends and the packhorse through, closing the gate behind them.

Southgate closed, he muttered, mimicking the Gladewatch guardsman who’d uttered such a call the last time he and Panjalgernon had travelled this route. Then he had Ladyloon trot forward past the pair, upped the pace a little, and led the way down the path towards the Pavilion, humming a melody for the pleasure of his faithful four-legged friend.

A couple of hours after sunrise found them walking briskly, breaths pluming, and still no sign of enraged guardsmen pursuing. Nor had there been any sign of Gladings following their progress, but Benmelo had felt sure eyes had marked their passing, back where the scents of a large pond or small lake had coloured the breezes.

Beefsticks for brekkie, Arlock sighed over the sounds of boots and hooves on the well-beaten track. And fer lunch and din-dins too, I shouldn’t wonder. Least until we get to Nerreston. Reckon we’ll get there afore nightfall, Benmelo?

We would need to pass straight through the Waitings at the end of this road, and out through the Pavilion. Then it’s close to twenty-five miles to Nerreston, south of the hills. Only eleven hours in a day now, but yes, we should reach Nerreston by nightfall. Unless the Gladings or the Gladewatch oppose our leaving.

Piggin’ wonderful. You’ve given up the job of talisman of hope now we’re back in the rings?

Tharrin Callardson must look to himself for hope now. He’s bound to this place. I doubt we’ll see him again.

Shame, Arlock mumbled through a mouthful of beefstick. Seemed a nice bloke.

He shouldn’t have threatened to kill Tay.

He didn’t, Paj.

Well it sounded like it to me.

If it’d meant saving the rings from the Bandavinor, he’d have killed any one of us, or all three. You should’ve understood that by now, Paj. He sent us into Orefield alone, after all. I don’t think he was expecting any of us to survive that particular adventure.

Paj sniffed. Nice to see you back to being your normal ballbaggy self, Ben.

In truth, Benmelo had become much more his old self once the journey along the petitioner’s road to the Pavilion had begun. He’d given himself over to his senses, remaining as alert as ever he’d been on the Orefield Road in the north. His memories of Nerrenglade had never been good ones, and nothing had happened in the last week to alter his opinion of the place.

We’ll be staying in the town fer the night then, Arlock asserted.

Fish and chips, Panjalgernon sighed.

And yer new hat, sir Paj. Don’t forget yer new hat. Though whether you’d want that smellin’ o’ vinegar and fish ‘n’ chips, I dunno.

Why the pigginell would it smell of fish and chips?

You know how the smell gets on everything. I always reckoned it were the vinegar responsible… what?

It smells?

Aye! Fishy-wedgies, we used to call ‘em. Battered fish and wedges o’ spud, deep-fried. All sprinkled with salt, aye and with vinegar, and a splodgin’ o’ tart-arse sauce.

For the second time that morning, Benmelo couldn’t hold in a loud snort of laughter.

What? Arlock demanded. What did I say?

"It’s tartar sauce, Ben chuckled. It’s made with eggs and oil and lemon juice and herbs."

Swot I said, Arlock sniffed. And aye it smells, sir Paj, has a smell all of its own, makes yer mouth water at a mile and yer eyes water up close. You’ve never had fishy-wedgies? Fish ‘n’ chips?

No. We never had fresh fish in Stonehill Shade.

"Aye well, my advice then? Get yer new hat after eatin’ yer fishy-wedgies, and after washing yer ‘ands with good old-fashioned coal-tar soap. Even that might not be enough."

Does it really smell that bad? Ben?

The master hunter shrugged. "Bern’s kitchen used to serve