‘You are the one named T’riss, aren’t you? The Azathanai.’
They traversed a twisted track flanked by sheer walls of raw limestone. After fifteen or so wending paces, the path suddenly opened out into a hollow, the level floor of which was crowded with shards of stone, many pieces of which seemed to bear mortar. A broad but low cave-mouth interrupted one of the high walls.
Threadbare studied the scene with narrow eyes. ‘That was sealed,’ she said. ‘It’s a crypt, isn’t it?’
T’riss faced the cave, one finger pressed to her lips. ‘A crypt? Why, yes, I suppose it was. Hence the corpse interred within.’
‘Dog-Runner?’
She glanced across at Threadbare, fine brows lifting. ‘Dog-Runner. Robust, are they not? Broad and strong, thick-boned, a heavy, projecting face, with ever so mild eyes of blue or grey?’ She shook her head. ‘No, not a Dog-Runner.’
Threadbare had begun shivering. ‘I need to get inside. I need to build a fire.’
‘There is one already built. A crack leading up takes the smoke, not that there is much smoke. The bones were very old, I think, to burn so readily.’
‘Azathanai,’ Threadbare said in a mutter, ‘you move awkwardly in this world of ours.’
Inside the shelter of the cave, just beyond a sharp bend, Threadbare found the hearth that T’riss had made, and saw a thigh bone threaded with cracked white, black and the orange gleam of fierce heat, resting athwart the ring of stones. The thigh bone, Threadbare saw, was as thick as her upper arm, and nearly of a length to match that of her shoulder to her fingertips.
‘No,’ she said as T’riss came in behind her, ‘not a Dog-Runner.’
Upon the track left behind, the carcass of the horse shimmered again, bleaching every hue, and a moment later the animal coughed, and then scrambled unsteadily upright, upon legs suddenly hale. The blood flecking its nostrils was already frozen, and no new blood rode the even breaths the beast now took as it stood, momentarily shivering, ears flicking and head turning as it searched for its rider.
But the woman was gone, and the saddle had been removed, left lying on the trail. Even the bit had been drawn from the horse’s mouth.
It could smell snow on the wind.
Sudden thoughts of its warm stable, back in the safe confines of Manaleth Keep, urged the beast into motion. A steady canter, upon a path firm and certain, the purchase of every hoof unquestioned, would take it home before dusk.
* * *
With the wind howling, it was no wonder that it took some time before her pounding against the door elicited a response. A shutter opened, a face pressing into the gap to squint at her.
‘In the name of mercy,’ she shouted, ‘I seek sanctuary!’
The eyes studied her – the ratty wolf furs she’d wrapped about herself, the rags making bulky mittens covering her hands, the ice-studded woollen cloth covering the lower half of her face. Then the gaze shifted past her, searching to either side.
‘I’m alone! Alone, and frozen near to death!’
The face withdrew, and then she heard heavy latches being drawn. A moment later the door swung inward. Hunched against the wind, she slipped through.
Within the gatehouse, one monk stood before a second, inner door, while another now pushed shut the outer door.
Brushing clumsily at the shards of ice crusting her cloak, she said, ‘My hands have lost all feeling.’
‘Winter welcomes no one,’ the first monk said, setting the latches once more. ‘You are foolish to travel.’
‘My horse slipped, broke a leg.’
‘You are pale,’ said the second monk, even as he thumped on the inner door, which opened in answer. In the courtyard beyond stood a child swathed in woollen robes, holding a lantern, its light fighting feebly against the night.
‘Frostbitten, I’d wager,’ she replied, shuffling into the gap of the second doorway, where she paused to squint at the second monk.
‘Too even in tone for—’ began the man.
The knife-point pushed through the rags wrapped about Lieutenant Esk’s hand, driving up beneath the monk’s chin. As the man toppled back into the arms of his fellow, Esk reached out with her other hand, and a second knife hammered into the side of the child’s head. Releasing her grip on that weapon, she leapt to close with the first monk, thrusting with the knife, filling his left eye socket with cold iron, burying it to the hilt.
Letting go of that weapon as well, Esk hurried to the outer door and pulled up the latches. She leaned against the portal until it swung free.