Suvau barely avoided being cloven in two as an enormous sword hammered on his shield, the blows strong enough to knock him back but he dug his heels in, refusing to move. He allowed the battering to continue for a moment until he’d caught his breath then suddenly thrust forward, throwing his attacker off his body, heaving his mace through the air, bringing it down on the other man’s shield. It shattered into splinters and the man, with dark blonde dreadlocks in a knot on his head, slumped to his knee, defeated.

  Suvau, breathing heavily, tilted his head back and let out a bellow and almost glared at the overseer of the match, a heavy set gentleman with black fur around his shoulders and a mane of brown and grey dreadlocks around his tanned face.

  Slowly he clapped, shaking his head.

  Suvau threw the mace and shield aside.

  The man said something incomprehensible.

  “You will not be so fortunate one of these days.” Caste announced from the sidelines.

  Suvau chuckled. “One of these days…” He turned to his opponent and offered his hand, pulling him to his feet and slapped his arm. “Good match.”

  “Good match.” The young man returned in a thick accent.

  Suvau blew out and walked out of the fighting space, rolling his shoulder, to where Judd, Verne, Caste and Giordi were waiting for him.

  “Good match.” Giordi mimicked.

  “One of these days you’re going to seriously hurt one of your challengers and then we’ll see just how fearsome these nomads can be.” Judd laughed.

  “If they challenge me, then it’s their own fault.” Suvau returned. “Yolana didn’t see the match, did she?”

  “She’s helping Emeri at the stream, washing clothes.”

  “Good,” Suvau used his tunic to wipe his face, “I might duck downstream and scrape off some of this sweat or else I’ll get another lecture about how I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Why not use the washing barrel?” Verne pointed at the large barrels of water where the nomads went to wash their faces. They all paused and stared at the man who had climbed into one of the barrels, the height of it just reaching the line of his hips, his hands scrubbing at his body. “Oh…right…”

  “Ugh…” Caste moaned. “I think I prefer goblin urine.”

  Judd was inclined to agree, shuddering. Suvau winked and headed off to the stream.

  Caste hovered nearby.

  “I can almost hear you thinking, Caste. What is it?”

  “I was just wondering…how long are we going to be camping with these…nomads?”

  “And for a moment I thought you were going to call them savages.” Verne muttered, pulling a fur around his body. The air was going icy as evening fell and on the steppelands, the wind was as lazy as it was cold with very few landmasses to halt it. It was endless, rolling hills and plains, dry earth, rocky ground and grass that rattled rather than whispered when shivering in the wind.

  “I wouldn’t dare.” Caste retorted, looking around fearfully at the nomads who milled about the campsite, going about their usual duties.

  “Because you don’t think they are?” Judd raised an eyebrow as it was not the impression Caste had given them.

  “Because I think more of them speak the cultured language of Astaril than they make out.”

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  “They need to know enough to communicate when taking their horses to forts to sell.” Giordi admitted. “They’re probably used to the insults by now.” He clapped his hand on Caste’s shoulder. “Come on. The chief will want a melody at dinner and you’re my interpreter.”

  Caste moaned, half dragged along. “More mead and meat…”

  “I like it.” Judd chuckled, joining them with Verne falling into step. “I don’t speak their language, I don’t know half of what’s going on and honestly, I’ve probably been threatened and betrothed several times at these evening meals…but I’m more comfortable with the nomads than I ever was at a knight’s table.”

  “And you don’t have to dress for supper. Just turn up, half naked and no one bats an eye.” Verne laughed.

  “I think that says more about the rest of you than it does about them.” Caste groused, following them towards chief’s tent where the food was being prepared. “I don’t want another hangover!”

  “Then don’t drink!”

  “I have to drink to swallow the food!”

  Judd closed his eyes, chuckling to himself. When he opened them he spied Aalis walking across the campsite. In the softening light as the sun set, sending streaks of gold glancing off the underside of the clouds, her dreadlocks were almost gilded and her complexion, soft and warm. She had somewhere to go so didn’t see Judd’s warm smile which happened whenever he did see her. Giordi saw it and wiggled his eyebrows. Judd sighed and shook his head, following the line of men heading for the main tent.

  Aalis approached a smaller tent. All the fabric was heavily embroidered, thickening the material to keep out the howling winds of the steppelands. The flaps that provided access had toggles to keep the cold air out. Aalis undid two then made sure to fasten them again before turning around to see a mother sitting by her son’s side, dabbing his forehead. The boy was only about seven years old with a mop of tangled blond hair and a pained expression. He was sitting up, dozing, his right arm resting in a sling across his chest.

  “How is he?” Aalis asked, speaking slowly.

  The mother, wearing a shawl draped over her hair and robes of dark red, listened carefully, her eyes highlighted with dark kohl, causing the dusky blue of them to appear even deeper than without.

  “He…warm,” she paused, frowning, “small.”

  “The fever is lessening.” Aalis nodded, kneeling by his side. “May I?”

  The mother nodded and Aalis took off her right glove and laid it across his forehead. She closed her eyes then sat back and smiled.

  “Fever is low.” She nodded encouragingly at the mother. “Good boy.” The mother was relieved and looked at her son lovingly. He opened his eyes. Aalis wiggled her fingers at him and he did the same back. Aalis took his hand and gently felt up the length of his arm. “It is setting well.” She mused. “Next round moon…good.” She looked at the boy. “No play until round moon.”

  He nodded and Aalis didn’t doubt that he would be watching the fullness of the moon increase every night, counting down until he could play again. She smiled reassuringly at the mother whose name, as far as Aalis could make out, was Nieves. There was a significant language barrier between the primary of Astaril’s inhabitants and the nomads who had resisted all attempts to ‘civilise’ them. Because they never ventured further north than Quarre and even then, only if they had to, the kings of Astaril let them be.

  Nieves grasped Aalis’ hand before she could rise and pressed it to her forehead. Aalis allowed her to do so, knowing that she was showing her gratitude then left the tent. Outside the air was crisp and icy. She shivered, heading towards the tent she and the others had been allowed to stay in. Yolana was just hanging some washing on a line and Aalis hurried to help her.

  “My fingers are like ice.” She shivered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the clothes ended up frozen before they had a chance to dry.”

  Aalis agreed. There was no mercy in the chill in the air. Winter was bearing down upon them and in the steppelands, it was as hard as the ground it frosted.

  “I thought Emeri was helping you.” Aalis pegged a shirt on the line.

  “I sent her inside.” Yolana explained.

  “Is she unwell?”

  Yolana sighed and closed her eyes. “She…she will not speak with me. She is holding what happened tightly in her heart. Suvau and I are frightened of leaving her alone but I am aware that we are probably smothering her by always being by her side…”

  “You sent her into the tent, knowing she would be safe in there and have some space.” Aalis bit her bottom lip. “Yolana…Caste is certain Jerom did not have his way with Emeri.”

  “But with the concussion he suffered…I have seen the doubt in his eyes.” Yolana admitted.

  Aalis had as well but hadn’t wanted to confess to it. The blow to Caste’s head had made his recollection of the event as blurred as his vision had been. They finished pegging the clothes on the line and headed for the tent flap. Aalis, worrying her bottom lip, grasped Yolana’s arm before she could enter.

  “What if I spoke with her?”

  “Would you?” Yolana’s warm, dark skinned complexion was drawn and worried. “I would welcome any confirmation just to know…I keep imagining the worst…”

  Aalis took her hand and squeezed it, nodding. “We are due in Nieves’ tent soon for the evening meal. I will see if Emeri and I cannot slip away early and talk in our tent before the men come back.”

  Yolana gave a weak laugh. “Even if they were in the tent with you, there is a good chance they’d be too inebriated to hear a word you said.”