The wind brought the cold, sharp tang of the ocean, and as the sun rose, the clear sky gave the first hope that might just escape the damp, cold clutches of the Halfstone Ranges.
The thought brought little comfort to Riot. He felt a constant ache in the smallest parts of his body, behind his eyeballs, and in between the knuckles of his fingers. He felt bloated even as his skin slackened. With a deep breath he drew the ley power through his body to his core, then crushed the mass of gray power that lurked behind his navel. When he couldn’t hold it any longer, it flooded out; its nature transformed from liquid fire to something more like molten steel being poured into a mold.
He was keeping ahead of it, he was sure. A few more days and he would find his boat and be back in Helgan’s Rest.
The file halted with much cursing and complaining. Riot moved forward to see why and found Moran and Quinn engaged in a heated conversation.
“The snow is already melting. We should take the pass.” Quinn stabbed a finger at the map that Moran held, and her hand trembled for a moment before she snatched it away.
It wasn’t just her shaking hands; large bags under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion. Riot had sat on the perimeter of their camp until he saw the southern sky begin to lighten and had not seen Quinn return to the camp, so where had she been all night?
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“A question of direction, Sergeant, nothing to be concerned about,” Moran replied, his brow furrowed as he studied a map.
“We’re lost,” Quinn said.
“Miss Quinn, I value your expertise, but if the pass is still blocked we will have to backtrack and our journey will be longer. Perhaps if you told me the reason that you require such haste?” Moran replied.
Quinn's lips formed a thin line, and she crossed her arms.
“I thought not,” Moran continued. “We will move south until we meet the road that leads us to a priory close to Morbian. We can rest there before moving into the city.” He patted his horse's neck. “You will finally be able to ease my aching calves, won’t you?”
Riot pulled out Riley’s map, but it wasn’t much use as the hills all looked the same to him. He knew where the ocean was because he could smell it, but what good was that? He needed to be able to sniff out a city.
Lehan was hanging about, stealing glances at the map, and Riot thrust it at him. “Tell me where we are.”
The bookish Leybound handled the map like it was some ancient relic and peered at it carefully before pointing. “Here.”
“You’re sure?”
Lehan looked offended, and Riot grunted. No one who looked like Lehan didn’t know how to use a map.
Riot traced his finger back to the village where he thought the small village was, then followed the route around on the road.
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“How long would it take a company of mounted men to get all the way around?” he said, speaking more to himself.
“Three days?” Lehan answered.
“Two if they rode the horses to death.” Without knowing what they wanted, Riot couldn’t say how desperate they might be to get it.
“We’re taking the pass.” Riot declared, folding the map.
Moran blinked and gave a polite smile. “Sergeant, I believe you just heard me say we will take the road.”
“Because your legs are sore and you’re sick of sleeping outside. But a group of horsemen who killed a whole village are on that road. If they catch us, they’ll run us down.”
Their conversation had started to draw attention, and Moran cleared his throat and folded his map. “You do not have to fear them, Sergeant, we have almost fifty stalwart men.”
“But you only have twenty two fighters. They’ll have relays posted, changing horses to call their main force back when they see us,” Riot said as if explaining to a child.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because that’s what I’d do. They’re hunting us. But perhaps I’m wrong, and they aren’t interested in us after all. Perhaps when we see them, you can ask them nicely, and they’ll lend us some of their horses. Then me and all the lads can rest our legs and ride along with you, all the way to your nice castle.”
Behind him, Lehan turned a laugh into a hasty cough.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Moran's face before he rallied and turned it into a beaming smile. “Then we will take the pass. Let's get moving. To the rear, Sergeant Riot.”
It had only been a moment, but it was enough for the others to see that Moran had no idea what he was doing.
Both Riot and Quinn glared at Moran’s back as he made his way to the front of the group.
“You didn’t ask Moran for help, and you’re not dead,” she said.
“That your version of a compliment, is it?”
“I don’t compliment stubbornness.”
“Moran won’t tell me the truth, and until he does, I’ll not owe him a thing.”
“You’re putting us all at risk by doing this, and the others know it. They’ve seen it before. Fletcher managed to survive for a year without spellcraft.”
Riot recalled the old sailor had tried to speak with him the night before. “You told him to help me?”
“I told him nothing. But it might help if you looked at them like men instead of criminals.”
“Let them bloody stew for all I care.”
“Then you will die before we reach the city.”
The miserable day wore on, but despite Quinn's grave warning, Riot could feel that the cycling of the leypower was working. There was pain and discomfort, and the concentration he had to keep on the barrier and the care he took with the hedron scar on his hand were maddening. But being out here marching brought the comfort of the familiar, and he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
Having Quinn walk with him didn’t hurt his mood either. Her hard exterior hadn’t cracked, but it had softened. She no longer sneered at him, and looking back, he realized she’d actually been trying to help him. First with the ley lines, but also with the men, and she seemed to dislike Moran as much as he did. She was certainly the only member of the group that didn’t look at him with outright hostility, and she was easy on the eye, even if she was so far out of his league that she might as well be floating a mile above him.
In the late afternoon, Moran called a halt, and half of their small company moved to the river's edge to collect water. What had begun as a small trickle of meltwater, high in the hills, was now a raging river that had carved a ravine fifty feet wide with steep, sloping walls.
Riot surveyed the rocky slopes that rose up on either side of their group. They had come much further than he had realized and would soon be free of the hills, which put them close to the road, perhaps too close to the road.
Riot stopped stock still, searching the high ridges around them. His instincts had been screaming at him, but he hadn't been listening, and now, as he turned full circle to peer back up the ravine, he saw a flicker of movement among the rocks.
