Kellanved's Reach

The elder nodded at the justice of the question. He pointed the mace to his chest. ‘It is I, Imotan, shaman of the White Jackal, who judges. You outlanders push in upon us with impunity. And though we do all that we can to drive you from our lands, game becomes scarce. Hunger stalks our encampments. It is not how things used to be in my forefathers’ time.’ He extended the mace, pointing to Kellanved. ‘Push us no longer, outlander. You may not like where we go.’

Kellanved raised his arms, walking stick in one hand. ‘We are not here to trouble your lands, Imotan. But we are here searching for something.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘This.’ Kellanved flicked his raised hand and the brown flint spear-point appeared between thumb and forefinger.

The elder shaman stared for a moment, squinting, then he did something that made Dancer thoroughly uneasy. The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. And it did not end there; he continued laughing, even pressing the mace to his side as if in pain from his mirth. The rest of the troop joined in then, adding their scorn-tinged merriment.

Dancer and Kellanved shared a bemused look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kellanved began, ‘but perhaps you would care to enlighten us …?’

Wiping his eyes, and still chuckling, Imotan waved an invitation for them to continue onward. ‘Be our guests, little ones. Do quest onwards. Your efforts will be rewarded – I am certain of that.’ He circled his mace in the air and the troop pulled away as one, cantering off. Imotan followed.

‘But wait!’ Kellanved called after them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I guess he means us to find out,’ Dancer mused as they watched the Seti riders diminish across the hillside.

‘Yes. But find out what, hey?’

‘That’s what’s worrying me.’

Kellanved eyed the spear-point. ‘Well, it can’t be too far. I’m fairly certain of that.’

‘I like this even less now.’

The mage stabbed his walking stick to the ground, impatient. ‘Yes, yes. We’ll be careful.’

You mean

I’ll be careful, Dancer answered silently.

Kellanved set off, grumbling to himself. Dancer followed, now even more vigilant – scanning the surroundings, hands on his weapons. As the afternoon waned, he warned, ‘Not much light left. We should halt for the day.’

Kellanved rolled his eyes in exaggerated vexation. ‘Here? But we are close! I’m certain.’

‘All the more reason to wait till morning.’

‘Really?’

Dancer gave a slow stern nod. The mage’s skinny shoulders slumped.

‘Oh – very well.’ He sat unceremoniously in the grass.

‘No fire tonight,’ Dancer warned.

Kellanved slanted his walking stick so that he could set his chin upon it, and regarded Dancer through one cocked eye. ‘There is no one nearby. I would sense it.’

‘None the less.’

The mage snorted, glaring. Dancer ignored him, and scanned a full circle of the nearby hillsides. Perhaps there was no threat. Yet why the laughter? What did Imotan know that he and Kellanved did not? It was worrying.

A chill wind buffeted him and lashed the tall dry grasses. He reflected that for all its starkness, the land did hold a certain sort of harsh beauty. It was immense, seeming to stretch on for ever. Yet he did not feel diminished by it. In fact he rather felt at home. Which was strange, as he was city bred and born.

That night he slept poorly, jerking awake to see Kellanved still sitting, seemingly staring off into the distance – or fast asleep upright. At dawn’s first light he rose, stretching and circling his arms for warmth. The two of them ate a cold meal of salted meat, dried bread and watered wine, then set off once more, the mage leading the way.

Their route took them to a broad crested hill and here Kellanved paused. ‘The other side, I believe,’ he whispered. Dancer nodded and the pair climbed. Before reaching the top they crouched among the tall windswept grasses to shimmy forward until they could see what lay beyond.

It was a broad valley that ran more or less east–west. A dried riverbed of pale gravel and stone wended its way down the centre.

‘I see no one,’ Dancer said.

Kellanved grunted his agreement. ‘But it’s there – whatever it is.’

‘There’s nothing there.’

The mage waved for silence. ‘I tell you it’s there. I can sense it.’

Dancer eyed his partner dubiously. He wondered once again whether something was wrong with the lad – that is, beyond all the wrongness he knew about already.

Kellanved’s beady eyes slid to him and narrowed. ‘Don’t look at me that way.’ And he rose, brushed the dust from his travel-worn jacket and trousers, and set off down the hillside.

Dancer followed, heavy daggers drawn, circling warily.

They reached the valley floor and still nothing had risen from the rocks or bushes to attack them; nor was there any structure or ruin in evidence. Clouds of dragonflies did arise, though, as they pushed through the grasses. Dancer mused that they must be the last of the season.

He kicked up against rocks hidden by the thick brush and stands of grass. Looking down, he noticed something else lying among the stones and picked it up.