Kellanved's Reach

A half-moon later they had reached so high into the foothills of the Fenn Range that the cart was of no more use. Her escort packed her remaining supplies on to Bright’s back.

‘You are bound to continue, then?’ Orren asked.

She took hold of Bright’s lead. ‘Yes.’

The youth – perhaps no older than she – eyed the heights dubiously. ‘There are things up in these lands that would care nothing for your … friends.’

‘Monsters, you mean?’ she asked, half-teasing.

He set his jaws. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘All the same.’

He sighed, eyed the distant snowy peaks once more. ‘Perhaps we should …’

‘No. Return to Tolth. Tell her what you have seen.’ The youth’s jaws worked. ‘I have my escort,’ she offered.

He sighed again, his hands clenching. ‘Very well. It is not for me to interfere.’

‘Fare well, then. And my thanks.’ Leaning forward and up, she kissed him on the cheek. The lad blushed a very livid red. His troop burst into laughter, quietening only when he glared.

She raised a hand to them all. ‘Fare thee well, children of the plains!’

Turning, she pulled on Bright’s lead, and started climbing. Her companions soared above, circling higher and higher, eager, it seemed, to feel the fierce winds of the heights.

Chapter 13

Dancer followed Kellanved through Shadow. The geography of this particular region was one of dry washes, steep canyons, and twisting erosional gullies that cut through multicoloured layers of compressed sands and gravels. They were rushing, but the quickest the seemingly aged mage could manage was a frustratingly slow shuffle. His patience with his partner near exhausted, Dancer asked again, ‘Is it there?’

‘I believe so,’ Kellanved answered, though his tone said he wasn’t certain.

They were searching for a gate – a permanent constructed archway, or portal, call it what you will, that allowed access to other Realms, other places. They had come across a few such ancient constructs during their explorations of Shadow, and Kellanved was leading them towards the nearest he could recall.

As they hurried, or rather limped, along, Dancer asked, ‘So, carrying one of these items while passing through one of these active arches – this should take us to the Imass Warren … or Realm?’

‘Not usually, I think,’ the mage puffed in answer, winded despite merely scurrying along. ‘I’ll have to have my Warren up and working on it. It must be deliberate … I think.’

So, not a sure thing. It sounded to Dancer a bit like trying to pick a lock. Then the last thing he wanted to hear echoed through the surrounding canyonlands – the deep hunting bay of the Hounds. He and Kellanved froze and exchanged glances. His was one of narrowed questioning, Kellanved’s of surprised alarm, quickly veiled.

‘I thought you had these things in hand,’ Dancer accused him.

Kellanved was tapping his fingertips together. ‘Ah, of course! Certainly … I believe so.’

Dancer snarled at the man’s prevarication and drew his heaviest parrying gauches. He urged Kellanved onward. ‘Keep going.’

They shuffled on, Dancer with a hand at Kellanved’s back, pushing him forward, all the while glancing about. He spotted the beasts soon enough; they had them surrounded. Two on sand ridges ahead, the other two blocking either end of the gully they traversed. Growling his frustration, he halted, put his back to Kellanved. ‘What do you think?’ he demanded over his shoulder. ‘Have they come for us?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Wonderful.’

The beasts let out one last howl that shook stones from the steep eroding canyon walls, then came on. One was the larger, dirty-white female – possibly the matron of the pack – the others were the lean brown one, the tawny one, and the muscular black one, so dark as to be a shiny blue.

The black hound approached, its muzzle lowered, head close to the ground, eyes blazing differing colours: a hot amber and a bright cerulean blue. Closer now, Dancer made out the fresh splashing of blood upon it, gaping cuts at shoulders and head, and patches of torn fur.

The others halted a good few paces distant and seemed content to just glare, their great broad chests working, their black lips drawn back.

Crouched, weapons raised, Dancer glanced from one to the other, uncertain. Then, silently, without a sound, they turned as one and bounded off. Dancer eased up from his ready stance. He turned to Kellanved, his gaze narrow. ‘Did you do something?’

The mage lowered his gaze and fiddled with his walking stick. ‘Well, I may have let them know about Jadeen, and—’

‘You sicked them on Jadeen!’

The mock-elderly Dal Hon winced, his greying brows crimping. ‘Not exactly – well, sort of. Kind of. I guess. Yes.’

‘You should not have done that.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘You saw them! I’m sure they came here to let you know they were not happy.’ Dancer kicked at the dry dusty ground. ‘Do that again and you might lose them.’

Kellanved looked to the iron-grey sky. ‘Well, what ever else are they for then, pray tell?’

‘Pick an easier target! Let them taste some blood – that was the deal, yes?’