<So we go via the cliff, add about forty-five minutes, an hour tops. I know it’s not what you want, but it’s called making the best of a bad situation.> Brice could imagine Cathal grinning. <It’s not like the rain’s going to make us any wetter.>
Ryann walked into the forest. Brice took one last look over the river. He could not see any sign of the Proteus. The river had claimed it.
Then he turned, and followed the others into the trees.
<Ryann, tell me how we’re doing.>
<Keelin’s withdrawing, Tris is holding up so far. Brice is…Brice.> That wasn’t anywhere near an adequate description, and she knew it. <And you’re hiding, as usual.>
<It’s called doing the job. What about you?>
<I’m fine.> Although, in truth, Ryann hadn’t given her own feelings much thought. Like Cathal, she had a job to do. The crew were her priority, and now she had to lead them safely through the forest. She had no time for emotions.
<You always are.> There was a hint of a rebuke in Cathal’s words, but she’d let that pass. <How’s the path?>
<Warth territory,> she answered, knowing just what he needed to hear. <Picking up signals of cubs, so there’s a nest nearby. Many old trails, but a couple of fresh ones. This weather’s not helping analysis.>
<Nothing we haven’t seen before.>
That was almost encouragement, although she couldn’t decipher if he was referring to the weather or the warths.
The forest was rich with trails, crossing through the undergrowth. One tasted of old age, with the flavour of decay waiting to pounce, a taste that Ryann had learnt to associate with death. That wasn’t always a bad thing, though, and she reminded herself that all things died. She could picture the old warth, curling up one last time, its fur tinged with grey where the pelt grew thin and wiry. Ryann could imagine it closing its eyes and taking a final breath.
Even beasts deserved their peace.
But there were younger trails too, of warths in their prime. And the cubs. Ryann spotted abandoned nests against thick tree trunks, the gathered branches now discarded in lazy heaps.
She guided them along the most sensible path, keeping clear of the denser undergrowth. This felt like an abandoned warth track, from the way the creepers spread across the ground. She stored details of the plant life as a matter of course—the thick, waxy leaves of the garithus, the almond-scented tendrils of corrack-grass—but only took active interest when the data told her something. Like the patches of Fingol’s lichen that appeared on trees to their right. That told her those tree-roots did not run as deep, and that in turn spoke of rockier soil.
Ryann guided the crew, using the lichen to aim for the cliff. The warth-trails would be thinner there. They were creatures of the forest, and although they were adept at climbing trees, their claws didn’t grip to rock.
The trees stopped some five metres back, leaving an uneven path of mud, moss and rock. Scattered branches reached up to brush the cliff, and rain fell in a fine, penetrating drizzle. Water coated the rock, too, and she brushed it with her hand, even though it was not a living thing, and so would always be cold to her. Yet she analysed, following cracks and bulges, and spotting what might be an opening to a cave about twenty metres up.
The top of the cliff was beyond her view, and was of no concern to Ryann. She focused on the trees, where a few warth trails still ran.
Cathal sussed to the others, using tight communication but letting her receive. That gave her distance to analyse the communication. Tris’ confidence was only skin-deep, but Cathal focused him on analysing data, keeping him occupied. Keelin had sealed the Proteus as far as she could, but was still hurting. Her craft was in pain, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Ryann could understand that. She remembered when her father had sick livestock on the farm. He’d say she was too sentimental, and she knew that keeping them alive only increased their suffering. But it still pained her when he had to put them down.
The Proteus was sick. When—she refused to use the word ‘if’—the craft returned to Haven, the damage might be too severe.
<You doing okay, Brice?> Ryann noted how Cathal used the lad’s name. That was good. <Swim not too bad?> Again, a suitable choice of words. That would appeal to Brice’s confidence in his abilities.
She pushed for Brice’s lattice, but a movement distracted her, and she focused into the trees. Something shifted, off to her left, about fifty metres back.
<Ryann, you catch Brice’s response?>
<Not now. Busy.> She didn’t want to appear brusque, but he’d understand.
She scanned the area around the movement. A branch hung loose, a fresh rip, and she could just make out the pale flesh from inside the tree.
Warths only caused damage like that when they were agitated.
The deep rumble of thunder rolled over her. The flash of lightning was filtered by the tree cover, and that gave enough light for Ryann to see the beast clearly.
It crouched by a tree, half-hidden, one paw raised, claws pressing into a branch. The fur on its flank gently rose and fell as it breathed, but otherwise it was motionless. The warth’s nostrils flared, the red interior visible for a moment. Ryann scanned down to its chest, and the nipples hidden beneath the fur. The surrounding tissue was swollen, a sign that this warth was lactate-ready.
A new mother. She’d be protective of her cubs, and there was a strong possibility that she’d have a mate.
And now she caught his trail. Further off, but moving in. The male was smaller than the female, but that didn’t make it any less of a threat.
Ryann raised a hand, bringing the crew to a halt. She crouched, peering into the trees, and knew the crew followed her actions. She could smell their nerves.
The female
