The miles passed. The roads were deteriorating further as the unseasonal rain continued to fall. They resorted to cutting through the edge of the forest tracts, searching for woodland trails that weren’t so waterlogged, but getting caught instead in intractable bracken that snared whatever passed.
As the clouds thickened, the rain grew harder, and the forest grew impassable as the light faded in the constant downpour. Jerrol finally called a stop. “We’re not going to make Greenswatch in these conditions; let’s stop and at least try to find some shelter. If I remember rightly there is a ridge just up ahead, before we reach the turnoff. Let’s see if we can find any shelter there.”
Jennery grunted and, hunching his shoulder against the inclement weather, he kept his head down under his hood and pulled his horse behind Zin’talia’s sodden tail. The trees crowded them, blocking what little light there was and making them stumble over the first of the rocky outcrops. “This way,” called Jerrol, veering off into the darkness ahead, “there’s an overhang. It’s quite deep, not quite a cave, but enough to give us some shelter.”
They rigged an awning to keep the worst of the rain off the horses and stacked the saddles and saddlebags in the deepest corner to keep them as dry as possible. Birlerion bent over the small fire pit he had dug and delved in his pocket for some dry lint to try to start the fire. The bracken and twigs they had collected flared into flames, and he placed a pot of water on it to heat.
Jerrol squinted at the fire. “That was quick. I think we’ll let you do fire duty all the time. I’ll take the first watch; Birlerion, you get the middle watch; and Jennery, you take the morning. I can’t see us getting any further today.” He handed around mugs of chicory tea: not as nice as coffee, but hot and steaming.
It was a cold and miserable afternoon. Jennery began rubbing his horse down as Birlerion started on his horse. Zin’talia started to complain. “I’m wet, it’s cold. I hate Greenswatch,” she moaned, swishing her tail. “It’s much warmer in Terolia. Let’s go there.”
Jennery eventually soothed her as he began to rub her down. Birlerion unwrapped his bow and dried it off, before rewrapping it and then checking through his quiver.
“Why do you strap it under your saddle? Shouldn’t you carry it on your back? Easier to get to?” Jennery asked, watching him.
“In this weather, it’s unlikely I’ll use it. When I was in Terolia I used to carry it like this; heat can warp as much as water, and it wasn’t so obvious.”
“What were you hiding from?”
“Nothing, I was just trying to blend in, not be so noticeable.”
Jennery snorted. “Before or after you turned Sentinal?”
Birlerion gave him a brief grin. “Both.”
“And how successful were you?”
“Pretty much. Wrapped in scarves it’s difficult to tell one from the other.”
“True,” Jennery murmured as he watched the Sentinal roll himself up in his blankets, trying to get some sleep.
Jerrol peered out into the misting gloom, the soft voices comforting. All was still except for the dripping rain, pattering on soggy leaves and splatting into the sodden moss. The smell of rotting vegetation and collecting water was strong. The chill air found its way into his clothes, making everything damp to the touch and uncomfortable. Even the horses were miserable, with Zin’talia making a point to shudder when she caught his gaze.
He was still amazed by the gentle link that connected them, comforted by its constant presence. The first time he had ever seen a Darian was when he was a child. It was the first time he had ever met his friend Torsion. His Darian was silver-grey, graceful and very intelligent. She had wrapped every single stable lad around her elegant hoof, pampered soul that she was. He hoped Zin’talia didn’t expect the same cosseting. If so, she was going to be out of luck on this journey.
Jerrol shook Birlerion awake later that evening and rolled himself in Birlerion’s warm blanket. He soon dozed off, but was roused when he heard Birlerion changing with Jennery in turn. Jennery’s low voice carried on the damp air, complaining bitterly about catching a chill in this awful weather and why hadn’t they stayed at the inn. Jerrol commiserated. He had a valid point.
Jerrol must have dozed off again because suddenly he was wide awake, Zin’talia screeching a warning in his head. He reached over to grab Birlerion’s arm, but he needn’t have bothered. Birlerion was awake and moving. There were faint wisps of grey streaking the inky black sky, and the rain had eased to a fine sifting mist. He slid his sword out of its sheath and rose as Birlerion melted into the darkness.
A shadow launched itself at Birlerion, closely followed by a second, crowding Jerrol’s arm and pushing him back against the stone outcrop with a breath-stealing thud. Jerrol dropped his sword and slid out his daggers as the bite of cold steel sliced across his ribs.
He struck upwards, hard, connecting with something soft, and parried a second thrust towards his shoulder. He twisted out of the man’s embrace and danced back towards the opening, catching a glimpse of Birlerion taking his man down with a flash of his blade; of Jennery, there was no sign.
His opponent dropped into a crouch before sliding forward with a scything motion, trying to take out Jerrol’s legs and flipping himself back to his feet in
