He drew a sharp breath.
Dorrin announced loudly, ‘We need to camp. It’s late.’
Kyle clamped his jaws shut. Lyan glanced away. She clenched and unclenched her gauntleted hands.
Dorrin headed for the nearest hilltop. Kyle watched him go. After a time, he murmured ruefully, ‘Wise beyond his years.’
Lyan hitched up her pack and followed. ‘I’m glad one of us is.’
*
There was little talking the next morning. Kyle walked ahead and apart. He thought through yesterday’s conversation. How close could they get to the sea? And what of water? They were in desperate need. Yet the narrows could sometimes reverse their flow and seawater would wash into the basin. It was unhealthy to drink much of it, although some claimed it was the water itself — run-off from the great icefields and snows of the north — that carried the curse.
They passed the scene of an old attack: grass grew through the spokes of burnt cartwheels; tiny scavengers had gnawed the leather of scattered rusted equipment. A skull half bare of flesh grinned from the dusty dry earth. Its hair was long and black. Kyle scuffed dirt over it before Dorrin arrived.
Later, he and Lyan walked together. He cleared his throat. ‘We do need water …’ he began.
‘But as you say — if it is too dangerous …’ she answered. ‘And you should know. You’re the local. I should defer. I’m sorry … command is a hard habit to break.’
He laughed. ‘Yes it is. And I am sorry. I swear that if I see any ship headed south I will personally swim out and shake the captain’s hand.’
Lyan was quiet for a time, then she peered sideways at him, her brows raised. ‘You can swim?’
They walked east for four more days. The grasses grew taller here, and greener. Copses of brush and short trees occupied the depressions. Kyle sought out each hoping to find a pool or a soak. So far he had found none.
He did his best to maintain a watch for possible challengers but it was harder and harder to maintain the necessary heightened awareness and readiness. He felt that they were being watched; yet now these Silent warriors were keeping their distance. It was exhausting, and he was feeling the weakness and drain of lack of water. Dorrin hadn’t realized it yet, but he was now the only one drinking.
Kyle could sometimes feel moisture on his face in the breeze out of the east. White birds flew in the eastern sky. He stopped walking and gestured to the rolling horizon. ‘The sea is close. Just beyond those rises, perhaps. Some call this the Shore of Fear, or Anguish Coast.’
‘Pleasant names you lot have here.’
He grinned. ‘They are meant to keep people away.’
‘They don’t seem to be working.’
He nodded. ‘Unfortunately, they just seem to have piqued everyone’s interest.’
‘We turn north?’
He nodded again, wearily, already tired. ‘Yes. I wonder if we should start moving at night now.’
‘Dangerous. I’ve seen predators watching our camp at night. Jackals and spotted cats.’
‘Yes.’ He drew a sleeve across his brow, let the arm fall. ‘Perhaps I should head to the top of those hills. Have a look.’
‘We’ll all go.’
He eyed her; she still wore her heavy mail coat. Sweat ran in rivulets down her temples and her hair lay pressed and matted to her skull. Her eyes were sunken and dark. He nodded heavily. ‘Very well.’
The slope was gentle; in fact, it was hard to tell that they had reached a hilltop so lightly did the land rise and fall. He stopped, shaded his gaze in the harsh noon light. Between hills he could just make out the iron-grey shimmer of the sea. He raised his chin to Lyan. ‘There it is.’
She lifted her hand to her brow. ‘Looks harmless. We could reach it by the end of the day.’
‘Yes.’
‘But we won’t. So … what?’
He gestured north. ‘There are a few streams that run to the sea. We should come across one eventually.’
‘If we have the strength,’ she murmured; Dorrin was close now. ‘And what of our friends?’
He scanned the surrounding horizons. ‘I have the feeling that they’re letting us weaken.’
‘Not very fair of them.’
He drew a fortifying breath. ‘Well, it’s our own damned fault, isn’t it?’
Dorrin arrived to peer east. ‘So that is your Sea of Dread. I don’t like the look of it.’
‘Neither do I,’ Kyle agreed. He held out a hand, inviting Lyan northward, and they started off.
The next day Kyle sucked on stones. He pinched the skin of his hand and it did not fall back at all. The moisture coming off the sea was a torment, but no matter how much he feared the Silent warriors shadowing them his instincts told him that the true threat lay to the east.
Even so, if the Silent People’s strategy was to wait until they were falling down weak, then it was working. The next day he stopped Lyan from donning her mail coat. He’d found the poles of two dead saplings that he used to build a travois. He motioned to the packs. ‘Keep only what you need.’
Lyan did not even bother answering, merely set to tossing things away. With the travois finished, the poles and cross-sticks lashed with leather straps, they loaded it with what remained of their gear: armour, wrapped dried meat, a sack of meal stuffed into a cooking pot, and the empty waterskins. Lyan hung a leather pouch around her neck and tucked it under her tunic. What remained of the lad’s royal inheritance, Kyle assumed. They set off, Kyle dragging the travois by the length of two leather belts. At noon they switched over.
In the late afternoon they came to the dried bed of a stream. Kyle clambered down among the exposed rocks and gravel and started digging with a hatchet. Lyan joined him. About an arm’s length down the mixed mud and sand became damp. Kyle pressed the cold wet sand to his face and sighed in delight.
A gasp from Dorrin brought Kyle and Lyan jumping to their feet, weapons drawn.
Across the dried stream bed five people faced them: two clan elders, male and female, and three of what must be their most senior warriors, two men and one woman. The warriors wore white face paint while their mostly naked bodies were smeared in ochre mud. The elders were draped in leather skins and furs.
‘Let me drink first,’ Kyle called.
The female elder smiled, revealing blunt nubs of teeth. ‘No pleading, Whiteblade? Good. That is as it should be.’
The old man jerked his head back towards the north. ‘You are truly headed north?’
‘I am.’
The two elders exchanged a glance that greatly troubled Kyle, for it was an uneasy one. Then the old woman stamped her staff to the ground and announced, ‘It is the Quest, then. Child of the Wind, you go to the great mountains, Joggenhome, to stand before our ancestors and prove our worth as our champion.’
‘It is not agreed,’ one of the male warriors, the most scarred one, snarled.
‘Quiet, Willow,’ the old man warned. ‘The clans have lost enough blades. He has proved his worth. And we are shamed by Neese and Niala. They were not chosen.’
‘It is only the blade he carries,’ Willow answered scornfully. ‘Let us see him fight with no advantage.’
Kyle raised his chin to the elders. ‘I am half dead of thirst, but if the elders wish it — I will face this one without the white blade.’
‘The Quest is a not a trifling matter,’ the old man muttered.
‘We must be certain,’ the woman agreed.
The old man gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. You have two nights and two days. Rest, drink, eat. We will meet again at the dusk.’ He gestured to the female warrior and she tossed something to Kyle. He caught it: a skin of water. The five climbed the slope up out of the stream bed and melted away.
‘You should not have agreed,’ Lyan said.
‘I had no choice. It was a test. It was all a test. If I had failed they would have killed all of us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A test of honour. A test of bravery. A test of my resolve — they had been waiting to see whether I truly would turn north.’