I had a horrible feeling Synza and I were now travelling companions.
Yesterday afternoon we'd left behind the terraces that joined the Hunch and Muena Palaiya to the valley floor. During the night, we'd penetrated the wooded region that continued to the riverbank, and which would eventually congeal into the forest of Paen Acha to the south. The whole region was pocked with farms and villages, even a couple of small towns, and tracks and roads laced it in every direction. For all that, it was scarcely populated, and it wasn't too hard to travel unnoticed, especially when most of our party had a proven record in that department.
Mounteban certainly knew the region well, no doubt from his days of shifting contraband between Muena Palaiya and the river. We followed a succession of paths for most of the morning, travelling through scrubby woodland or occasional meadows of high grass littered with bobbing thistles and bright splotches of wildflower. The sun was cool and watery, the sky still partly overcast. At least the rain held off, and the exertion of walking kept my temperature comfortable. There seemed little point in rationing my supplies, so I continued to eat as I walked, and sipped from one of my flasks.
It seemed we must have walked across half the valley by lunchtime, and I groaned when Mounteban called a halt to tell us, "We're a third of the way to the river."
My calves were aching fiercely by then, and the pain was beginning to creep up through my thighs and into my spine. I was pleased when he added, "Does anyone need to stop?"
Just as I was about to answer, Estrada said, "We're fine, Castilio."
I glared at her.
"Good. If we can keep this pace up into the night, we should have time to camp for a few hours. They'll have discovered the cart and horses by now. Even if they find our trail, though, they don't know the valley like I do."
I'd forgotten our abandoned cart. In fact, the whole notion of pursuit had receded to a vague wariness in the back of my mind, a sense that roads and inhabited areas were things best avoided. I suddenly felt less inclined to rest, for all my aches and pains.
As the sun rolled past the meridian and the afternoon wore on, there came other, more sinister reminders of Moaradrid's presence. First was a column of coal-black smoke rising up to our left, a few miles distant, though close enough that I could smell the pungency of burnt wood mixed with other less obvious odours. It might have been perfectly innocent. Certainly, Mounteban paid it little attention, except perhaps to hurry our pace a little. Yet I couldn't help thinking of the destruction of Reb Panza. Our pursuers wouldn't hesitate to burn a few villagers out of their homes if they imagined one of them might know where we were. Whatever the truth, the sight made me shiver.
If the second incident a couple of hours later was almost as ambiguous, it at least succeeded in getting Mounteban's attention. We were following a trail along the ridge of a hill, with a dense line of pines upon the crest and stunted aspens piercing the shale of the bank descending on our right, when a noise froze us all in place: the harsh staccato of dogs barking.
Mounteban took one brief glance over his shoulder, as though expecting to see hounds barrelling towards us. Then he cried, "Run!"
He was the first to take his own advice. The rest of us followed close behind. There was something insistent in the noise, as though the beasts were actually trying to draw our attention. I was surprised by how easily running came to my racked muscles — a minute before the idea would have seemed preposterous. Every bark seemed to quicken my feet a little more.
A minute later, and my panic was starting to subside. My sprint had turned into a clumsy stagger. Pain had returned with excruciating force, and every lungful of air seemed to have been drawn over hot coals. It was hopeless trying to work out whether the dogs were getting nearer. Though their frantic barking hadn't paused, it was the only sign of them we'd had.
I'd thought we were fleeing aimlessly, but I realised Mounteban had had an object in mind after all. A rocky indent split the bank, close ahead between the trees. When I reached the edge, I saw a wide stream gurgling through the gap, and meandering on down the hillside. Mounteban and his men were already wading, the clear water lapping as high as their knees. I plunged in, biting off a yelp at the cold.
Five minutes later, Mounteban signalled us to stop. He led us within the shade of a weeping willow, hanging dense enough to form a pavilion half way across the gully. It was cramped with us all in there, especially given Saltlick's considerable presence, but I was so glad to have stopped that I hardly cared.
Mounteban took a moment to recover his breath, and said, "I think we're safe."
"Are they after us?"
He shook his head. It wasn't clear whether he meant they weren't or that he didn't know. "We'll keep to the stream for a while, just in case. It would take a good tracker to stay on us."
Whatever the truth, we never saw any sign of the dogs, though we could hear them for an hour afterwards, their clamour growing fainter until it sounded like the stir of distant thunder. No one suggested going back for our two packhorses, abandoned on the brow of the hill with two thirds of our supplies. We went more furtively after that, as though we all suspected deep down that we'd been saved by luck more than judgement.
That caution probably saved our lives when we had our first real run-in with Moaradrid's patrols. It was just after dusk, and we were pursuing a narrow trail through dense forest when Mounteban threw a hand up, our prearranged signal. We all ducked into the brush. Fortunately, the rhododendrons rising to either side were bulky and overgrown enough to hide even Saltlick. The briefest inspection would have identified bare toes amongst the roots, and the tip of a giant elbow jutting out. Moaradrid's men didn't make one; nor did they try to disguise their own presence. They talked in low mutters, and their chainmail jangled dully with each step. I counted six pairs of feet go past.
We waited until the evening air was absolutely still again before daring to crawl out. I actually felt relieved to have encountered the enemy, especially after the scare with the hounds. It had been all too easy to imagine Moaradrid's army as some implacable entity contracting around us like a fist. To know they were human, and fallible, was oddly reassuring.
Still, we knew now without doubt that they were hunting us, and that they were close. We travelled in absolute silence after that, taking only the narrowest, most obscure pathways or scrambling through the brush. Our already sluggish progress slowed to a crawl. The night wore on, an endless progression of damp foliage, lashing thorns, and unexpected pitfalls. I didn't dare pause for fear of being left behind. I didn't dare eat, lest even that small sound should bring Moaradrid's hordes down on us.
When Mounteban called a halt at last, it was in a deep recess between two hills, with tangles of bramble and whitethorn closing every direction to all but the most intrepid explorer. We'd spent a miserable ten minutes crawling through the perimeter, and I'd assumed he'd picked the route through stupidity or sadism. Once inside, I realised how well the place was sheltered, from both observers and the elements. It was as safe and comfortable a spot as we could have hoped to find.
Mounteban insisted on posting a watch, however, and declared that he'd take first shift. "Will you join me?" he asked Estrada. "We should discuss our plans for tomorrow."