He wasn’t resting there. Straightening, she looked about, and then spotted a flicker of light halfway up the sheer slope on the outcrop’s southern side. She barely made out a hulking form by that small torchlight.
“Ore-Locks,” she called. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer. She noticed how high he held the torch, its flame well above his head, but she hesitated at being alone with him up there. Curiosity won out when he began climbing higher, and she raced for the slope and scrambled upward to follow him.
“What ... are you ... ?” she panted, closing as he reached the outcrop’s top. “What are you doing?”
Up close, he didn’t smell any better than she did. A focused intensity covered his face.
“The top did not look right,” he said absently, not looking at her. “This is not natural.... Too level.”
Wynn followed his gaze.
The hang of the rutted ledge they’d seen from below was indeed level on top. By torchlight, she made out a pile of huge stones near its outward end. She was still staring when Ore-Locks headed out over that unnatural level toward the stone pile near the precipice.
Chane followed a few paces behind Shade as they made their way back to camp. Though he carried a large hare from a successful hunt, he wished they could have found something—anything—else to bring back from this wild, rocky land. Wynn never complained, but he knew she was probably dreaming of lentil stew.
Creeks and streams were plentiful enough for water. A few were large enough to support fish, if he was given time for the lengthy act of catching them. Wynn normally wanted to forage and move on as soon as possible. Between him and Shade, the quickest meal they could catch was a flushed rabbit, or maybe a partridge, if they caught it asleep.
Chane was walking at a good clip when Shade suddenly stopped. Her ears pricked up, and at first he thought she had lost her way.
But Shade never lost her bearings.
He followed her eyes to beneath a sparse pine tree downslope. A downed deer lay there, and Chane stepped around Shade to check out their find.
When their supplies were still plentiful, he had replenished his stores of life with the feeding cup by dragging down a few deer or wild cattle. He had not seen either in nearly a moon. An animal this size would provide food for some time, and venison might be a welcome change for his companions. But how long had the beast been dead? Would its flesh still be safe to eat?
Shade rumbled softly.
“What?” he asked, as if expecting an answer.
She remained where he had left her and wouldn’t approach the carcass.
Chane dropped to his knees and found that the carcass was still warm to the touch. That gave him hope that it had not yet spoiled, but it felt boney and gaunt. He could not see it clearly and grabbed its hind legs to drag it out beneath the moonlight. It weighed almost nothing.
Once Chane saw it clearly, disappointment set in.
At first, he thought the creature had died of old age. Its skin was shriveled and stretched tight over its rib cage. Then he noticed that its antlers were short, barely nubs, where tines would eventually grow. The deer could not have been much more than a yearling, yet it looked old.
He rose to his feet and backed away. He had no reason to fear disease, but he did not want to carry any taint back to camp.
“Come. We’re late,” he told Shade, and she loped ahead as he stepped onward.
Even as he reached camp, something about the carcass still bothered him—until he realized the camp was empty, and all thoughts of the deer vanished.
“Wynn?” he rasped.
The black gelding nickered, and he saw that the horses had been fed and the fire was lit. He leaned down to look under the wagon. Ore-Locks’s bedroll was empty, though his iron staff still lay there. Shade growled, and Chane straightened.
Shade sniffed the air, perhaps searching for Wynn in her own way, and Chane grew tense as the dog began ranging about the camp and peering out into the dark. Had Ore-Locks decided to drag Wynn off on his own in search for the seatt? Then why leave the wagon, horses, and weapons behind? Why bother building a fire?
“Wynn!” Chane called.
His maimed voice didn’t carry far. Shade threw back her head and howled once.
“Up here!” Wynn shouted. “Come quick.”
Chane looked up and saw light above the outcrop’s top, perhaps thirty or more yards overhead. His relief faded under annoyance. What was she up to now?
He dropped the hare by the fire and ran to catch Shade scrambling up the slope along the outcrop’s southern side. When he ascended to a height where torchlight reached his eyes, Shade was beside Wynn and Ore-Locks out on the outcrop’s strangely level top. They were climbing over a pile of large stones—practically boulders—near the outcrop’s end.
Chane was about to call Wynn back, not caring what brought her up here, when Ore-Locks dropped to a crouch beside one large, erect stone.
“Get over here,” Wynn called, waving.
Exasperated, Chane stepped outward, but his curiosity did not take hold until Ore-Locks stood back up. The stone next to the dwarf was about his height and half that in width. Roughly weathered, it seemed too square. It was raggedly sheared at an angle, as if it had once been quite tall, but had broken off.
“What is it?” Chane asked.
Neither Wynn nor Ore-Locks answered at first. Perhaps they had not yet discussed this.
“A pylon?” Wynn suggested. “Like the ones in Dhredze Seatt, used to show directions?”
Uncertain as he was, her notion made him uncomfortable. By its worn and shattered state, it was very old, perhaps ancient.
“Why?” Ore-Locks ventured, for once so focused that he seemed open to discussion. “My people do not need pylons outside our own seatt.”
“Unless ...” Wynn began, “unless it’s from a time when there was more than one seatt.”
Ore-Locks’s frown began to fade. “Or when more of my people once traveled well-used ways.”
Reluctantly, Chane asked, “Is there writing?”
Wynn and Ore-Locks exchanged a look, and then both crouched and pawed at the erect stone’s surface.
Chane hoped they found nothing—hoped Wynn might have grown weary by now and notions of giving up were in the back of her mind. When they reached the great range, and perhaps after days and nights on foot in those peaks with no sign of a “fallen mountain,” he might finally take her home to relative safety. There were fewer threats that would risk following her among her own kind.
“Here!” she breathed.
That one word almost extinguished Chane’s hope. Ore-Locks crouched beside Wynn near the squared stone’s base.
“Can you feel them?” Wynn asked. “There’s not much, but these might be worn traces of old engravings.”
“Perhaps,” Ore-Locks said at first. “Perhaps, yes ... yes.”
He rose again, torch in hand, and peered southward in the direction of the stone’s face. Wynn looked up at him, her dust-smudged face faintly hopeful.
“This must mean we’re on the right track,” she said.
Ore-Locks tilted his head, appearing thoughtful now. “If the seatt is on the range’s southern side, this marker is much too far away. Pylons, as you call them, point to the next closest location or subsequent marker in the direction from an engraved surface.”
“Like what?” she asked.
Ore-Locks fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps the seatt is not as far as we thought.”
“No, it has to be on the far side. Its name is derivative of an old desert language.”
Ore-Locks paused, as if uncertain. “Then a way station ... perhaps.”
Chane’s discomfort increased.
Wynn stood up. “A what?”
“A land-level entrance to a seatt or its settlements,” Ore-Locks continued. “Like those of my people’s stronghold, Dhredze Seatt.”