Part 2: The Road

  According to the map, it was about 9 stads to the next village. Four to five hours if the track was decent. Longer if it was not. As I walked along, I realized that I knew almost nothing of this world. Not of the people. Nothing of the wildlife. And no idea what plants I could eat, and which would poison me. I let my senses expand, treating this like a hike through grizzly country, attuned to every movement and sound in the surrounding forest.

  The woods were alive. Small insects—and some much larger—fluttered about, occasionally settling on a flower. Every so often a flying lizard would swoop in to capture one. The other bugs seemed untroubled. Scaled creatures—most of them smaller than a squirrel—scurried along branches or leapt from tree to tree. The forest was filled with a cacophony of trills and whistles.

  The path itself was good. Someone had taken the trouble to trim the vegetation back from the verges. The ground was flat, with few protruding roots or rocks. I walked along the midline to avoid the wagon ruts, my gaze free to examine the nearby forest.

  The road roughly paralleled the river but rose and fell with the terrain. In the low-lying areas the ground was moister and softer, with occasional puddles. In one such spot I saw tracks.

  The spoor had been made by at least two animals, one larger than the other, pacing side by side. The tracks resembled a bird’s, with three forward-facing claws, which had left deep imprints at the front. To the rear there was a single divot, as though a hind talon had been hammered into the loam. I placed my hands down next to the imprints, fingertips touching. The individual track exceeded the distance from wrist to wrist.

  The spoor was crisp and clear. As I watched, a little water tricked into one of the grooves. The stride length from the larger creature spanned over a meter. I stood up and looked around.

  “Shit,” I said, “that’s a really big bird.”

  The woods no longer seemed welcoming at all. I slipped off my pack and gave it a slight shake. There was a muted clank from cutlery against a pot. I opened the ties and forced a couple of pads into the gap between the metal objects. When I shook the pack again, there was no noise.

  I considered the trail again. Based on the gait distance, I was sure that whatever these animals were, their pace was faster than mine. And turning back was not an option.

  I pushed on.

  As I walked, I reflected on my shield. Elandra had shown me a very basic two-dimensional construct. Her approach seemed limited to me. I spun out a shield experimentally and altered its shape, so it formed a long, slender rectangle that almost stretched across the width of the path. I shrugged, put away the bar, and tried spinning out a single fibre.

  For some reason, this was much trickier. Every time I produced a few centimetres of the strand, it would collapse on itself. After a few minutes of trying, I stopped to think. Perhaps a single dimensional object was unstable. This time I spun out a trimeric helix, and to my delight, I was able to create several meters of durable material that I could twist into loops. I stopped underneath a branch that overhung the trail and sent a rope up and over the limb. The tip of the stand contacted the hanging portion and fused. I formed another loop at the bottom, placed my foot in it, and shortened the rope. I rose up to the branch.

  “Cool,” I said. “Spiderwoman.”

  I reached the village of Rastak in the late afternoon. My neck and shoulders ached from the weight of the pack, and the effort of constantly turning to check behind me. There was a crude palisade around the settlement, constructed of trimmed logs, sharpened at the upper ends. A rough gate stood open; no one was guarding the entrance. I shrugged and entered the compound. The wagon tracks all led to a largish building with a two-story annex at the back. Smoke curled from a chimney at the far side. In the rear of the structure was a corral and attached shed; both were empty.

  “Must be an inn,” I muttered to myself. “What else can it be?”

  I pushed the door open and peered into an open space. To my left was a bar with a couple of battered stools. Beyond the bar was an open kitchen with a stone fireplace, an iron oven, and a collection of pots, pans, and cooking gear. The rest of the eating area was taken up by wooden tables and chairs, none of which looked new. Only two table were taken, one by an elderly couple sitting quietly together, and the other by a group of three men wearing leather pants and coarse shirts. Their voices were raised in argument.

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  I approached the bar. Behind it stood a woman of indeterminate age. Her grey hair was pulled back in a short bun, and she wore a dress of rough wool. The sleeves were rolled up, and her arms were dusted with flour. She glanced at me and turned back to a loaf of bread that she was kneading.

  “You missed it,” she said.

  “Missed what?

  “The caravan, of course.” She raised an eyebrow. “You are heading to Vandoran, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “Lenoch,” I said.

  “Goddesses,” she said. She turned from her bread to stare. “Did you not hear of the theranaq?”

  “I’m not from around here,” I said. “What are theranaq?”

  Her mouth was open. She reached over to the bar top and pushed over a piece of parchment. On it was a crude drawing of what looked like a cross between an angry lizard and a roadrunner. The open mouth showed a few teeth; feathers spiked up from the crest and the tail. The legs were long and powerful, and terminated in large claws.

  “Oops,” I said, “I think I saw tracks along the road that might match this thing. How tall would you say it is?”

  She held her hand about her head at a height of two meters.

  “Yeah,” I sighed, “that would fit. From the spoor, I think there were two of them.”

  “You are lucky to be alive.” She shook her head. “They are a mated pair, likely hunting before they nest. They took two children from Lenoch last tenday. Which way did the tracks lead?”

  “Towards here.”

  “Matand!” Her shout was directed to one of the men at the noisy table. “Get your useless ass outside and shut the gate to the village now.”

  “Why?” The man in question leaned back in his chair and pulled at a mug.

  “Because the lady here saw theranaq tracks heading towards us. Just now. Go!”

  “Athena.” His chair came down with a bang, and he headed out the door.

  “And warn the rest of the village,” she called after him.

  I studied the flyer again. “What can you tell me about these things?” I asked.

  “Do I look like a hunter?” She slapped the bread angrily. “They are predators. Very quiet, very fast. And once they select a victim, they are almost always successful.”

  “Great,” I said. “Raptors.”

  Below the picture on the parchment were several lines of text. I read them carefully, still unsure about my literacy. I pointed at the second sentence.

  “Does this mean there’s a reward for killing them?” I asked.

  She jerked her head towards the table. “That’s what Matand and his buddies are here for. The idiots. The most they’ve hunted are a few chilla and hostands. We need to wait for a patrol from Vandoran.”

  “When will that come?”

  “Pah. By Orangefall if we’re lucky.”

  “Orangefall. By any chance, is that when the orange leaves come down?”

  “Gods. You really are not from here, are you? What brings you to Rastak?”

  “I’m heading to Vandoran, hopefully to the Academy.”

  “You’re a Mage?” Her eyes were wide.

  “Perhaps. I need to be tested.” I hoped that was a believable answer and was relieved when she nodded thoughtfully.

  “Well, good luck to you. I hear they are very selective.” She winced and pulled at a scab on her forearm.

  I examined her arms. There were multiple red scars from old and recent burns.

  “Those look painful,” I said.

  “Our hedge witch left last summer, and we still lack a replacement.”

  “Would you like me to try to fix these?”

  She looked at me distrustfully. “Do you carry a poultice, or will I have to pay for the herbs first?”

  “Nothing like that.” I motioned to her, and she showed me her arms. “Hold still one moment.”

  I cast a healing spell on both arms at once. Green strands flickered into existence and swirled around her arms up to the shoulders. The burns paled, faded, and new skin appeared. I dropped the spell and nodded at her.

  “Goddess Hecate,” she whispered, “I have never seen the like.” She sat down heavily. “You deceived me, my lady. You are more than you seem.”

  “Call me Circe,” I said, “and I would greatly appreciate it if you and I kept this between us.”

  Her gaze fell on the table with the hunters. Matand had returned and was eyeing me. “That would be best,” she said. “I’m Dorina. What else can I help you with?”

  “A meal would be wonderful. And a room, if you have one.”

  “We have plenty, since the caravan left. You may stay here until the next one arrives.”

  “I need to push on, Dorina. One night is fine. How much for the food and bed?”

  She showed me her arms. “You have paid enough to stay her for a month.” She raised her hand to halt my protest. “I honour my debts. But please do not leave alone. You have no idea how dangerous the theranaq are. A platoon of soldiers would hesitate to take on a mated pair.”

  Dinner was a vegetable stew with chunks of the ubiquitous chilla. I scraped the bowl clean with a piece of Dorina’s bread and sighed in appreciation. A shadow fell over the table, and I looked up to see Matand, flanked by his friends.

  “Bring your ale over to our table,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, “I’m quite comfortable where I am.”

  “I wasn’t asking, little lady.” He grasped my upper arm and pulled me to my feet. I cast a spell-rope down to the floor and secured it around both his ankles. I could see Dorina coming towards us, wielding a rolling pin.

  Matand took a step back and toppled without grace. His hand released me and flew up in the air. He fell heavily on his back and the air puffed out of his lungs. I released the spell and he struggled to his feet, face red.

  “You tripped me,” he said.

  “Stop.” Dorina was in front of him, waving the rolling pin in his face. “You are drunk. You tripped over your own feet. And you are a disgrace.” She glared at him. “One more trick like this and you can eat off the ground and sleep in the forest.”

  He looked down at his feet, like a small boy being scolded by his mother. Then he turned without a word, and left the room, flanked by his wingmen.

  “Thanks so much, Dorina,” I said.

  “Fools,” she said. “That could have gone better.”

  “Well,” I said, “or much, much worse.”

  The room was as battered as the rest of the inn. But the mattress was tolerable, and free of bugs. I looked doubtfully at the flimsy lock and then placed a couple of bands across the frame. When I shook the handle, the door did not budge.

  I stripped, sponged down using a washbasin and a small cloth, and lay down. I pulled a light blanket over my legs and watched the darkness fall. The bed beside me was empty and silent, and I cried myself to sleep.