was no threat in the sound, only sorrow, only pain, and as Wynter laid the saddles on the ground and backed carefully to Christopher’s side, the Wolf ’s voice fell to a sobbing moan and died away. The horses trembled and huddled a little closer but showed no greater signs of fear than that. Boro did not even growl.
Christopher took Wynter’s arm, tugging her backwards, and they edged their way slowly to the fire. The howl rose up again, moaning its hurt to the moon.
‘It’s wounded,’ whispered Christopher. ‘It won’t attack.’ And he pulled her back down between the leaning rocks and into the warm radiance of the firelight.
The night turned to morning. The morning spun towards noon.
Sólmundr hunkered down in the opening between the rocks and laid his sword across his knees. He squinted against the midday sun as he scanned the bluff above, the breeze tousling at his loose hair and tugging his cloak. ‘We not find them,’ he rasped. ‘There is signs of at least one, moving about in the rocks, but I not find body of other. It might to be still alive but I doubt it. It fall very far.’
‘It likely fell down between the rocks,’ said Wynter dully. ‘It’s nothing but meat for crows by now.’
Sólmundr ceased his restless scanning of the skyline and peered in at her. He didn’t ask how Razi was; any fool could tell that the young man’s condition hadn’t changed. Sucking his teeth, the warrior met Wynter’s eyes, the obvious question clear in his face. She sat beside her motionless friend and stared back at him.
‘We wait,’ she said.
Sólmundr sighed, and his eyes dropped to the diplomatic folder lying across Wynter’s knee. For a moment Wynter thought he would speak; that he would be the one to say the very thing she was thinking. But the warrior just nodded, rose to his feet and went to help Christopher tend to the horses. Wynter frowned in misery and squeezed her eyes shut, her hands closing around the leather covers of the folder.
This was day six of their ten-day journey. Alberon was at this very moment travelling the lower slopes somewhere with his entourage of men, already five days into his own trek home. Every moment that they delayed here was a moment stolen from Alberon. Regardless of their circumstances, the unheeding clock of their plan ticked relentlessly on. If Razi did not get to the castle in time to appease the King, if Alberon turned up in advance of his brother – the consequences would be catastrophic.
We can afford one or two days’ delay, thought Wynter bleakly. Certainly we can afford that! Even if Razi took two full days to recover, they would still make it home three days ahead of Alberon. Three days would be plenty of time for a man like Razi to persuade the King. Wouldn’t it?
Beside her, Razi breathed on, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was alive. Wynter clutched the diplomatic folder to her chest and willed him to wake.
Noon passed. The sun set. Night crept in once again.
‘It’s just a suggestion,’ said Christopher softly. ‘I think you should consider it.’
‘No.’
‘But it makes perfect sense! Why must you be so damned exasperating?’
‘In what way does it make sense, Christopher Garron? Tell me how, by any stretch of anyone’s fertile imagination, does it make sense for you to turn up at the castle bearing papers from the Rebel Prince?’
Presumably in some kind of effort to prevent his brain exploding, Christopher clutched his head between his hands and squeezed. ‘I will explain that the Lord Razi is wounded in the hills and that I am speaking on his behalf,’ he grated. ‘Sól and Boro will protect you and Raz until the soldiers come to find you. It’s. Perfectly. Reasonable.
’ ‘The Wolves will kill you.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’
‘The Wolves will kill you, and if they do not, the King’s men will.’
Christopher scrubbed his face with his hands and muttered darkly in Hadrish. Sól sighed and threw some dried horse dung onto the fire. The moon was dark, the sky heavy with clouds. Beyond their little ring of firelight, the night pressed thick and impenetrable, the air made unbearably cold by the wind.
The Loup-Garou howled low and mournful in the rocks above, and Sólmundr grimaced out into the darkness. ‘I going to kill that cac!’ he hissed.
The damnable creature had remained hidden all through the daylight hours, but as soon as darkness