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I sat down on the log across from the fire, watched as Hawl flipped one of the moth-cakes, and tried to quell my queasy reaction. “I suppose they’re no different from any other meats we consume.”
“Of course they aren’t. It’s all about what you become used to,” Hawl assured me.
The Bearkin lifted the lid of a covered mug beside them, and as they did, a moth flew out, beating its wings frantically and flapping off into the morning.
“Oh, gods,” I groaned. “They’re still alive?”
“Not for long,” Hawl promised, dumping the rest of the contents of the mug into a new, separate pan and squashing the moths down with a utensil. “There. Like butter. Just as I said.”
The Bearkin may have been right. The smells emanating from the pans were not entirely repulsive.
Even so. “I don’t think I can eat that, Hawl. I’m sorry.”
“Not to worry.” The Bearkin gestured to a covered plate resting outside the ring of hot stones. “I took the liberty of preparing simpler refreshments for the rest of you.”
I lifted the cover and looked down at the plain, moth-free griddle-cakes in relief. “Thank you.”
“Of course...” The Bearkin looked at me conspiratorially. “Gawain and I will enjoy these together. Have you noticed how the man prefers his food piping hot?”
“As do I,” Draven said, striding over. He finished strapping on his belt and looked down at the campfire. “Mmm. Those look incredible, Hawl.”
Hawl’s eyes met mine over the frying pan.
Behind his back, I put a finger to my lips. The Ursidaur nodded.
We started passing refugees on the road later that day.
They were moving from Rheged towards the Tintagel border. They seemed to have no interest in us. Dust-covered and weary, they carried small bundles of clothes and possessions and led children by the hands.
Most were not injured, I saw, to my great relief. But they looked haunted, hopeless.
Eventually, Draven stopped his horse, and dismounting, he approached a man driving a wagon with his family behind him.
“What news from Dornum? What news of Nerov?” Draven asked, coming up to the man slowly, his hands raised in the air to show he meant no harm.
Dornum was the capital of Rheged, and Nerov its king. Long ago, a tale had been told to me of Draven’s role in placing Nerov on that throne.
Draven had told me Nerov was not a bad man—and had been replacing a much worse ruler.
“No news at all,” the man in the wagon said, seeming surprised at our ignorance. “There’s been no news from the city for months. Shut up tight and full of ghosts, it’s said to be.”
“Why are you all leaving? Where are you going?” Gawain called from his horse. “What lies ahead?”
The man spat beside his wagon as if to ward off evil. “I won’t be made into a monster. Nor a soldier either. Nor my children.”
Behind him, three children huddled beside their mother. A boy and two girls.
“Is that what’s happening? Are villages being conscripted?” Draven asked.
The man had slowed his speed. Now he pulled his wagon to a halt, as he realized we expected more answers. “Conscripted? Would be more honest to say vanished. Entire towns taken up and into the Black Mountain.”
I shivered.
“The Black Mountain?” Draven glanced back at me. “Where does it lie?”
“Behind Dornum. In the Mountains of Mist as they’ve always been called.”
Rheged was a rough land, famed for its huge, vaulted peaks and the icy glaciers and vast chasms that lay to its north, beyond the capital.
