There’s a mutter behind me; I risk a glance over my shoulder to see the blond warrior straighten from where he’s stumbled. The other laughs something in response but the sound is too loud. A slur to it, evident even in the language I don’t know. Are they drunk? I didn’t get that impression a couple of minutes ago. But perhaps this is an opportunity.
“Stad.” The word is growled; I turn to see both men stumbling at me, expressions a strange mixture of anger and torpor. The latter abruptly wins for the dark-haired one and he collapses into the mud. The other’s eyes go wide and he looks at me. Clearly blaming me for whatever is happening.
“Conas atá tú ag déanamh…” He goes to his knees. Lip curled in a snarl, barely able to summon the words.
Then he’s slumping forward and lying still, too.
I stare at them. They’re breathing, I think. Just unconscious.
I have to run, obviously. Stupid not to.Reallystupid. But I don’t understand what’s just happened here, I don’t know where I am or what I’m up against or where I would runto.
Vek.
“Traveller.” The quiet voice comes from behind; I spin in alarm to find Cian striding calmly toward me, using his symbol-covered rowan staff as a walking stick. He is alone. “Assist.” He grabs one of the men by an arm.
I quickly take the other arm; we drag him off the path and into the shadows between two huts. I slip twice, my strength and sense of balance frustratingly diminished for even this simple task. “What … harmed them?” I dredge the words. Much easier to translate what I hear, than to remember how to say something.
“Not harmed. But they will sleep, for many hours.” He either misunderstands or ignores my question, speaking Vetusian and, like before, enunciatingeach word carefully. Whether for my benefit or because he’s also not comfortable with it, I don’t know.
We repeat the process with the other warrior. By the end, I’m breathing heavily.
Cian assesses our work, then me. A gentle condolence in his look. “Walking?”
“I can walk.” I hesitate. “My talking is not good, but I understand your words well.”
He accepts it. “Speak, if you need rest. There are horses. Not far. We need only reach them.”
“We go to meet my … person I know?” No way to verify he was telling the truth about that, but I cling to the hope of it. Academy or Caten, friend or simply acquaintance, just someone I can query without a language barrier will be a relief.
“Yes.” He sees I still have qualms, seems to sympathise. “King Fiachra and his warband now feast, and plan how to negotiate your death with Ruarc. Who will arrive to collect your body before first light. In this moment, only this moment, most of the Caer is occupied.” Calm, but an undercurrent of urgency to the explanation.
I gesture for him to lead the way.
We leave the two unconscious warriors and angle downward, away from the lights and laughter. My heart pounds; Cian moves with swift purpose but never anxiously, pausing now and then but confident in his leading, despite the sound of voices echoing to us a few times from uncomfortably nearby. We pass more rudimentary huts, straw-filled pens of pigs and fowl. Faint, flickering light filters from a few windows, but most are dark. The occupants either asleep or at the feast, I assume.
We hurry for several minutes without interruption before the inside of the wooden palisade presents itself up ahead. We’re in the narrow space between two huts, still a hundred feet to the wall. I can see a gate built into it. Unmanned. Twenty more seconds and we’re out.
Cian pulls me to a stop.
We stand there in the shadows for almost a minute; I want to ask, feet itching to keep moving, but it’s clear Cian is watching for something. I don’t see anything but suddenly he puts a hand on my chest, glancing back at me meaningfully.
“Trust,” he whispers, then strolls into the open torch-lit space between the huts and the log wall.
Moments later there’s movement and three large, curly-haired dogs trot up, surrounding him as he scratches behind their ears. They’re calm, tails wagging. Evidently at least passingly familiar with Cian, but also well trained. I carefully sink further into the shadows.
A door opens somewhere I can’t see, and then there’s a voice calling out. Questioning, but cheerful rather than suspicious. Another man in a white cloak appears. He’s older than Cian by at least twenty years, tall and thin, a tired shuffle to his gait. He has a staff similar to Cian’s, too, leaning on it heavily as he wanders over in unhurried fashion.
I mentally urge Cian to do whatever he’s doing faster. Those two guards were taking me somewhere; surely they’ll be followed up soon enough. If someone realises I’m missing before we’re past the walls, I doubt we’ll make it far.
Cian responds to the newcomer’s hail with a friendly wave and grin; the two greet each other with an embrace and then proceed to chat in what seems to be frustratingly idle fashion. The dogs have settled onto the ground around them but are still in my line of sight. Still seem alert. I do all I can not to move.
A tense minute passes as I watch, both men appearing completely relaxed, the older at one point saying something that makes Cian bark a laugh that feels like it would be audible for miles. I can hear their conversation well enough, but aside from the genial tone, I understand none of it.
Then, at last, the other man is clapping Cian on the back, scratching each dog affectionately on the head as he prepares to depart. Cian gives the animals a pat too, and then embraces his companion again in farewell. The older man makes his way with painful lassitude up the slope away from the wall, finally rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.
The dogs, worryingly, remain.
Cian looks in my direction. Beckons. I emerge from the shadows, eyes fixed on the animals at his feet. They’re even larger up close. They see my approach and wag their tails agreeably.
