The drifter and his daughter rode towards the sun as it set between distant hills shrouded in mist.
Behind them, stars claimed the night sky. Ahead of them was desert. Soon, it would be night, and the moon-wolves would begin hunting.
The beast was no more than a day’s journey behind. In the morning, it would be closer. They couldn’t afford to sleep, not yet, not until they had at least three days on it.
“I’m hungry,” said the drifter’s daughter. “And sleepy.”
“Hold on a little longer, Emetine, my love,” said the drifter. “We’ll eat when we’re safe.”
The drifter looked back. Below the brightening stars, where the black of the sky met the black of the desert, he could see the dust thrown up by Nemesis.
Less than a day behind us, he thought. Perhaps only twelve or fifteen hours. Closer than ever. I swore I’d never let it get to this. I swore I’d keep her safe.
“I can’t sleep,” said Emetine. “Not while we’re riding. Sing me a song?”
The drifter began to hum an old tune, one the Weavers used to sing back in Malistad. Back when Malistad stood, before Nemesis. Before they began running.
It didn’t take long for Emetine to start breathing softly and evenly, her head lolling to the side. She was strapped to her father to keep her from falling off. The drifter wasn’t sleepy, he would keep riding until they found a safe place to stop. Until they had three days on the beast, at the very least.
Almost a thousand days they’d ridden now, almost a thousand days since Malistad, since the end of one life and the beginning of another. One third of the girl’s life on the road westward, always looking back over their shoulders, fearing for their lives.
Behind them, they left devastation. Before them lay the unknown.
Their chances were slim. If the drifter was injured or their mount incapacitated. If Emetine got too sick to ride. If they were captured or arrested, or held up by someone who didn’t believe their story, who didn’t see Nemesis until it was too late…
So many risks. So many things that could go wrong. So many—
A moon-wolf howled nearby, and Emetine jerked awake, a hoarse sob escaping her thin, dry lips.
“Shh,” said the drifter. “You need to stay quiet, little one.”
“I’m scared.”
“Fear makes us weak, my love. The things that hunt us can smell weakness. You must be brave, and you must be still.”
He hated himself for berating her. He worried, too. They’d ridden far too long without rest. They needed food and sleep. But he had no choice: the moon-wolves were the least of their worries. There were other things out here that might be alerted if they weren’t vigilant.
The land ahead rose to a sharp crest, silhouetted against the bruised sky. The sun had dipped below the horizon to the west, and it would only be minutes before darkness set in. Their mount was moving slower; the ground was treacherous, littered with round stones.
As they reached the crest, the drifter pulled the reigns and halted their animal.
Before them was a large, circular valley, ringed by soft hills. The drifter recognised this place from the map he’d bought in the previous town: locals called it the Cauldron, and they would need to pass through it to get to the grasslands on the other side. The old mapmaker who’d sold them the map claimed it was uninhabited.
She’d been wrong. In the centre of the valley, there was a group of wagons.
Emetine was breathing slower again. The poor girl was exhausted. The drifter reached back for the spy-glass. It was banged up and cracked, and the images it produced were smudged, but it still beat his eyes.
Looking through the lens, he counted seven wagons and eleven grazing hogs. He could see no people, no fires, no light inside the wagons.
The drifter turned the mechanical ring on the end of the spy-glass anti-clockwise — one, two, three clicks. The scene blurred then refocused; it was brighter now, but washed out. The smudging was more pronounced and the image stuttered. It was an old spy-glass, with old glamours, but it worked. He would be able to catch a glimpse of the recent past.
The spy-glass showed him a busy scene. The wagons must have arrived only that afternoon; people were still unhitching the hogs. The travellers were dressed in long, brightly coloured coats. Red, purple, blue. All bore cleanly shaved heads; men and women alike. He could see no children, but then this spy-glass couldn’t show him the inside of the wagons. One of those would have cost him a fortune.
Poets. He’d come across a traveling band of poets, probably heading back east. It was the season; they’d played the capital, now they were touring the provinces. And the road would lead them straight towards Nemesis. He’d have to warn—
“Put your devilry down, drifter,” a voice said from behind him. Ementine jerked awake, gasping. “Quick, or I shoot.”
The drifter did what he was told, without hesitation. If he’d been alone, he might have done differently, but Ementine…
“Now dismount,” the voice said. “Leave the child.”
“Can’t,” said the drifter. “She’s tied to me.”
“Fine, then climb down with her. Quickly now.”
The drifter swung off his horse, Ementine wrapping her arms around his neck before he dropped expertly to the ground. He could have easily pulled out his gun, rolled out of the way, if it wasn’t for—
“Arms raised, turn to me,” said the voice.
The drifter found himself facing a cleanly shaved man wearing bright red, wielding a rifle. A poet.
The poet’s eyes were a deep green; lenses, probably. Perhaps even augmented, though poets abhorred charms and glamours. A guard, keeping watch over the camp. The drifter cursed himself for his negligence: poets were notoriously cautious.
The poet looked them up and down. “Why were you spying on us? Did you seek to murder us in our sleep?”
The drifter shook his head slowly. “We’re passing through, heading west. My daughter and I have no disagreements with you or your kind. We wish no conflict.”
“If you wished no conflict, why use that to spy on us?”
“No spying, poet.” The drifter opened his hands in a traditional greeting. “I had to know if you were enemy or friend. The shortest path is through the cauldron, and we have far to go. Kaleath kamaar,” he added. “Ta beyen kamaar.”
The poet frowned. “Where do you know this greeting from?”
“I knew a poet,” said the drifter. “He was my brother. Back in Malistad. His name was Glimmer.”
A flash of recognition in the poet’s eyes, and the muzzle of his rifle dipped. “Glimm—“ he began, and then the drifter’s stick hit his left hand, and the drifter’s foot his leg, and the poet dropped to the ground. A moment later, the drifter held the rifle against the guard’s head.
“Glimmer. Do you know him?” The drifter smiled coldly. “He left Malistad before the death, seeking the Great Stage.”
“If you shoot,” they will come, the poet said quietly. “They will use Words to stop your mount, and they will string you up by your neck, you and your girl.”
“No,” said the grifter. “You’re going to take me to them. I wish you no harm. I only wish to pass through, and perhaps buy some provisions from you, if you have any to spare. And,” he continued, “I have a warning. You’re not safe here.”
He held a hand out to the poet. After a moment’s hesitation, the poet grabbed it and the drifter pulled him to his feet.
“I’m the Weaver Kylus,” said the drifter, “and this is my daughter Emetine. Death follows us, and there is not much time.”
