The Unnamed Blade (Book Two of The Horns of Elfland)

Chapter Eleven

They crossed the Farihithidhuin below the falls and passed through Kineton in the early morning, pausing only to trade cured hides for grain for the beasts from a bleary-eyed merchant, and almost half their remaining marks for a replacement for the keg of Mulyan ale, which was almost empty.

The landscape was a series of startling contrasts as they passed from one hill or valley to the next; north-facing slopes and hollows were still in the depths of winter, with snow sometimes several feet thick, but the trees on the southern slopes and in the south-facing dips were misting over with green; the yellow lambs-tails of hazel catkins quivered in the breeze, and the ground beneath the trees was white, not with snow, but first with snowdrops and then with wood anemones, the white carpet splashed in places on sunny banks with the yellow of primroses and less commonly the pink-purple of wood periwinkles against the glossy dark green background of their leaves. Eventually even the last snow disappeared from those north-facing dips; the white of anemones was flushed out by the brilliance of crowbells, the dwarf woodland daffodils lighting the trees from underneath like captured sunshine.

They brought the packbeast team down from the high woodland above the steep sides of the Deepwater valley, and rejoined the Southern Trade Route a few miles east of ancient Pontanni, leaving the two unicorns to tackle the treacherous descent of the steep valley sides and find the safest place to swim across the river unseen.

Once on the main route they met several traders moving eastwards; but none gave them more than a casual acknowledgement or a passing glance.

– Strange, said Sherath quietly to Nemeth as they passed the fourth incurious trader of the day. I was expecting at least some curious glances; our apparent age range is far outside the human norm for travellers.

– Mmm, said Nemeth. Yes. Odd.

Their mid-day stop on the lush slope by a minor tributary of the Deepwater, to allow the beasts a couple of hours unladen grazing and themselves a rest and a meal, also provided them with company and an explanation.

A dozen or so sleek white goats were feeding, stretching up comically on their hind legs, with their teats poking out from their taut rounded udders, to strip the new leaves from the trees and bushes; and shoving each other away from the choicest herbs along the stream bank, under the watchful eyes of both the herd matriarch, whose brass collar-bell sounded from time to time, and a tall lad who occasionally reached up to grab a branch and pull it down for the goats to strip.

The smaller Children followed his example, clambering up trees and using their weight to push branches downwards, while the others unloaded the beasts, lit a fire, and got a meal started.

Louka sat by the stewpot, stirring it occasionally; everyone else seemed content merely to sprawl on the grass enjoying the warmth of the sunlight, the sounds of bees and of beasts feeding, the laughter of the little ones and the mixed trills and warbles of birdsong against a background of flower scents.

The goats' guardian walked towards the campfire, somewhat hesitantly.

"May I join you?"

Louka looked over at him, her slow smile bewitching him almost instantly. "By all means," she agreed. The lad sat by the fire, watching the little ones.

"Your youngsters have deprived me of a job," he remarked with a smile, glancing across and meeting Louka's  eyes.

"They do, don't they. Can I tempt you with a mug of ale?" asked Louka.

His eyes suddenly sparkled with laughter. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, Lady, you could tempt me even without the mug of ale," he said softly, pushing a lock of light brown hair away from his eyes. "But I'll settle for the ale. Thank you."