Beneath a canvas tarp, a woman huddled. Beside her stood a large, piebald horse with his head bent low. The space was cramped, but it was better than braving the storm that raged on the other side of the meager wall. There were no settlements nearby to which they might flee for refuge and warmth, for the border between the abandoned expanse of Enedwaith, and the hostile hills of Dunland, was a treacherous place. No campfire could be lit while the wind howled and the rain pelted from all sides, tugging and yanking at the tarp so that the woman was forced to grasp at it with her hands to keep it from flying away.
Wet leaves made a soppy carpet beneath their feet, and the whirling storm tangled them into the horse's mane and tail. Autumn was nearly spent, and the trees mostly bare around them, like an army of skeletal sentinels against the steel-grey sky. More than half of their journey was over, but they were yet far from safety, and from home.
The weight of their food pack was light now. Light enough to be concerning. A few, scattered crofters could be found in Enedwaith, but they were wary-eyed and cast dark looks at strangers who came calling and asking for their hard-earned wares. The woman came away from the land with some hard biscuits and salted, dried meat. It was no mead-hall feast, but it was enough, and she did not complain. Now and then she found herself needing to tighten her belt a little, but such was the way of the traveler.
"We had good weather and roads for a month," she said aloud to the horse, while they nestled together for warmth and comfort. "It was bound to break eventually."
She thought of those left behind in the north. Of Cesistya, her heart-friend, and of Baldmar whom she missed dearly. Now and again upon the long road, she would catch a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye; a dark movement in the trees or upon the far-off hills, swift and fleeting. And she would fancy that he was following at a distance, and keeping their way safe. She would imagine him sitting by the campfire at night, broad and imposing and silent, his presence gentle and reassuring. She tried not to think of the quarry, or of Conrob, or the past, that seemed now so very far away.
She wondered if she would hear any news of Ryheric, if she reached Rohan safely. The warning that had come to her ears before departing Bree - a warning that she might be pursued and in danger - did not seem to come to fruition. There had been no trace of anyone following her, nor had she been waylaid anywhere upon the road. Part of her feared that this might mean Ryheric was no longer alive, and thus she was no longer a valuable target to his enemies. But there was naught to do but wait, and hope. To think too much on him was a painful thing.
"I confess, Jack," she said to the horse, while snatching at another corner of the tarp that was ripping loose in the wind. "I will be glad to set foot in the Riddermark once again, and sit beside a warm hearth, and eat a good meal with my kinsmen, and not travel anywhere again for a long, long time."
Jack blustered a longsuffering snort through his nostrils and shook his head.
"The longest miles are behind us now," the woman said, peering up at the glowering sky through the naked trees. "But the most dangerous miles are yet to come. Swift and careful we must be, if we are to see our home again."
