Sir Kralaford slowed Hakansa's pace as they entered the valley. His dark beast was panting with exertion, but he knew his steed and was confident in the depths of his stamina, and was not worried as the land began to rise and Hakansa forged upwards.

He and his four companions had crested the rise of land above the grass-turtle bog a half hour before to find the first of Solridge's plateaus stretched in front of them. The land was a rolling green vale, strung with the same fading flower grass that marked the grasslands around Klinberg. Though the time for the nipeflies had gone, a single flock of widdershins still hunted there, skimming low over the ground in the hope of scooping up a last morsel before their hunger took them south. The plateau was backed by a sheer rise of grey rock, cut by valleys from which streams tumbled, and it had been into one of those narrow defiles that Sir Kralaford had seen his quarries fleeing.

The distant riders had been driving their mounts upwards beside a steep falling stream, and he had wasted no time in urging Hakansa forward into his fastest pace. As they climbed the last fold of land and entered the shadow of the hanging valley, he slowed because his son's kidnappers had run out of space to flee. The valley did not cut through to the plateau above, but ended in a slab of steep rock down which white water tumbled to a pool that fed the valley's stream.

His quarry was trapped. Now they would pay.

The valley had once been used to farm whitestep, but the workings had been abandoned when the Clans had taken Solridge. Everything of value was long stripped away, and the place had become a ghost of itself. Two walls of the farmhouse remained, the stones of the others tumbled around its foundations, though the thick domed roofs of the smoke houses still stood, too well made to be casually destroyed. Everything that could be burnt had been robbed to feed the fires of the outlaws who had taken residence in Solridge's lawless borders. Even the props from the growing shafts were gone, and many of the tunnels that had been dug into the valley's steep sides had fallen in, or had mouths contorted by slumped earth.

Only one large tunnel at the valley's far end, which had been dug against some protruding bedrock and had its arch clad in stone, remained complete, and it was there that Sir Kralaford saw one of his prey. A single hydrayet and its rider stood before the tunnel's darkness, inspecting it as though it might offer a means of escape, but before Sir Kralaford and his companions could move towards him, he turned and saw them standing at the valley's edge. The man had sparse clan-marks on his arms, and even from the distance between them the mark of outcast was clear on his forehead.

Sir Kralaford heard him call a warning, and another man appeared in a window of the farmhouse ruins where, it seemed, the other kidnappers had taken refuge. Sir Kralaford urged Hakansa forward.

"Sir!" said the remaining scout, whose steed seemed agitated and was growling and sniffing, her ears laid back and her claws raking in the grass. "There is danger here."

"I know," said Sir Kralaford, and he did.

That the man mounted on the hydrayet was a bandit was clear from his raged clothes and worn armour, and Sir Kralaford knew the man would know the land well enough not to have unwittingly led his party into a place that offered them no escape.

"Stay here," he said. He pointed at his remaining messenger. "Both of you."

Then he commanded Hakansa forward again.

Sir Hogan and Sir Beddingvale followed.

"Spread out."

With that command, they divided as they approached the abandoned farmhouse. Hakansa loped straight over its fallen stones, dark paws brushing through the thick grasses growing among them. Sir Beddingvale put distance between himself and Sir Kralaford, and went right, close to the tumbled beach where the stream fell white through its ragged bed. Sir Hogan skirted left around the building's standing gable. The hydrayet rider still stood above in the tunnel's shadow. He had not moved, but he had drawn his sword.

Hakansa growled as he crested the tumble of stones. The man who had appeared in the window had mounted a second hydrayet and had retreated to stand upon a taller heap of stone, where a chimney had fallen to make a square bastion of broken masonry. He too had his sword drawn and was staring at Sir Kralaford with undisguised hostility, though his creased face had no clan-marks. The hydrayet tossed its ugly, flat faced head, snorting at the madriel's scent through its barbed snout.

"Watch him, Sir Beddingvale."

Sir Kralaford ignored the man after that because his attention had fallen on the woman who sat in the centre of one of the farmhouse's ruined rooms. She was hooded, and bent over something bundled in her lap, a few curls of blond hair falling over her face.

"Kamantha," said Sir Kralaford.

As soon as the woman turned her head up to face him he knew that he had not found his son.

It was not Kamantha, and the grin she gave him was evil.

"Kamantha is not here," the woman said, and let the bundle in her hands fall from her lap.

The shawl it was wrapped in unfolded, and the cloth that had been wound inside unravelled and fell across the weed shrouded flags of the farmhouse floor.

"Sir!" said Sir Beddingvale, and Sir Kralaford looked up to see riders pouring out of the wide tunnel at the valley's head. More figures crawled from the half collapsed tunnels high on the valley's sides and stood swiftly with arrows drawn on their hunting bows, serrated heads targeted at the three knights trapped in the valley below.

* * * * *

There were still soldiers waiting in the shadow of the Engineer's barbican-fort gateway, but they were no longer adhering to any military order. They sat or lay at ease on the grass while their Unit-leaders stood together in frustrated inactivity, casting angry glances at the two Forge-guard who still stood immovable in front of the tunnel gateway.

Some of the soldiers jumped to their feet when they saw High Lance-master Tzarren approaching, while others studied him only momentarily before closing their eyes and returning to their dozing. The Unit-leader who saw him first saluted hastily.

"High Lance-master! The Engineers are still refusing to grant us entry!"

Then the man looked over Master Tzarren's shoulder and saw the lines of soldiers marching across the hub towards the gate.

"I am here to give them some persuasion," said Master Tzarren.

There were at least four Sections of troops behind him; units of spearmen in the front ranks and swordsmen behind. The two Forge-guard watched the soldiers approach, and the senior of the two scratched at his beard thoughtfully as they drew nearer.

"Good morning, Harev," said Master Tzarren.

"Good morning, High Lance-master. It is being a fine morning for taking your fortress troops out for a walk."

"They are not here for their exercise, Forge-guard. I am here to demand an audience with Chief-engineer Garenshik."

"Ah," said Harev as though the matter and the approaching soldiers barely concerned him. "But I am thinking that you do not have the authority to demand such a thing."

"Nevertheless, I am still making the demand. Send your Chief a message."

Harev's heavy brow creased as though pondering the problem.

"Do not be troubling yourself, Forge-guard Harev," said a new voice.

The Engineer who stepped out of the shadow of the barbican-fort's gate was old, but her back was straight, her shoulders broad, and her eyes held authority that tolerated no argument.

"I am Engineer Drasneval. Chief-engineer Garenshik does not have the time to receive you at this time, High Lance-master."

"I must speak to him, Engineer," said Master Tzarren, untroubled by her eyes. "I am seeking Commander Kralaford's children."

"I believe that I can be saving you the trouble."

Engineer Drasneval stepped aside and Master Tzarren stared past her in disbelief.

He recognised Grifford first. His face was still bruised, and now his clothes were filthy and ravaged to match it. He had his arm around a young Engineer who leant heavily against him, her own clothes as filthy as his own, her arm bandaged and her face pale. Tahlia stood beside them, her own dishevelled appearance more familiar, and in her arms, sleeping as though there was no trouble in the world, was Kralmir.

"I think I require an explanation," said Master Tzarren.

"And I am sure that Commander Kralaford's children will gladly be supplying you with one as they are escorted to the Infirmary." Engineer Drasneval looked over Master Tzarren's shoulder at the newly arrived Units of soldiers who had halted behind him. "Though I believe you will not be needing so many of your soldiers for that duty."

Master Tzarren met Engineer Drasneval's hardened gaze, and for once was lost for any reply.

"I am not wishing to be dictating your duties to you, High Lance-master," said the old Engineer, but I have a belief that the Commander may be interested to have news of his son."

"Unit-leader!" snapped Master Tzarren.

The Unit-leader, who was staring at the three children in similar bewilderment, saluted sharply.

"Find me a messenger. The swiftest one you can."

The man turned quickly to rouse his troops, and Master Tzarren looked up to the sky at the climbing sun. A miracle had occurred. He only hoped there was space in the world that day for another.