So large was the kingdom of Belthar that they were still within its boundaries at the end of the first day. They landed in a part of the country where the Copper and Black mountains began to draw close together, the northern extremity of the Rahm corridor. They found an abandoned barn and bedded down for the night, leaving two people awake and on guard, more because it was a habit they wanted to get into than because they thought they were in any danger. The Beltharan countryside had its share of cutthroats and highwaymen, as all human nations do, but Belthar was much more peaceful and civilized than most places and it was very unlikely that a group of travelers sleeping in a barn would be bothered.

     The next day they passed over the famous Crescent Moon glacier which formed the natural boundary between Belthar and Rahm. The glacier curved its way around the base of an outthrust mountain, giving it the appearance of a crescent moon when seen from the road that sloped down to it, and as they passed overhead the teammates saw a line of travelers picking their way across the smooth surface of the ice, carts and wagons being drawn by horses with strapped on spiked horseshoes.

     Everyone knew that the border between Belthar and Rahm was only open for half the year, and people in distant parts of the world who heard this assumed that the pass was snowed in during the winter months. The truth, though, was that the glacier was covered by a layer of fast flowing meltwater during the warmer months, running down off the surrounding mountains. The glacier itself was too large to melt, but the rushing waters covering it made it impassable except for the occasional suicidally reckless adventurer in a leatherskin boat, and even they could only cross the border on one direction, from north to south, following the current.

     Beyond the glacier, they followed the Rahm corridor between the Copper and Black Mountains, not wanting to risk the high altitudes needed to cross the eastern range, even though the more direct route might have saved them a day’s travel. Snow was falling heavily, blown into deep drifts by the howling wind, and they stayed well above the clouds to avoid the worst of the weather.

     On the couple of occasions, when they dipped below the clouds to make sure they were still on the right course, they saw only a few scattered merchant caravans struggling along the Rahm road, forcing their way through the drifts and straining their way up and down the hills and valleys. Most of the other travelers had settled down in merchant villages and boarding houses to await an improvement in the weather. Even in winter the Rahm corridor wasn't always passable, and travelers had been known to die of exposure, caught out in the open during a sudden blizzard. It's a wonder anyone dares to take the risk at all, thought Thomas as the carpet was buffeted by gusts of wind. People'll do anything, take any risk, for a profit.

     They passed over Rahm itself around midday, but resisted the temptation to stop in a Rahmin town for lunch, not wanting to attract the attention that a pair of flying carpets would inevitably cause. They had a light lunch of trail rations in the air, therefore, looking down at the patchwork of farmland interspersed with primeval forest from an altitude from which they’d have been merely a pair of fast moving specks in the sky.

     They spent their second night on the borders of Ilandia, making sure to land at least a hundred miles west of Tatria, which would hopefully put them well outside the area still being ravaged by Shadow raiding parties. The last they’d heard, the Shadowarmy sent to renew the assault on Ilandia was still being heroically held up in the Endless Plains by the trogs, but they knew that smaller groups of Shadowsoldiers were still ranging far and wide, committing smaller acts of destruction and kidnapping whoever they could find to be turned into zombies. The night passed uneventfully, however, and at daybreak they took to the air again, travelling southeast and hugging the coast of the Western Sea to avoid wyvern riders.

     Hundreds of miles of coastline passed beneath them, running in a more or less straight line for the most part between Ilandia and Mala but indented here and there with coves, bays and estuaries too small to appear on most maps. They saw quite a few sailing ships, large and small, also following the coast, taking care to avoid the deeper waters beyond the continental shelf inhabited by terrible ocean predators that would make short work of even the largest, best defended ship.

     Shaun, Thomas and Diana were reminded of their first voyage to the Lonely Isles aboard the Analiese, and of their later journey aboard a Beltharan aerial reconnaissance platform. That time, though, there had been hundreds of ships sailing the Mala-Ilandia trade route, packed so closely together that lookouts on each ship could see several sails on the horizon all the way. The drastic reduction in sea traffic had to be the result of the war, they thought. The invasion of Ilandia. Ships from other parts of the world were scared to come to Ilandia now, in case they were attacked, and most of the Ilandian merchant fleet had fled, each ship straining under the weight of hundreds of refugees looking for a safer part of the world to spend the rest of their lives. It’ll all go back to normal once the war’s over, thought Thomas hopefully. The ships and refugees will return, and everything will go back to the way it was. As soon as the war’s over. Assuming we win, of course.

     That evening, the carpets came to rest in a field just a couple of miles outside the independent city of Mala, next to a haybarn they’d seen from the air. “Anyone fancy a trip into town?” suggested Dennis eagerly. “I don’t know about you, but I could murder a couple of pints of treen ale.”

     Shaun agreed immediately, but Diana was less enthusiastic. “We’re on an important mission,” she reminded them. “We should be making every effort to stay out of trouble.”

     “Who said anything about trouble?” replied Shaun. “We’ve spent three days sitting on a carpet. We just want a few hours in pleasant company to sink a few jars and relax, that’s all. Where’s the trouble in that?”

     “You weren’t looking for trouble in Fort Battleaxe either, if you remember,” the cleric reminded him, “but you found it all the same, flashing gold around in a sleazy tavern full of murderers and cutthroats.”

     The soldier blushed at the memory. “We made a stupid mistake,” he admitted, “but I’ll be more careful this time. Come on Di, have a heart.”

     “It’s all right, I’ll take care of him,” said Thomas, grinning as he went to stand next to the two soldiers. “I’ll get him out safely if he starts a bar room brawl, I promise.”

     “We’ll be back before midnight, I promise,” said Shaun, putting on his most winning smile. “We’ll want to get a bit of sleep before we set off tomorrow morning.”

     The cleric finally relented, but made them repeat their promise to be back before midnight. “And don’t get drunk!” she warned as the three men, followed by Arroc, set off. “I have absolutely no intention of demeaning my Lady’s power by curing your hangovers, or of bailing you out of the drunk tank tomorrow morning.”

     “Trust me, sis,” called back Shaun, and Diana groaned as she turned back to the barn. “Trust me, he says. Why do I have the feeling we’re all going to regret this?”

     “Do you always ask her permission before doing anything?” asked Dennis once they were out of earshot.

     “It’s simpler that way,” Shaun replied. “Try doing something she doesn’t like and see what happens.” He shared a glance with Thomas, and they both grinned. “She has ways of making her feelings known, as you’ll find out soon enough.”

     “I’d never let a woman tell me what to do,” said Dennis darkly.

     Shaun and Thomas looked at each other again, this time frowning. “Diana is no ordinary woman,” pointed out Shaun. “She’s a cleric of Caroli, and if you’re ever injured in battle you could be depending on her for your life. You’d do well to remember that.”

     Dennis glared at him, but then his expression softened and he nodded slowly.

     They didn’t go into Mala itself, as the city gates would be closing before long and they didn’t want to be trapped in the city overnight. Instead they went to one of the outlying villages that hugged its walls. One of the farming towns that supplied the city with most of its food in return for protection from the bandits that roamed the surrounding countryside. The town of Darfield consisted of a few dozen moss and fern covered wooden buildings clustered loosely around a crossroads where the road to Kenestra crossed the road connecting two larger towns, Horley and Tutton. It had three taverns, as a man in the street told them, and they set off for the one he recommended; the Plough and Raven on the Mala road.

     The tavern was full of locals, mainly farmers and craftsmen, and they all looked up curiously as the newcomers entered. Unperturbed, Dennis led the way to a table and they sat down around it, the others a little apprehensive at the sudden silence and the attention they were receiving. They were aware of a faint sense of hostility, as if the locals resented the invasion of their drinking place, and for a moment Thomas wondered if they ought to just get up and leave. Go back to the barn and get some sleep. Even if nothing bad actually happened, the all pervading atmosphere of resentment and rejection could make their stay unbearable when all they wanted was to relax and enjoy themselves.

     Then, one of the grimy, calloused farmers at the next table turned in his chair to look at them. “Ayup, lads, strangers in town. Who are ye, lads, and where ye be from?”

     “We’re from the north,” replied Shaun cautiously. “Just passing through on our way to the Lonely Isles. We’ve been travelling all day and just want to wet our throats before we settle down for the night.”

     “From the north, eh?” said the farmer with a broad grin. “I knew a northerner once, hired on by Dunnegan to work on the dike. Took him to the tool shed, he did, showed him all the shovels and told him to take his pick. The northerner said ‘But Mr Dunnegan sir, there be nothing in here but shovels!’”

     The whole tavern erupted in laughter, and the teamsters were forced to smile as well. When the laughter subsided, all the normal conversations began to resume as the tavern’s occupants lost interest in the newcomers. Thomas relaxed, and the barmaid came over to take their orders.

     Their beers arrived a couple of minutes later and Arroc unwound the layers of cloth from around his face so he could drink. He'd had to do the same thing during mealtimes, of course, but he'd always moved a short distance away from the others to eat, to prevent the others from seeing his face. Now, though, he had no choice but to reveal his features if he wanted to drink with the others.

     He looked uncomfortable as the others stared at him, noting the folds of sagging flesh around his eyes and jowls, but whereas Dennis was visibly discomfited by his appearance, Shaun and Thomas were interested to see how much less loose skin he had than the other trogs they'd met during the course of their adventures. He even had eyelashes, Thomas saw. Pureblooded trogs didn't have any hair at all, anywhere on their bodies.

     That's why he's so shy about showing his face, thought Thomas. Not because it's so unhuman, but because it's so unlike the face of a pureblooded trog. Their attention was clearly disturbing him, though, and so the three humans made an effort to turn their eyes elsewhere, and when they spoke to him they tried to only flick a glance in his direction, not letting their gazes linger.

     Soon, they were feeling very relaxed and comfortable. They chatted amiably with the group at the next table, discussing the state of the world and exchanging details of each others families. Dennis, it turned out, came from an old Kenestran family with a long and glorious military history, having produced a great many Generals, Commissars and Wing Marshals over the past two centuries. The last few generations had failed to maintain the tradition, though, leaving it up to Dennis, the last of the direct line of descent, to recapture their past glory.

     He was hoping to be admitted to Fomora military academy one day, he told them, so he could earn his commission and start the long climb up the promotion ladder, but first Kenestran law demanded that he complete five years service as an ordinary enlisted man.

     “I thought it would be a boring five years, touring around the outmarches chasing outlaws and goblins,” he said, his voice beginning to go a bit slurry from his third pint of treen ale, “but then the war started and I was one of the men sent to Belthar to help fight the Shads. I couldn’t believe my luck! At last the chance for some real action, the chance to make a name for myself! I knew that if I could attract the attention of the brass, get myself a reputation, it would help me no end when I got to the academy, so I volunteered for every high risk mission that came along and eventually would up in Red...”

     Thomas kicked him under the table, and the soldier realised with a guilty start that he’d been about to give them away. He cleared his throat and took another long swallow of treen ale.

     “So, what brings ye all the way down here?” asked one of the farmers.

     “We’re on leave,” replied Shaun, thinking fast to cover up Dennis’s error. “On our way to visit friends on Gurney Island.”

     “On leave?” exclaimed the farmer in astonishment. “Visiting Gurney Island from Belthar on leave? That be a four month journey! Exactly how much leave do they give ye in Belthar?”

     Shaun shifted uncomfortably in his chair, realising it had been a stupid thing to say, but Arroc came to his rescue, bursting out in laughter. “On leave!” he cried in mirth, wiping his eyes. “On leave! That’s a good one! He’s a joker, old Shaun is. Has us in stitches all the time, he does.”

     Dennis and Thomas took up the laughter, and soon the farmers were joining in as well. Thomas decided to change the subject quick before the farmer remembered his original question. “Have you had any trouble with the Shads down here yet?” he asked.

     “Nay lad,” replied one of the other farmers, who’d introduced himself earlier as Giles Hamwin. “Not a sight nor a smell of ‘em. We won’t see ‘em down ‘ere unless Belthar falls, I reckon, but that might not be long now, the way things are going. We get news down here that the war’s going badly, but I expect ye’d know the true situation much better’n us, being Beltharan soldiers an’ all. What exactly is the situation up there?”

     “It could be better,” admitted Shaun, “but then again, it could be a lot worse. The enemy’s not getting it all their own way, you can be sure of that.”