It seemed somewhat unfair to Emmaline that her ample behind should be such poor padding for riding, but after several hours of racing across broken terrain at breakneck speed, she seemed to feel every hoof beat up through her spine. Fortunately for the pair of them the twin moons provided enough light  that they hadn’t tripped and fallen to their deaths during their escape. Not for the first time. Emmaline lamented having to leave the Empire. The Temple of Ranald had been clear that, while they appreciated their aid in ‘borrowing’ the Seal of Magnus and then returning it, that it would be best if they were both far away for a considerable time. Emmaline had lobbied for trying again for Marienburg, but the captain of the boat they had boarded had come upon a valuable cargo for Averland and turned around, leaving them the option of waiting for another or changing their plans. One route out of the Empire seemed as good as another, at least it did before you thought of the weeks of bumpy roads, bad food and bandit raids. Of course depending on the boat, you might trade that for bad weather, equally bad food and pirate raids, but at least it was easier on your ass.

 

“I can walk I think,” Emmaline told Amal almost giving the lie to her words as she slid from the saddle and found the ground strangely unsteady after the jolting ride. Her calves burned but she forced herself to stand and stretch them out. The southern approaches to the pass were more hospitiable than the the main gap, with numerous streams running with melt water from the high mountains. The water was cool and clear if slightly redolent of rock and metals and both horse and riders drank greatfully. A faint pink glow in the eastern sky suggested that dawn was not so very far off, but they needed rest. Emmaline was instinctively wary about staying in the open, and a little more backtracking lead them to a steepening gully carved by the summer torrents that raced through the creek banks.

“Do you think there are fish?” Amal asked, either reading Emmaline’s mind or hearing the rumble of her hungry belly. Emmaline was trying to think of a spell that would catch fish, when a familiar slithering around her wrist interrupted her. Asp had resumed his serpentine form and dropped to the ground with a reproachful look.

“You think you can do better?” Emmaline asked with an arched eyebrow. She swore the snake rolled its eyes and then slithered into the pond. There was a brief thrashing and a minute later a trout floated to the surface, a pair of neat fang marks above its gills. A second splashing yieled a second fish before Asp slithered from the water, he looked cold and sluggish and Emmaline knelt down and offered her arm. The serpent coiled around it greatfully and sank into her skin becoming the tattoo the creature sometimes favored. Ten minutes later they had fresh flakey fish cooked on some more mystically heated rocks. It wasn’t enough to completely fill their bellies, but it was a wonderful improvement. Emmaline was just about to suggest they move on when a sudden guttural voice split the bright morning air.

“Oi, you smell ‘at?” No human throat could have produced such a sound. Emmaline recognized the voice from their brief sojurn on Albion.

 

“All I smell is your arse,” another of the creatures grumbled, eliciting a laugh from a third. Emmaline and Amal froze in place, concealed as they were in the gulley. Amal seemed to be easing his blade very slowly into his hand.

 

“It smells like vish!” the first orc replied, closer now, somewhere off to the left.

 

“Yeah well so’s your arse!” the jokester retorted to further harsh guttural laughter.

“I’ve ‘ad enuf of uouze!”

“Yeah what you ganna do ‘bout it!” There was an ear splitting roar and a clash of weapons. The horse whinnied nervously but fortunately the sound appeared to be lost in the shouting.

“Any of the rest ov ya think youze so fukin’ funny?” the first voice demanded. There was a muffled chours of ‘no’ and ‘no boss.’

“Then lets get a move on, we aint gonna catch dem humize with the wagons hangin’ round here.” The sound of harsh voices faded away but Amal and Emmaline didn’t move for many long minutes. Eventually she managed to let out her breath and they climed to the lip of the gulley and peeked out. Emmaline opened her mouth to scream but Amal, sensing what was about to happen, clamped his hand down over her mouth.

“It’s dead Em,” he told her calmly. A fact that should have been obvious that the orc head not twenty feet from the gulley was separated from its body by the same distance, its bulding eyes forever frozen in a look of stunned stupefaction, its corpse steaming slightly in the chill morning air. It was wrapped in crude leather armor with a great cleaver gripped in its cold fingers that looked like it could cut a horse in half.

“Scouts,” Emmaline supposed, wrapping her cloak around her despite the warmth the rising sun was now providing.

“Likely, but if they are heading north after the bandits, best we get south and find something better than a ditch to hide in,” Amal opined.