The track was still warm, and I almost regretted that it was so obvious. Not for the deer, which would die quickly and well, but because I was supposed to learn something and there was no subtlety in those tracks. I crouched between the roots of a large hard-pine tree, crushing the bed of heady needles on which the last splash rested. All around, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The voice of Vaw, which had been singing earlier, had fallen silent. The tangy vocals of the woodpeckers and robins, the distant barking of the fox, the alarmed sounds of the dwarf doe, now made a silent tribute to the death that walked among them. "I think the deer's almost dead," I finally whispered over my shoulder. I wanted to show Ulrick that at least I was trying to test my knowledge.

The grizzled Val followed my lead from the moment he shot, periodically grumbling his approval as we made our way up the islets of red foam. He was still holding his composite bow, but hadn't bothered to notch a new arrow. "How do you know?" he asked me as he leaned over the track again. "The bubbles. The lung is punctured, maybe both," I replied cautiously, and to illustrate my words I touched the bloody foam with the tip of my index. "He's been bleeding for a mile and has been stopping more and more often to cough. He's choking. A hundred spans at best and he falls." The Val put a pensive thumb on the tip of his aquiline nose. "I think you're right," he said as he stood up. We continued on our way around a chestnut tree, cracked by the frost of the previous winter.

It was the beginning of autumn, the woods would soon be covered with a thousand colors, and we knew that the good weather would not last very long in the heights. A little over ten moons had passed since we had settled on the plateau, and eight had passed since I had overcome my rage. As expected, it had been a harsh winter, but for me, despite the cold and deprivation, the worst was over. Since the Val had stopped beating me, there had been a somewhat harsh and ferocious complicity between us, something that finally resembled the vaïdogan himself.

It hadn't come easily, we had to get over resentment and habits, but eventually we ended up occupying common ground made of a severe pragmatism and a shared respect. Our relationship remained very different from the one I had with Narsilap Ail Shuri, who had been both gentler and more professorial. There was a much more universal aspect to Ulrick's lessons, precisely because they resembled not so much lessons but a philosophy of life, and I had come to embrace it. More importantly, he and I were no longer alone. We had become a pack, just like those wolves who sometimes howled on the ridge, who hunted in the same woods as we did, and we were becoming more and more like them.

Our clothing was complemented by uneven weaves of various furs taken from Ulrick's preys. The warmth of the skins was a comfort we had welcomed with delight during the coldest moons. My cloak had collected its share of holes while I was still a prisoner of my rage, and the leather boots I had from Woody were waterproof, but not stuffed, and the narrowness of their cut made stuffing impossible. By the end of winter, we had wrapped a shaggy layer of deerskin around my leggings to keep my toes from freezing - making the boots more awkward to walk in - and the short chamois cape that hung around my shoulders was used as a backup for the aging cloak. Ulrick had done the same with his own clothes, and since then, we looked like two spiky trappers with faces bitten by the cold. There was something I particularly liked about the fur and leather. I think it was the smell, the cohabitation between the animal-like softness and the oily scents of a more tawny perfume. Ulrick tanned the skins with brain, a particularly nauseating process that we let take its course, further up the gully. I had feared at first that this would attract scavengers, but the Val had told me that even the wolves would not want it.

The winter had been followed by a sad, rainy spring and then a summer so dry that the stream threatened to dry up. We had left our furs in favor of nudity and, despite the dusty wind that caressed the forest of Vaw, I was sure to cook like a crab if the heat wave lasted another week. Fortunately, the storms had come at the beginning of the off-season, dry at first, streaking the sky with electric dragons, before whole herds of clouds appeared from the east, thick and swollen like imposing celestial beasts. Fearing that we would run out of water, we welcomed the torrential rain with open arms, and hail too, even though, at the altitude we were at, the darkened sky had reduced the temperature by half.

During all this time, my training had continued tirelessly, at the same frantic pace. Whether it rained, was windy or snowing, four hours a day, more if no other chores were scheduled, I was sweating under the effort of the exercises. When evening came, by the fire, the Val was giving me his science in a more theoretical way. Strategy, formations, battles, and especially organization. My somewhat childish ideas about the heroes who won victories by their prowess alone had crumbled in the face of Ulrick's mockery. I now understood that an army that won was an army that ate, and that only logistics and information were really decisive for the outcome of a conflict, if we ignored luck and possible strategic genius. Accidents and infection killed more often than the sword, and disease more often than everything else combined.

To illustrate his words, Ulrick often spoke to me about the carmian wars and the major role that the val-warriors had played in the invasions of king Ab, as warriors, but especially as advisors. If the bloody service of the vaïdogans was so much courted by the lords of the primacy of Brown, it was as much due to their knowledge as to their know-how. By day, however, we set aside the major part of the conceptual to devote ourselves to the practical. "You have time to learn theory," Ulrick often said with a ferocious grin. "Theory is like water. It's useless if someone has pierced a hole in the pot."

The Val had carved me replicas of weapons in wood that he soaked in tallow to make them heavier and they weighed almost as much as the originals. He mainly taught me the use of the spear and the short sword - a versatile and deadly weapon for those who know how to handle it - as well as the dagger.

Ulrick didn't think I'd ever be the right size to excel with a long sword, although I seemed naturally predisposed to excel at short range. He had learned what he knew about the sword in Benkepp, where he had been an instructor for several years, and it was an escaped slave, a carmian swordsman of the kodia Doïsi who had initiated him. The Val was now training me in this explosive technique, which I appreciated for its dazzling aggressiveness and the way it could surprise the regulars of a more classical sword. I was becoming agile, with snake-like reflexes and a sharp sense of balance which, without yet rivalling the talent and experience of the vaïdogan, suggested that in a few years, if I was lucky and chose the right moment, I could hope to stand up to him. I was still growing up, and my once loose clothes were inexorably tightening around me. Despite my ten springs, my body no longer had anything of the softness of childhood.

In addition to my two wooden blades, I was clumsily trying my hand at the mace (Ulrick had ballasted a club with molten lead for this purpose) and, even though it soon appeared that I would be lucky if I only became moderately competent, the warrior wanted me to persist. I needed a tool that would give me a chance against real armor, if I had no choice but to fight. While I was struggling under the weight of the club after countless swinging motions, from behind his dented shield Ulrick told me, again and again, how he had hammered down the man who was wearing my mail, without his opponent's sword even scratching his armor.

The only real counterpart to all this was my abominable mastery of the bow.

Towards the end of the winter, Ulrick had decided that I would be a hobblar. I was sharp, intelligent and observant, but not tall enough or strong enough to be anything other than a weakness in the shield wall, and I was more likely to be bewildered if I had to charge anything as a cataphract. I had hoped to change Ulrick's mind by eating a lot and hanging from the low branches of the birch trees to make me grow faster, but as nothing helped I finally had to come to terms with it: the armor and the steed were not for me.

So I would be a hobblar, a scout for the heavy cavalry, and as I became more and more aware of the crucial importance of reconnaissance and supply in wartime, the idea appealed to me more and more. But I was undeniably bad with the bow, which Ulrick had always insisted was the most valuable tool of the hobblar.

Ulrick's composite bow was a remarkable object, a little more than a span of ox horn and finely crafted mulberry wood. When he was not using it, the Val kept it preciously in a waterproof leather case to protect it from humidity. Despite its small size, which made it almost look like a toy in the hands of the great warrior, it was a powerful weapon that could be used easily from the back of a horse. At the beginning of the summer I had a demonstration, and Ulrick launched Berda at triple gallop between the stumps that now dotted the plateau, before taking a shot right through my mail, which we hung on the cabin fifty spans away. On sunny days, we had used the bow regularly and the first time I had struggled to draw it, I remembered the afternoon I had spent shooting with Dera and Rue on the rocky plain near the Basin.

Unfortunately, I also performed about as well as I did that day. Despite hours and hours of shooting birch trees, and even more searching for the arrows that I misplaced, I still made a mediocre archer. I could be counted on to hit a target at ten steps without much accuracy, but beyond twenty-five I failed three times out of four.

Ulrick had demanded that I practice again, and at the same time, I accompanied him on the hunt to sharpen my skills as a tracker. At the beginning of autumn, I had managed to flush out the solitary deer that the Val had shot, and under the green foliage it was I who led us on the trail of blood.

I walked bent over, my hand on the pommel of the broad-bladed dagger, and Ulrick walked on my heels. He had limped considerably over the winter and his knee had finally swollen, but since that episode he hadn't complained about it and his limp, although visible, didn't handicap him as much. My gaze twirled over the longer grasses of the clearing we were crossing, looking for the slightest trace.

Behind me, I could hear the Val grumbling and cursing the spines of the black thorn grove through which the agony of our prey had led us earlier. "If I had real hunting arrows, he wouldn't have had time to go that far," he said as softly as his gravelly voice would allow. "Better for him and better for us." "At least it didn't go through him like the dwarf doe from last time," I whispered in response. It had taken me a whole afternoon to find that arrow. The ten projectiles that Ulrick had taken with him on his desperate journey to Brown-Horn were war arrows with a sharp punch, capable of piercing the mesh under the right conditions, but not very practical when it came to killing game. I had already broken three of them in training, and the Val had lost two others on a particularly tough boar that we had never found.

"There. Below. I'm going."

I stopped on the stone cornice that marked the end of the clearing, with my finger outstretched. Below, a small valley at the bottom of which a sea of ferns was peacefully stirring, surrounded by a rustling chestnut grove. The deer had stranded between two sandstone reefs like a ship broken by the waves, its red snout stretched out like those sculpted figureheads that decorate Wolf-Bay's carracks. I leapt into the basin, before drawing the dagger. It was up to me to finish off our prey. "To harden you," the Val had said. "To overcome hesitation." I didn't like that, but I understood. I advanced quickly between the great ferns, my heart beating, whispering the words that Ulrick had taught me.

"Iss hareuss neï fridd oï vaïdogan. Dief seu giebb iss clieff eu qwiess." Suffering isn't the friend of the val-warrior. The death he gives is clean and quick.

In front of me, the deer was struggling again, its broad hooves ploughing the humus without it being able to stand upright. The beast coughed red as I leapt up the moss covered sandstone. Ulrick's arrow was stuck in his side, a small bird, grey and deadly. I crouched close to the head and grabbed the large antler. I had already counted his antlers before the shot. We were about the same age, which was a curious thought. My eyes met his, he became agitated, and I plunged the knife under the jaw. Two more thrusts to open the trachea, a few more throbbing spurts on the rock, then he closed his eyes, and that was it.

I wiped the blade in the thick moss, which was silly. We were going to use the dagger for cutting.

I left my lookout post while the Val bypassed the cornice through the woods. "He's big," he said to me from the trees, as I struggled unsuccessfully to clear the carcass, "We won't be able to pull it all the way up." I stubbornly struggled until Ulrick joined me.

We managed to tip the deer into the ferns.

I opened his abdomen from top to bottom, shearing furiously, and the Val piled the red viscera on the ground. I handed him the knife when I had finished, and he set about cutting, which was an area he mastered better than I did. So I watched him and learned.

"The deer is like a man in many ways," Ulrick said, cutting vigorously. "Although its cock is smaller than mine," he added with a chuckle. "Look at those nerves there behind the knee. Those are the ones I teach you to find with a knife. Cut them off and the leg is useless." I sniffed dismissively, while I was crushing a fern, and the Val lifted his head towards me, his forearms red and shiny. He made a rather stupid pout, between amusement and apology. "I ramble and I forget, is that what you think? Old Ulrick has forgotten again that you know more about knees than he does?" he said, tapping his own leg exaggeratedly.

"Vessukk," I replied in a falsely indifferent tone. For sure. Ulrick smiled imperceptibly and his verdigris eyes sparkled like those of a playing cat. "Still, I've opened more knees than you have, Sletling, though not as finely. Come and hold this paw for me, it will help." I did it as a concession, my mouth twisted by the shadow of a smile. The Val sheared in the joint of the thigh:

"There's an idea that's been bugging me for a while," he said as he cut. "White roots and acorn paste, I've had enough of it. I feel like having bread and beer. I thought that in a few days, when the weather is right, we could go down to Long-Vein and bring back food for the coming winter. I have a handful of denarii left and we have skins that we don't know what to do with. I would also like to gather some news and test the waters. To see if they are still looking for us." I looked up, both excited and worried at the idea of returning to civilization, however briefly.

"I don't think so," I said slowly. "That they're still looking for us, I mean. The assassin must have wanted me to get to the primate, but he needed me last year, while the... the murders were still fresh. And Sesh used to say that Bard was negotiating with Franlake, so maybe the assassin has already left."

Ulrick worked vigorously on the articulation with the tip of the blade.

"Maybe," he replied, his teeth clenched. "But maybe not. You'd still be useful to him, even today. The mixed-blood's sorcerer spy, that wouldn't be good, and he must also hope that you can deliver other spies." I swallowed, thinking of little Crumby, and Ulrick put down the knife to grab the severed leg. "Also," he continued, grinning, "It's not just the assassin. You told me you mutilated someone before I freed you, the son of an influential man who owns land near Brican, if I remember correctly. Brican is not so far from Long-Vein and this land may be very close to the Vawan border." The thigh came off with a wet crack. "You can never be too confident," Ulrick concluded in a cautious voice, leaning on the carcass. "The Padekke, Sletling. We have to admit that we don't know and act accordingly."

While thoughtfully scratching my hair, I put my buttocks on a comfortable rock while the Val was taking care of the butchering. I wore it now half-length, a black mane mixed with longer braids, like when I used to run the streets of Brown-Horn. "They were looking for a lame Val in Woody," I said with a satisfied look. "There are a thousand children and I grew up too. You're the one they're looking for." Ulrick stared at me exaggeratedly, over his shoulder. "How subtle you are, Sletling. Do you really think I'm stupid enough to go to Long-Vein in war clothes?" he grunted. "Of course I'm the one they're looking for. You look just like any other brat, as long as you hide your tattoos." I blushed. "Yeah, but you look like a plaguey bear, with lichen in your beard," I said, vaguely mortified. "Exactly," the Val said, giving me a black look.

"A bear, not a warrior. I'll do well as a trapper, if you don't look too closely. I'll be your father, and you'll be the little skinny bastard that I got from a random whore." I didn't like the way things were going, but since I liked the prospect of the trip, I bit my tongue so I wouldn't answer. We often quarreled, but you never knew when you were going too far with Ulrick. He would have been able to leave me at the cabin and the truth is, we both knew that the trip would be much less risky if I didn't go with him. Then something climbed up on my hand and I jumped off from the rock like a scalded cat.

Ulrick began laughing as I struggled, swearing, dancing a clumsy jig through the valley, but irritated to lose my composure in a real panic. It looked like a big spider. I finally managed to get it off my skin and it fell back softly among the ferns. "Fekk," I said, still shaking, and my trembling hand went to my belt, looking for the dagger that was not there.

Ulrick bent down among the stems and brought back between his fingers, holding it by its rounded abdomen, a small creature of a dirty brown streaked with ochre, the size of those yellow plums that grow on the Southy hills. Eight tentacles were squirming softly underneath, some of them reaching out towards me. Others had already wrapped themselves around the phalanxes of the Val. Ulrick studied the swarming thing with interest, then suddenly he threw his head back and ate the entire thing. "It's exactly what I've been waiting for," he chewed. I watched him, gawking, between disgust and fascination, as it crunched under his teeth. A tentacle was still twisting when it disappeared from the corner of his lips. "Iss finne," he muttered, before swallowing. "The season of lurs has just begun."