We reached Garnear in the evening, almost three weeks after we left the plateau. Throughout the day, the Thorns had come closer and their dark peaks grew on the horizon like the bristling barbs of an old dragon. Gradually, imperceptibly even, without losing any of their lush charm, the hills of Wadd had become more numerous and steeper. There were more sheep than oxen now, and the seas of grain were giving way to plantations of turnips and tubers. Trees could be seen in the distance again, small green woods clinging to the rolling foothills of the mountains. From the road, these modest vegetal streaks seemed so distant that one could have thought them inaccessible, and yet, I also knew that we could have reached them in a single day of riding.

Garnear was a charming town, its battlements encircling the top of a flat hill. In the center of the town was a large square keep, which offered an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside.

The layout of the place reminded me a little of Brown-Horn, but flatter, and older. No black granite here, they had built with the endemic limestone and, for several miles already, one could make out the stained stone of the walls, eaten away by water and moss. I had had plenty of time to look at the town from afar as we approached along the increasingly winding road, but as I watched, the rapidly declining sun in the west transformed Garnear into an incoherent sculpture, all shadows and splinters, that hurt the eyes.

I was a little disappointed when I realized that we were not going to the city, but that our destination was the stinking camp outside the walls, which was smoking under a burning sky. We could see, among the jumble of tents and fire pits, a multitude of black shapes bustling below the eastern side of the city, a chaotic little anthill in the shadow of the walls. I crossed my fingers that we would find the Vals there, and Ulrick's attentive silence sharpened my hope. As the night wore on, we hurried the horses along the final stretch.

The atmosphere on the main road seemed to me feverish and saturated with distrust. The doors had closed as we passed, and the few glances we received from the fields were either frightened or downright hostile. I could well imagine how the intrusion of violence into this calm and peaceful place must have been perceived by its inhabitants. As an accomplice, I sometimes felt ashamed. During the morning, we had already come across a few men in arms, at first in dribs and drabs, a disappointed trapper with his hunting bow, a farmer's son and his grandfather's rusty spear. Then, around noon, it was a small company, a dozen tough, grimy men from the forest of Vaw, wearing long bills and patched coats of mail. A few of them gave Ulrick brief, angry salutes, and then the road swallowed them up behind us. "They don't like us," the Val had said. "We get paid twenty times as much as they do, and no lord will use us as meat shields. But most of all, they know we can help them stay alive, and that, they'll never forgive us."

After we rounded the last hill, we came upon a blockade of cantonal militia, barely a hastily assembled fence manned by a handful of tired soldiers leaning on the staffs of their spears. A fat sergeant stared at us for a while before indicating to Ulrick that we should now leave the main road.

Using a muddy dirt road with ruts from the passage of carts, we plunged towards the valley that stretched out at the foot of the city.

With the growing darkness, the camp fires looked like a swarm of infernal fireflies and the wind carried a tempting scent of grilled meat, mixed with the more nauseating smells of manure, urea and peat smoke. We soon heard the sound of voices and, soon after, the imposing shadow of the Garnear wall appeared before us.

Eyes squinting in the darkness, we entered the camp.

On both sides of the path, a jumble of tents of various sizes and shapes was clustered. Around the fire pits sat small groups of men, and a few women as well, most of whom were too busy eating, drinking, or talking to pay us any attention. We headed first for the corral we had spotted from the road.

About a hundred horses and a few large oxen had been parked in a small paddock on the other side of the bivouac, where the animals were wading in the wet earth while stuffing themselves with fresh hay. The curious herd hurried toward us as we arrived, rolling large eyes made glistening by the night. I was relieved to identify among them a number of rigan mounts, who snorted furiously at the sight of Ulrick. A limping old groom and his son abandoned their dinner to come and help us unload the horses, and when they were free of bridles, bards and saddles, we let Berda and Pike loose in the pasture. From the exuberant neighing that followed, I knew that they had found some friends there.

Any doubts I had left were completely dispelled when the groom's son told us where to find the Vals' pavilions: they were indeed here. We must have looked more exhausted than I thought, because the boy offered to take care of the horses' equipment after having kindly recommended that we go and rest. Ulrick thanked him with a few kind words and we managed to pile the remaining surplus on our aching backs: our meagre supplies, the tools, the weapons, and the four saddlebags. I awkwardly followed the val-warrior with our two spears, my shield, the cooking pot and the blankets, while Ulrick curved his back under the weight of the bard and the saddlebags. The waning moon rose slowly above us, a pale semicircle surrounded by stars, sometimes disappearing under the acrid haze of smoke.

Somewhere near the bordering lights, a festive flute tune could be heard and there was laughter too, but despite this, instinctively, I was getting more and more nervous, my mind alert. With each step, the feeling of unease grew: I was in a dangerous place, with dangerous people. At the corner of the first tents, we came across a completely naked man, sitting in the mud near an extinguished fire. Thin and hairy, with stained lips, he was honing a long dagger which he periodically kissed sensually.

The man, who wore highlander tattoos, stopped his work to watch us pass. He was smoking his pipe full of herbs and stared at me with eyes so strange that I shuddered. I forgot about him much more quickly than I expected, startled a few spans later when a long, visceral howl was heard nearby. In the shadows beyond, a running sound echoed in the night.

I hesitated briefly near a burning peat fire, casting uneven shadows all around. The howl didn't seem to bother the four drunk men slumped there. There was some muttering and laughter as I trotted off to catch up with the Val. "I can protect you, kid," one of the oily-faced men said with a wide, toothless grin. "You'll just have to polish my spear a little."

A new round of laughter accompanied the crystalline crash of a bottle breaking, then a curse. "Come here, kid," said another voice, smoother, "our boy here can't walk anymore." Further ahead, Ulrick did not turn around and I hurried on while in my back the drunk mercenaries were still laughing.

In the center of the camp stood the three pavilions of the vaïdoerk, a large round tent and two other smaller structures, made of gray felt. Their design resembled that of the yurts I had known in the Basin, but lighter and without a floor. Loud voices, in the rough language of the Vals, intermittently escaped from the thick canvas. I smiled, eager and anxious at the same time. We unloaded the equipment outside, and as I stepped forward, Ulrick took me aside. "You've seen the kind of people we're going to be dealing with," he said in a low voice. I nodded, even though it wasn't a question. The old warrior looked me straight in the eyes and emphasized his words with the tip of his finger. "Never. Wander. Off. Alone." I nodded, while wondering what kind of fool would willingly go through the death trap we had just passed alone. Even the Stream district paled in comparison, and I could tell that after a brief visit. Ulrick finally folded back the felt that covered the entrance to the large tent and we both slipped inside.

In the center of the tent burned a large blazing fire, whose smoke spiraled elegantly up to the gaping opening at the top. All around, seated on thick mats of braided reeds, about forty val-warriors and their yunlings were quietly speaking. For the most part, they were tall, sturdy men, with hard, hairy faces, red cheeks and easy smiles. Some of them were like their ancestors from Najölt, blond venetian hair with angular features, but others, bearing carmian or rigan blood, had much darker complexions. Their hair was braided back, often in a single twist, sometimes shaved on the sides, and among the older ones, scars and broken noses abounded. I was immediately struck by their appearance, as I had been three years before, when Narsilap and I had seen them passing eastward along the Brown. Their calm manner and steely eyes exuded a kind of confidence that was both prideful and quiet. Contemplating the warriors like this, even placidly installed on the floor of the tent, the vaïdoerk gave the impression to be able to conquer the world. My gaze roamed over the vaïdogans and hobblars, then came to rest around the fire. The sight of the pig on the spit, cooking and sizzling over the embers, made my mouth water. Shortly after we came in, the talking Val, a tall, bearded, middle-aged blond man with a face as sharp as a knife blade, noticed us and paused before smiling broadly. The green and brown eyes converged on us and the calm conversations of earlier suddenly gave way to a more agitated hubbub.

One of the first to get up and greet us was Ereck, who had not changed at all since his stay at Brown-Horn: same fair braid, same cheerful face, same wild look. He hugged Ulrick tightly, his eyes sparkling. "What a nice surprise to see your old stubborn face!" he chuckled with pleasure, and in his arms, Ulrick was smiling broadly, too. "Fekk, I've missed you," he repeated over and over in a strangled voice. When Ereck had finished patting his companion's thick back, he leaned over to me, his gaze both curious and playful. "That's not right," he said in his hesitating brownian. He waved his finger in front of my nose. "You must not sorcery the val-warriors, disciple!" I chuckled a little uncomfortably. Despite the joke, I was intimidated by the situation. The grabbing continued for a while, while I was given more distant greetings and curious glances.

There were also a few introductions, three vaïdogans that Ulrick didn't know yet, Wimred Hadman from the Wudewot valley, Rared Rotsakk, a roaring giant that I liked immediately and Sidrik Harstelebb, the youngest warrior of the whole vaïdoerk.

During our long evenings on the plateau, Ulrick had already explained to me how the Vals gave each other nicknames, and how they were mainly used to tell the difference between two men with the same first name, but, curiously, I had never thought of asking him for his own. When he introduced himself to the three individuals as Ulrick Treikuss - Ulrick Three-Kisses - I couldn't help but chuckle. The sharp-faced man who had been speaking when we entered came to us last, and he was also one of the few to speak directly to me. "Ofrid," he said soberly, grasping my forearm with his strong hand. "I have been appointed hettman of this vaïdoerk," he added to both of us, in a tone that suggested a question. "Iss pesseket o mei," Ulrick answered in a friendly manner. That's fine with me. Ofrid bowed his head graciously and walked back to the fire, and the wooden beads woven into his long braid clinked against the scales of his armor.

After we sat down next to Ereck and a mischievous yunling named Sven, it became quiet enough to resume the conversations. Despite my fatigue, I learned a lot about camp life and was as satiated with information as I was with spit roasted pork. The vaïdoerk operated as a kind of small world of its own, struggling to maintain as much independence as possible from the other influential groups and the brownian commanders. Their status of luxury mercenaries allowed them to negotiate with far more leverage than the handful of ragged small companies we had to cohabit with. For example, I learned that our supplies were for the moment provided by the lord of Garnear.

As a result, we ate much better than most of the other men in arms, who had to make do with the rations intended for the battlefront. There was later a discussion about the quantity of arrowheads to be ordered from a passing iron merchant, and it was also decided to acquire two extra pack horses for the journey to Ac-Pass.

I was intrigued by the way the young warriors took a very active part in the conversations, even if it was often to ask questions that the adults patiently answered. I set out to do the same and, not daring to humiliate myself publicly, I pestered Ulrick mercilessly about the hettman Ofrid, who had made a strong impression on me. When I finally let him speak, Ulrick informed me that the hettman was the one from whom the vaïdogans would wait for their battle orders in case they did not have enough time to discuss them beforehand. It was also his job to organize the folnwordd, the debates. Ofrid was a respected warrior whose composure and tactical skills were renowned, so it was only logical that he was appointed as hettman. When Ofrid announced that the discussions were over for the evening, a growing chorus was initiated by Ereck so that Ulrick could tell the vaïdoerk about our adventures. When the din had reached disturbing proportions and every man in the tent was chanting his name, the old warrior stood up and smiled. As an introduction, he took the opportunity to present me officially as his yunling, which caused a wave of questions.

The ensuing discussion made me feel terribly uncomfortable. Not only was I the center of attention, but some of the Vals were questioning in an indirect way my presence under their pavilion.

Although they politely told me that it was not meant as a criticism, I was described as skinny, and not very tall, which I could easily understand when I saw other Vals around my age.

When the question of my bounty was raised, with the consequences it might have on the reputation of the vaïdoerk, the debate really started and a big man named Sigburt asked Ulrick frankly if he was not putting his own feelings before the safety of the greater number.

Ulrick retorted that the greater number were safer in the company of an experienced warrior like him and that, without my help, he wouldn't be there at all. Sigburt thought for a few moments before conceding this point and then changed his mind to agree with him. The voices remained calm and respectful, but the tension was still building. It finally came to a climax when a fourteen-year-old yunling looked me in the eyes and insinuated in a loud voice that he didn't think I was capable of fighting alongside the vaïdoerk.

A silence fell over the pavilion and I saw Ulrick's eyes on me. The heads that weren't already staring at me turned as well.

Red up to my ears, I hesitated for a few moments, then without a word, my heart beating, I stood up quickly and drew my dagger. The teenager, who must have been a head taller than me, looked at me for a long time, his hands along his body. He was testing me. I stood still, my chin firm, my cold eyes fixed on his, the knife held pointing down, a sharp extension of my own flesh. The calm of battle had taken hold of me and I breathed slowly, carefully. There were only two of us left in the world, the other yunling and me. I waited for him, watching the slightest movement of his body, as if he were my lover. Vaïdoerk or not, if he took up my silent challenge, I would split his face in two. The teenager saw it. He squinted, then his cheek twitched in what looked like the beginning of a smile. He finally nodded. "Forgive me," he said quietly, then raised his voice for all to hear. "I made a mistake. He's small, but he's a warrior." I saw Ulrick smile, then tell the yunling in a warm voice. "You have grown and your wisdom honors you, Fordi. Seu iss vebladdet." This last comment, difficult to translate, meant that, indeed, I had already proved my worth by shedding the blood of an opponent. Ulrick continued with the story of our altercation with the bandits. I put my blade away and the discussion resumed.

Ereck, then Ofrid, came to my defense, while Ulrick painted a picture of me in more flattering terms than I had expected. Soon I was blushing more from the praise than from the blame, and gradually the last of the naysayers fell silent and agreed with the general opinion. I sat down again, wriggling uncomfortably. My presence had been accepted. An hour before I had been a stranger, the skinny apprentice of a dead surgeon. I was nobody.

Within moments, I had been transformed into a companion, for whom one was ready to give his life, and to whom one wouldn't hesitate to entrust his own. I came to think once again that the customs of the Vals were indeed strange. Ulrick was finally able to continue his tale and he transformed our story into a picaresque, flowery tale. Soon his words were accompanied by the din of laughter and amused quips.

Ereck gave me a solid slap on the back that nearly dislocated my vertebrae, gave me his most charming smile and served me a pink slice of juicy pig.