Glancing around, he looked for a trail or path that might point the way to a place of habitation, or a town or hamlet, finally catching sight of what appeared to be a track through the waist-high grass. The track had not been used since the storm had lifted. That was clear from the lack of clear prints in the damp sand. That did not mean that someone might not be coming the other way before long. Quaeryt forced himself to hurry up through the sand until he neared the top of the dune, where he slowed and listened.
He moved more deliberately until he was at the top and could look down. What he saw were more sandy dunes or hills, stretching a good mille, or so it seemed. Beyond them looked to be rolling rises of grassland, with some scattered trees. He took a deep breath and continued.
When he reached the last line of dunes, or the first line of hills with thick grass and soil as well as sand, he paused at the crest and studied the land beyond, noticing immediately downhill and to his right a small cot was tucked away on the south side of the hill, with earthen berms to the east and west, and a lower one to the south, all positioned to protect the gardens there.
He started down toward the cot, but a white-haired head popped up before Quaeryt could even consider a raising concealment, and the woman, wearing a faded gray shirt and trousers, studied the scholar as he approached.
“How did the garden fare with the storm?” he asked, stopping short of the weathered wooden gate that afforded the sole break in the earthen walls.
“A fair bit better than you, from the looks of you. A sight you are.” The white-haired woman’s voice was younger than her looks, but the eyes were a hard flint gray.
“It happens when your ship gets broken on the rocks and you get washed ashore.” Quaeryt didn’t trust the woman in the slightest, but wanted to appear pleasant.
“You’d be the first to make land alive. Vaolyn said they’d found two corpses on the sands well south of the Namer’s Causeway. The menfolk’ll find the ship afore long, I’d judge. You’re more than welcome to stay here and rest.”
“I’m far too late in getting where I’m supposed to be.” Besides, while Quaeryt had no doubt that what Vaolyn, whoever that was, had said was now likely true, he had great doubts whether the two had been dead when Vaolyn had found them. Nor was he especially eager to find out … or encounter Vaolyn. “If the Namer’s Causeway is that stretch of stone that heads into the ocean and then curves, that’s where part of the ship broke and broached.”
The woman frowned. “Never heard of a ship breaking there. They usually fetch up on the shallows north or south. There’s little enough left of the old channel.”
“Why do they call it the Namer’s Causeway?” Quaeryt couldn’t help but ask.
“Some say because it looks promising and leads nowhere. Others say it’s because the old ones built a harbor there on the promises of the Namer. It’s been called that from well before my time.”
“How far south are we from Tilbora?”
“Be a ride of three-four days, if you had a mount, and you don’t, by all looks.”
“Is there a village or a hamlet nearby where I could catch a wagon or the like headed in that direction?”
“Nearby? Aye, but the closest place on a road that leads to Tilbora is Fairby, and that is more than ten milles north. You might be best served by waiting here till the weather clears.”
“I’ll have to take my chances. Point me in the right direction, good lady, if you would.” Quaeryt paused. “And if you could spare some water, it would be good to drink some without the taste of salt.”
“Water I can spare, young fellow.”
Quaeryt wasn’t about to point out that he wasn’t all that young, not when he must have seemed that way to her. Besides, he wanted to get away from the possibility of ship reavers as quickly as possible.
Although he was ready to raise concealment at any time, he waited by the gate while she walked back into the cottage. Shortly, she returned with a small bucket and a dipper.
He took the dipper and drank a small sip, tasting the water, then took more. When he finished, he returned the dipper. “Thank you. That was much appreciated.”
“The least one should do for a thirsty traveler. We don’t see many these days.”
“I imagine not. Which way to the road leading to Fairby?”
“The local road is at the end of the lane at the end of the path there.” She pointed south. “You go left, and it will lead you to Khasyl. To the right is the long walk to Fairby.”
“Thank you.”
“You might want to sit on that bench there and rest your legs,” she offered, pointing to a plank resting between two hillocks of earth just inside the gate.
While he was tired, Quaeryt replied, “I thank you for your kindness, but I must be on my way.” He inclined his head politely, picked up his canvas bag, and then stepped back before walking toward the path she had indicated. He could sense her eyes on his back.
While he had his doubts about her directions, or her intentions, since north was where he needed to go, he stayed on the path, and then the lane until it joined the road. Just before he reached the road, he passed one other cot that looked to have been long abandoned.
At the crossroads, if it could be called that, he glanced southward, but the foggy mist shrouded everything more than a half mille away, and he turned in the direction that felt generally northward, and doubtless had to be, since it was roughly parallel to the coast. The road was little more than a dirt track, rutted and uneven, and he ended up walking on the shoulder.
Less than a mille later, although he couldn’t be certain, for there were no millestones or other distance markers, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He looked back, but the misty fog was thick enough that he could only see a few hundred yards.
Then he heard the bay of a dog.
Frigging horse dung! They would have a hound. Concealment shields didn’t hide scent, and they didn’t erase tracks in or along a wet and muddy road.
He began to look for a tree large enough for him to climb. Needless to say, he didn’t see one immediately close. So he forced himself to pick up his pace, tired as he was, as he searched for a tree or some other place with height.
He covered another fifty yards or so through the patchy fog, with the baying of the dog coming ever closer, without catching sight of a tree or anything that might serve his purposes. Then he caught sight of a tree ahead on the right, but it turned out to be a scrawny juniper. He forced himself into a faster walk.
After another hundred yards, he saw several trees through the mist, up a gentle slope to his left. One might be large enough for him to climb up out of easy reach. He turned and hurried up the slope of grass and low bushes, on one of which his trousers caught, enough that he had to stop and pull them free.
The baying of the hound was markedly louder, but he did not head for the taller tree, but the shortest, which he circled, and then the next taller, before he began to climb the tallest one. The storm had shredded some of the leaves, but there were enough remaining to offer some cover. The problem was that the tree wasn’t a sturdy oak or the like, but a softwood of some sort, and by the time his feet were less than three yards off the ground the branches were swaying under his weight. Carrying the canvas bag didn’t make matters any easier, either. He decided against climbing higher and braced himself against the unsteady main trunk. Then he waited for the pursuers to come to him, hoping that there were not too many of them.
As they drew nearer, between the baying of the hound, he could hear some of what was said, but the thick accent he did not recognize made it harder.
“He’s left the road … has to have heard the hound…”
“Maergyt said he was headed north…”
“… don’t see what the trouble is … just wants to put the wreck behind him…”