Though Balin and Columbine were ready to go straight away, it took Garnish another hour to load up War-Strider. The boy couldn’t bear to leave any of his things behind, and he had a lot. There were pots and pans, tartan blankets, his small library and dented armour; all of which he somehow squeezed into War-Strider’s saddlebags. When the horse was weighted down with all this stuff the poor beast looked more miserable than ever.

The final things Garnish brought from the cottage were two swords, both of which looked brand new. ‘I’ve drawn them both,’ he explained, ‘but I never managed to land a blow.’

‘Aye, I remember when you challenged me,’ said Balin.

‘And me,’ said Columbine.

‘Do you two want them?’ said Garnish. ‘I won’t need them again.’

‘Many thanks,’ said Balin. He examined the two swords, one a broadsword, one a rapier. Both gleamed in the midday sun when he drew them from their leather scabbards. He nodded appreciatively. ‘Good steel, these. You want the broadsword, I suppose?’ he said to Columbine.

She grinned. ‘I’m better with a lighter blade; the only way to fight with a broadsword is to fight stupid.’

‘And that’s more my style, is it?’

‘You said it, not me.’ She took the rapier from him and, now that both swords could be drawn, strapped it above the Dolorous Stroke, where it would come most readily to her sword hand.

‘A maid with two swords,’ said Balin. ‘Not every day you see that.’

‘That’s what they’ll call her in the stories, I reckon,’ said Garnish. ‘The storytellers love a detail like that. The Maid with Two Swords.’

Columbine shrugged on the torn pigeon-skin cloak. ‘Come on boys,’ she said. ‘We’ve tarried long enough.’

Garnish was a much better walker than he was a rider; even War-Strider seemed happy to be in his company as he told an endless stream of stories about flowers, herbs and animals; of Herne the Hunter, Will o’ the Wisp, the giants Gog and Magog, and the rest of the fantastical history of Britain. He talked non-stop as they rejoined the narrow pass through the hills, and made their way to the northern feet of the range.

Balin was thoroughly entertained by Garnish’s stories. The northerner could see that Columbine had been right to tell the boy to go back home. He was one of the cleverest boys Balin had ever met, and would surely develop a giant, unwieldy brain that would grow bigger than his tummy in time. The slates of the nameless hills would be hard on Garnish if his top-heavy head ever unbalanced him; much better the soft landings of Vellion.

The narrow pass opened out into the lush lands of western valleys. The view was one of a gentle rise and fall, a patchwork of farmers’ fields, small villages, woodlands and gleaming rivers. Balin breathed in the sweet air of the rich farmlands, felt the sun on his face and heard birdsong everywhere around him. He loved Northumbria, he really did – he had cold sea-spray in his soul – but though he would never have said it out loud, he had to admit to himself that home was a little bleak compared to this merry Eden.

Three roads led away from the end from the pass: one cutting directly east, another north-east, and a third that went directly north for a couple of miles before bending north-west towards the coast.

‘The middle road, then,’ said Balin, and before either Garnish or Columbine could reply he strode off in front of them. The last thing he wanted was the Maid of the Big Mouth trying to take control again. Balin had been doing his best to flatter her. Perhaps his ploy of offering her the broadsword to make her feel like a warrior hadn’t worked out as he’d planned, but he thought he’d probably done enough to fool her into thinking that they were on a joint quest. He had very cunningly introduced the idea that they would take Garnish back home; he hadn’t said it in so many words, but he was certain she had inferred it. In a flash of what Balin considered genius, he had realised that the lands to the north of Vellion lay on the other side of Vellion. They would have to go through Vellion to reach Garnish’s home.

This was the really cunning part: as they were on the road through Vellion, Balin would casually suggest that they rest for the night in her uncle’s castle. Once there, he would conspire with her relatives to steal the Dolorous Stroke from her belt, and lock her in a high tower to keep her safe. There was no way any self-respecting uncle would want his niece to put herself in harm’s way. Questing was a man’s job; the task of avenging Balan and Lily was the twin’s, not the cousin’s. There was no way Balin was going to dishonour his father by letting a girl get killed trying to do a man’s job.

He was striding happily past a field of bright yellow flowers, congratulating himself on his scheme, when he heard a cough some distance behind. Balin looked to either side, and realised that neither Columbine nor Garnish were with him. He stopped in his tracks.

A voice floated towards him on the warm breeze. He heard only every other word.

‘… are … going … fool?’ The voice was as sweet and airy as a spirit’s. ‘… back … now!’ it went on, less sweetly.

Balin turned, sighing. Columbine, Garnish and War-Strider had not moved from the mouth of the pass. The girl was standing with one hand on her hip, the other angrily pointing to the road that went north and west. Her mouth flapped like the jaws of hell.

‘What?’ shouted Balin, pointing at the road on which he stood. ‘It’s this way, woman!’

‘No! … way!’ replied Columbine, her voice still not carrying.

He shook his head, and trudged back towards them.

‘Were you not listening to me before?’ shouted Columbine when he was in range. ‘I told you: I know where our quest ends.’

‘What?’

‘When I nearly killed you before: I know where our quest ends.’

He was nearly back to them now. Balin had no memory of a single word she had said when they had been toe-to-toe in front of Garnish’s cottage, though he was pretty sure he had won the argument. ‘Eh?’

She rolled her eyes. He hated it when she rolled her eyes at him.

‘Remember when I was off saving your life?’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘I remember you nearly killing me by dropping a big chunk of wall on my leg, but as a consequence of that I was bit under the weather when you were off doing whatever you did with the goats.’

‘Don’t try to be clever,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. When I was off getting a cure for your self-inflicted wound, the woman in the red chapel told me that our quest ends at Castle Spar-Longius.’ She pointed down the third road. ‘And Garnish tells me that Castle Spar-Longius is thattaway.’

Balin looked at Garnish with such fury that the fat lad shrank back towards War-Strider for shelter. Columbine’s mouth tried to twist itself into a pert little smile of victory; it was not up to the task.

‘What’s that face supposed to be?’ he said. ‘Your mouth’s so wide you look like a river valley.’

She laughed in his face, and with her eyebrows raised in triumph, flapped the pigeon-skin like a wizard’s cloak and strode away down the road she had chosen.

Garnish shrugged at Balin apologetically, water in his eyes. ‘She asked…’

Balin looked to the ground, no longer entranced by the beauty of the landscape.

‘Bloody stupid name,’ he grumbled in a mutter. ‘What kind of name is Spar-Longius anyway?’

‘Funny you should ask that,’ said Garnish, oblivious to the fact that Balin had been talking to himself. ‘Because therein lies a tale...’  

* * *

The road was a good one, and they crossed the whole of the western valleys that afternoon. Their path meandered parallel to the coastline, sometimes taking them close to the beaches and cliffs, sometimes inland. As evening began to fall, they entered a bright and airy forest, with trees full of bright blossom.

‘This place looks ripe with beasts for hunting,’ said Balin, and before Garnish could object that there was a fine bacon joint in War-Strider’s saddlebags, the Savage had plunged into the undergrowth in search of a kill.

He felt good as he charged through the trees. During his long months in Camelot’s dungeons his mind had closed down until the round cell became his whole world, and the routine of the prison was more real to him than the turning of the seasons or the rise and fall of the sun. Life had seemed even smaller when he was trapped in the pain of his injury; at times it had almost disappeared from him entirely, leaving only a great emptiness of no colour or taste. This was his first true day of freedom, given to him by blood magic, and he was going to mark that miracle with good blood and a fresh kill. A nice bit of venison or a side of boar, killed without a bow, no less, would also show Columbine that the quest should be his, not hers. But that was a secondary consideration; for the moment the freedom he felt in the forest air was a greater reward than his inevitable victory over the girl of Vellion.

He burst through bushes and trees, as he always did. He knew that most hunters preferred a quiet approach, stalking animals unseen and unheard. That was a stupid tactic, in Balin’s opinion. The fun was in stirring up as much activity as possible, driving beasts in all directions. Eventually some unfortunate confused creature would stumble into his path and that would be that.

And there it was, quivering on the edge of a clearing. A plump little roe deer. He threw his foot at the trunk of a sturdy oak tree, kicked hard, and soared through the forest shadows towards the terrified creature.

* * *

He had raced further through the forest than he’d initially thought. It took him until it was dark to find his way back to the camp. In the end it was Garnish’s fire that guided him home.

Balin stood on the edge of the clearing, feeling triumphant, ready to make a spectacular entrance with the dead beast on his shoulders. Columbine and Garnish were sitting cross-legged, the boy turning a spit, roasting something over the flame. Roasting something heavy over the flame. Something that was surely too large to have been taken from War-Strider’s saddlebags.

‘Come out, Balin,’ said Columbine, her voice bearing a similar tone to his and Balan’s childhood nurse, the only person he had ever truly feared.

His foot caught on a gnarled tree root, and he tripped into clearing. ‘What you got?’

Columbine sat back, resting her hands on the grass. ‘Boar,’ she said. ‘And we’ve had time to butcher and bleed it properly too. You?’

Balin dumped the dead deer on the ground. ‘This.’

Garnish turned. ‘Oh lovely, I do like venison, though it’s a delicate meat. I’ll get it hung and we can have it in the morning before we set off. Would you mind turning the spit, Balin?’

The northerner huffed and puffed but did at the boy asked. He couldn’t tell if Columbine’s eyes were blazing in triumph or simply reflecting the flame. She sidled across and stood behind him as he sat turning the handle of the spit.

‘Don’t feel too bad,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you hunt before. I always knew that my way is quicker, and now I’ve proved it.’ She nudged his shoulder with her knee.

That was a step too far. Balin leapt to his feet and grabbed the collar of the pigeon cloak. Her lips parted, and she gasped as she recognised the anger in his eyes. At that moment, with the smell of boar slowly burning below him, he felt like he was ready to kill her.

But he kissed her. His hands would quite happily have sliced her into small pieces with the Dolorous Stroke, but his lips disagreed. This was not the hard, suffocating kiss she had given him in Garnish’s cottage, but a gentle, tender caress of the lips. Her head tilted to one side and her lips parted. Balin’s hands moved round her back, and he pressed her slim, strong body to him, as their tongues touched –

‘Erm,’ the moment was broken by Garnish coming back into the clearing. He pointed at the spit. ‘I can smell burning.’

Columbine pushed Balin away from her, both hands in the centre of the chest. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

This baffled Balin. ‘You kissed me back in the –’

‘And that means you can just do it whenever you like, does it?’

‘Well what does it mean, then?’ He looked to the girl, then to Garnish, and then down to the meat. ‘Lord Jesus, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care.’ He dropped back down to the ground, refusing to look at her. He reached for the handle of the spit. She was impossible; he would have nothing more to do with her once he tricked her back to her uncle’s castle.

‘Tell us that story about Spar-Longius again, Garnish,’ he said gazing into the fire, enjoying the crackle as fat spit into the flame. ‘I didn’t hear you very well the first time.’