The highborn took Spite’s reins and led the nauglir down the steep, mossy slope into the ruined enclosure. All Malus could do was hope for the best. A hundred leagues? More? Less? Only the autarii themselves knew for certain. Several times over the course of the day he’d tried to gauge how far away the clan’s territories were. Of course, the Urhan of the clan had died because of his own traitorous nature, but Malus doubted that the rest of the clan would see it that way. There was one autarii clan in particular that he didn’t care to cross paths with again. For the first time he was grateful for the rain, since it gave him good reason to keep his drooping hood pulled over his head. Vor said they guarded the houses of the dead and he knew firsthand that they could move like ghosts in their native woods. It had to be the autarii, Malus reasoned. He could tell that Vor and his men sensed it as well, but they seemed to accept it as no more of an inconvenience than the constant patter of the summer rain. The sensation of being watched had only grown more intense as the group travelled deeper into the forest, but try as he might the highborn saw or heard no sign of who-or what-was following them. Malus laid his hand against Spite’s shoulder, feeling the tension in the cold one’s thick muscles.

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