A slightly longer update this time -hope that makes up for the shorter one last time!

4

Somewhere, in the back of her head and yet simultaneously a thousand miles away, she heard a sound like laughter. Then she put it aside. 'No.'

'Cara?' Windu's voice was as neutral as ever.

'No. Not Brigid master.' Of that she was sure. She had asked the question of herself, and dismissed it. Just as she had done the previous evening. Brigid was warm. Kind. And warmth came from within. It was not something that could simply be faked.

'In your judgement we trust, young one. But danger you are in.'

'I know, master. What should I do with my friends?'

'The girl and this Jarl? Stay they should?' The emphasis was slight, but it was there. Yoda never did anything without reason. And perhaps, even now, ever the teacher, he was trying to make her learn something.

'If I'm in danger they will be too.'

'Certain that is.' Yoda was leaning forward, resting on his gnarled old stick.

'Then I can't leave them here.'

'You are there for observation only Cara. The inhabitants are living in a pre-industrial age. Our rules forbid taking those from such a society off-world.' Shaak Ti's voice was as mild as ever; almost meditative.

'If those rules say we should abandon friends to die then we need some better ones.'

'Quite so, Cara. I think in such cases a certain amount of discretion should be used. We will leave the decision to them, and yourself.' The miniature projection of the elegant master looked at her reader briefly, then regarded her carefully, across the light-years. Transport has been dispatched; it will arrive shortly after local sundown. In the meantime, I think we would all advise that you keep moving, and place as much distance between yourselves and the castle at Midalnburh as possible. What is happening there is evidently troubling, but there is nothing further you can do at present. Open the link again at 1730 local time; the transport will home on that and meet you in the closest accessible area. And your friends, if they so wish.'

'Thank you, masters.' She killed the connection, slipped the projector into the bag, and carefully forced her way out through the gorse. Crouching in the natural cave below one, the ground cold underfoot, she saw Brigid. The girl was in the shadow of a rock a few yards away, observing the way they had come with some care. Cara's slight movement caught her eye; she shook her head, and Cara came out from under the gorse and, keeping low, moved over to her. 'Anything?'

Brigid hesitated slightly, then shook her head. 'I don't think so. It all looks and sounds normal.'

'But something's coming.' She saw the agreement in her friend's eyes, reached out a hand and when Brigid grasped it, pulled her upright. 'Time for us to leave. We'll have to be fast. We don't want to be caught up here, on the moors.'

'I'd rather not be caught at all.'

'Touché.'

'Then perhaps we could run a while?'

'Couldn't you have found me something more practical?' She glanced down at the dress as they cleared a low rise and began the long descent to the valley below. In reality the dress was still perfectly easy for her to move in, but she wanted to keep the slightly barbed humour going for a few moments longer.

A glance was thrown her way, then the girl serenely concentrated on the path in front. 'You're a lady. You're supposed to like dresses.'

'I do like them. It's lovely. If I was on Coruscant and singing for a charity event, or posing for a photo-shoot. And I'm not a lady.'

'You'd make a terrible man, my lady.'

'Given how useless they can be, that's some comfort I suppose.' The bracken grew thick here –two or three different varieties, some of which were obviously dormant, others, probably most, evergreen. Heather provided a few sparse flashes of additional colour, offsetting the rough grey of the boulders, the olive hues of the ferns and the rich brown of the peat underfoot, which was at least pleasantly springy to jog on.

A dry stone wall blocked their path, but a rough series of three wooden steps climbed over it at one point a few yards away. They cleared it without difficulty and plunged down the shallower gradient toward a narrow plateau –obviously the point Brigid had mentioned earlier, where they could branch off to the right, skirting the edges of the hills. She was relieved to see there was reasonable cover –the tall fir trees stretched away in an expanding band as far to the north as she could see. The fog in the valley floor was marching slowly up the lower part of the slope below. 'So you don't have anyone special waiting for you then my lady?' Brigid paused for a moment to re-tie her hair, which had broken free of the thin brown ribbon she had used to bind it back out of the way.

Cara looked down at the fog below. The bottom of the valley was entirely covered in the opaque blanket. Somehow, she had a feeling its rise toward them was accelerating. 'No. We don't have those kind of relationships Brigid. You?' She gestured that the girl should lead the way. Brigid paused for a moment before shaking her head in answer to the question, and without further comment turned and started them along the track that skirted the trees. After a few seconds she jumped up to the top of the bank in a place where one of the stones that lined their route had slipped down, heading at a slight angle into the trees. After a hundred feet or so, she changed direction, so they were once again moving parallel with the track, amongst the thinner belt of trees that give them a little more cover. It was a sensible decision –the more so because the mist was now lapping at the edge of the road, and the impression had been growing in her mind that it was not a friendly piece of weather.

They both increased their pace without discussing the matter. They had covered perhaps a mile of the two Brigid had mentioned. Cara glanced at the ground, getting a closer feel for its grip levels, undulations, the way the tree roots thrust through the peat just below the surface in a tangled web of rivalry, how the thicker pieces would sometimes break the ground, ready to catch an unwary foot. She let herself sense the texture of the old brown needles and occasional dry leaf of a deciduous shrub, and how their complex drifts, beautiful in their apparently abstract wanderings could provide a subtle challenge to the unwary. How the scent of each tree varied, as did their slow, endless conversations of tiny creaks. The texture of the bark and moss on the trunks, the fallen branches. The warmth and pungent aroma of the fungi, solid masses, tougher than they looked at first glance, clinging to the wood, dead and living.

The mist was thicker now, the light diffuse, and they had a half-mile to go, according to Brigid's estimate. They would now be well within the boundaries of Salkeld's estate. Her eyes were alight, her pulse comfortably up but stable, her limbs relaxed, the running largely now an unconscious action while her mind opened to become one with the immediate surroundings, a part of the living tapestry that surrounded them. Her body fractionally increased its pace to pass her friend, and she knew she was smiling as she ripped the long knife free, bringing the sharpened upper edge up in a short vertical cut that sliced the throat before her open, the severed arteries sending a jet of viscous black blood far into the woods, a wildly released falchion flying into the air to land yards behind. The calm was on her, as it always was when she fought; the world seemed to slow, while only she moved quickly. And it was easy. So very easy. She shifted her weight sideways, letting her right foot plough a few inches through the ground, checking her forward momentum and spinning her in that direction, while sending a shower of dead pine-needles straight into the face of another of the creatures she had seen the day before, forcing it to flinch away. Her right hand and wrist snapped in a precise diagonal slash that took the eyes of a third and she let the momentum carry her around, dropping low and letting a minor flick of force-energy accelerate her, bringing the knife up in a single precise stab that went under the second's jaw, through the pine needles, throat, mouth and up into the brain. A short front kick threw the massive, empty shell of organic matter off the blade and she sidestepped a swing of the blinded third's falchion, holding out the knife to catch it on the inner elbow, opening veins and muscle, sending the massive cleaver spinning into a tree trunk. Another stab, this time straight through the throat, and the ravaged face, with jelly streaming from the severed eyeballs, froze. A moment. Just a moment in time –then she pulled the blade back, and the dead creature dropped.

She could feel Brigid staring at her. The dark blood dripping from the ends of her blonde hair. Her left knee bent, she dropped low, the knife held carefully out, the grip delicate, precise. Something was moving through the trees, a large shape, four-legged, dark. It took a pace forward, partly shielded by a large bush, and stopped. Their eyes met. Ten seconds. Twenty? Another pace forward. She did not move, holding her place. Another ten seconds. She let her foot move forward, a slow motion, but threatening. Then a new bank of mist rolled in. When the tendrils cleared, it was gone.

'My lady?' Brigid's voice was barely a whisper. She felt the girl's hand touch her shoulder. 'Cara?'

She was back. She had questioned herself for a little while, but even that had now passed. 'It's all right Brigid.' Reaching back, she pressed the hand and straightened up. Glancing briefly at the three dead creatures, she stooped again, briefly, to wipe the blood from her knife on the tunic of one of the dead bodies, tossed it a couple of inches in the air and caught it in a reverse grip. It was a grip she normally loathed; there was nothing artistic about it, although it did take skill, and for a short-bladed weapon it had some advantages –she had not been happy about the amount of effort needed to slice through the hide of whatever these creatures were. The extra purchase would solve that, and the threat was still there. This had been a first test, no more.

Looking around, she saw the girl's face, blanched of almost all colour, but otherwise calm enough. 'How far?'

'A thousand yards. When we clear the trees, the wall will be to the right.'

She nodded, and they began to move again. The menace was still there, but wary now, keeping a certain distance. It would be back. Cara quickened the pace again, ducking around the thinning belt of firs and thick patches of shrubs. A couple of thick planks provided a stable footing over a shallow depression where the ground clearly remained waterlogged, and they were clear, a wall, perhaps twenty feet high stretching off to their right. It looked old, with large patches covered in ivy and creepers that were turning in the late autumn chill, a flush of burgundy against the granite. She checked the time. Too early. There was a clear run alongside the wall, a wide track of compacted gravel for perhaps a hundred and fifty yards. To the left, the ground dropped away, grass, fairly well cropped, presumably by the woolly animals that seemed so popular here. There was no sign of movement and the line of sight was clear. Brigid now re-took the lead, quickly covering the distance to the end of the wall, where it turned right ninety degrees. And there was their goal. It was obviously a castle of sorts; not a large one, more a heavily built dwelling than a base for troops or a place of refuge for a wider population, but still solid, crenellated, four-square, probably around a central courtyard. A central flight of steps led ten feet up to a huge wooden door, beside which two torches burned in iron brackets, making the mist swirl in the convection currents. The wall was soot-blackened behind them. The left hand side of the door itself stood open, and a flicker was coming from within –another torch?

Brigid took a pace forward, then paused, staring at the flickering torches, listening to their soft roar, audible even from fifty feet away. Another flicker of light from inside, and again the mist swirled, forced back by the heated air, the tendrils of damp refracting the light in an orange glow. 'Cara?'

She felt the corner of the granite wall behind her; the voice of the ancient stone and its –amusement? Life and time were such fragile, fleeting things. But matter –again she felt the appalling age of the planet, its slowly pulsing cycles, ages upon ages, sometimes tolerating, but never supporting the little pinpricks that occasionally dared to move on and through its surfaces. And now they were in the boundaries –the borderland of another era. 'Brigid –back. Now. We should never have come here.'

Another surge, perhaps of heat, perhaps of something else. The torches had a redder glow now, settling to a lower glare. And then they were both running, no jog this time but close to a sprint, back along the gravel track. Brigid did not turn at the end of the wall but continued, keeping well to the right, as far from the belt of trees on the other side as she could manage. Two hundred more yards and they reached the gates, large, iron, open. This outer wall was lower than the inner, perhaps only a dozen feet tall, and there was the track they had originally taken before branching out into the trees. Darting out through the gates, both felt better, although twilight was descending.

Nothing. Cara glanced back the way they had come and rejected it outright. There was a feel of genuine evil in the trees and mist, and further back now too, on the barren moor. Ahead a narrow path plunged between dense undergrowth and down to the fog-shrouded floor of the valley below. And to the right, and the north? She felt herself moving in that direction –drawn? She couldn't tell, but even if the danger had come from the north, that way seemed less obviously threatening. Time was running away; she needed to open the satellite link so the transport had something to home in on, and for that, she needed to find somewhere they could shelter in. And it would probably be needed. She could sense it; it would be a hot evacuation and if they didn't have to cut their way out, she would be very surprised.

They stayed off the track, preferring the other side of the hedges and dry stone walls lining the way –there was something about that hateful road that felt distinctly unhealthy. The sun was setting, and twilight was rising. The fog was still there, thicker with each passing minute. Ahead, a shape loomed –two. Three. Black. Houses. A village. There was no sound.

She stopped. Brigid didn't need any further warning. It was wrong. As wrong as the castle had been. A cautious dozen paces back, and she saw what she had been looking for –a low hedge, running off to the left. It would be enough; there was a shallow ditch behind it. Slipping down behind the dense wall of leaves, they moved carefully along their sheltered route, finally finding another patch of the inevitable gorse. It was rapidly becoming her favourite plant. They were relatively young, without sufficient spread to shelter under, but enough to provide some shelter. Pulling the com-link free, she punched in the frequency and identification codes. There was no sign of a video link; all that indicated receipt of her transmission was a generic confirmation message. All they could do now was wait.

'My lady?' Cara looked up, saw where Brigid was staring. An orange glow had appeared where the village lay, a quarter-mile away. Another torch. Several. She flexed her fingers on the haft of the knife, tightening her grip. Figures now, black, floating in and out of view as the fog slowly undulated, waves of opacity. Human –heading in their direction. Then another swirl of mist obscured them –all but the dull glow of the torches.

She felt Brigid's fingers press her arm. But she already knew. Looking over her shoulder she saw a narrow lane, perhaps fifty yards away –it had been hidden by the fog when they had ducked into the partial cover. Where it led, she couldn't tell, but most likely the moors. It vanished behind a low scree-face and visibility was too bad to see more. More important was what was in the mouth of the track. Another figure, dark, blending with the fogbanks, mounted on a great horse. How long had he been there? She saw him look hard in the direction of the village, and beckon them urgently. A quick glance showed that the other figures were still hidden, though the glow of the torches was getting nearer by the second. Brigid needed no other comment but was already running, pulling her along with her.

From behind she heard a rapid sequence of soft, drumming steps; paws rather than feet. The number seemed to reduce quickly and she felt rather than heard the bounds lengthening, driving through the fog. She pushed Brigid forward and drove off her left leg, swinging around, instinctively catching the contoured alloy cylinder he threw with her free hand and flicking the activation button with her forefinger. The familiar snarl drowned out the final launch of the black form that sprang for her throat. She ducked sideways, the knife, still in the reverse-grip slashing hard. She felt it bite, heard the shrieking roar and flicked the lightsaber up in a short thrust at a second shape, taking it through the chest. The phosphorescence around its dripping jaws seemed to surge, but it was already dead. The first was up, a forward leg mangled from her cut, but still coming hard, but she was in her element once more. A light cut with the lightsaber, forcing it to change its attack, and she finished it, the knife swinging in a rear hand slash to rip its throat open, the heavy body collapsing near the other.

Silence, but for the menacing growl of the lightsaber. She looked up sharply at a call from behind. The flaring torches were closer, converging. Enough. She snapped the lightsaber off, turned and ran. He was still there, astride his horse. Brigid was already in the saddle of another –the same she had ridden the previous day. Neither wasted any time speaking; as soon as she had swung into the saddle behind the other girl, they were moving, the heavy horses cantering rapidly along the narrow trackway. There was something reassuring about these large creatures and their huge strength.

Surging through a stream at the bottom of a shallow incline, they turned off the track and slowed to a brisk trot as for an hour they wound their way between the boulder-strewn hills. Brigid was carrying the com-link; hopefully they would be able to find a suitable spot for the transport to collect them –it had to be nearby. Neither of her companions had spoken, and she had been glad enough of the time to think. Eventually he slowed, turning his horse onto what looked to be a faint path through the heather, and lead the way over a saddle in the hills, and up into a small but sheltered plateau –barely thirty feet wide and a hundred long, but it would be sufficient. She looked at the lightsaber she was still holding. An ordinary enough cylindrical design, slim enough to be easy to manipulate, with low profile controls and some careful attention to the grip, with alternating bands of textured rubber to provide a comfortable fit for the palm and fingers. The balance was exceptional. She looked to the left, to where he was sitting on his horse, gazing out over the dark lands, the contours etched by a bright moon and equally bright stars. The ferns were short here, barely reaching the knees of the heavy horses. He didn't seem concerned about any possible pursuit –she had noticed that, just as she and Brigid had that morning, when they had turned off the main path, he had been careful to do so on stony ground, and to choose another that remained that way for some distance. They hadn't gone at full-gallop either; he had paced it a little more slowly, but with more precision, and the route had been winding.

She held the weapon out to him. 'Should I ask now?'

He accepted the lightsaber, clipping it to his belt, behind the right hip. 'You mean, "am I a Jedi"?'

'You're not.'

He shook his head. 'My mother was.'

She closed her eyes, thinking back to Master Windu's words earlier in the day. 'She came here twenty years ago.' He flicked a glance in her direction –confirmation of a kind. 'What happened –she decided to stay?'

'More or less. She made my father happy until he was killed in a cattle raid. Axe took him in the shoulder. Nasty. She died a few months later; some form of fever. I was nine. She taught me a little of her background; your language. The Jedi of course.'

'And?'

'That's the only answer I have for you, Miss McInnes. It's not much, but the best I can do. I take it you're being taken off-world?'

'You know I am.'

'True.'

'You and Brigid –you can't stay.'

'I know that too. You'll look after Miss Brigid?' He had turned slightly in his saddle, his gaze sweeping the land before them, the moonlit slopes, the bracken etched in grey against the blacker moorland.

'After you both.'

He leaned forward, lightly patting his horse's neck. The bridle, saddle and other gear were plain leather –no trappings of status, as a Jarl would be expected to have. 'You know I can't leave.'

'Yes. But you have to anyway.'

'There are people I have to kill, my lady.'

My lady. She spoke as gently as she could. 'Your queen is dead. Most of her council. Most of the people in her castle. Maybe most of the people in Midalnburh.' She knew. She had known since she had fled the castle with Brigid, but had pretended, to herself as much as anything, that it was otherwise. The old woman was gone too. So many deaths. And so the cycle went on, endless. Little wars. Little clashes. And when that couldn't satisfy, something else that rose?

'I loved her. She had her faults, like I do, God knows. But I still loved her. And the others –they need someone to do something for their memory. As much as she does.'

'She cared for you too. And she wouldn't want you to throw your life away. Nor would the others. And it would be. This isn't a fight you can win. If you want any of it to mean something –it doesn't. It's just your world.'

'You think it's evil.'

'You know it is. Oh, not entirely. It's not like it makes decisions one way or the other. It's not conscious. You just have to accept that's the way it is. And it will always win. Perhaps your mother thought she could help change things. She was wrong.'

'It's all I know.'

'Look at the raiders. Tell me you know what those are. Or those other –dogs? Or what had happened to those villagers –the way they were walking wasn't –natural. You know that too?' She pressed her knee against her horse, moving it closer to his. Touched his hand. Brought assertiveness into her voice. 'Harald. Your mother is gone. Your queen is gone. Your people are gone. Now you belong to me. You and Brigid are coming.'

He studied her eyes for a moment. 'You're not giving me a choice are you.'

'There never was a choice.'

'And me?' Brigid glanced at both of them, smiling for the first time since the early afternoon.

'Not for you either.'

'What of the horses?' Brigid leaned forward to scratch their mount affectionately between the ears.

'We'll manage.'

'Good.' Salkeld glanced back out over the lands he had known, then down at the sword still hanging at his side. Half-drew it, then stopped as her fingers touched the back of his hand.

'No. You made it, didn't you. So it's a part of you, not this place.'

He let the sword slide back into the plain, cloth-wrapped scabbard, and allowed her to take his hand as they slid down from their saddles to stand amidst the ferns. Brigid lightly jumped down, and curled up on the ground beside them, leaning against Cara's leg. She watched the grey landscape; the black bulk of the moorland and hills; the distant roll of a fogbank, heading away from where they were perched, on the narrow plateau. The soft breath of the horses. The gleam of the bright moon directly above; another, more distant, low on the horizon. The carpet of stars. They had lost, but that had been inevitable –even ordained. Her friends would struggle, but would eventually honour those they had known by making the best of their new lives. She squeezed his hand tighter, locking their fingers together. Listened to the soft breeze in the bracken, the rustle of the dry fronds; the call of some nocturnal bird, hunting for its meal. And above, a glimmering star seemed to fall, growing, as the transport descended to take them far away, and leave this deceptive land to its haunted wanderings –a mote of dust in the Galaxy; a part of its story, and perhaps a part of its future. But not of theirs.