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extended as far as they could see.  And there were bodies; many lay sprawled upon the ground close to the burning building. Torrin looked warily upon the scene and spoke quietly to his companions.
    “Dirg, Grelle and Dresse, make your way around the camp.  See that the way is safe.  The rest shall come with me. Have arrows ready for we do not know the way of things…”
    They made their way down to the settlement and eyed the many dead. Torrin stood over one that had fallen and looked down into two misted hazel eyes.
    “These are the Asgal that we met,” he said, scanning the grotesque masks of death strewn around them. “But I do not see any of the other tribe; they have fought only amongst themselves.”
    The body at his feet clutched an arrow shaft that had pierced the heart.  Alongside lay another figure, facedown, a wound oozing between the shoulders.  The hands were stretched towards the clasped fist of another body as if it gripped some small but precious thing that, even at the moment of death, was sought with desperation.   Torrin stooped down and forced the rigid fingers apart to reveal a few metal discs.  He held them in the sunlight and examined them closely; each bore the imprinted mark of the triangle within the circle and on the other side the profile of a face.  There were characters inscribed around the perimeter that he could not read.  The discs glittered in the red light.
    “Why kill a man for such as this?” he asked, but none beside him had an answer.
    Dirg, Grelle and Dresse returned. They had found no living person, but a few more scattered bodies from which they had gathered swords, daggers, crossbows and quivers of bolts.   Dirg eagerly experimented with a crossbow.
     “See the leather loop at the bow end?  That must be made to put a foot through, like this, and then…”  
    He grasped the bowstring and pulled it back, muscles bulging, while holding the bow-head to the ground with his foot.  He hooked the cord around two iron claws and then took a bolt from the quiver.
    “Have a care where it points,” said Torrin, “for we have seen how easily it lets the arrow go.”
    Dirg placed the bolt in position and aimed towards the nearest wooden building.  There was a click, hiss and sound of impact as the bolt buried deep into a timber beam.  
    “And now look at the swords, Torrin.”  
    The young hunter drew a long shimmering blade and swiped the air with it.
    “I have already seen such a point closer than I wished.   I do not like these weapons, for they are not the tools of the hunter and were not made for the slaying of beasts.  But if we are to fight those who wield them we must bear them also.  Each of you arm yourselves well, then let us see what these walls conceal.”
    “I did not know the Asgal made such houses,” said Queet.
    “They do not, I am sure of that,” said Torrin.  “This is not the art of the hunting tribe but it is the way of those that plant and grow.  We have seen their villages as we travel; always empty, already overgrown, for they must move on before sunset comes.  Their journey is not like ours; they stay longer in one place and then must travel further.  But there are no crops planted here and I sense there is some other purpose…  But let us see.”
    The nearest building was a long timber shed with a tall stone chimney rising from its far end.  The doors stood open and the band entered; there was a strange smell in the air of pungent vapours.  There were many barrels and stone pitchers, some stacked in piles, others lying open and empty.   Torrin pulled a stopper from one vessel and sniffed at the contents.  He recoiled at once rubbing his nose and eyes.  Then they passed large stone vats, some empty but others still half full of a foul dark liquid.   Beyond, the floor was clear from wall to wall but had been covered with a thick bed of sand disturbed by many footfalls.  Against the far wall was a great hearth connected