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know. I’ve just come from there.’
    I had realised the first time I had entered it that the causewayed fortress, named for thunder, was shaped around a far older sanctuary. There were mounds within its high walls, contained within the orchard groves, which echoed so faintly they must have certainly been erected over the dead of a very distant past. Interesting, then, that the Shadows of Heroes were returning there.
    I was becoming curious.
    My train of thought was abruptly terminated as the young Mother suddenly stopped in her tracks in alarm. I bowled into her and her small hand clutched at mine, urging me to silence. Ahead of us was a sunlit clearing. A large creature suddenly bounded across that patch of gleaming light, a boar of some size, its razor spines raised high in alarm; others followed, making no sound. Birds were disturbed above us, a nervous fluttering in the branches. Then four cloaked riders passed across the glade, slumped in the saddle, long hair framing their faces, spears held at a low angle.
    They were not pursuing the animals; they seemed to be following a different spoor. In the glade they hesitated, looked around, stared hard along the track where the Mother and I crouched silently, then kicked their horses on, disappearing from sight.
    After a while, the woman rose again and went cautiously forward, darting across the clearing, beckoning me to follow.
    Soon, we left the wood and scrambled through the shallows of a winding stream. To one side of us was the bare ridge of a hill. To the other, an overgrown tangle of grey rocks and stunted trees, and it did not surprise me when the woman scrambled along an almost hidden path through this craggy edge, then through a deep defile, and led me to the haven where the two children lay concealed.
    It was a bright meadow, encircled by a high rocky wall. Five doorways, close together, opened into the rocks, five chambers where the Mothers and the children lived. Close to the narrow entrance into this hiding place was a well, guarded by the tall wooden figures of Brigg and Nodons. The well was decked with holly and ivy and red-berried branches of thorn. The young Mother ran quickly to it, knelt down and dipped a cloth into the water, wiping her hands and face. She encouraged me to do the same. The water was scented with earth and seemed to swell at its surface, as if trying to rise above the rocks that contained it.
    The moment the damp cloth touched my eyes, the charm that guarded the meadow fell away.
    Ten children were playing a game with hurling sticks and a small, leather ball, laughing loudly as they clattered and tripped in pursuit of victory. Four mastiffs lay quietly watching, forepaws folded. Elsewhere, chickens pecked at the ground, and grey-skinned pigs nosed up above their sty. Several fruit trees grew in a small orchard, where another child was trying to reach for an apple. The young Mother shouted at her and she looked startled, darting away into hiding.
    Not all these children were from Urtha’s fortress at Taurovinda. Not all of them were from the world of Urtha and his uthiin , his warrior retinue. The young Mother, as if hearing my inner reflection, glanced at me with a wan smile.
    ‘Yes, they are the forlorn. Some of them have been here a very long time. They are children who once escaped to safety across the river, but were never rescued. Two at least can go home, though how safe they will be is up to you, now.’
    I asked, ‘Can’t I take more? I’d gladly take you all. The boat that brought me here is a friend; she won’t depart until I request her to.’
    ‘That won’t be possible,’ the woman answered pointedly. ‘Please don’t offer it to the children. They simply can’t go. I’m sorry.’ And she told me why, but added, ‘There is one girl, a friend of Munda’s … she has not been here long. Perhaps her.’ She suddenly touched my arm. ‘There are Urtha’s children, over by the orchard. Always looking for magic apples.