Aside from Siyon and Tamina, there were two other Centaurs there, both waiting in the dappled shade of the trees. One was standing, his lower half a rich chestnut brown, his upper half held with a strict, upright bearing that reminded me of Siyon. His hair was shoulder-length, windswept and worn loose, and his expression as he watched us approach was nakedly critical, blue eyes crowned with a furrowed brow.

  The other was lying down, apparently far more at ease. His flanks were grey, almost light enough to be silver, but still a strikingly rich colour, not at all faded. It matched his even longer hair, which spilled nearly the length of his back, framing an old, weathered face set with deep, moss green eyes. They’d sunk somewhat into his face, but he seemed no less perceptive for it, carrying a superior version of the expression I’d seen on Tamira - the one that suggested he knew more than he let on.

  We’d been told we were being taken to meet their leader, and even with my limited (non-existent) interactions with ruling figures, I could piece enough together to figure out that the old guy lounging about the place was always the one in charge. Sure enough, Siyon confirmed it a moment later.

  “Everyone, this is Sky, High Speaker and Celestial Pathfinder of the Tribe of Dun Fola.” His tone was deferential but not sycophantic; like this was someone he respected but who apparently didn’t demand all the ceremony and devotion that normally goes with these positions.

  “And that’s Arbin,” he finished offhandedly. Arbin glowered back at him, but without much heat.

  “If you’ve finished introducing us, Siyon, might you put some names to faces of our visitors?” Arbin asked. Siyon pointed each of us out in turn, Sky and Arbin matching us with what they’d obviously been told by now.

  “I am told,” Sky began, in a croaky, grandfatherly voice filled with age and curiosity, “that our brothers and sisters found you metres outside the ruins of Denofell, claiming to have escaped from it?” He framed it like a question, waiting for us to confirm or deny it before he went on. We nodded shakily.

  “I’m sure I need not explain how unlikely such a thing would be,” he continued, “and so working on the assumption that you are, collectively, not entirely deranged (thanks) I am inclined to believe it as at least part of whatever truth you carry. Nobody would otherwise cling so tightly to a lie so bare-faced.”

  Under the circumstances, that seemed like a fair assessment. We’d have to genuinely be insane to make up something so stupidly unlikely, but who knows? Maybe it was all an elaborate double-bluff on our part. He went on.

  “I can see I was well-informed as to the status of one of your companions.” He looked at Alf, who still hadn’t said a word since we’d escaped. “I will make you all an offer therefore, founded on the principles of hospitality, and mutual respect between guest and host.” That sounded weirdly formal. I knew that there were a whole bunch of convoluted rules in formal situations about how a guest and a host should interact with one another, but I’d never learned them myself.

  It was a whole code of hospitality, generally unwritten, but which focused on the obligations of one party to the other, how you should behave, and so on. Some people had a very strict interpretation, looking out for breaches in order to entrap you (which is actually a possibility when you’re dealing with some entities), while others argued it was more about providing a framework, and that the intent was what mattered – more what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules.

  “I will restore Alf here to full health,” he continued, “and provide each of you with food and shelter as befits my role as host. In return, when you are rested, you will provide the full, truthful, unbridled explanation of your presence here, so that we can ensure you are not here under false or malicious pretences. Is that agreed?”

  For my money that sounded like a very reasonable offer, but I could tell Tove and Nalfis were a little bit worried, presumably because they’d have to explain whatever awkwardness led to the even-more-awkward situation of them being ordered to assassinate a different Centaur. Still, Sky had us over a barrel here, we couldn’t exactly afford to be turfed out. Tove agreed to his terms, and with a wave of his arm, a warm wind blew around the courtyard, picking up loose leaves and a floral scent, all of which slowly gathered around Alf, whose expression slowly became less zombie-like and more lucid.

  Even as his eyes became more open and aware, his body slumped even further, like he was suddenly discovering just how physically wrecked he was.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, already looking like he was on the verge of falling asleep.

  “Think nothing of it,” Sky said, “I merely sped the recovery process your body was already undergoing.”

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  “Which is probably why he looks so tired,” Tove supplied.

  “Most likely,” Sky conceded. “So why don’t we take that as a cue for us to part for now while you rest. Shall we reconvene at nightfall?”Again it was asked like a question, but we understood that our opinion mattered little, provided we wanted to stay here. “Siyon, Tamira, why don’t you show our guests somewhere to rest, and see that they are provided for and undisturbed until our meeting later.” Undisturbed was by far a nicer way of saying ‘under guard’, but we took the point, as did Siyon and Tamira.

  We were swiftly taken to another room in what I was coming to realise was a fairly sprawling complex of pavilions and tents. It was warm and cosy, the floor completely covered in an array of cushions which were looking very inviting right now. I was pretty much half way back to sleep when Tamira entered again carrying a large tray, stacked with a tower of soft flatbreads, various spreads I couldn’t identify, and a large jug of what we found was quite a strong beer. We waited just long enough to be left alone, and then descended on the tray like a pack of starving wolves. Living on dried meat, nuts and berries for weeks on end might keep you alive, but it was boring as fuck.

  There was something so viscerally satisfying about just tearing into everything, pulling the soft bread apart, covering it with whatever was nearest, and shoving it into your mouth as fast as physically possible. I don’t recommend living on subsistence rations for weeks, but I do recommend getting some pals over and devouring some food together at top speed, hands only. It speaks to something primal.

  Unsurprisingly it wasn’t long before we’d all hugely overindulged, and the weight of liquid and bread started to press uncomfortably on my belt.

  “Do we need to plan what to say to Sky?” Nalfis asked. I groaned in annoyance.

  “Can’t we do that later? I’m tired and full and probably a bit tipsy and I want a nap.”

  “Tipsy off what?” Tove asked. “You can’t have had more than, like, two horns of that stuff.” She gestured towards the beer jug, down to the dregs by now.

  “Hey, we can’t all be Dwarves, alright? And I’m young, so there.”

  “That sounds like a you problem.”

  “As much as I’d also like to either take a nap or keep mocking Indy,” Alf interrupted, speaking in full sentences for the first time in a while, and immediately ruining what should have been a nice moment by using it to insult me, “may I ask a question?”

  “Go for it.” Tove replied.

  “Splendid. Where the fuck are we, and how on Midgard did we get here?”

  Oh, right. Tove, Nalfis and I exchanged slightly guilty looks as we realised we hadn’t actually filled him in properly. Still, not a difficult answer.

  “We’re at the Tribe of Dun Fola, and the Centaurs brought us here,” I supplied.

  “Clear, concise, and totally useless. Thank you Indy, you have outperformed yourself once again.” He shook his head. “Could someone who is not inclined to answer every question entirely literally please fill in the gaps?”

  Nalfis took on the role, working from the moment of his collapse just before the edge of Denofell through to now, relating our meeting with Siyon’s band, the admission of our purpose, and a bit about the place we now found ourselves. Tove even outlined roughly where we were geographically, which impressed me greatly since I have actually zero talent for navigation.

  “So to clarify, we’re up the Ister without a paddle (btw, the Ister is a river), and all we can really do is tell the actual, honest truth to these people and hope they don’t hate us for it?”

  “That would seem to be the situation, yes,” Nalfis confirmed.

  “Most excellent. And to further clarify, I am, in all probability, only alive because of…” he trailed off, turning toward me with excruciating slowness.

  “Me?” I smiled.

  “You,” he grated.

  “Yep.”

  “And you’re going to hold this over my head forever now, aren’t you?”

  “In fairness, there aren’t that many people whose heads I can actually hold things over.”

  “Is that a comment on my stature as a proud Dwarf?”

  “Yes.”

  “Racist.”

  That sort of put an end to that conversation, and even though I’d just been called a racist, it felt nice to have him back to himself again.

  “And about our explanation for Sky?” Nalfis once again asked, bravely attempting to return the conversation to more sensible ground.

  “I really don’t think there’s anything to plan,” Tove waved off, “I think the more cunning we try to be the more it will backfire. We just say our part, answer any questions, and hope. It’s not like we’ve done anything hostile to them anyway.”

  “Exactly,” Alf followed, “if anything, we’re just victims of circumstance and they should thank us for bringing them this important information about the hostility of the Elves.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Nalfis conceded.

  “Amazing,” I said, lying down in a particularly comfy nest of pillows I’d steadily been building, “which means it’s bedtime, nighty-night all.”

  “Indy, it’s like midday,” Tove said.

  “That sounds like a you problem,” I murmured, and I was asleep before anyone even replied.