Heart of Danger

Twenty.

They stood so still. His heart hammered and his chest heaved, and he tried to breathe through his nose because he thought that would be more quiet, and she had the bulk of Milan Stankovic pressed against him, and he hoped that she had the knife so hard against the man's throat, that the man would not dare to shout. The two shadow shapes were on the track that ran above the farm with the outhouses. The shadow shapes moved with care. They came within five stretched paces of where Penn and Ulrike Schmidt and Milan Stankovic stood, so still. The moon was high enough, full enough, to throw fierce light onto the openness of the track they used. Penn could see that the shadow shape leading wore metal rank pips on his shoulder epaulettes, and the shadow shape who followed was carrying, tensed and readied, an assault rifle. It was where it could end, and the worst had not yet begun… Milan Stankovic might not believe him, but would believe Ulrike. Milan Stankovic knew from her cold certainty that if he made a sound, the smallest sound, then the knife would be driven into the softness of his throat… She could try to make him cruel enough and she would not succeed… The shadow shapes moved away. He reached back with his hand, and his fingers found hers. He did not twist his neck so that he could see her, because he feared that the material of his camouflage tunic would rustle or grate. His fingers found her body. They held a pinch of flesh at the flatness of her waist, and he squeezed the pinch with his fingers, hard so that he would hurt her, so that he would make her concentrate, and the moment before he took the first step he pulled at the pinch as the signal that she should follow him. They went onto the path, onto the fallen leaves and the wetness of the mud. They followed the shadow shapes that were ahead of them.

There was a low whistle. The whistle was like the warning cry of a young owl, from his childhood when he had gone at night to the twenty-acre plantation. There was an answering call from the mature owl that located its position. They followed the shadow shapes that led them towards the Kupa river. He attempted all the time to keep the shadow shapes at the edge of his vision as they meandered along the track. It was a bastard… The whistle, the answering night call, and when he strained to hear in the close quiet of the forest there were softly spoken voices, murmurs in the trees, it was the identification of an ambush position… Penn understood… an officer and his escort moving to inspect the ambush positions that he had designated. Penn understood that it was necessary for the officer to whistle ahead so that the troops, lying up and cold and with their nerves stretched, would call back, would not blast at the shadow shapes approaching them.

It was their chance, he saw it.

He led Ulrike and Milan Stankovic wide of the track each time that the officer whistled, the owl's sound, and each time the call was returned, and each time that there was the brief whisper murmur of the voices.

It was the opportunity, he must take it.

The shadow shapes of the officer and his escort took them through the network of the ambush positions. Four times they heard the whistle, the response call and the short whisper of voices, four times they were able to skirt the waiting troops. All the time the sight of the shadow shapes drew him forward, and the ache of the tension was in his legs and there was the hammer of his heart, and he wondered how it was possible for Ulrike to hold, all that time, the knife blade so steady against the beard and throat of Milan Stankovic with cold certainty. There was vomit in his throat, from fear. He depended on Milan Stankovic, on the desperation of the man. Would the knife go in if the man stumbled and a twig broke? Would the knife go in if the man spluttered once? It would be in Milan Stankovic's mind that if he stepped heavily, grunted once, then they were gone… He was trying to evaluate how desperate the man was… And if the man made a noise and Ulrike stabbed him in cold cruelty, then he and Ulrike were gone

… They were in the hands of their prisoner, dependent on the desperation of their prisoner… The vomit was in Penn's throat and sliding forward and he could not spit and he did not dare to swallow. They were so close to the shadow shapes, and to the voices, and once a metal water bottle rattled against a rifle barrel, and he trembled, and did not know how the faster panting of his breath had not been heard… The shadow shapes turned. So still again, so frozen against a tree's trunk, so quiet, and the shadow shapes had gone away and past them, retreating until he could no longer see the blurred half-images. Weakness dribbled in him. They went off the path. He glanced at his watch. He estimated it had taken one hour and forty-seven minutes to cover one mile. And he should, too bloody right, have listened better to Ham, and he could not remember the details that Ham had given him of ambush positions. He should have listened better because there would be ambush positions to a depth of a mile, and then there would be tripwires, and then there would be the patrols moving on the bank of the river, and then there would be the bloody river. Her hand came to him. She took his shoulder and she squeezed it hard, as he had squeezed her. She squeezed the bone of his shoulder as if to tell him that she thought he had done well. He knelt. Penn brushed the floor of the forest with his hand until he had found a small branch. He held the branch ahead of him, making a blind man's progress, going towards the river. "It's Hamilton, I want, Sidney Hamilton. I expect you call him "Ham". I'm his friend The warning was there, quick. Marty Jones was at the sandbagged entrance to the old police station, and the sentry had come out of the protected san gar to block him, and the corporal was reaching for the field telephone in the guardhouse. The sentry was aggressive, and the corporal was evasive. Marty Jones hesitated. He knew it had gone foul and the aggression and evasion were the evidence. He hesitated and he did not know what his response should be, and then in front of him was the blast of the horn and the flashing of headlights. Two jeeps and a car lined up and trying to get the hell out of the inner courtyard of the old police station, and the barrier was down and blocking their leaving. The corporal abandoned discipline and the field telephone and came out to lift the barrier. Two open jeeps came by him, and he saw the flashes on the tunic arms of the guys and he knew they were Special Forces, and there was a big Rover tailing them out under the raised barrier. The barrier came down and the corporal was reaching again for the field telephone, and Marty was running. They could just as well have shouted a warning at him. Marty Jones ran to where he had parked the car, flung himself inside, twisted the ignition and hit the gears. Not until he had caught them, could see the lights of the Rover and the two jeeps, going down the big avenue, out of Karlovac, towards the river where there were the tanks' teeth of concrete beside the wide road, and the artillery-damaged apartment blocks from the war gone by, and the bazooka defence bunkers, did he kill the lights and let them lead him. He hissed to Mary Braddock, through his teeth, "I don't know what it is, I just know it's gone bad…" He was trying to concentrate, but his mind was leaping… Two more hours gone, and he reckoned a mile covered for each hour. And no longer the surety of the moon to guide him with the flow of silver light. He had found one tripwire. The taut wire checking the motion of the stick, and crouching until his fingers brushed the wire, and Ulrike and himself lifting the weight of Milan Stankovic over the wire and the knife blade never leaving his beard and his throat. The last stretch before the river, and facing the last patrols… and the concentration came harder and his mind leapt faster. The wind rising, and cloud scudding across the moon's face. Too much damn well surging in his mind, and that was danger. Danger was distraction from the gentle loose hold on the stick that wavered in front of his footfall… Penn took them off the path that ran down alongside the planted mines, and on towards the river bank… It was a place where brambles were thick, near to the path, and the moonlight was at that moment gone from above the tree canopy. A mile from the river bank… His mind leaping, concentration failing, danger… The flashing of the torch, shaded, and the ripple sounds of Ham edging the inflatable into the current of the Kupa river. The drive to Zagreb, the prisoner given over. A taxi for the airport, first flight out. She was so strong and there was no future for them. He would not know what to say to her. Gazing into her eyes, staring into the depth of them, wondering if she would cry, if she would laugh, if she would kick him on the shin. No future for them. Her going back to the Transit Centre. Him going back to Alpha Security Ltd, and tramping up the stairs from the street door beside the launderette, and seeing Basil and Jim and Henry, and Deirdre giving him the post that had accumulated, two weeks of it. No future for them. Heading back to Jane, and asking shyly how it had been, and a cold kiss on his cheek that was formality, and Tom's wet mouth on his face that was a stranger's, and nothing… But there was no future for them. And the morning after,.. The morning after he was home he would go down to the station at Raynes Park where there was a florist and he would buy the flowers, big bunch and bright blooms, and walk them home and fill the little living room of 57B the Cedars with life, and he would kiss his Jane, and tell her that he was going out of her life. And the morning after, the day after tomorrow, he would catch the train into London and take the Underground to Goodge Street, and walk down Gower Street, and sit in the front reception as if it were his right and not give a shit what the guards thought, and wait for Arnold bloody Browne to take the lift down… The day after tomorrow he would make Jane laugh, and leave her. The day after tomorrow he would tell his story to Arnold bloody Browne and have the pleasure of walking out on him.. . He would go to search for space for himself, go where the de wed fields were quiet in the morning, and where the trees threw shadows in the evening… It was the way that Dorrie had shown him, and he would go to private places in the months ahead, years to come, and he would think of Dorrie and be with Dorrie. It was his dream… The bramble stems clawed at him, held him. He did not hate the man. He almost felt a pity for the man. And the man had a wife who had loved him, and a child who fought for him. The man was craven, bare-arsed and bare-balled because they stripped from him even the love of his wife and the pride of his child… For what? For principle, for the God Almighty 'feel good' factor of those who wanted to see 'something done', for Mary bloody Braddock's peace of mind. He wouldn't get the chance ever to talk with the man, like he would have talked to the man in a cafe or a bar or on the beach if they, Jane and him, had ever come for a holiday in what they called former Yugoslavia, and way back, and before the madness… For what? For the killing of Dorrie Mowat, what else…? Was she laughing, was she bloody mocking? Dorrie Mowat… up high, up on the bloody mountain, looking down and laughing, mocking, had caught him. Caught in the brambles at the side of the path. His boot kicked at the clinging bloody mess. Caught him, caught Mary, caught Marty Jones, caught and hurt them all, like she'd hurt him, like she'd hurt Milan Stan-kovic, would have liked to have talked with the man… caught in the brambles' hold… The wire would have been set across the path that they avoided. His boot tripped the wire. The wire would have been fastened to a cut peg that had been buried in the brambles' mess. His boot was held for a moment by the wire as he lurched for balance. The wire might have been visible if the bloody moon had not been hidden behind the bloody cloud. His boot snagged the wire. One movement, throwing himself back. One movement, flattening Ulrike and the man. The thunder of the explosion numbed his hearing, cut the whistle spray of the grenade's shrapnel. He was pulling her up, then grasping for Milan Stankovic, and he felt the wet run of blood because the knife blade had been against the man's beard and throat and the sharpness of the knife's blade had slashed the hair of the beard and the skin of the throat. Pulled her up, grasped and lifted him. Going for the path and running. Clutching back behind him for the jacket of Milan Stankovic and dragging him, and Ulrike was pushing him. It was the start of the stampede run for the river bank. High up, above the tree canopy and below the cloud that masked the moon, away to the east, the first flare burst. He had taken the telephone call, broken his meeting, charged from his office and gone like a mad puppy down the stairs to the operations room. The Director stood in front of the wall map, and the tip of the pointer danced against the clear sheeting that covered Sector North. The Canadian colonel said, "It's what we're getting from the monitoring. He's in trouble… They're in close pursuit. He'll be running for his life, but there's the river ahead of him. No rendezvous, right, sir…?" In the cause of the greater good… The Director nodded, dumb. He stared up at the map. The Jordanian major asked, knowing the answer, "No rendezvous, no boat waiting for him?" In the interest of the greater number… The Director shuddered, numb. For a few brief seconds the tip of the wand held the clear-cut line of the Kupa river. The Argentine captain lit his cigarette, "No rendezvous, no boat waiting, with or without his prisoner there is not a possibility of him coming out. It is what you wanted, sir, yes…?" Penn was running, trying to see the path, trying to take the man and Ulrike with him. Bad pain… His hand was behind him, gripped deep into the material of the man's coat. The pain was the man's teeth buried into his hand. Penn loosed him. He was crushed by the pain. He staggered free of the burden of the man. There was another flare falling behind them, gone from its summit arc, and the flare threw brilliant white light down through the trees' canopy, and he could hear shouting and whistles blowing. He gripped his bitten hand and he was bent and he was rocking and he squeezed at the hand as if that way he could shed the pain. The pain was his own world and private, and the pain brought smarting tears welling from his eyes. Penn turned. Light fell from the flare. It gleamed on the knife's blade. She had lost the knife. Penn stood and suffered his private pain and watched. The knife was beyond her reach, as if it had fallen clear when the man had moved. She was on the floor of the wood, and she was writhing in the leaves, and she clung to one leg of the man, and the boot of Milan Stankovic kicked with savagery at her body. The flare was guttering, failing. He saw her body bounce away from the impact of the kick, and her hands seemed to have the last clinging hold of his legs. If he had had his hands, if his hands had been free

… If the flare had not been fired, if there had not been the light.. . Penn thought the man realized he was at the edge of freedom. One more kick, one more blow from the boot at her head, and she would loose him. It was the last moment before the flare fell. He could hear the shouts and the whistles closing. In the last moment of the light of the flare, the last moment before the final kick that would free the man, Penn tried to learn to be cruel. With the heel of his hand he hit at the back of Milan Stankov-ic's neck. Penn hit with his bitten hand, and the man fell, and they writhed in the coming darkness. He punched at Milan Stankovic, as an animal at war. Penn beat at Milan Stankovic and he seemed not to hear her voice in the night's blackness, and she was calling to him that he had hit enough. She had the knife.

They took the prisoner, sullen quiet, on towards the bank of the Kupa river.

The knife's blade was back at his throat.

Penn led the charge, and his bitten hand dragged the man forward. He had needed to be cruel to have hit so hard with the heel of his hand. He did not hate the man. There were flares, all the time, bursting high behind them… He had respect for the man… He knew of the deep and raw courage that was required to make a break. He felt that the man was in his care. He did not think about Mary Braddock, nor about Katica Dub-elj, and he did not think about Dorrie Mowat. The man was in his care, and he owed Milan Stankovic his protection. The man would not fight again… it was finished for Milan Stankovic, he had fought and failed, but respect was won. When the flares died, when they fell back doused, then there was the full moon's light, and the fast-going clouds had moved on. They ran, stumbled, charged, pulled and pushed the weight of Milan Stankovic, down the path that ran beside the single length of barbed wire that marked the minefield. He could not judge how far behind the chasing pack were, but all caution was gone…

Ahead, through the trees, he saw the dark mass of the Kupa river.

There were silver trellis lines on the darkness where the force of the current swirled.

They burst the last cover of the trees. They came onto the narrow path that ran along the upper bank of the great river. She was tugging at his coat, pecking at him for his attention. The cover of the trees was behind him. The reeds nestled along the bank ahead of him. The shouting and the whistle blasts were behind him. The river and the silver network of lines were ahead of him.

There was a killing flatness in her voice.

"We came too early. We are an hour ahead of the rendezvous. You said we should lie up, but we cannot… We came too early for Ham, for the rendezvous, for the boat. Did you not know that…?"

She was at his back, the barrier was ahead of him.

Another flare soared high behind him, and he saw the far width of the river ahead of him. Milan Stankovic rocked with muffled laughter, and he would not have understood what she said, only the tone of despair. Penn turned. Eyes going past the babbled laughter of the man who croaked under the gag, and he was trying to speak as he laughed, as if now the knife at his beard and his throat no longer terrorized him.

She destroyed him because he had not thought it through when he had led the stampede flight towards the Kupa river.

He rifled at her pockets, felt first the weight of the pistol, then the bulk of the torch. He stood on the path above the deep flow of the river and he shaded with the palm of his hand the beam of the torch.

He made the signal. He flicked the button of the torch, on and off, on and off, waited for the answering light, on and off, on and off, waited to see the boat dragged down the far-away bank, on and off, on and off.

The voice carried by the loud-hailer echoed sharply across the river width.

"Penn, you have no boat. There is not going to be a boat…"

'… You should abandon your prisoner. Penn, you and the woman, Schmidt, should take your chance in the water. Penn, Hamilton is not here, there is no boat. You should immediately release your prisoner …"

It was a long and straight track, and it went by a well-constructed building that was roofless and abandoned. The track went all the way to the river. Marty saw the flares that lit the skyline, and the flares silhouetted the group at the end of the track. He was leading Mary Braddock towards the group and the jeeps and the Rover car. Below the flares, beyond the group, separated by the width of darkness and silver, Marty saw the winking, on and off, of the light.

'.. If you try to bring your prisoner across, you will be identified by flashlight. We have authority to shoot if you attempt to cross with your prisoner. Release him immediately…"

He had snapped off the torch. The amplified voice bayed across the river. '… You have to take your chance in the river, just you and the German woman. For fuck's sake, Penn, move yourself. Penn, are you coming? We are forbidden to give covering fire… Just you and the German woman, not the prisoner, get into the water… Penn, you don't have time… Do it…" He could let the man go. He could walk away from the man. He could turn the man loose. To turn the man loose, to permit the man to walk away, might save her life, Penn's life… She could hear the voices now, behind her, carried towards the bank by the amplification of the megaphone. He had a hold of Milan Stankovic, and he seemed to look into her face, and she did not challenge him, and she felt no fear. She wriggled clear of the straps of the backpack, let it fall. He pulled Milan Stankovic down the bank and she slithered after them. They splashed into the cold of the water, and she clung to the man and tried to hold the knife blade steady against his beard and his throat. He never turned to her, never asked it of her, just assumed it, that she would follow him. The mud of the river's edge was over her boots, the slime was round her feet. The water was at her waist, the cold groping at her groin. There were three, four, metres of reeds at the side of the river, in mud against the bank. She had her free hand, not the hand with the knife blade against Milan Stankovic's throat, tight on the mouth of the man. They made strong waded steps through the reeds, each step sinking in the mud bed. They were going away from the flares, away from the megaphone that was silenced, away from the closing crash of the pursuit. He was, to her, a simple and decent and ordinary and obstinate man, and she felt a love of him. They went down river, they went with the flow goading them on, and once they foundered and the chill of the water was at her shoulders and the water was in Milan Stankovic's nostrils and the water was over Penn's head. She wanted so much to tell her father of Penn, tell her father how she had known always that he was a man, Penn, of principle… tell her father how they had gone down the river bank, hidden by the first summer growth of the reeds. Low against the water's surface, the power of the current restrained by the reeds, she could see across the full width of the river, and it did not seem possible to her that she could ever get to tell her father of the man she loved. On and on, more mud, more slips, putting further behind them the flares and the shouting and the chasing pack. She wanted so badly to tell her father… if he freed the man, if he left the man, then the chance to cross was theirs, but he would not, and she did not ask it. A long distance gone. There was a cacophony of flapping movement in the trees above. A heron flew across the face of the moon. There was a pallet held by the reeds. Across the river a small light burned. The light was in a window. The pallet was one that would have had stacked on it fertilizer bags, or seed sacks. The pallet of coarse wooden strips must have been discarded in a field, upstream, and taken by the winter's flood water. It was for the principle, and he did not speak to her, made no effort to strengthen her, but she saw that he took in his fingers the man's beard, the hair on his cheek, and he gave the hair a small pull as if to reassure the man, as if to give him his protection. He dragged the pallet out from the reeds and held it against the flow of the current, and he levered the torso of the man up onto the surface of the pallet. He kicked off from the mud bed in which the reeds grew. She swam beside him. They pushed the pallet clear from the bank. The current caught them. Milan Stankovic flailed with his legs and Penn was one side of the pallet and she was the other, and they tried to steer a course against the power. A small light burned in the window that was downstream across the river. They were crouched behind the wheels and body work of the jeeps because the Intelligence Officer had said that from the Serb side they might shoot. And he had the grim dry smile on his face, washed in the moonlight, of a man who enjoys a fucked-up failure. Beside him was the First Secretary, behind him were Marty Jones and Mary Braddock, ahead of him and lying prone were the Special Forces troops.

Marty Jones trembled.

Mary Braddock gazed ahead, without voice, without feeling.

They watched the torch beams cavort on the far bank, up into the trees, onto the path, down among the reeds, and out across the darkness and silver lines of the river.

Far down the river bank, way too far, the First Secretary saw a single light, steady like a beacon.

He fought to drive the pallet forward.

He no longer felt the cold of the water.

He seemed to hear Dome's mocking and Dome's laughter.

The man no longer kicked with his legs as if the weight of his river-logged boots was too great. Penn thought that Milan Stankovic had surrendered to the power of the river. He no longer had the support of Ulrike, knew that she was beaten by the pressure of the current. They were lower in the water than they had first been, and the level of the water was above his shoulders and washed over the wood strips of the pallet, and the water lapped on the hips of Milan Stankovic.

They were not halfway across.

He could see the small, constant light ahead.

Beneath them was the great dark depth of the river, pulling at them, tugging at them to take them down. If they were no longer able to drive the pallet forward, if they drifted, then the river would take them down. They went slower, and the current was greater, and the small light ahead did not seem closer. He kicked harder, kicked from the last of his strength, and when he tried to drag the night air into his lungs then he was sucking in the foulness of the river. Her body was beside him, but she could only paddle her feet, could not kick.

Penn spluttered, Tell them that we tried… Tell them someone had to try…"

He had a hold of her hand. It was not difficult for Penn to break her grip on the pallet. He seemed to show her the small light that did not waver. He did it quickly. He broke her grip on the pallet, and he pushed her away from him, from the sinking pallet, from the motionless weight of Milan Stankovic. He saw that she was clear in the water. He saw the whiteness of her face and the brightness of her eyes and the slicked hair of her head. The man was sliding back from the pallet. She had tried to teach him to be cruel, and she had failed. He held the man as best he could, and he kicked. The power of the current hacked at his strength. Penn did not see her again. The water was rising around him. Penn did not see the light again. "It was what I saw from my window. Because it was a full moon I saw them very easily. I saw them from the time that they made the heron fly, when they came out of the reed bed with their raft thing. They made good speed at first, and they would have felt that it was possible, but if you think that you find weakness in the great Mother that is the Kupa river, then you fool yourself. The river plays the game of tricking you, there is no weakness. The river brings you on, away from the safety of the bank, then tricks you…" He sat in his chair of stained oak beside the window and the oil lamp threw a feeble light across the room. He spoke gently, but with respect, as if he had a fear of giving offence to the great Mother. "I could see them all of the time. Good speed at first, but that is the way of the great Mother because from the south bank, from their bank, the river bed is more shallow and the current is less strong. When you come further into the flow of the river then you will find the true strength of the great Mother… Of course it is possible to cross if you have a good boat, if you have oars and you have been God-given good muscles, of course it is easy if you have the engine for the boat… but the river watches for your weakness, and if you are weak then the river will punish you…" The woman sat bowed on the bare boards. She was in front of the stove, with the pistol close to her feet. She wore a faded old dressing gown tight around her, borrowed from the farmer's wife, who had bought it in the market at Karlovac thirty-one years before, and draped over the dressing gown was the farmer's greatcoat. She did not speak. Her clothes, sodden from the river, were across a chair beside her.

"The strength of the great Mother, where she finds your weakness, is when you come to the centre where the current is most powerful. At the centre, coming from the far side, is where the drag pulls at you. When they were coming, the year before the last year, the Partizan bastards, there were deer that ran ahead of their gunfire. I saw a deer come into the water, running in fear, a big stag, a good head on it, and it could swim until it reached the centre of the river… I can only say what I saw. It was at the centre that he pushed the woman away. I heard his voice, but I do not know what he said because it was foreign and because the river makes its own sound, the voice of the great Mother is never silenced. I think that he pushed her away so that she could swim free. She was so lucky… perhaps the attention of the great Mother was on him and his friend, perhaps the great Mother ignored the woman, swimming free. I could see it from my window, the man and his friend taken down the river…"

They listened. They were crowded into the room. The mud fell onto the board floor from the boots of the Intelligence Officer, from the shoes of the First Secretary and Marty Jones and Mary Braddock… She did not understand a word that was said by the old farmer, but there was a grim sadness on his face and she felt a release. They were all touched by Dorrie, her daughter. She felt her freedom.

"They were taken down the river, the great Mother held them. They could not go from the hold of the current at the centre of the river. The raft thing was lower in the water. He tried to kick a last time, but the strength was gone from him. Was his friend wounded? I think his friend was wounded because his friend had no use of his arms. They lost the raft thing. I saw him hold his friend up in the water, as if he supported him. He would not be able to save his friend, I could see that. If he had loosed his friend, given his friend to the great Mother, then perhaps, perhaps… I do not know… all the time he tried to help his friend. They went under. I saw them again and they were held in the current, and I knew it would not be long. Just their heads, for one moment I saw just their heads, and still he tried to protect him, his friend. I did not see them another time. Who was his friend that he would not leave? They were so small, they were against such power. I did not see them another time…"

They took the woman with them, and the old farmer was told that his wife's dressing gown and his greatcoat would be returned in the morning.

Later, the Intelligence Officer would use the field telephone to communicate a satisfactory situation to his enemy. Later, the First Secretary would send a three-line encoded message to the dishes on the roof of Vauxhall Cross. Later, Marty Jones would return to his converted freight container to dismantle a camp bed and unfasten a chain linked to a pair of handcuffs, and to arrange for ballistic tests to be made on a Makharov pistol.

Later, Mary Braddock would take her small suitcase to the airport.

Later, the shells would be taken from the artillery pieces that faced Karlovac and Sisak, and technicians would stand down the ground-to-ground missiles that could reach the southern suburbs of Zagreb.

Later, the troops of the Ustase bastards and the Partizan bastards would search the reed beds on their side of the Kupa river, and find nothing.

They went out into the bright moonlight and walked away from Dome's place, turned their backs on Dome's war.