At the Queen_s command

Kamiskwa set down a hunk of moss and offered his cupped hands. Nathaniel slapped him on the back. "Spit." The frothy green mulch had the look of a freshly smashed grasshopper.

Kamiskwa packed it into the wound and smeared it around the hip. He then clapped a hunk of moss over it. Using a strip cut from Owen's blanket, he bound the leg up.

Nathaniel handed Owen a stout length of maple to use as a walking stick. "It's a good day when we kill a handful of Ungarakii and get away with only a scratch. We get to Saint Luke, someone can sew it up proper."

"I apologize for slowing us down."

"No apology necessary." Kamiskwa spread his arms wide. "We are in Altashee territory and we have slain enemies. We are heroes. Any walk is a heroes' walk, and no one will complain about its speed."

Despite their kind offer to let him sleep, Owen agreed to take a watch. The mogiqua poultice deadened the pain, but didn't do much to ease the stiffness. Owen wanted to tell himself that his stiffness was only because of the wound, but he knew better. He had marched through the Low Countries with ease, but Mystria presented new challenges. He couldn't wait until his body had adapted to them.

Owen wasn't certain he believed in the wendigo, but during the midnight watch, he did keep an ear out for splashing. In the morning, he scouted down along the shore to see if there were any footprints. He did it as quietly as possible, though his injured hip made that difficult. If either of his companions noticed, they said nothing.

Kamiskwa chose a course from that point forward which kept to trails and minimized exertion. Whenever Owen protested that they could go faster and more directly, the Altashee counted that his path enabled them to backtrack the Ungarakii. He went to great pains to point out a variety of signs and over the next four days Owen learned a great deal about tracking.

Toward the end of the fourth day, after slogging their way through a narrow part of a swamp, the three men emerged and climbed one last wooded hill. They paused at the top, giving Owen time to scrape mud off his coattails. At least, that was why he thought they'd paused; then he caught the scent of wood smoke over the stink of the swamp's black muck.

Kamiskwa smiled. "Welcome to Saint Luke."

"I thought the Altashee migrated."

"We do. This is the summer Saint Luke."

Owen's eyes narrowed. "And the name? Is your tribe part of the Church of Norisle?"

Kamiskwa shook his head. "Some are, but not many missionaries get out this far. My father just likes the name. He speaks your tongue a bit, and has confused Luke for luck. He likes that you have a god for luck."

Owen thought the name slightly blasphemous, but imagined Bishop Bumble's outrage if he knew the truth. That made him smile.

Nathaniel slapped him on the shoulder. "Just remember, Captain, this ain't Launston society."

Owen nodded, but straightened his coat. "I shall comport myself as befitting one of Her Majesty's officers."

The trio came down through the woods to the Altashee village. It had been laid out in a broad ravine with a stream running around the northern border. A long house with an arched roof dominated the center. The saplings that had been joined together to form the rafters had their branches braided together. Magick had been used because the trees bled into each other. Between them birch bark formed most of the roof and siding, save for where leather flaps allowed entry and exit.

Around the long house sat smaller structures, all domed, of varying sizes and ostentation. Made of pine and birch like the long house, these dwellings benefited from their owners' artistic talents. Images from children at play to men hunting a rhinoceros decorated them. Owen wondered if these pictures illustrated stories or might in some way serve as did a coat of arms, to identify the owner.

As they entered the camp, villagers took notice. Small children came running over to jabber at Kamiskwa. A couple took hold of Woods' hands, trying to drag him off toward one dwelling or another. He resisted their efforts and said things which had them shrieking or laughing or both.

One little girl, her green hair shining, clad in a buckskin dress with lovely beadwork, just stared shyly at Owen. He stopped, and dropped to a knee to smile at her. She returned the smile, then her eyes widened and she ran off screaming. It didn't sound like terror to him, nor was it that happy scream most children just couldn't contain.

He stood. "What did I do, Mr. Woods?"

"Your eyes. She's not seen that shade of green before. She ran off calling you 'Moss-eyes.' Not really a bad thing."

Owen frowned. "But not a good one, either."

"Ain't the worst."

A hand threw the long house door flap open and an older, heavyset Altashee emerged. He straightened up, showing streaks of hair so white amidst the green that it seemed to glow. He smiled at Kamiskwa and opened his arms. Kamiskwa flew to him and they embraced.