Up close, the red riders were fearsome.

They sat atop their bison, at ease. Their faces were difficult to read, obscured by black and red warpaint, but they wore hard unfriendly expressions, their eyes hooded. Their figures looked lithe and brutal, armed, strung with ropy muscle. The tallest stood front, a more thickset one behind him, and third ranging farther away.

Sabar uneasily looked them up and down.. he didn't really have anywhere to run. He diffidently stepped out of the church.

Several things then happened in the next few breaths.

The rider at the front casually turned his steed, as he saw Sabar, and carelessly swung the enormous double-curved black scimitar at Sabar's throat with a sneer.

For second, Sabar didn't really register that he was being attacked, before backpedaling, stumbling, his back meeting the wall of the church, and falling, to land on the ground. He felt tip of the blade pass within a hair of his face.

The spear, was a short, lethal, unadorned thing. It took the rider in the throat, who gurgled in surprise, eyes wide before they turned glassy.

"He's with me"

.

The heavyset rider behind, with a swift nudge of his knees, turned his steed round in a sharp half circle, whilst drawing his bow up and bowstring back to his ear, an arrow knocked, all in one long smooth motion. A heartbeat before he loosed, the second spear flew through the air and punched through his belly. A beat later the third took him in his shoulder, even as he fell nervelessly from his shaggy horned steed.

The remaining rider wheeled and bolted, recognizing the better part of valor. His hoofbeats thundered as he galloped swiftly away.

Sabar was still on the ground, his breath driven out of him by the fall.

He turned to see a wiry figure, an arm raised high, with something spinning about it. The sling whistled as it spun, its pitch rising as it spun faster and faster, before it loosed. He couldn't even see the stone as it flew.

He whipped his head 'round to see the last rider, now seemingly tiny and distant, still galloping, suddenly stumble and fall. The rider did not rise.

...

She said her name was Tesaii.

When he'd first tried to thank her, she'd waved away his thanks with an offhand wave and asked instead, for help dragging the now dead riders to the cliffs, to feed to the river.

So he did.

She stared down at the river for a long minute then, a frown on her lined face.

"You can't stay here, you'll have to come with me"

She'd declined with a dry smile - his invitation to his little makeshift camp in the church belltower and gently suggested her he pack his scant supplies and follow her.

She didn't seem like to waste her words. Her only response to his asking - why he should follow or trust her - was a shrug. And a, "Or don't. As you like it really"

Which was fair enough. Sabar wasn't in a position to refuse the help, whoever she was. He nodded and moved to get his things, but stopped as the woman grabbed his wrist. She seemed slight, but his hand felt clamped by steel to a stone wall.

"Don't. Don't drink from the well", she released him

She didn't elaborate.

So he'd packed his little sack of furs, his few sad dry strips of greydeer jerky and followed her.

..

Tesaii set a grueling pace. They wound their way through the windblown moors for the better part a day. She didn't like to talk as she walked, and she didn't like to make stops. She strode easily through rocky ground or waist-high straw-yellow grass without pause. Sabar just tried to keep up, though he could tell she wasn't going as fast as she could have.

He knew they were going inland now, away from the river. The only landmark he could identify was a long chain of rocky hills winding its way away from the beach that he'd seen from the belltower.

Now finally, she'd brought them to her camp - a little cave hidden behind a subtle crack in another cliff face.

...

They sat cross legged from each other now, a small fire between them. Night had fallen and in the flickering light of the cave, it felt like Sabar was seeing her face properly at last.

Tesaii had a leathery lined face - though whether she was an old forty or a very well aged ninety - it was impossible to say. She was deceptively slight - wiry, almost wispy. Her hair fell long and straight over her shoulders, a uniform grey. She wore clothes of light, simple leathers and rough spun cloth

"Thank you - they would have killed me there - that blade almost took my head off.."

She gave him an odd look at that, but then shrugged, "It cost me nothing.. Those were Rhaedan. Stupid. Terrible trackers. They have numbers and they control most of the plains riverward of the hills. They won't find any sign of me.. at best they'll follow your trail back to the river"

She stretched and turned her, cracking her neck, "Besides.. they know better than to follow me out of the moors"

Sabar didn't doubt it. For all that the riders seemed fearsome, from what he'd seen, Tesaii was far more quietly deadly.

"Tch", She pursed her lips and gave him a slow look up and down, "You're smelly, barely clothed, draped in some shitty furs.. I know you just crawled out of the river.." She gave him a smile that didn't quite touch her eyes, "So.. how much do you know about this place"