"All packed up?" Dad turns to survey our campsite, hoisting his bag up as he does so. Wind whistles over the hills, adding to the lonely scene of dull-coloured sky above our dead fire. The sight brings an aching throb to my throat, and I quickly turn away.

"Let's go; which way?" I grind out.

"West," Mum replies, and I set off without another thought; my legs want to move, to go, to be places and do things never done before.

Soon pain grips me, digging into my leg-muscles and weary back. It strikes like a clamp with every step, slowing my progress to a pain-filled limp.

"Come on, Em!" Dad says, clapping me firmly on the shoulder as he strides past. "What happened to the fastest runner in town?"

Glaring, I force my legs to keep pumping, making my way up yet another hill.

"Do-does this... l-look like... running? To you?" I growl from between gritted teeth. "'Cause it doesn't feel like it!" I can't help yelling.

A soft chuckle emanates from Dad, and he turns to eye me half-sternly, still walking — backwards.

"No endurance, eh?" he remarks. "We'll need to work on that."

"Eh?" I frown, quickening my pace to keep up. "What d'you mean, Dad?"

"How are your knife-skills?" Mum questions from up ahead before Dad can respond. "Still sharp as ever?"

I roll my eyes, a slight involuntary smile twisting the corner of my lips.

"Of course. Duh," I remark scornfully. "Who d'you think I am, a Dunter?" I grin at the half-playful jibe: the Dunters and my family have been rivals for generations. Nowadays the rivalry has been reduced to half-joking banter, but back in the day it wasn't uncommon for deaths to occur.

Dad instantly drops his pack, sliding the knife from his hip in one fluid movement.

"Show me." The words hold a hidden threat, daring me to respond; taunting me.

Slowly, I slide my knife from its sheath, reluctance and my natural competitiveness warring a battle in my mind.

Dad is a formidable opponent. But I can't let a challenge go unanswered.

I sidle toward him, rattling the blade slightly in my hand to get it in a comfortable position and sliding a foot forward in a ready position.

"Let's see how good you really are," Dad grins wolfishly, taking a practised step forward. "No harming me. I'm trusting you, Em; control yourself."

I nod, and he suddenly strikes for my abdomen, stopping only centimetres away from my skin.

"Dead," he says.

"Focus, girl!" Mum calls from the sidelines. "Always remain alert or your adversary can't lose."

I grit my teeth as Dad draws back, once again slipping into a ready stance.

This time I watch him, letting my instincts take control as all my years of training come flooding back.

We converge in a flurry of blows, grappling and grabbing in a contest of strength against speed. Dad clutches my shoulder in a vice-like grip and tosses me off-balance, stabbing in a sideways arc for my exposed side at the same time — but he's played this move on me many times, and now I'm prepared. I spin with the momentum of his shove, swiping out as I do so, but keeping a careful eye that it does no harm.

"Dead!" I crow jubilantly as it sings past his throat.

Dad smiles, drawing back and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand as Mum claps playfully on the sidelines.

"Well played, Em," he remarks approvingly, and Mum nods in agreement.

"Indeed. You still have a lot of skill."

A smile stretches across my face as pleasure fills me at their words. A fire kindles in my chest; a source of constant energy.

"Again, old man?" I grin, and Dad chuckles darkly.

"You're asking for it, now."

"Nope," Mum cuts in abruptly. "My turn, now."

I shift slightly, lowering the knife-blade.

"But... but Mum, are you sure? I mean..." The words are coming out stilted and awkward; I decide to stop when the colour begins rising to her face.

"Just because I've had a baby doesn't mean I'm incapable of defending myself," she snaps angrily.

Lowering my gaze, I stare sheepishly at the ground, shuffling my feet.

"Sorry."

Her expression softens a little. "Fine. Now I want to see how your aim is looking, miss." She points across to a solitary tree-stump standing alone on the hillside, and I stare at it for a moment. How did it get here, all those years ago when it must have been in the prime of its life? What ill-wind sent it here, of all places?

"...m? Em, are you listening to me?"

"What?" I jerk upright, avoiding her gaze. "Yes — no..."

She shakes her head, disappointment written across her features.

"I said, I want you to hit that knot."

Swallowing, I try to make it out, just barely managing to spot it — nothing but a tiny dot at this distance.

"What? Mum, that's impossible! The knife-blade is bigger than the knot!"

Disappointment clouds her features again, and I swallow painfully, hanging my head to avoid her gaze.

"Come on, Dem," Dad grins. "Give Izak to me; show her how it's done."

Mum's face softens as she chuckles lightly. "Sometimes I think Ol' Roddi had too much of an influence on me," she remarks, grinning up at Dad as she slips Izak into his arms.

"Pass me the knife, hun," she says, holding a hand out, and I unceremoniously dump the object on her palm.

"To aim, Em, you must first get to know your weapon: how it moves, how it responds. This knife in particular, I've found, likes to be positioned just above and to the right of your target — watch."

Interest fills me as she straightens, holding the knife-blade gently between a few fingers and raises it. She's way off. I purse my lips, arching an eyebrow and stuffing my hands in my pockets sceptically.

There's no way she'll hit it — the thought flashes through my mind, and in that instant I realise Mum's suddenly-outstretched arm is empty-handed. I spin toward the tree-stump justin time for a bright flash of reflected sunlight to stab my eyes. Then I see the knife, stuck deep in the wood several metres away.

"Check it," Mum commands softly, a small smile quirking her lips, and I fall into a reluctant jog.

It's not until I'm quite near that I see how powerful — and accurate — Mum's throw was. The blade is half-embedded in wood and has hit the know dead-centre. The breath catches in my throat as I kneel down and struggle to pull it free, only succeeding after a few tries. It gives suddenly and I topple backwards, staring contemplatively at the sky for a few moments.

"...Are you alright, Em?" Mum calls finally, wariness lacing her tone.

"Yeahp," I answer, rolling over to sheath the knife and scrambling to my feet. "How'd you do that?" A large smile spreads across my face as I run toward her, excitement filling me.

Mum chuckles softly, crossing her arms with a pleased expression. "Practise and experience. You already have the practise, and I can help you with the experience.

"Try it, Em; give us a throw and we'll go on from there." She steps to the side and I eagerly take her place, slipping easily into the position my old mentor drilled me on for all those years.

"That's it; good girl," Mum says approvingly. "Hold on!" She breaks in again as I raise my arm. "Lift your elbow higher — yes, like that. Good. Now when you're ready and think you've got the aim right, let it go."

I eye the stump for a moment, picking out the knot Mum struck, and shifting my arm slightly to the right.

Taking a quick, sharp breath I whip my arm back and let fly, almost instantaneously leaning forward to follow its path.

The weapon spins in a deadly arc, blade over hilt, as it slices gracefully through the air and... Comes to an abrupt stop in a clump of dirt about a metre to the left of the stump and flops sideways.

"Damn it." My shoulders slump in defeat as Mum begins to laugh, fisting a hand to her forehead.

"Maybe next time," she chuckles. "You need to give it more power, Em! Didn't Je —" I spin to glare at her and she comes to an abrupt stop, tripping over her words.

"I — I mean — didn't you learn the techniques for that?"

"No," I spit out, my throat tight. "We — we only focused on — on hand-to-hand combat."

Mum purses her lips in annoyance, but her expression is more uncertain than anything.

"To think," she murmurs, "that my daughter —"

"Shut up!" I screech, punching my palm with the other hand. "You have no idea what he was like, you hardly even spoke to him! Just shut up and go away, it's none of your business, anyway!" I spin and sprint away, loss and guilt and anger filling my heart.

Pausing only to stoop briefly and yank my knife from the dirt I race for the hills, hot, angry tears obscuring my vision.

How dare she judge him? Especially after this! Our home has been ripped away, Izak's life is in danger, and we're wandering almost completely defenceless in unfamiliar territory. And she —

I force myself to run harder, bounding up a steep hill with the strength of a mountain-goat in an effort to subdue my emotions.

I hate this pain in my heart. I hate the burning of my chest and muscles. I hate this journey. I hate my mad uncle, Simeon — this is all his fault!

Cresting the hill, I catch sight of the area beyond and fall to my knees, stunned. Unshed tears dry in my eyes as I survey the scene, ragged gasps tearing air to and from my lungs.

This country is beautiful; wild and untamed. Tall, stern hills loom high and sharp against the clear blue sky, forming a firm, strong ring around a lush green forest. Guardians of this beautiful jewel. Even from this distance I can tell that the trees are as old as the hills themselves, stretching their wise old arms skyward and dancing with joy. Bird-song and animal-cries ring from this paradise, and I sit motionless, drinking it all in as quiet wonder fills me. I've never seen such abundance of life before. A great lake stretches at the bottom of the bowl, birds and trees reflected in its depth with mirror-like clarity. A strange ache fills my chest; the desire to wander free. The longing to explore. The flame of adventure, to see sights never beheld by man and do things never before done. To be wild.

I rise to my feet, fingering my knife thoughtfully. Thinking. I want to head off; investigate the wild lands below; but Mum and Dad will need me; I can't leave them now — and after a lifetime of being told I'm either too hasty or too impatient, I'm going to think this one through. I hope.

"Here, girl," a dry voice says suddenly and I whirl on my heels, alarm shooting through me as I raise my knife defensively.

A dusty, ragged man limps toward me, only a few metres away and nearing. He looks to be about in his mid-forties, and his face is pitted with scars. A sinister-looking curved knife hangs from his hip, and I take a quick step back. Clods of dirt slip from beneath my heel to tumble to tumble metres down to the valley-floor, and I take a hasty step forward.

"Stay where you are, sir," I say as firmly as I can muster, but my voice seems to squeak pitifully.

"Oh, all 'igh 'n' mighty, is we?" He scowls in disgust. "An' 'ere I woz, wundrin if we couldn't 'elp each other out, us both bein' alone 'n' all."

I feel a sting of guilt as he speaks, face twisted in offended indignation.

"S-sorry, sir," I say, lowering the knife a little. "I didn't mean to offend you." His face twitches, and I continue before he can interrupt. "I'm not alone, either, although we could do with some help. What happened to you?" I can't keep a measure of disgust from my tone, and bite my lip in frustration.

"I've bin seprated form me tradin' group, if'n y' must know," he growls in a surly tone, but then his expression brightens. "Didja say y's needed 'elp, eh? Ol' Rogern'll 'elp ya — yes, I know 'ese places like th' back o' me own 'and, I do! Come, gal, put y' knoife down'n' show me where y' others are, I'll unlose ye!"

I swallow and shift nervously, unsure of what to do; will Mum and Dad appreciate his help, or will he be a nuisance? I decide to take the plunge.

"Alright," I say finally, slipping the knife back into the sheath. "I'll bring you along for now, but I can't promise anything; we have a map and we're not lost."

Rogern chuckles, and the sound sends chills down my spine.

"Ya need more'n a map for this side o' th' world, girl."