No one did, not even Mandes or Darpo, the former seaman.
Tol continued, “Then we’ll have to reconnoiter as we go. Given the nature of the enemy, I propose to disperse the band into small, individual companies-the better to stay mobile and hidden from XimXim. Each company will explore the region directly in front of it, and stay in contact at all times with their comrades on either flank.”
He arrayed the ten companies across the map from south to north. Egrin was given thirty men in the center, with Narren on his left flank and Tol on his right. Tol took personal command of Valvorn’s men, the Karad-shu having been slain by bakali. Mandes would accompany Tol, as would Kiya and Miya. Any group encountering the monster was to signal its comrades immediately, by bonfire at night or with rams’ horns by day.
“Defend yourselves, but don’t try to fight this thing by yourselves,” Tol warned sternly. “XimXim is too powerful to be fought with sword and spear. Our purpose is to locate the creature’s lair. If you do, don’t signal. Hold your place and send a runner to me. If we can discover the monster before it knows we’re hunting for it, we may be able to find a way to trap it in its own den. Believe me, we don’t want to confront it in the open. This beast walks, flies, and kills with the speed of a whirlwind.”
“My lord?” said Darpo. “What about the Tarsans? What do we do if we come upon any?”
“Kill ’em quick,” said Narren, and the men laughed.
Tol said, “As far as I can tell, no Tarsans have made it across the bay. Small parties of scouts or spies may be abroad. Deal with them as you see fit, but remember Lord Urakan might appreciate a few prisoners to question.”
The company leaders studied the map a while longer, each noting his line of march. The countryside between Hylo City and the mountains was hilly and wooded, though not so densely as Ropunt Forest. The Lapstone River divided southwest of town, and the fordability of it and its two tributaries was unknown.
One by one, Tol said good-bye to his retainers. All Juramona men, they had known each other for a large part of their young lives. Last to go were Narren and Egrin. The younger soldier Tol embraced.
“We’re a long way from mucking out the stables for the Household Guard,” Narren said almost wistfully. “You, me, and Crake were quite a trio, weren’t we?”
Tol forced a smile at the mention of Crake. He’d never told anyone the masked assassin in Daltigoth was their old comrade-only that he had fairly fought and slain the fellow who attacked him.
After Narren gathered his men and departed. Egrin stepped forward.
“My lord,” he said, and saluted in the old-fashioned way, with his bared dagger.
Tol colored. “I’m not your lord. I’m still the stupid boy you trained to be a soldier,” he said.
“You are my lord and commander. And you were never stupid.”
Tol blinked, surprised at the warmth in the old warrior’s words. Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he took a sheaf of parchment from under his tunic and gave it to Egrin.
“Keep this for me,” he said quietly. “If I’m unlucky, will you see those letters get to the person named on them?”
Egrin tucked them away without glancing at them. They clasped arms. A hint of the old taskmaster came through in Egrin’s voice as he urged, “No heroics. The gods favor you, Tol, but this creature does not abide by the gods.”
“Never fear. My life is dear to me, but I shall do my duty.”
Egrin led his men out. All that remained in the square were Valvorn’s company of twenty-two, with Mandes, Miya, and Kiya. Tol told the sisters they were risking their lives by going, and should stay behind.
“I don’t want to go,” Miya said frankly. “I hate crawling things! Especially Mg crawling things! But I won’t stay if Kiya goes.”
Kiya’s face was implacable. “Our father, the chief of the Dom-shu, owes much to you, husband,” she said quietly. “Where you tread, we shall tread. Where you sleep, we shall sleep. And where you perish, so shall we die.”
She drew her knife and grasped her long blond horsetail of hair. It reached the middle of her back. She cut it off just below the thong she used to tie it back at her neck. Miya gasped. The only time Dom-shu warriors cut their hair was before a battle to the death. Hair was sacred to the god Bran, lord of the forest. By cutting it, Kiya was making a serious sacrifice to her patron deity.
Tol said nothing, but clasped Kiya’s arm as he would a fellow warrior’s. She took her place with the soldiers. Miya, still looking a bit shocked, followed her sister.
Tol ordered his company to move out. They shouldered their gear and marched away. He swung onto Cloud’s back and looked down at Mandes. The sorcerer had picked up the heavy hank of Kiya’s hair.
“Leave it,” said Tol. He explained the Dom-shu custom of sacrificing their hair to Bran.
“Strange ways,” murmured the wizard, fondling the sheaf of golden hair. “The other one, her hair isn’t very long.”
“Miya isn’t a fighter. Her sister was pledged to the warrior society of the Dom-shu while still in her mother’s womb. Boy or girl, she was chosen to be a warrior. Miya was not.”
Mandes let the hank of hair fall to the ground. Picking up the bindle containing his rations and magical paraphernalia, he departed the square, following Tol’s troop.
The wind freshened, shaking the trees. Dust scoured the faces of Tol’s party as they worked their way through a notch in the low hills west of the kender capital. They continued to find copious evidence of XimXim’s wrath-an earthen dam torn asunder, orchards uprooted, isolated homesteads smashed to kindling. Everything bore the tell-tale slash marks of the monster’s claws. They came upon a herd of cattle-some torn in half, others pierced by wounds strangely neat and precise. Equally precise and more horrible was the fate of the four herders accompanying the cattle.
The four were human, probably from the northern reaches of the empire. Nomadic herders often drove their cattle into Hylo to take advantage of the mild sea climate and abundant fodder. Usually the only risk they faced was from pilfering kender. These men had met a far worse fate. XimXim had struck off their heads and placed them neatly in a row beside their bodies.
Although he hated to leave the poor herders unburied, Tol could not delay long enough to do what was proper. He and his company had to stay in contact with the others in case there was trouble. They moved grimly onward.
The brown slopes of the Sentinel Mountains grew more distinct in the distance. Not a mighty range like the Khalkist, the Sentinels were called the Not Much Mountains by the kender. They were not much high, not much rich in minerals, not much inhabited, and not much of a barrier to trade and travel. However, at seventy leagues from end to end, they made a big pile of stone to shelter a monster.
Near dusk, Tol’s group paused in the shadow of a vine-covered ridge. Wind was still gusting over the mountains, gaining force as it rushed down the slopes to the sea. While they rested, Mandes opened his bindle and spread the square of brown cloth on the ground. He sorted through various knots of dry herbs and shriveled roots, putting a chosen few in a small agate pestle. With a small mortar, he ground the ingredients to a fine powder, adding pinches of other powders he carried in small wooden tubes. Sniffing the resulting mixture carefully, he nodded with satisfaction.
“What are you making?” asked Tol.
“Balm of Sirrion. It creates the impenetrable mist.”
“Like the one you gave the bakali?” The sorcerer nodded. “Doesn’t it work only in darkness?”
Mandes smiled smugly. “I put that limitation on the balm I made for the lizard-men. Properly compounded, the mist will work in sunlight or darkness.”