Many leagues to the south, at the northernmost edge of the mountains of Sorbold, the watch had just changed. The third column of the Western Face had returned only half a sun’s span ago from maneuvers in Otar, a distant city-state famous primarily for the linens of Otar’sid, the capital.
It was had been a fairly light rotation, guarding the underbenisons who were making their annual pilgrimage to Sepulvarta to deliver new white robes to the Patriarch for the Blessing of the Year ceremony that would take place half a year hence, at the vernal equinox.
The mission had been completed without event, and now the soldiers were encamped along the lee of the Western Face, their campfires beginning to catch in the thin, cold air, forming a bright sea of ground-torches in the growing darkness. Morning would find them, after a brief march, back in base camp at Keltar’sid. The ground forces were especially eager to return to the city-state of soldiers, looking forward to further training with the strange weapons of Bolg manufacture that they had been outfitted with before departing for Otar. Mildiv Jephaston, the column leader, was coming off watch, preparing for supper and sleep, when he heard the voice, warm on the winter wind, tickling his ear.
Now, Mildiv Jephaston.
The soldier shook his head; he was accustomed to hearing strange things in the wind, especially after a long march, but never before had the breeze spoken so clearly.
And it had never before called his name.
He stopped in his tracks, rubbed his ear, shook his head again, brushing the imaginary summoning aside, and sat down by the larger of the two camp-fires, taking his plate of stew from the column’s cook as he passed by. He was almost comfortable, almost ready to eat, when he heard it again, softer.
Now, Mildiv Jephaston.
Warmer and softer than he could have said it in his own head himself.
Jephaston looked around at the column, encamped by unit—five hundred sleeping, three hundred on watch, with all one hundred twenty of the cavalry quartered in the field with their mounts. “Who is calling me?” he asked the other commander, sitting next to him. The man looked up over his stew, glanced around, then shook his head.
The column leader listened once more, but heard nothing. He decided to ignore it and returned to his supper.
Perhaps it was the sound of his own mastication, the grinding of his teeth, the clatter of the spoon against the metal plate, the crackling of the fire, the conversation of the men, the hooting, cheering, and cursing that cut through the night at each toss of the bones. Perhaps one or more of these noises was responsible for the masking of the change, camouflaging the silent words that crept into his brain through his ear and found a connection there, lying dormant, planted but a short time ago, awaiting the arrival of the demon’s command.
And while the change was a subtle one, he did feel it, even if he was unaware of what was occurring. Like waves it came over him, endless waves of the sea, waves of pulsing heat from a fire, waves of blood from a beating heart, lulling him, sinking into him, absorbing only into the surface of his soul, because there had been no blood pact, no permanent bond; he was not bound to the demon eternally.
But, unlike the others who lay about their own fires, succumbing to their own waves of heat, their own internal summonses, Mildiv Jephaston had given the F’dor his name.
He was perfectly comfortable with the new elongation of focus, so that all objects, whatever their distance, were equally clear, as if the world had flattened. His own arms and legs appeared comfortably distant, and the aches in his back relaxed and slipped away. He felt intensely light, and strong, as if he were drawing air and warmth from all around, and ineffably calm.
And as the command ensnared his conscious mind, it spread unconsciously to those who had sworn fealty to him, who followed his commands without hesitation.
So when he decisively stood up, packed his gear, mounted his war horse, and issued the call for the column to fall out, there was never even an eyebrow raised, not a single question considered. The column mustered out and followed him, in two divisions, four-fifths of the soldiers in the first, the remainder in the second riding a day behind them, battle-ready, down from the Western Face, into the biting wind of the Krevensfield Plain.
On their way to Navarne.
10
The Firbolg soldiers manning the guard post in the northern wastes of the Bakhran Pass took the slave children into their custody without comment. The slave children were bundled up with Firbolg army blankets and packed aboard a pair of wagons scheduled to depart for Canrif with the second-week caravan, which arrived in time.
Achmed gave lengthy instructions to the Bolg soldiers who were to guard the slave children until they were delivered to Grunthor. The children would be cared for in Ylorc until he and Rhapsody returned, when they would either be allowed to remain or travel to Navarne to live. The boys were in high spirits; one look at the strange weapons and armor of the Bolg had caused excitement to roar through the group like wildfire. Only the bald apprentice seemed reserved, eyeing the Bolg soldiers apprehensively.
As the caravan prepared to depart for the Cauldron, Rhapsody took Omet aside.
“Will you be all right?”
The apprentice smiled wanly. “I hope so. I don’t expect I’d make much of a meal, being on the thin side.”
“The stories about cannibalism are greatly exaggerated,” she said, running her fingertips affectionately over the fuzz that was beginning to darken his pate. “You will be safe among the Bolg. Ask to see Grunthor, and tell him I said to put you to work. Look him in the eye and stand your ground—he’ll respect you for it. Don’t limit the uses of your skill and imagination. I believe that you could become one of the great artisans of the Rebuilding.”
“Thank you.”
“But if you are uneasy, or you find living within the mountain is not to your liking, when I return I will see that you are escorted to wherever you wish to go.” Omet nodded. “In the meantime, please look after the boys for me.”
“I will.”
She turned him toward the southeast, where a trace of pink was just cresting the blue horizon.
“Somewhere in those mountains greatness is taking hold,” she said. “You can be a part of it. Go carve your name into the ageless rock for history to see.” Omet nodded, then climbed into the wagon with the slave boys, and rode away over the rocky snow amid a tumble of waving hands and shouted goodbyes.
Dusk found the travelers, four now in total, camped on a bluff overlooking the banks of Mislet Stream, a red tributary of the Blood River. The water was frozen now, cloudy pink in the coming darkness.
The campfire crackled in the bitter wind, filling the cold air with sparks. Rhapsody drew her winter cloak around her, seeking to hold the wind and the desolation at bay.
How much longer will it be like this? she wondered, stirring the fire with a long, thin reed, dry and cracked from winter’s cold. How many more nights must I spend wandering? When will it end? Will it end?
Nine living children of the F’dor, and one yet to be born. They had two. In a little more than eight weeks the baby would be born south of Tyrian. How can we possibly find them all in time? Rhapsody struggled to keep the panic from gripping her as her stomach knotted. The knowledge that Oelendra was waiting for them at the border of Canderre to take possession of the children they had found, and had been for three days, only made the queasy sensation worse.