He was in some awe of the ability of the two northerners to read signs on the ground. They had shown him several times what they were looking for, and what they sighted: a faint indentation in a softer piece of sand; a slight scrape of a hoof on a piece of stony ground; a thread from a saddle blanket or robe caught on one of the ever-present scrubby bushes. Tiny signs that he would never notice. Yet their keen eyes read them as if the facts were written on the ground in large letters. He also reflected wryly on his willingness to ride off alone with them. He had been tempted to take one or two of his troops as well. But he rejected the notion. It was important, he felt, to show these men that he trusted them.
Gilan was swinging down from the saddle again and running a few paces ahead, staring down at the ground. His bay horse followed obediently behind him, saving him the time needed to run back and remount. The young Ranger reminded Selethen of a searching hound with his energy and eagerness to follow the trail of the Tualaghi.
'This way,' he was calling, pointing slightly to the left, and the Arridi party swung their horses to follow the direction he had indicated.
After resting through the middle of the day, Selethen and the two Rangers moved ahead of the main party, having arranged to leave signs behind for the others to follow. At every change in direction, they would scrape a large arrow in the ground. Or, if the ground were too hard, they would form an arrow with stones and rocks.
After the first two hours, it was obvious that they were moving more quickly than Selethen's troopers. The small cloud of dust raised by the body of horsemen was barely visible on the horizon. Halt frowned thoughtfully as he studied it.
'Best keep that in mind when we get within striking distance,' he said. 'We don't want them to know we're behind them.'
They pushed on through the late afternoon, until the sun was virtually on the western horizon and the light was too uncertain for tracking. Selethen had noticed that the Rangers had increased their pace, sometimes trotting and even cantering when the trail was easier to follow. The sturdy horses they rode showed no discomfort at travelling faster than the slow walk they had been reduced to formerly. His own mount was unbothered by the change in pace, but he was a thoroughbred, from a long line of some of the finest horses in Arridi. Selethen knew that some of the lesser horses ridden by his troopers would have baulked at the increased tempo and he looked more carefully at the Ranger's shaggy mounts. Alongside his beautifully formed and groomed Arridi horse they appeared nondescript and shabby. But they had enormous endurance and amazing speed, he thought. In the short term, he believed that his stallion, Lord of the Sun, would probably outpace them. But then their ability to maintain speed kilometre after kilometre would probably begin to tell.
Perhaps I should find out more about these horses, he thought, as he considered the advantages of having cavalry equipped with such uniformly fine mounts.
The main party was well out of sight by the time the three stopped for the night.
They unsaddled, tended to the horses and made camp. Selethen set about gathering firewood for a small signal fire. Halt and Gilan moved to help him but he waved them aside.
'You've been working all day,' he said. 'I've been a passenger.'
He saw the slightly surprised look that passed between them and felt secretly pleased that he had earned their gratitude and, perhaps, a little respect. They were not men to stand on ceremony, he thought, and they knew that true authority came from sharing the hard work, not attempting to place oneself above it. He soon had a fire going and it threw a bright circle of light around them. It would be visible in the darkness for quite a distance, he knew. The following party would have no trouble finding them in the dark.
'That's another thing we'll have to watch as we get closer,' Halt said. From five or six kilometres away, the fire would be a bright pinpoint. And before the moon rose, its glow might well be visible in the sky from much further away.
They ate when, the main party finally joined them, three hours after nightfall. As the troops relaxed after their meal, drinking coffee and talking quietly, Selethen moved among them, as a good commander should. He would stop by each small group, dropping to one knee and talking quietly, appraising them of the progress made during the day, checking to see if they or their mounts were having any problems.
Halt and Gilan had been joined by Svengal and the other Araluans. They watched Selethen approvingly as they enjoyed the rich Arridi coffee. They knew the Wakir must be tired and longing to sprawl comfortably on the still-warm ground with a cup of coffee. But he continued to move among his men, with a joke here for an old companion or a word of advice or concern there for a young recruit.
Finally, the tall, white-robed figure completed his rounds. Somewhat to their surprise, he walked towards the spot where they were sitting.
'May I join you?' he said.
Halt made a welcoming gesture. 'Please do.'
Horace began to scramble to his feet. 'I'll get you a cup of coffee,' he said, but Selethen waved him back down.
'Sidar will see to that,' he replied and they realised that one of the troopers, anticipating his leader's needs, was bringing a cup from the single small fire. As Selethen sat down, he sighed contentedly, then accepted the cup from his soldier.
He sipped deeply, then sighed again – the contented sigh that comes from sore, tired muscles that are finally allowed to rest.
'What would we do without kafay?' he asked them, using the Arridi name, and the original name, for the drink.
'If you're a Ranger, very little,' Horace replied and they all grinned. Selethen had already observed that the Rangers were as keen on the drink as any Arridi. The tall warrior seemed to share the same near-addiction, whereas the Skandian usually grumbled over his coffee in the evening, wishing instead for the dark ale of his homeland. As far as Svengal was concerned, that was the only beverage worth drinking after a long day.
'Don't know how you all keep going without a good drink of ale,' he said. 'Settles the mind in the evening, ale does.'
Evanlyn smiled at him.. 'Feeling homesick, Svengal?' she asked. The big pirate studied her for a moment, considering his reply.
'To tell the truth, your majesty,' he said, 'I'm not built for this climate.'
Svengal insisted on calling Evanlyn your majesty. This was in spite of the fact that she had asked him repeatedly to call her Evanlyn or Cassandra. She had even pointed out that as a princess, she should correctly be addressed as your highness, not your majesty. But Svengal persisted. She suspected that it was a not-too-subtle form of Skandian leg-pull and an assertion of the Skandian egalitarianism that rejected the idea of royal lineage and hereditary kings pre-destined to rule by the mere fact of their birth. Skandians elected their leaders for their ability and popularity, she knew. And, looking back on some of the kings that Araluen had put up with in its history, she wasn't altogether sure that the Skandians didn't have the better idea.
'You're not built for riding, either,' Horace added. 'I'd say more saddle sore than homesick.'
Svengal sighed ruefully, shifting his buttocks for the twentieth time to find a more comfortable spot.
'It's true,' he said. 'I've been discovering parts of my backside I never knew existed.'