Igelko found Terin north of the Ox Tongue, keen to be off. “Rendle is stopping for the night. His riders are very tired, especially the Haxus regulars.”
Terin nodded. “Well, they’ll have their reward soon. Maybe tomorrow.” He looked down at the ground. “Look at this grass, Igelko. Have you ever seen such rich spring pasture?”
Igelko shook his head. “Certainly not in our territory. It explains why we have a thousand cattle and the White Wolf clan has four thousand.”
“Indeed. It is good to be allied with such a clan.”
“Certainly better than being their enemy. It is interesting; watching the enemy riders, I saw none of them take the time to actually look around and see the land itself. Not one of them understands what it means to ride on the Oceans of Grass.”
“They will learn,” Terin said grimly.
It had been hard for Gudon to keep the reserve of strength he knew he was going to need. He had to block away the pain of his bruises, his slit ear, and the broken cheek bone and cracked rib. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even, on closing his eyes and relying on his other senses, particularly his sense of smell. In fact, it was his hearing that told him he was close to where Lynan wanted Prado to be: the horses were making less sound, which meant the grass under hoof was greener, more supple. Then, almost immediately, he could smell the scent of crushed spring grass as well.
He opened his eyes. Prado’s force was moving into the narrowing valley that marked the entrance to the Ox Tongue. The sun was down and the air was getting cooler. Prado called a halt and came along side Gudon.
“Well, my little barge pilot?”
“We are very close. Maybe another day’s ride.”
“Which way?”
“I will guide you.”
Prado grunted and grabbed Gudon’s jaw. Gudon could not help his cry of pain and was ashamed of it. “You could just say—‘Ride north’ or ‘Ride east.’ Then you could rest.”
“I will guide you,” Gudon said around Prado’s hand with some difficulty.
“I could find it by myself if I am within a day’s ride.”
“And Korigan could find you,” Gudon countered.
“She is still weeks away.” Prado released the Chett with a sneer. “Tomorrow, then.” He turned to his captains. “We camp here. I want sentries doubled tonight, two hundred paces from the nearest fires.”
One of the sentries disturbed Rendle’s rest. “Campfires! Campfires to the south!”
Rendle tugged on pants and rushed out of his tent, following the sentry to a knoll some three hundred paces from the camp. There, in the far distance, he could see the night sky shimmering slightly.
“We have them at last,” he said, and grinned. “I had begun to think we would never catch them.” He thought furiously, then slapped his thigh. “We cannot risk losing them again.”
He strode back into camp, shouting for all to arise. He would march them through the night and surprise the enemy just as dawn touched the sky.
* * *
Gudon waited until two hours before sunrise. He stood up carefully, quietly. His guard, sitting ten paces from him, was dozing quietly, his chin on his chest, just as he had for the last five nights. Gudon tugged gently, insistently, on the stake to which he was tethered, stopping whenever the guard snored or snuffled. At last it came free, and he was able to slip his bonds over its end and then use his teeth to loosen them from his wrists. He crept up to the guard and with one swift movement put one hand over the man’s mouth and with the other took the guard’s own knife and slipped it between his ribs. The guard jerked once, then slumped. Gudon laid him out gently, took his sword as well, and started to make his way out of Prado’s camp, trying not to wince as his cracked rib dug into his side.
He had watched where the sentries were posted and knew he would have to take care of one of them. This was the difficult part. The sentries were relieved on the hour, so they were always fresh. He found a hollow and waited for the next turnaround, afraid that the dead guard would be discovered at any moment and the alarm raised. At last he saw a man coming his way, yawning and stretching his arms. He wore a simple cloak over his riding breeches and shirt, had a pot helmet on his head and carried a spear. Gudon waited until he had passed, then crept up behind him and killed him the same way he had killed the guard. He brought the body back to the hollow, took the helmet, cloak and spear, and took his place. Five minutes later he was approaching the sentry.
“What happened to Garulth?” the sentry asked.
“I lost a bet to him,” Gudon said gruffly. “I have his watch tonight.”
The sentry was not convinced. “You know what Freyma says about the roster. It cannot be changed. Who are you?”
Gudon swore silently and changed the grip on the spear so he could throw it, but even as he did so knew it was too late. The sentry had his own spear held out and was half-crouching, only a breath away from calling out to the camp.
The sentry stiffened suddenly, seemed to teeter for a moment, then fell forward onto his face. Gudon could only barely see the outline of an arrow sticking from his back. Relief flooded him, and he ran forward as fast he could with his injuries, throwing away the helmet and spear. He had gone fifty paces when two figures sprang out of the darkness, one of them hissing his name. He stopped, turned, and saw a Chett woman.
“I’ll bet my mother’s fortune you have a red hand,” he said quietly, and although he could see no color, she obligingly held up her hand so it was silhouetted against the paling sky.
Prado learned three things within minutes of each other. He learned the first when he heard a cry from within the camp that the barge pilot’s guard had been slain, and that the barge pilot himself had escaped. Before he could investigate, he learned the second when one of the sentries in the west called out that he had discovered the bodies of two of his fellows, and that one of them had been killed by a black Chett arrow. This time he managed to reach the scene of the deaths before he learned the third: sentries in the north calling out what they could feel through their feet: the approach of many, many riders.
Freyma and Sal rushed up to him, their expressions grim. Prado could see fear in their eyes, but they were professionals and would not panic. “Set our archers in front, their line placed one hundred paces north of our camp,” he snapped to them. “Put our recruits directly behind them. Veterans on the flanks except for a small reserve that will stay with me behind the recruits.”
His two captains nodded and ran off to carry out his instructions. All around him men still stirring from sleep were beginning to feel that something had gone terribly wrong. They looked at Prado, saw him striding by purposefully but without hurry, and felt reassured. He reached his own tent, hurriedly finished dressing, left the tent, and got on his horse being held for him by a nervous-looking recruit. Prado patted the boy on the shoulder, then stayed where he was, making sure everyone knew he was there and was not afraid.