Instead of halting, he called strength from the earth, leaned back, and kicked the wooden palisade gates open with a resounding crash. The two Canim on guard, caught behind the gates as they opened, were flung to the ground on either side—and every set of black and scarlet Canim eyes in view turned to focus on what had happened.
“I seek my gadara, Varg,” Tavi stated in the snarling tongue of the wolf-warriors, loudly enough to be heard by the watching Canim. “Let any who wish to stand in my way step forth now.”
The way toward the center of the Canim camp was abruptly vacated.
Tavi stalked forward, trying to appear as though he longed for nothing so much as an excuse to vent his rage upon any Cane luckless enough to draw his attention. He had enough experience with them to know how important body language and confidence was to communicating effectively with them. His main worry was that some young warrior might believe his stance and attitude were bravado, a bluff, and decide to call him on it.
He had already killed two Canim. Given how implacable Varg and the warrior caste had become about protecting what remained of their people, it might already be too late to salvage anything out of the situation. Once blood was spilled, the Canim could become less than rational.
Come to think of it, Alerans weren’t much different.
Kitai fell into place beside Tavi, her green eyes narrowed, her expression hard. “You do not believe Varg is behind this,” she said beneath her breath.
“No. If he wanted me dead, he’d bring a sword and do it himself.”
Kitai nodded. “Therefore, someone else sent the killers.”
“Yes,” Tavi said.
Kitai frowned thoughtfully for a moment. Then she said, “I see. You fear that whoever sent the killers knew that they would die.”
Tavi nodded. “Likely, they are already working to spread word among the Canim.”
Kitai narrowed her eyes. “They will accuse you of murder.”
“I’ve got to get to Varg first,” Tavi said. “Before word has time to spread.”
Kitai glared at a pair of warriors in blue-and-black steel armor, golden-furred Shuarans who had never faced Aleran Legions on the battlefield and who might therefore be more willing to challenge the Aleran party. One of the pair looked like he might—but his companion, a larger Cane, flicked his ears in amusement and watched the Alerans pass with unconcealed interest.
Kitai grunted in satisfaction. “And before word has time to spread among the Alerans, too.”
Tavi nodded. “That’s why we’re doing this the noisy way.”
She cast him a single worried glance. “Not all enemies are like Varg. Be cautious.”
Tavi snorted out a breath through his nose and fell silent again as they finished their march through the camp uncontested.
As Tavi approached the center of the camp, he spotted a dozen of the most senior of the Canim warrior caste, their armor covered in so many scarlet patterns that little, if any, black steel could be seen. They were all resting in nonchalant poses around the entrance to the dugout shelter Varg used as a command post.
Several were sitting on their haunches, as if loitering in groups of two and three, passing the time. Two more were playing ludus on an oversized board with enlarged pieces. Another pair were facing one another with wooden practice swords. The two Canim did not engage their blunt blades. One was posed in a defensive stance, blade held across his body. His opposite held his own blade gripped over his head, parallel to the line of his spine.
As Tavi grew closer, the positions of each warrior shifted at what appeared to be precisely the same time. The first Cane slid a step to one side and shifted the angle of his blade. His partner eased half a step forward in dancelike synchronization, turning his body, and brought his own blade down and forward to a full extension, the sword’s wooden tip stopping just short of the other Cane’s blade. They both froze again, only to change positions once more a few breaths later. As the positions settled, the first Cane dropped his jaws open in an easy grin. The second let out a rumbling snarl of disappointment. The two lowered their blades, inclined their heads to one another in a Canim bow, and turned to observe the approaching Alerans as if their contest had concluded when it did by pure coincidence.
Tavi stopped a few feet beyond the range of a long lunge from one of the Warmaster’s guardians, growled under his breath, and called, “Gadara! I would speak with you!”
Silence yawned for a moment, and the dozen guards faced the Alerans calmly, relaxed. Every one of them had a paw-hand on a weapon.
Varg emerged from the dugout in his crimson steel armor, prowling deliberately into the light. Nasaug followed his sire, his eyes focused on the Alerans. Varg came forward, toward Tavi, and stopped a fraction of an inch outside of his own weapon’s reach.
Tavi and Varg exchanged a Canim-style salute, though it was barely detectable, heads tilting very slightly to one side.
“What is this?” Varg said.
“It is what it is,” Tavi replied. “Two Canim just attempted to kill me in my command post. They entered posing as your messengers. One wore the armor of a Narashan warrior. The other wore the equipment of Nasaug’s militia.”
Varg’s ears swiveled forward and locked into position. For a Cane, it was an expression of polite interest, but the stillness of the rest of Varg’s body amounted to the equivalent of an expressionless mask, meant to give nothing of his thoughts away.
“Where are they?” Varg asked.
Tavi felt himself tense at the question but forced his body to remain confident, calm. “Dead.”
Varg’s throat rumbled with a low growl.
“I cannot let such a thing pass unchallenged,” Tavi replied.
“No,” Varg said. “You cannot.”
“I would face the Cane responsible.”
Varg’s eyes narrowed. Several seconds of silence passed before he spoke. “Then you would face me. I lead my people. I am responsible for them.”
Tavi nodded slowly. “I thought you’d say that.”
Nasaug let out a low, rumbling growl.
“Peace,” Varg rumbled, glancing over his shoulder.
Nasaug subsided.
Varg turned back to Tavi. “Where and when.”
“Our forces must leave in two days,” Tavi said. “Is that time enough to prepare such a thing?”
“In addition to what is already under way?” Varg asked. “No.”
“Then we will meet as soon as you have made preparations. Single blade, open field, until one falls.”
“Agreed,” Varg said.
The two exchanged another barely detectable bow. Tavi took several slow steps back, never turning his eyes from Varg. Then he turned, made a gesture with one hand to his companions, and started back the way he had come.
Rumors were already flying among the Canim. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them came to stare at the Alerans as they returned. Though the mutter of basso voices speaking Canish was never a friendly, soothing sound, Tavi imagined that their general tone was considerably uglier than any he had heard before. He walked through the crowd of towering wolf-folk, his eyes focused ahead of him, his expression set in a clenched-jaw snarl. He was peripherally aware of Kitai at his side, of Max, Crassus, and Schultz at his back. They were all walking in time with him, boots striking the ground at the same time—even Kitai, for once.
The Canim did not try to stop them although Tavi spotted a large mob coming their way as they reached the edge of the camp, led by half a dozen ritualists in their mantles of pale human leather. He tracked it from the corner of his eye but did not alter their pace. If the Aleran party appeared to the Canim around them to be fleeing, it could trigger an attack—and no matter how powerful the individuals with him might be, they were only a handful of people, and there were hundreds of Canim around them. They would be torn to pieces.