“Long enough to give them trouble. There’s another site that may work as well.” Watching the General stand on the verge of the abyss gave Speros an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Careful, my lord. There’s not much holding that ledge up.”
Tanaros raised his brows. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Speros swallowed nervously.
“Don’t worry. I’ve lived too long to die falling off a cliff.” Tanaros came back to place a hand on Speros’ shoulder. “Well done, Midlander. This was a fine thought you had.”
“Thank you, sir!” His anxiety vanished in a surge of pride. “It came to me after we rode through the Defile. Why not use the strength of the Tordenstem to greater effect? It was filling in the Well of the World that gave me the idea. You recall how—”
“Yes.” A shadow of sorrow crossed the General’s face.
“—we used skids and levers …” Speros stopped. “Forgive me.”
“No matter.” Tanaros shook his head.
“I know, I failed you in the desert.” Speros took a deep breath. “Believe me, Lord General, I have sworn an oath. I have said it before and will say it again. A thousand times, if need be. It will never happen—”
“Speros!” The General’s grip on his shoulder tightened until it hurt. “Enough,” he said quietly. “You will speak no more of it. I bear you no blame for what happened with the Yarru. What happened there …” He sighed and released Speros’ shoulder, gazing out across the gorge of the Defile. “It will be good to fight an enemy who comes seeking a battle.”
“Aye, sir.” Speros followed the General’s gaze uncertainly.
“Not yet, ladl” His mood shifting, Tanaros smiled at him. “They’ll come soon enough. And I thank you for making us that much the readier for it.”
“Aye, sir!” Speros smiled back at the General.
“You’re a good lad, Speros of Haimhault …” With another clap on the shoulder, Tanaros left him, striding across the stony ground to greet the Tordenstem. He knew them all by name. In another moment, he was gone, swinging astride the black horse and heading back toward the fortress, his figure dwindling beneath the dull grey sky.
Watching him go, Speros retained a lingering vision of the General standing on the edge of the cliff, the wind tugging at his dark hair, a specter of sorrow haunting his eyes. He wished there was something he could do or say to dispel that shadow.
He wished it was his own failure that had put it there.
It wasn’t, of course. In his heart of hearts, he knew it. That was his own specter, the ghost of his father’s voice, his family’s disapproval. It had nothing to do with General Tanaros. That was something else altogether. He had heard what the old Yarru had said about the General’s choice, and he had heard the General’s reply, his final, agonized shout: Give me a reason not to make it!
But he hadn’t. The old man had just stood there. Choose, he’d said; as if his people hadn’t sent one of their own off upon a quest to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy, to destroy Lord Satoris and everything General Tanaros held dear. And what had followed afterward, the black blade flashing, the dull thud of Fjeltroll maces and blood sinking into the sand …
“What else was he supposed to do?” Speros asked aloud.
“Boss?” One of the Tungskulder glanced quizzically at him.
“Nothing.” He squared his shoulders. There was one thing, at least, he could do. “Come on, lads, let’s move. We’ve got another one of these to build before Haomane’s Allies come a-calling.”
Fjeltroll were hunting them and Uncle Thulu was sick.
He had denied it for days; and long, thirsty, grueling days they were. After the first Fjeltroll to follow them had turned back, Dani had dared to hope. They worked their way slowly westward, avoiding all save the smallest water sources, concealing their trail as they went. It was slow and laborious, and he was increasingly worried about his uncle’s condition, but at least they were spared the threat of Fjel.
Then they had seen another.
Dani had spotted it in the distance. It wasn’t like the others that had attacked them. This one traveled alone, moving swiftly and silently. It worked its way back and forth across the terrain in purposeful arcs, pausing at times to lift a narrow, predatory head and scent the air. If it hadn’t been for the glint of sunlight on its armor, he might have missed it.
Armor.
The Fjel hunting them was armed; worse, it carried a waterskin. Dani choked out a warning. Uncle Thulu clamped a hand over his mouth, casting around wildly for a place to hide.
Uru-Alat be thanked, he had found one—a cave, scarce more than a shallow depression, its opening partially hidden by pine branches. Uncle Thulu shoved Dani into it, scrambling after him and dragging the branches back in place. He stripped off a handful of needles as he did, grinding them hard between his palms.
“Here,” he whispered, pressing half of the damp wad into Dani’s good hand. “Rub it on your skin. It will help mask our scent.”
Dani obeyed awkwardly, hampered by the cloth that bound his left arm. “I don’t think he saw us,” he whispered back. “Can they track by scent like the Were?”
“I’m not sure.” Thulu peered through the branches. “But I suspect it’s live prey rather than a cold trail he’s sniffing after. If it wasn’t, he’d be on us already.” He settled back, adding grimly, “We’ll find out soon enough, lad.”
Pressed close to his uncle, Dani could feel the dry, feverish heat of his skin and hear the faint rattle in his chest as he breathed. Offering a silent prayer to Uru-Alat, he touched the clay vial at his neck like a talisman.
They waited.
The Yarru-yami were good at waiting. It took patience to survive in the desert. Many a time, Dani had squatted in front of a crevice in the rocks, a rock in his sling, waiting for hours for a lizard to emerge. He had never thought until now how much worse it must be for the lizard, hidden in darkness, unable to see or smell beyond the walls of its shelter, making the tentative decision to emerge without knowing whether a predator awaited it.
Dani strained his ears for the sound of heavy Fjel feet crunching on the rocks, the scrape of talons. Surely something that large could not move in total silence? Perhaps; perhaps not. There was no sound but the rattle of his uncle’s breath. It seemed to be growing louder. His own mouth grew dry and parched. Dani sucked on a pebble to relieve the dryness and waited.
Beyond the spray of pine needles that curtained their hiding place, shadows moved across the ground. They stretched long and black, slanting toward twilight, before Uncle Thulu gauged it safe to investigate.
“I’ll do it.” Dani moved before his uncle could argue, parting the branches and wriggling out of the shallow cave and into open air.
With his heart in his throat, half-anticipating a blow, he scrambled to his feet and glanced around wildly.
There was nothing there, for as far as the eye could see. Only the slanting shadows; rocks and pine trees, and a mountain thrush warbling somewhere in the branches. Overhead, the sky was turning a dusky hue.
Dani laughed with relief. “He’s gone, Uncle!”
The pine branches curtaining the cave rustled, then went still. Dani waited for a moment with a dawning sense of alarm. When Thulu failed to emerge, he wrenched the branches aside with his right hand, admitting light into the cavern.