Near the top, Uncle Thulu loosed a wordless cry and grabbed his arm. Dani lifted his head wearily.
One of the Fjeltroll awaited them, sitting in an easy crouch, loose-limbed and ready. It pointed west with one taloned hand and said something in its guttural tongue, smiling a terrible smile. Its tongue lolled in its mouth, grey-green and pointed.
“Back, back, back!” Thulu suited actions to words, scrambling backward down the incline, heedless of the dirt that smeared his skin.
Dani followed, breathing hard. “Can we get behind them?”
His uncle nodded grimly. “Let’s try.”
It was no good.
They doubled back, retracing their steps; there was another Fjeltroll, two Fjeltroll, stepping out from behind the massive tree-trunks. There was a cunning light in their yellow eyes; almost amused. One spoke to the other, and both laughed. Sunlight glinted on their eyetusks. They pointed westward.
Westward they ran; zigging and zagging to the north and south, fleeing like coursing hares. As they ran, cries resounded through the wood. And at the end of every avenue of flight that did not run true west along the rushing course of the White River, they found one of the Fjeltroll waiting. Looming among the leaves. Waiting, and pursuing at leisure.
All the same kind, with smooth grey hide, yellow eyes, and a predator’s smile.
All pointing west with infinite patience.
“Uncle.” In the middle of the woods, Dani staggered to a halt. The golden light of dawn had given way to the sinking amber hues of sunset. Under the leafy canopy, insects whined and flitting birds uttered high-pitched calls. Keeping his arms wrapped tight around his aching midsection, he lifted haunted eyes to meet his uncle’s gaze. “I think we are being driven.”
“Aye.” Uncle Thulu nodded heavily. “I think you are right, lad.”
“Well, then.” The giddiness of despair seized Dani. Somewhere to his right, to the north, the White River was running, burbling over rock and stone. Around them, unseen, the Fjeltroll were closing, making ready to drive them farther westward. “There’s no point in running, is there?”
“No.” Thulu shook his head with sorrow. “No, lad. No point at all.”
Dani touched the vial at his throat. “Then we won’t.”
Together, they began to walk.
NINE
The staccian traitors had established a tidy campsite on the southern outskirts of the plains of Curonan. One of the wide-ranging Gulnagel spotted it first in the late afternoon of their second day. Tanaros gave the order for the halt, lifting the visor of his helm and staring across the waving sea of grass. Shouts of alarm were borne on the wind, high and faint, as the Staccians caught sight of the attackers.
“Why do you delay?” Vorax drew alongside him. Through the slits in his visor, his face was flushed with betrayal and battle-rage. “Did you not hear what happened in Gerflod? I say we strike now, Blacksword, before they are ready!”
“No.” Tanaros thought of the news out of Gerflod; of Osric and his men slain out of hand. He weighed it against the memory of Ngurra, the Yarru Elder, unarmed beneath the shadow of his sword. “They are warriors. We will give them a warrior’s death.”
Vorax made a sound of disgust. “They are dogs and deserve to die like dogs.”
Tanaros looked hard at him. “Do you contest my command, cousin?”
“Not yet.” Vorax wheeled his mount, taking his place at the head of his Staccians. “Your word you’ll give me first strike!” he called.
“My word.” Tanaros nodded.
Here and there, figures ran among the hide tents, racing to don armor. The Staccians had staked their horses some distance from their campsite, strung in a long line that each might have ample room to graze. Tanaros frowned and wondered what they had been thinking. Had they supposed they would be safe here on the plains? Had they expected Malthus to be here waiting, offering his protection? Did they believe Darkhaven would not take the risk of striking against them?
If so, they had made a grave error in judgment.
Perhaps, he thought, they had had no choice at all. Malthus the Counselor had ridden past them like the wind, cutting a swath through Staccía; the Galäinridder, risen from the ruined depths of the Marasoumië, the Bright Rider with a gem on his breast that shone like a star. It no longer held the power to Shape matter; only spirit. Which was more terrible? Had they chosen to betray Lord Satoris and their old bargain? Or had they merely been caught in the net of Malthus’ power, compelled to follow Haomane’s Weapon as the tides followed Arahila’s moon?
“Boss?” One of the Gulnagel interrupted his thoughts. “They’re in formation, Lord General, sir.”
Tanaros blinked. “Krolgun,” he said, remembering. Hyrgolf had assigned to this task all three of the Gulnagel who had accompanied him during their awful trek through the Unknown Desert. He laid a gauntleted hand on the Fjel’s bulky shoulder. “We’ll do this for Freg, eh?”
“Aye, boss!” Krolgun gave a hideous, delighted grin. “He’d like that, he would!”
“First strike to Lord Vorax and his lads,” Tanaros reminded him.
“Aye, Lord General!”
“And keep your shields up.”
“Aye, Lord General, sir!” There was a rattle along the ranks of the Gulnagel as their shields were adjusted. Some hundred and fifty yards away, the enemy had mounted, forming a dense wedge, bristling with spears. There were nearly two hundred of them, outnumbering Vorax’s company four to one. Even counting the forty Gulnagel, the treasonous Staccians held the advantage in numbers. Still, it was a mistake, Tanaros thought Numbers did not tell the whole tale. He had gauged this task’s needs with care. Better for them if they had formed a circle and made ready to fight back-to-back.
Then again, what did the Staccians know? They may have skirmished against unarmed Fjel in the wilds. They had never fought a unit of Fjel trained by him.
“Blacksword!” Vorax’s voice was impatient. He had his men in a wedge formation, too. Behind their visors they were grim-faced, ready to avenge the affront to their own loyalty. They, too, had lost comrades since the red star had risen. “Will you take all day, cousin?”
Hatred. Hatred was clean. It swept aside doubt. Tanaros thought about Osric of Staccia, dying in the Earl of Gerflod’s banquet hall, an unsuspecting guest. He thought about the Gulnagel Freg, carrying Speros’ weight and staggering to his death in the desert. Malthus the Counselor had caused these things. If these Staccians wished to follow him, let them die for him. They were Arahila’s Children, and Haomane First-Born had given them the Gift of thought. Whether they used it or not, they had chosen.
His sword rang clear of its sheath as he gave the signal. “Go!”
Vorax roared, clapping his heels to his mount’s flanks. He was a formidable figure; sunlight glittered on his gilded armor. He, too, had long been kept idle. His men streamed after him, hair fluttering beneath steel helms. At a hundred yards, the Staccian leader gave the command. The plains of Curonan shuddered beneath pounding hooves as the two wedges surged toward one another.
“Traitors!” Lord Vorax’s bellow rose above the fray as the two forces collided. “Traitors!”