In a little while, other Kaldjager began emerging from the tree-covered slopes. They paused, waiting. Skragdal counted them and nodded in satisfaction. There were three yet afield. They must have the smallfolk well in hand. He widened his nostrils, trying to catch the scent of their prey. Men called them the Charred Ones. He wondered if they would smell of smoke.
They didn’t
There it was; a tendril of scent, one that did not belong in this place of Neheris’ Shaping. It was the scent of Men—the yeasty odor of their flesh, their living blood, warm and salty. It was the reek of fear, a bitter tang, and of stale sweat. But there was something else, too, elusive and haunting. Skragdal parted his jaws, tasting the odor with his tongue. It was familiar, and not.
He turned to Thorun. “Do you know?”
“Water,” the other Tungskulder said. “Old water.”
Skragdal saw them, then.
It was as Lord Vorax had said; there were two of them. They emerged from the cover of the trees, walking slowly. When they saw Skragdal and his lads waiting, they stopped. They looked very small, and very, very tired.
“Neheris!” Thorun snorted. “Mother of us all! This is what we’ve been searching for?”
“Do not judge in haste.” Skragdal fingered his carved rhios uneasily, thinking about the crater at the northern end of Neherinach where the Galäinridder had burst from the earth. He had been there in the Ways when the wizard expelled them from the Marasoumië, his gem blazing like a terrible red star. “Perhaps it is a trick.”
“Perhaps,” Thorun said.
There was no trick. Three more Kaldjager emerged from the trees to come behind the smallfolk. On either side, the others began to close in upon them. The Kaldjager were in high spirits, baring their teeth and showing their pointed tongues. It had been a good hunt. One of them pointed toward Skragdal and spoke. Weary and resigned, the smallfolk began trudging across the field.
Skragdal folded his arms and watched them come, slow and halting. It was true they were dark-skinned, though not so dark as a Mørkhar Fjel. The bigger one moved as though he were bowed beneath a great weight. Skragdal understood the feeling. There were tears on that one’s haggard face, and he no longer reeked of fear, but of despair.
The smaller one held one arm clamped to his side. With his other hand, he clutched at a small clay flask strung about his neck on a braided vine. For all that, his head was erect, and his dark eyes were watchful and grave.
“Not much more than a pup,” Thorun observed.
“No,” Skragdal said. “Bold, though.”
By the time the smallfolk reached the burial mound, they were wavering on their feet. The bigger one tried to shield the smaller. Aside from belt knives and a tattered sling at the little one’s waist, they weren’t even armed. They did not belong in the place. And yet, there was the flask, as Lord Vorax had said it would be. The smell of water, of old water, was stronger. If everything else was true, it was more dangerous than a sword; than a thousand swords. Skragdal shook his head, frowning down at them.
“Do you know where you are?” he asked in the common tongue. They gaped at him in astonishment. “This place.” He indicated the field. “Do you know it?”
“You talk!” the smaller one said in wonderment.
One of the Nåltannen made a jest in his own tongue; the others laughed. “Enough.” Skragdal raised his hand. “We do not make jests in this place. Smallfolk, this is Neherinach, where Haomane’s Allies killed many thousand Fjel. We carried no arms. We sought only to protect Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers, who took shelter among us. Do you understand? You will die here to avenge those deaths.”
The bigger one rested his hands on the shoulders of the smaller, whispering to him. The smaller shook him off. “Why?” he asked simply.
Anger stirred in Skragdal’s belly, and his voice rose to a roar as he answered. “You would carry the Water of Life into Darkhaven and you ask why?”
The small one flinched, clutching his flask, but his gaze remained steady on Skragdal’s face. “Why did you protect Satoris?”
Skragdal gave a harsh laugh, a sound like boulders rolling down a mountainside. “Does it matter to you, Arahila’s Child? Ah, no.” He shook his head. “Haomane gave you the Gift of thought, not us. You have come too far to ask that question. Better you should have asked it before you began. Perhaps you would not be dying here today. Perhaps your people would not have been slain for your actions.”
“What?” Blood drained from the small one’s face, turning his skin the color of cold ashes. He stared at Skragdal with stricken eyes. The bigger one made a choked sound and dropped to his knees. “Uru-Alat, no! No!”
“Aye, lad. Did you not expect his Lordship to strike against his enemies?” It was hard not to pity the boy; no more than a pup, truly. How could he have understood the choices he’d made? Skragdal signaled to the others. The Kaldjager moved in close behind the smallfolk. Thorun and the nearest Nåltannen slipped axes from their belts, nodding readiness. “It will be swift, I promise you.” Skragdal held out his hand for the flask. Lord Vorax had told him to spill it on barren ground. “Give me the Water, and we’ll be done with it.”
The boy closed his eyes, whispering feverishly under his breath. It was no language Skragdal knew; not the common tongue, but something else, filled with rolling sounds. He was clutching the flask so hard that the lines on his knuckles whitened. Skragdal sighed, beckoning with his talons.
“Now, lad,” he said.
With trembling hands, the boy removed the cord from about his neck. His eyes, when he opened them, glistened with tears. They were as dark and deep as Skragdal thought the Well of the World must be. The boy cupped the flask in both hands, then held it out, his skinny arm shaking. It was a simple object to have caused so much trouble; dun-colored clay, smoky from its firing. A cork carved from soft desert wood made a crude stopper, and the braided vine lashed around its neck looked worn and mended. It couldn’t possibly hold much water; no more than a Fjel mouthful.
“Here,” the boy whispered, letting go.
Skragdal closed his hand on the clay vial.
It was heavy; impossibly heavy. Skragdal grunted. A bone in his wrist broke with an audible snap as the weight bore him to the ground. The back of his hand hit the earth of Neherinach with shuddering force.
There, the flask held him pinned.
It was absurd, more than absurd. He was Skragdal, of the Tungskulder Fjel. He got his feet under him, crouching, digging his talons into the soil. Bracing his injured wrist with his other hand, he set his shoulders to the task, heaving at the same time he thrust hard with his powerful haunches, roaring.
He could not budge his hand. There was nothing, only a pain in his wrist and a deeper ache in the center of his palm. And water, the smell of water. Old water, dense and mineral rich, the essence of water. It rose like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils, uncoiling in the bright air and filling him with alarm. All around, he could hear his lads milling and uncertain, unsure how to proceed without orders. And beneath it, another sound. It was the boy, chanting the same words. His voice, ragged and grief-stricken, gained a desperate strength as it rose.
With an effort, Skragdal pried his fingers open.
The flask, lying on his palm, had fallen on its side. Worse, the cork had come loose. Water, silver-bright and redolent, spilled over the rough hide of his palm, trickling between his fingers, heavy as molten iron, but cool. It sank into the rich, dark soil of Neherinach and vanished.