The first person the smaller party encountered was a woman. Her dark hair hung ragged at her shoulders, dirt stained her frock, and she wore nothing on her feet despite the travel and the cold. It took a moment for Sienhin to recognize her: one of the harlots who followed the army, making her living providing company for lonely soldiers. The general had employed her more than once himself, but he didn’t remember her name, or perhaps he never knew it.
“Wench, what’s happened?”
He cringed at the pain speaking caused in his shoulder despite the ointments smeared on his flesh and the elixirs the healer made him imbibe. Still, it was much better than it had been.
The woman looked up at him with hollow eyes, her mouth pulled down in perpetual despair. She glanced from him to the other riders with him, then past them at the army following and her expression brightened, looked almost hopeful.
“The enemy’s moved, general,” she said. “A bunch of them overrun our camp and one of them drank too much and told me the witch is moving their army for the capital. I had to leave before another stinking Kanosee put his cock in me.”
Sienhin grunted. “So they know we’re coming.”
He nodded to the man on his right and the young officer-a soldier whose name he didn’t know and probably never would-immediately reined his horse around and took the news back to the other officers waiting with their platoons.
“Did everyone make it out?”
Her eyes clouded and her expression sagged. “I don’t know. The piss tank said they were leaving some soldiers behind to make sure they wouldn’t.”
Sienhin looked at her for a minute, anger brewing in his chest. He felt his cheeks go red.
“And what of the king?”
“Dead,” she said and Sienhin’s breath caught in his throat. “He died in the first battle.”
The general let out his breath. “Not Braymon. Therrador. Know you any news of Therrador?”
She shook her head and looked at her filthy feet. “No. None. Therra…the king disappeared. Some think he’s deserted.” She looked up again and the general saw tears in her eyes. “What hope is there for any with a king like that?”
“Don’t you worry, lass, the king is not gone,” he said leaning toward her in the saddle. “And we intend to make the Kanosee pay.”
He sat upright and signaled to the troops, then prompted his horse on, determination furrowing his brow. He wanted to coax the horse to a gallop, to meet the enemy more quickly, but doing so would leave the foot soldiers behind and give the enemy the advantage.
Sienhin gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, set his jaw, and pressed on toward the waiting battle.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Where is everyone?” Graymon asked.
Tugg and Mandich had been wrong about how far the camp was-it took them nine days to arrive at the salt flats, not the week the soldiers had estimated. They’d crossed the brief grassland separating forest from flatland with as much stealth as possible with a six year old involved, wary of patrols and sentries, but they saw no one. They crept up on the camp and found only long dead cook fires and the detritus of a camp deserted by its army.
“I don’t know, Graymon. Moved on to overthrow the rest of the kingdom, I suppose.”
They picked their way through the empty camp, passing over ground beaten flat and hard by the trample of thousands of feet, saw bones tossed aside and latrines left unfilled. Here and there, they found discarded bodies, all of them stripped of their clothes and belongings; Khirro couldn’t tell if they were Erechanian or Kanosee.
In death, when we have nothing, we are all the same.
Graymon held Khirro’s hand as they crossed the salt flats toward the Isthmus Fortress. The feel of the boy’s hand in his squeezed his heart, and he thought of all the horrible experiences he’d had around children in the past months: being forced to leave a pregnant Emeline; the dead children that made up the walls in the deserted village; the mud baby in his dream. The thoughts made him stop and turn to the boy.
I’m bad luck for children.
“Graymon.” He kneeled to look into the boy’s eyes. “If we can get into the fortress, we will find a safe hiding place for you.”
The boy’s eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently. “No. I want to stay with you.”
Khirro touched his hand against Graymon’s cheek; the boy leaned his head into his palm, tears threatening in his eyes. His lip quivered.
“It won’t be safe with me.” It’s not safe with me. “There will be fighting. And the monsters.”
“Oh.” Graymon shivered at the mention of the undead soldiers, but said no more.
Khirro looked at him a moment longer, wondered if there was something else he should say. But what to say to a boy who’d been taken from his father and put through all that Graymon had? How do words make that better?
They don’t. Actions do.
Khirro stood and took the boy’s hand again, leading him on through the camp toward the fortress wall looming before them. If Athryn was with them, he would already have considered how to enter the fortress, but he wasn’t. They still didn’t know what had happened to the magician, and Khirro purposely kept his mind from thoughts of his lost friend-he had Graymon to worry about before he could allow himself concern or grief. His first priority was getting them into the fortress, his second: finding safety for the boy. All else would come after that.
As they stole from cover to cover across the flats, Khirro thought about the beginning of his journey and how they’d escaped the fortress to the plains through a secret passage. Might there also be a secret passage onto the salt flats? If there was, it would surely be well hidden and impossible to open from without.
Thoughts of secret passages and worries about how they’d enter disappeared as they came closer and Khirro saw the gates standing open. They crouched, hidden behind a pile of discarded armor that smelled of old leather, oil, and stale sweat. As they watched and waited, Khirro scanned the pile for anything he might employ: leather chest pieces with ugly slash marks, mail with too many broken rings to mend, a few broken swords, shields with broken straps and helms dented beyond repair-useless, all of it.
Khirro turned his eyes to the top of the wall, searching for sentries, but saw not so much as a glint of sunlight on steel. Graymon fidgeted beside him as Khirro moved his gaze to the gate and found similar results there. It seemed too easy.
They’re not expecting anything. They think their own country lies at their backs.
Other than straight through the gates like an invited guest, he saw no way in. After another look across the top of the wall and a survey of the deserted camp around them, he turned to the boy. Graymon had built a pyramid out of small stones to pass the time.
“We’re going to go now, Graymon. Keep low and stay close. We’ll be moving quickly, so watch your step.” He breathed deep through his nose and waited for the boy to nod his understanding. “If there’s any trouble, get behind me or find a place to hide.”
Graymon looked at him without responding.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Khirro drew his short sword and considered taking one of the shields from the pile, but dismissed the thought in favor of taking Graymon by the hand. The boy stood abruptly and his foot knocked over the rock pyramid as they hurried away from the pile of discarded paraphernalia at a crouch.