Thirst began to assault Dancer on the second day. He thought he’d seen the last of that agony. It could turn into his march across the desert all over again, and he was not looking forward to it. He couldn’t help casting worried glances to his partner, who sat with his eyes firmly shut, concentrating – or so Dancer hoped.
At dusk Twist returned to them. ‘Now?’ he demanded.
Kellanved shook his head. ‘Not quite yet … Best to wait one more—’
The Moranth to either side of Dancer grasped his arms and held firm, pulling. Woven ropes were wound about him and yanked taut. Twist pointed to him. ‘We know who is danger now. Not you,’ he said, ‘this one,’ meaning Kellanved. He drew a honed curved blade that he held to Kellanved’s shoulder. ‘Dawn.’
The mage raised a brow. ‘You can’t force these things,’ he observed, remarkably composed.
‘No,’ answered Twist. ‘But you can do your magic with only one arm.’
Kellanved now raised both brows. ‘Well … I suppose you do have a point.’
Twist rapped his blade to Kellanved’s forehead and edged away. Dancer sat tied up next to him. He couldn’t help but murmur, ‘You’re quite certain …’
The mage sighed. ‘Do you want to appear in solid rock?’
‘You’re just going to have to.’
‘If he would just give me four days. Four days would be perfect.’
‘Was that the left or the right?’
‘Oh, shut up.’
It was not quite dawn when Twist returned. Dancer had barely slept throughout the night. The Moranth commander took hold of Kellanved’s left arm and yanked it taut. ‘I believe you lie,’ he said. ‘You lied for room on raft. Now you serve us. One must die so that many may live. We honour your sacrifice.’
‘You know,’ said Kellanved, ‘this is my favourite time of day. The half-light of dawn. When shadows are so very thick. Are you certain you wish to go through with this?’
‘No tricks,’ Twist snarled. ‘You take us. Now.’
‘Where do you think we are now?’ And Kellanved shot a significant glance to the waters.
Dancer glanced out. There was no horizon. All was dark surrounding them; it was as if the raft rocked in a bowl of night.
Twist straightened away from the mage. ‘What is this? What trickery?’
The raft had begun to spin, slowly gaining in speed. The waters too, gyred, churning as if in a tornado. ‘One should be careful what one asks for,’ Kellanved called to Twist over the roar of the surging waves. ‘One might receive it.’
Dancer’s arms were tied to his torso, but his hands were free and he grasped the slats and logs beneath him with all his might as the spinning increased to a dizzying speed. In fact, it was quite alarming now, even to him. ‘That’s quite enough!’ he yelled to Kellanved.
The mage too was grasping the timbers. ‘Things are beyond my control now! We are falling and I don’t know how far!’
Several Moranth went flying off the raft, and the spinning reminded Dancer of a child’s top. The gyre of water now rose all about them in walls of whirling darkness. ‘What’s—’ he began, and then something punched up from below, knocking the breath from him, and the logs burst apart.
He came to lying amid tall grass, and, given what he’d endured recently, that was actually a comfort. He let his head fall back for a moment just to luxuriate in green growing things. Then, steeling himself, he rose. All about, Black Moranth were likewise rising from a broad meadow that bordered a rocky shoreline. They stood peering about, utterly dumbfounded.
Dancer went searching for his partner.
He found him sitting inland, a long blade of grass in his mouth. The mage gave him a nod. ‘Well, that went far better than I feared. It was too rushed, and there was interference from the mainland, but still … ach, you saw how it went.’
Dancer gave an offhand shrug. ‘Not too shabby.’
Kellanved glanced past him and he turned; Twist was approaching. The Black Moranth commander walked straight up then knelt to one knee before the mage, helmeted head bowed. ‘We are yours.’
Kellanved waved that aside. ‘Continue your struggle for your people, commander. And keep an eye out. I may call upon you in the future.’
Twist bowed once more. ‘So it shall be.’ Rising, he walked off, gesturing his officers to him.
Dancer looked to Kellanved. ‘And us?’
The mage pressed his fingers to his brow and massaged it. ‘Tomorrow. Please.’
At that admission Dancer allowed his shoulders to ease. It surprised him to feel the level of tension he’d been carrying there all this time. He let out a long breath, and raised his eyes to an unfamiliar southern horizon where mountains rose to the clouds. He nodded to himself. Good. Tomorrow. It had been far too long already.
* * *
Cartheron was with the quartermaster of the main warehouse complex in Dariyal going over the books. Dull, and not the stuff of any bard’s tales of war, but essential just the same. There was an old saying he knew: amateurs talk battle, generals talk logistics.
He hadn’t thought much about it before, but now his life was all timber, nails, cloth and damned disgusting salted pork. The largest problem consuming him – and Napan command – these days was the old and tired one of corruption.
Unavoidable, of course; human nature being as it is. He was under no illusions. But still, there were limits. Outright fraud, for example – that could not be tolerated.
He gestured his disgust to the open books. ‘All this timber. Where is it? I’ve looked. I don’t see it.’
The quartermaster laughed uneasily and peered round at the staff of bookkeepers Cartheron had working in the office. ‘Well, sir, it hasn’t been delivered yet, I imagine.’
Cartheron eyed the fat fellow. ‘You imagine? You don’t know?’
He opened his hands. ‘Well, sir, I do not oversee every transaction. I’m sure you understand.’
Cartheron glanced to the guards he’d brought with him and nodded. ‘Oh, I understand.’ He opened another fat book to a prechosen page and gestured to it. ‘What about this series of transactions? Pay, uniforms, food and weapons for twenty-seven troops in the Seventh Company of the Eighteenth Regiment?’
The quartermaster-general blinked his heavy-lidded eyes and laughed anew. ‘Yes? The Eighteenth …?’
‘The Eighteenth marines. Seventh Company.’
The quartermaster peered about now as if aggrieved, his face darkening. ‘And what of it?’
‘Their weapons, their uniforms, their supplies, food, pay … all backdated four months. All vouchered by a certain …’ Cartheron squinted at the page, ‘a certain “Quartermaster Sergeant Nellat”.’ He eyed the sweating man. ‘Tell me, general … who is this Sergeant Nellat? He’s not on any other book that I can find.’
The man laughed again. ‘I’m sure this is just some clerical error. A mere oversight. That is all. Nothing for someone of your rank, High Fist, to concern yourself with …’
Cartheron nodded. ‘Yes – you’re right, of course. It is nothing.’ He closed the heavy books, one by one. ‘Because unfortunately, what concerns me is that someone will order the Seventh to hold a position, or support another troop, only to find, belatedly, after the battle is lost … that there is no Seventh.’
The man was nodding now, vigorously. ‘Yes, that would be unfortunate. And I promise you that I shall certainly get to the bottom of this!’
Cartheron nodded to the guards. ‘Let’s try.’ They opened the door and two more guards escorted in a soldier, his face an ashen grey. ‘I could not find a Quartermaster Sergeant Nellat, but I did find a Sergeant Tallen. Your son-in-law, I understand.’
The man glowered now, his mouth hardening. ‘You have no proof.’
Cartheron waved for the guards to take them away. ‘That’s for the military court to decide. You’ve wasted enough of my time.’