“He asked if Orshok was deliberately trying to make sure Batul’s visions came true,” Natrac said softly. “First Orshok brought us to Fat Tusk, now he’s proposing to stage a raid that will certainly bring danger to the tribe. Attacking the Bonetree clan is suicide.” Natrac swallowed. “Krepis’s suggestion is that they appease Dah’mir by handing us over to him.”
Geth ground his teeth together and looked back to Batul. “If you’re thinking of taking Krepis’s suggestion, remember that Natrac was only bait. Whatever happens to me, I’d appreciate it if you saw him to safety.”
Natrac’s mouth dropped open, but Batul’s eyebrows rose. “That’s brave,” he said.
“I’m not brave,” growled Geth. “I like Orshok’s idea a whole lot better. It would be good if you picked that one.” He glared at Krepis. “Tak again,” he spat at him.
Krepis stepped forward, a snarl curling his lips.
Batul’s staff rose in-between the orc and the shifter. “No,” the old druid said. “No fighting between us. We’ll either help Geth or send him on to the Bonetree.”
“Which then, teacher?” asked Orshok.
Batul lowered his staff. “A test,” he said slowly. “Let Geth’s own actions decide.”
Geth crossed his arms. “That sounds good to me.”
“And to me,” said Natrac. He moved to stand behind Geth. The shifter twisted around to glare at him. Natrac glared back at him and shook his head. “You came for me, Geth. I’m going to stand by you.”
He held out his fist. Geth stared at it-then bashed his own fist against it, and turned back to Batul. “We’ll try your test together,” he said.
Batul nodded in approval. “Fetch boats,” he said to Orshok. “They’ll cross Jhegesh Dol.”
The color drained out of the young druid’s face and he gasped something in Orc that sounded like a curse. Batul cut him off sharply, dismissing him with a gesture. Krepis gave both Geth and Natrac a look of deep satisfaction before Batul dismissed him as well. The old orc turned to them with a stern face. “Prepare yourselves,” he said somberly, then hobbled away, leaving them alone by the dying fire.
Geth looked at Natrac. “What’s Jhegesh Dol?” he asked quickly. There was a sudden hollow in the pit of his stomach.
“I don’t know,” said Natrac. “But the words sound like Orc. A dol is just a place, a structure or even a stretch of marsh. Jhegesh …” He shook his head. “There’s a word like it, though: jegez.”
“What does that mean?”
“Cut.”
Singe was trying to feed Dandra again when she drew a sharp breath and froze, turning her head to fix her gaze in the distance. “Tetkashtai!” she croaked. Her hand rose to clutch at her chest, at the place where her crystal had hung.
The wizard’s heart skipped as he stared at her. He glanced around, checking to see that neither Dah’mir nor Medala was anywhere nearby, then leaned closed. “Dandra?” he whispered. His voice almost stuck in his throat. “Twelve moons, Dandra, can you hear me? Dah’mir has some sort of hold on you again. You’ve got to fight him!”
She didn’t react at all. Before Singe could even speak again, she relaxed and started breathing normally. Her head swung back around and once again she was staring with placid fascination at Dah’mir. Her hand fell back to her lap. Singe’s fingers curled tight and he held back a curse of frustration.
Was she trying to fight off Dah’mir’s control? He was certain that if she was capable of it, she was trying! Why had she called Tetkashtai’s name then, he wondered, and reached for her lost crystal? A reflex, maybe, an attempt to draw on the presence’s power-but she had peered off into the distance as if there had been something out there. Singe looked out into the night. There was nothing that he could see. That didn’t mean, though, that there wasn’t something that Dandra, even through Dah’mir’s hold on her, might be able to sense. Like the psicrystal.
The journey through the marshes had disoriented him, but there was one thing he knew: Zarash’ak lay to the south, under the shining haze of the Ring of Siberys. If Geth was dead, the crystal would be in or under the City of Stilts, either resting with his body or looted and sold off as nothing more than a pretty bauble.
Dandra had stared off to the west-and Singe couldn’t imagine that the crystal would find its way inland unless Geth was alive and carrying it.
“Twelve moons,” he breathed, hope flickering in his chest. “Twelve bloody moons!”
His elation was shattered by the screaming battle cry of the Bonetree hunters, and a sudden, brief clash of blades. Singe whirled around, but the fight was already over. Ashi was crouched over the quivering, wounded body of one of the young hunters. Her sword was drawn. So was his. There was blood only on Ashi’s blade, however. She reached down and wiped her sword on the young hunter’s shirt, then turned her back on him as the other hunters moved forward and surrounded their wounded comrade. To Singe’s surprise, Dah’mir and Medala, seated by the fire, did nothing more than glance up before returning to their conversation.
The young hunters’ glares and mutters followed Ashi as she stalked across the camp to fling herself down beside Singe and Dandra. She pulled a whetstone out of a pouch and began stroking it along the blade of her sword as if utterly unconcerned by what had taken place. Singe could see her hands trembling though.
“What was that?” he asked softly. He had discovered that unlike Ashi the young hunters spoke only their own language, though they seemed to understand Dah’mir’s commands well enough, reacting as much to the green-eyed man’s dominating presence as to his actual words. He had no fear that they would overhear him but Medala’s hearing sometimes seemed uncanny and he had no desire to attract her attention.
“Any hunter can make a challenge for the huntmaster’s blade,” said Ashi. “If they’re successful, they become the new huntmaster. That pup has been working himself up to challenging me for the last two days. He won’t be the last.” She growled as she worked at the sword’s edge. “Stupid children. I don’t know if they honestly think they can lead the hunters or if they just want the sword!”
“Why would they just want the sword?”
“Because they’re greedy. By tradition, the huntmaster carries the best weapon in the clan. No one else is allowed to even touch it.”
“I remember that,” said Singe. “You threatened to disembowel me when I unsheathed it.”
“Don’t let anyone hear that you did,” Ashi said, “or I don’t think even Dah’mir would be able to save you. You’ve touched the blade and that puts you above everyone else in the Bonetree except me.” She held up the sword, turning it so that firelight flashed on the polished metal. After a moment, she lowered it and looked at Singe. “On Vennet’s ship, you called this a sentinel’s honor blade.”
“An honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith,” Singe corrected her. “The patriarch of House Deneith would have given it to a Sentinel Marshal in recognition of some great deed. They’re rare, maybe one or two are awarded in a generation. This was the weapon of a hero.” He glanced up and saw a blank look in her eyes. “What is it?”
“I don’t know what a Sentinel Marshal is,” Ashi muttered.
Singe blinked in surprise. “I guess maybe they don’t get into the depths of the Shadow Marches too often,” he said. “The Sentinel Marshals enforce justice across the borders of kingdoms. When a criminal tries to flee from a kingdom to escape the king’s troops, a Sentinel Marshal will pursue him.” He pointed at the motto on the honor blade. “Words teach and spirit guides is a Sentinel Marshal saying. The words of the law teach and direct them, but the spirit of the law guides them in their duties. Because they’re members of House Deneith, ancient treaties put them outside of the laws of any one kingdom.” He gave Ashi a level look. “You know what House Deneith is, don’t you?”
“A clan from beyond the Marches,” said Ashi. “A clan with magic in its blood.”