Riding through fields black with soot or prematurely yellow and dead, Grus saw that at once. It was, understandably, less obvious to the local governor, a bald baron named Butastur. He rode out from the city to welcome the king. “By the gods, Your Majesty, it’s good to see you here!” he said, beaming. “Another couple of weeks of those demons prowling around out there and we’d‘ve been eating the grass that grows between the ruts in the street and boiling shoeleather for soup.”
“I’m glad it won’t come to that.” Grus wasn’t beaming; he was grim. His wave encompassed the ravaged fields. “Only Queen Quelea can judge how much you’ll be able to salvage from this.”
Butastur nodded. “Oh, yes. We’ll be a while getting over this, no doubt about it. But now you’ll be able to bring supplies in to us from places where the cursed Menteshe haven’t reached.”
He sounded as confident as a little boy who was sure his father could reach out, pluck the moon from the sky, and hand it to him on a string. Grus hated to disillusion him, but felt he had no choice. “We’ll be able to do something for you, Baron,” he said, “but I’m not sure how much. Sestus isn’t the only hungry city, and yours aren’t the only fields the nomads have ruined. This is a big invasion—look how far north you are, and we’re only now reaching you.”
By Butastur’s expression, he cared not a pin for any other part of Avornis unless it could send him food. “Surely you can’t mean you’re going to let us famish here!” he cried. “What have we done to deserve such a fate?”
“You haven’t done anything to deserve it,” Grus answered. “I hope it doesn’t happen. But I don’t know if I can do all I’d like to help you, because this isn’t the only town in the kingdom that’s suffering.”
He might as well have saved his breath, for all the effect his words had on Butastur. “Ruined!” the baron said, and tugged at his bushy beard as though he wanted to get credit for pulling chunks out by the roots. “Ruined by the cursed barbarians, and even my sovereign will do nothing to relieve my city’s suffering!”
“You seem to misunderstand me on purpose,” Grus said.
Butastur, by now, wasn’t even listening to him, let alone understanding. “Ruined!” he cried once again, more piteously than ever. “How shall we ever recover from the ravages of the Menteshe?”
Grus lost his temper. He’d just paid in blood to drive the nomads away from Sestus, and the local governor seemed not to have noticed. “How will you recover?” he growled. “Shutting up and buckling down to repair the damage makes a good start. I told you I’d do what I could for you. I just don’t know how much that’s going to be. Am I plain enough, Your Excellency?”
Butastur flinched away from him as though he were one of Prince Ulash’s torturers. “Yes, yes, Your Majesty,” he said. But he didn’t speak from conviction. He just didn’t dare argue. Grus had seen plenty of palace servants who yielded to authority like that—not because it was right, but because it was authority, and something worse would happen to them if they didn’t.
Crossing the Arzus in pursuit of the Menteshe came as nothing but a relief. When the army camped that evening, the king turned to Hirundo and said, “I can fight the nomads. But what am I supposed to do when someone on my own side makes me want to hang him from the tallest tower in his town?”
“You could go ahead and hang him,” the general answered. “You’d have a lot fewer idiots bothering you afterwards.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Grus said. “But if I start hanging all the fools in Avornis, how many people will be left alive in six months’ time? And who hangs me, for being fool enough to start hanging fools in the first place?”
“A nice question,” Hirundo said. “If you start hanging fools, who would dare rebel against you and confess that he’s one of those fools?” He grinned.
“Stop that!” Grus said. “You’re making my head ache, and I couldn’t even enjoy getting drunk first.”
The next morning, the Avornans rode on. The bands of Menteshe had melted away during the night. But for burned-out fields and farmhouses, no one would have known Ulash’s men had come so far. Ahead, though, more plumes of black smoke rising into the sky said they were still busy at their work of destruction. Grus tasted smoke every time he breathed. He felt it in his lungs, and in his stinging eyes.
He sent scouts out by squadrons, fearing the Menteshe weren’t far away. As the main force of Avornans advanced, he waited for one scout or another to come pelting back, bringing word the nomads had attacked his squadrons. He was ready to strike and strike hard.
But, to his surprise and more than a little to his disappointment, nothing like that happened. His army pushed on through the ravaged countryside, hardly seeing any Menteshe at all. Maybe Ulash’s men were fleeing back toward the Stura. Grus wanted to believe they were. He wanted to, but he couldn’t.
It was midafternoon before he realized he hadn’t heard anything at all from one scout squadron since the early morning. He pointed west, where they’d ridden when the army broke camp. “Are things going so very well over that way, do you suppose?” he asked Hirundo.
“They could be,” the general answered. “We’ve had a pretty quiet day.” But he fidgeted when Grus eyed him. “All right, Your Majesty. It doesn’t seem likely.”
“Send out another squadron,” Grus said. “If the first one’s all right, you can call me a fussy old woman. But if it’s not…” If it’s not, it’s liable to be too late to do the men any good. Why didn’t I start worrying sooner?
Off trotted the horsemen. Grus’ unease grew. It reminded him of the feeling he got when someone was staring at him from behind. He wished he hadn’t had that thought. It made him suddenly look back over his shoulder, again and again. Naturally, no one was looking his way—until his antics drew other people’s attention.
After a while, impatient and nervous, the king summoned Pterocles. “Can you tell me anything about those scouts?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, Your Majesty. Let me see what I can divine.” Pterocles set to work, murmuring a charm. Grus recognized the chant; it was the sort of spell wizards used to find lost coins or strayed sheep. He’d thought Pterocles would use something fancier, but if a simple charm would serve…
Pterocles hadn’t finished the spell when he broke off with a gasp of horror. His long, lean face went white as bone, leaving him looking like nothing so much as an appalled skull. Before Grus could even ask him what was wrong, he doubled over and was noisily and violently ill.
Grus wondered if he’d eaten something bad, or perhaps been poisoned. Before he could do more than stare, galloping hoofbeats distracted him. “Your Majesty!” shouted the leader of the party Hirundo had ordered out after the missing scouts. “Oh, Your Majesty! By the gods, Your Majesty!”
“I’m here,” Grus called, now torn. “What is it? Did you find them?”
The captain nodded. He was as pale as Pterocles, and looked not far from sickness himself. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He gulped and went even paler. “We found them.”
“And?” Grus said.
“I will not speak of this,” the captain said. “I will not. If you order me to, I will take you to them. If you do not order me, I will never go near that spot again. Never!” The last word was almost a scream. He shuddered.
“Whatever this is, I had better see it,” Grus said. “Take me there at once, Captain. At once, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, Your Majesty.” The officer shuddered again. “I do not thank you for the order, but I will obey it. Come, then.”
“Guards,” Pterocles croaked. “Take guards.”