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:You done making yourself pretty?: Rath was still nose down in the pail, lipping out the last of the steaming oats.

“Yeah,” Gonwyn replied. “You ready?”

:Yes. We should go. Too many oats will make me fat.:

Gonwyn looked at her. With Rath, you could never tell. She might even be serious.

He tightened the bellyband and mounted, settling in the worn saddle.

Herald and Companion moved back down the hill and across the narrow draw at a ground-eating canter. They avoided the lines of dead by unspoken agreement, angling away from the road and down through the leafy drifts to the stream that had been the control feature for the Valdemaran reserve line. They followed it some quarter of a mile, to where it bent sharply to the right. The stream went straight ahead on their crude map.

That had been the beginning of a very bad day. Turned out the map they’d copied was wrong. There were two streams, about a quarter of a mile apart, which meant some of the troops had withdrawn to the wrong stream when Orthallen called retreat. Then, when they’d tried to turn it around, the units were hopelessly scattered, and the reserves were gone. Everything else about this campaign had been a dog’s dinner, so why not the maps?

:Enough.: Rath’s mental voice cut through his internal monologue. The mare stopped suddenly and tensed.

“Adreal?” Gonwyn asked.

:He has passed. Claris has gone mad.: The very matter-of-factness of the mare’s tone told him how deeply she felt the loss. All Companions shared a bond deeper than mortals could understand, but Rath and Claris had been exceptionally close.

Gonwyn forced himself still, pushed down the grief at Adreal’s death and Claris’ loss. He buried it alongside the crushing fatigue, the pain from mouth and shoulder, and the belly-deep fear . . . all the things that were normal to feel,but which he just couldn’t afford.

Rath, sensing his resolve, pressed onward, picking up the pace to move through where the Tedrels had pressed forward, been stopped, and then driven back. The combat here had been brutal, with quarter neither asked nor given. The dead lay thickest where the lines had struggled longest. They rode around a few fragments of Tedrel units, none of which looked much like fighting. Gonwyn and Rath moved together with an abundance of caution, alert to Adreal’s order to avoid trouble. From such came the Karse stories of “ghost horses.”

They slowed after a mile or so, to pick their way carefully through a narrow draw where a small fight had taken place. A dozen dead Valdemarans and rather more Tedrels lay in little heaps and piles. He and Rath had passed this way less than two candlemarks earlier, so this fight had taken place recently. Tedrels were still bleeding through the original Valdemaran lines and into the border hills. This was bad news that needed reporting.

He slid out of the saddle to walk ahead of the mare, scuffing his feet in the leaves as they went. The Tedrels liked caltrops, and having Rath take one through the hoof would be a death-sentence.

He searched the dead Tedrels, rifling through equipment and pockets and looking at shoes. The journey bread was fresh-baked, so they had both ovens and wheat. The shoes were mostly old, but well tended and stuffed with fresh hay to pad the feet. The equipment tended to be simple and poor but well maintained . . . the standard tools of a sell-sword. There were a few small coins but no significant booty or loot. That suggested a couple of things, but none definitive. No writing material, orders, or maps. The mix told him that they were decently supplied and had resources close by. Bakers and cobblers did not strap their kit on a field pack. This was no Tedrel advance guard. This was the Tedrel nation.

In some ways the Tedrels were better supplied than the Valdemarans they faced. King Sendar had to cajole and command to force the Council to put aside its spats and march as one country. The delay gave the army a thrown-together feel, and it was larger than the commissary could support for any length of time. Sendar . . . no, Selenay now, would have little choice but to begin disbanding the army very soon, before it started eating itself to death. They had to do for Tedrel here and now.

He took some buttons, small coins, and other trinkets that might show where the Tedrels had been. He also gathered up a brace of fat rabbits they had snared along the way.

:What are you going to do with those?: Asked Rath. :It’s not like you can chew right now.:

“I’m not going to leave two patriotic Valdemaran rabbits in the clutches of the Tedrels. It’s only right I find a good Valdemaran stomach for them. Even if it’s not mine.”

:Whatever.:

He took the journey bread as well. He wasn’t sure when he would eat, and while food hadn’t been an issue, it was just a matter of time before it was.

He felt Rath touch his mind, sort his conclusions, and make his report.

:It’s still too hard to get through. I’ve passed word to Kantor directly, but he’s preoccupied with Alberich’s problems. I’m trying to get to Eigen, but he and Rimlee are almost out of range. They’re mopping up some Tedrel cavalry. Anlina is up in the center. She’s tied up with sorting out something about the King, and Adreal is dead. Otherwise, there’s still too much confusion.:

Gonwyn shook his head. “The Mindspeaking is an advantage, but we rely on it too much. Once the plan fell apart, so did the way we’d planned to Mindspeak. The Queen might be able to get orders down, my friend, but no way are we going to get word back up.”

:These militia did well. They held their own, then withdrew in good order in about company strength. Should we follow and make our report in person?:

Gonwyn considered it, and the attendant benefits of Healer, wench, bottle, and bed . . . in exactly that order. He judged the direction and likely time and frowned. The sun was well past afternoon and into evening. Adreal knew what he was about. Damned duty.

“No,” he said, reluctantly. “They’re headed toward the roadstead. They’ll be halfway to the village by now. Someone will police them up. We’ll press along the main line of resistance.”

:Thy will be done,: replied the mare.

He turned to mount and felt Rath stiffen.

:Be still, now. There’s a Herald nearby, back up that side wash. Up among the trees.:

Gonwyn turned to look. “There where the big oak is slanted and thicket is close in where the stream tumbles?”

:Yes. It is Herald Danilla. She panicked in the fight. Her Companion is very young and was . . . overcome.:

“What the hell does that mean? Overcome.”

:It means that we are not perfect, Chosen. The girl is frightened, and both are ashamed. Be gentle, Herald Gonwyn.:

“When am I not?” he replied.

Rath flickered about a hundred quick mental images between them.

“All right, but that last one wasn’t my fault. She said the pig was tame.”

He slid his sword out of its scabbard and laid it across the saddle-bow. “Better safe.”

Rath did not respond. The Companion started down the washed-out creek bank and splashed across. Her steps were dainty and careful, feeling for a caltrop even in the water before she put her hoof all the way down.

Gonwyn, in no mood for a fast arrow from a frightened girl, stopped just inside calling distance to the stand of oaks.

“Herald Danilla,” he called. “Come down. It is Herald Gonwyn.” He used a note of command, broadened with inflections of concern and wary friendship.

He could feel the edges of Rath’s Mindppeaking to Danilla’s Companion. Many Heralds could actually hear the great pool of minds that the Companions shared. The skill, not shared by Gonwyn, had been alternately described it as a great joy and great annoyance.