Banewreaker

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Right here, lads.” Vorax tapped the map with one thick forefinger. “In the Northern Harrow. There’s a node-point in the middle of the range; or was, at any rate. That’s where Lord Satoris suspects they landed, based on their trajectory through the Ways.”

He glanced up to make sure they were following. Osric and the other Staccians were no worry, but one was never certain with Fjeltroll. A few of them had a look of cheerful incomprehension, or at least one he’d come to recognize as such. For someone unacquainted with their features, it was hard to tell. Still, the one Hyrgolf had recommended to lead their contingent-Skragdal, the young Tungskulder—seemed alert and attentive.

“Now, these are desert folk,” Vorax continued. “And bear in mind, they’ve never been out of their desert before; or at least not that we know of. So they’re likely to stick with what they know, which is lowlands. See here, where the Harrow dips.” He traced a line on the map. “If they’re coming for us, and we have every reason to think they are, they’re like to take the valleys, follow the riverbeds.”

“Lord Vorax.” Osric, bending over the map, met his eyes. The Staccian lieutenant was a man of middle years, solid and reliable. Not the best or boldest of his lads—that had been Carfax, entrusted to lead the decoys—but sensible, a man one could trust. “What if they’re not coming for us?”.

“Well, then we’ve nothing to worry about, have we?” Vorax grinned through his beard, clapping Osric’s shoulder. “Let’s say they are, lad. If we’re wrong, you retrace your steps. Pick up their trail at the node-point, or what’s left of it, and follow them south. Do you see?”

Osric nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

“General.” Skragdal frowned at the map. “I know the Northern Harrow, though I do not understand how this shape on paper shows it. This I know to be true. Even if we hurry, we will be many days behind their departure. There are valleys and valleys, routes and routes. How do we know which these smallfolk will take?”

“We don’t,” Vorax said bluntly. “That’s why his Lordship wanted Fjel on this mission. See, here.” He pointed. “This line is where Fjel territory ends, and Staccia proper begins. That’s what it means.”

“Neherinach.” The Tungskulder’s deep voice was sombre. It was a place the Fjel knew well, the ancient battleground where Haomane’s Allies had fallen upon them in the First Age of the Sundered World. Their fate had been sealed at Neherinach, for it was there that they had retrieved Godslayer from the hands of the Rivenlost and brought it to Lord Satoris.

“Aye,” Vorax said.”Neherinach. If these … smallfolk … travel southward, Staccians will note their passage. But if they stay to the north, it will be Fjeltroll who track their progress. Either way, they should be easy to mark. They are the Charred Ones, desert folk, dark of skin and unskilled in the ways of mountains.” He splayed his hands on the map, gazing at Skragdal.”You may need to divide your forces. That is why I asked both contingents to be present. Hyrgolf said the tribes would give you aid if needed. Is it true, Tungskulder? Does the old oath still stand?”

“Aye, General,” the Fjel rumbled. Skragdal’s small eyes were grave under the bulging ridge of his brow, the thick hide scarred where Lord Satoris’ sulfuric rain had fallen. “We are not like you. Neheris’ Children do not forget.”

It stung him, though it shouldn’t have. “Then you will find aid along the way!” Vorax snapped. “Let the tribes be your guide. I don’t care how you find them, Tungskulder, just find them. Find them, and kill them, and spill the Water upon barren ground. Do you understand?”

“Aye,” the Fjel said softly. “I do.”

“General?” Osric cleared his throat. “Lord Vorax, sir? I told my lads there would be hazard pay in this for them.”

“Hazard pay.” Vorax eyed him wryly. “We’re preparing for the whole of Urulat to descend on us, and you want hazard pay for tracking a pair of desert rats through the mountains ? This ought to be a pleasure jaunt, my boy.”

Osric shrugged. “And we ought to have taken Haomane’s Allies at Beshtanag, sir, but we didn’t. Instead we lost General Tanaros, and Shapers only know what’s become of Carfax and his lot. You say it’s just a pair of Charred Folk, but that’s just guesswork. What if the Altorian king sent an army to guard them? What if the wizard is with them?”

“It’s not guesswork!” Vorax brought one fist down hard on the map-table, making his lieutenant jump. “Listen to me, lads. His Lordship took up Godslayer itself, do you hear? What he knows, he knows. Haomane’s damnable wizard is trapped in the Ways, and like to stay there. The Charred Folk are alone, and as for Tanaros Blacksword, he’s about his Lordship’s business.” He glared at Osric. “Do you think the Three are that easy to kill?”

“No, sir.” Osric held his ground. “But mortal men are, Lord Vorax. And we hear the rumors, same as anyone. They say the lost weapon’s been found.” There was no guile in his grey eyes, only steady honesty and a measure of fear. “A son of Altorus looking to wed a daughter of Elterrion. The lost weapon. Now this Bearer, and you say he’s carrying water could put out the marrow-fire. I’m a Staccian, sir, and I’m as true to my word as any lug-headed, leather-hided Fjel. But if I’m going into the teeth of Haomane’s Prophecy, I want what I was promised. Battle-glory, and fair recompense for the fallen.”

The other Staccians murmured agreement. Vorax blew out his cheeks in a huge sigh, calculating sums in his head. He would be glad beyond words when Tanaros returned. Vorax didn’t mind leading a good skirmish, but this business of serving as General was wearying. Bargaining was his strength, not overseeing morale. How could he do one while worrying about the other? Blacksword might be dour company, still mooning over his dead wife’s betrayal a thousand years later, but he had the knack of commanding an army. “Fine,” he said. “Triple pay. How does that sound, Lieutenant Osric?”

“In advance, sir?”

Vorax stared at the ceiling. “In advance.” Lowering his gaze, he fixed it on Skragdal. “What about you, Tungskulder? Are the Fjeltroll afraid of Haomane’s Prophecy?”

“Aye, General,” Skragdal said simply. “That’s why we go.”

“Good lad.” He clapped a hand on the Fjel’s hulking arm, his shoulder being too high to reach. It was like slapping a boulder; ye Shapers, but the lad was huge! “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid. His Lordship has powerful enemies, and they’ll stop at naught to see him destroyed. They’ve waited a long time for this. But we haven’t exactly been sitting idle, have we, lads? We’re ready for them. That’s the important thing to remember. Beshtanag may have gone awry, but we did succeed at Lindanen Dale, and we’ll succeed in this, too.” He grinned at them, showing his eyeteeth like a Fjel. “You want to know where our General Tanaros Blacksword is this very moment? His Lordship knows. Our Tanaros is in the heart of the Unknown Desert itself, putting the Charred Folk who sent the Bearer to the sword and silting that cursed well they guard! How do you like that news?”

They liked it, well enough to cheer.

“Haomane’s Prophecy might be fulfilled someday, lads.” Vorax shook his head. “But not today,” he said with satisfaction. “Not on my watch! And not on yours, damn your eyes. Mark my words, Darkhaven will prevail!”

It braced them like strong drink, and the cheering continued. Vorax grinned some more, slapped a few more sturdy shoulders, ordered a keg of svartblod breached and raised a cup to the success of their mission. The Fjeltroll drank deep, roaring toasts in their guttural tongue. Nåltannen, most of them; a few Kaldjager for scouting work, and a pair of Gulnagel from the lowlands. Skragdal was the only Tungskulder, save one. The other Staccians drank the svartblod too, gasping and sputtering. It was a matter of pride with them to keep it down.

“Right,” Vorax said, gauging the moment. “You have your orders, lads. Report to field marshal Hyrgolf for weapons and supplies, and head out at dawn.”

The Delta’s warmth was a glorious thing.

Against all likelihood, Ushahin found himself humming as he poled the skiff along the waterways. Dip and push; dip and push. It was a soothing motion. The flat-bottomed skiff he’d purchased in Arduan glided effortlessly over the still water. Caitlin’s Da, he reflected, was a fine craftsman.

Passing beneath a stand of mangroves there was a green snake, unlooping itself lazily from a limb. Its blunt head quested in the air beside his face, forked tongue flickering.

“Hello, little cousin.” Leaning on his pole, Ushahin smiled at the snake. “Good hunting to you, though you may wish to seek smaller prey.”

The questing head withdrew and he pushed onward. Dip and push; dip and push. The hot, humid environs of the Delta were kind to his aching, ill-knit bones. For once, his joints felt oiled and smooth. He had not felt such ease in his flesh since he had been a child; indeed, had forgotten it existed. Out of sight of Arduan, he had shed the concealing cloak with its itchy hood. It was good to be unveiled in the open air. Sunlight usually made his head ache, but the dense foliage filtered it to a green dimness gentle to his eyes. That terrible awakening on the plains of Rukhar seemed distant, here.

“Kaugh!” Atop the highest branches of a further mangrove, a raven landed and perched there, swaying, its claws clenched on a too-slim branch. It clung there a moment, then launched itself in a flurry of wings, finding a similar perch a few yards to the south. “Kaugh!”

“I see you, little brother,” Ushahin called to the raven, one of those serving to guide him through the swamp. He thrust strongly on his pole and the skiff turned, edging southward. “I am coming.”

Satisfied, the raven pecked at something unseen.

In truth, it would be easy for a man to lose his way in the Delta. And would that be such an ill fate? Pausing to swig from his waterskin, Ushahin pondered the matter. There was something … pleasant … about the swamp. He felt good here. It wasn’t merely a question of the moist air being kind to his bones,. no. Something else was at work, something deeper. There was a pulse beating in his veins that hadn’t surged since … since when?

Never, perhaps. One half of his blood, after all, was Ellylon. Haomane’s Children did not know desire of the flesh, not in the same way other races among the Lesser Shapers did. The Lord-of-Thought had Shaped them, and the Lord-of-Thought had refused Satoris’ Gift, that which was freely bestowed on other Shapers’ Children.

The other half … ah.

Arahila Second-Born, Arahila the Fair. She had accepted his Lordship’s Gift for her Children; and Haomane’s, too, that which he had withheld from all but his beloved Sister’s Children. Thus the race of Men, gifted with thought, quick with desire.

Ushahin had never reveled in the mortal parentage of his father, in his possession of Lord Satoris’ Gift. Here, in the Delta, it was different. The songs he crooned under his breath were cradle-songs, sung to him by his mother aeons ago, before his body was beaten, broken and twisted.

“So, Haomane!” Ushahin addressed his words to a cloud of midges that hung in the air before him, standing in lieu of the First-Born among Shapers. “You’re afraid, eh? What’s the matter? Was Lord Satoris’ Gift more powerful than you reckoned?” Pushing hard on his pole, he hummed, watching the midges dance. “Seems to me mayhap it was, Lord-of-Thought. At least in this place.”

“Kaugh, kaugh!”

Ravens burst from the tops of the mangroves; one, two; half a dozen. They circled in the dank air above the center of the swamp, and sunlight glinted purple on their wings. Ushahin paused and rested on his pole, gazing upward. Images of a hillock, vast and mossy, flickered through his mind.

“What’s this?” he mused aloud. “What do you wish me to see? All right, all right, little brothers! I come apace.”

He shoved hard on the pole, anchoring its butt in the sludge beneath the waterways. The skiff answered, gliding over still waters made ruddy by the afternoon sun. In the center of a watery glade stood a single palodus tree, tall and solitary. In the shadow of its spreading canopy arose the mossy hillock he had glimpsed. For no reason he could name, Ushahin’s mouth grew dry, and his pulse beat in his loins. It was a strange sensation; so strange it took him long minutes to recognize it as carnal desire.

Such desire! He was tumescent with it. The image, all unbidden, of the Lady of the Ellylon, slid into his mind. Cerelinde, bent over the saddle, the tips of her fair hair brushing the earth.

“Oh,” Ushahin said, grinding his teeth, “I think not.”

Sluggish bubbles rose in the murky water before him; rose, and burst, carrying the sound of laughter, slow and deep. In the branches, ravens arose in a clatter, yammering. Beneath the surface of the water, a pair of greenish eyes opened, slit with a vertical pupil and covered by the thin film of an inner lid.

Gripped by sudden fear, Ushahin propelled the skiff backward.

Iron-grey and slick with moss, the dragon’s head emerged from the water. It was twice the size of the skiff, dripping with muck. Droplets slid down its bearded jaw, plunking into the water, creating circular ripples. It stirred one unseen foreleg, then another, and Ushahin struggled to steady his craft as the swamp surged in response. The dragon’s inner lids blinked with slow amusement as it regarded him, waiting until the waters had quieted and he had regained control of the skiff. Only then did the massive jaws, hung on either side with strands of rotting greenery, part to speak.

“Is thisss desire ssso disstasssteful to you, little brother?”

Ushahin laid the pole across the prow of the skiff and made a careful bow. “Eldest,” he said. “Forgive me, Lord Dragon. I did not know you were here.”

Overhead, ravens circled and yammered.

The dragon’s gaze held, this time unblinking. “You bear Sssatoriss’ mark. You are one of his. You have ssseen my brother and know his fate.”

“Yes,” Ushahin said quietly. “Calandor of Beshtanag is no more.”

Turning its head, the dragon sighed. A gout of bluish flame jetted from its dripping nostrils, dancing eerily over the oily waters to set a stand of mangrove alight. A single tree flamed, black and skeletal within a cocoon of fire. The circling ravens squawked and regrouped at a distance. In the skiff, Ushahin scrambled for his pole.

“Peasssse, little brother.” The dragon eyed him with sorrow. “I mean you no harm, not yet. Calandor chose his path long ago, thisss I know. We know. We always know.” It shuddered, and ripples emanated across the swamp, setting the skiff to rocking upon the waters. “Ssso why come you here?”

“Seeking passage.” Emboldened, Ushahin rode out the waves, planting the pole in the mire and gripping it tight in both hands. “Will you grant it, Elder Brother?”

“Brother.” Beneath yellow-green eyes, twin spumes of smoke issued forth in a contemptuous snort. “What makesss you think I am your brother?”

Ushahin frowned, shifted his grip on his pole. “Did you not name me as much?”

“I named you.” The dragon snorted. “Brother!”

“What, then?”

“Would you know?” The nictitating lids flickered. “Guesssss.”

A mad courage seized him. What was there to lose, here in the Delta? Whether he would continue onward or die in this place was the dragon’s to choose. Craning his neck, Ushahin gazed at the dragon’s nearest eye. The yellow-green iris roiled in the immense orb, colors shifting like oily waters. The vertical pupil contracted like a cat’s, but vaster, far vaster. Blacker than the Ravensmirror, blacker than a moonless night, it reflected no light, only darkness.

If he hesitated, he would falter; so he didn’t. Using the skills taught him long ago by the Grey Dam, Ushahin slid his thoughts into the mind behind that black, black pupil.

It was like stepping into a bottomless pit.

There was nothing there; or if there was, it was a thing so huge, so distant, he could not compass it. The way back was gone, the filament that connected him to himself might never have existed. There was only an encompassing, lightless vastness. Deeper and deeper he fell, a tiny star in an immense universe of darkness. There were no boundaries. There would be no end, only an endless falling.

Sundered from himself, Ushahin shaped a soundless cry …

… and fell …

… and fell …

… and fell …

Something flickered in the incomprehensible verges of the dragon’s mind; something, many somethings. Tiny and urgent and defiant, they came for him like a cloud of midges, a storm of claws. Feathered, frantic thoughts, scrabbling for his. Yellow beech leaves, shiny black beetles, an updraught beneath the wings and the patchwork of the tilting earth glimpsed below.

The ravens of Darkhaven had come for him.

Such were the thoughts they cast out like lifelines to Ushahin Dreamspinner; for they were, after all, ravens. It was enough. Clinging to the filaments of their awareness, Ushahin braked his endless fall and wove of the ravens’ thoughts a net, a ladder, and fled the darkness, back to whence he’d come.

Behind him, the dragon’s laughter echoed.

The world returned, and he returned to it.

Ushahin opened his eyes and found himself lying on his back in the skiff, half-soaked with bilge water. Hung upon the sinuous length of an arching neck, the dragon’s head hovered above him, blotting out a large portion of the sky. Beyond it, he caught sight of the ravens exiting from their frantic ellipse, landing in the high branches of the palodus tree. Though his head ached like a beaten drum, Ushahin sent thoughts of gratitude winging after them. Satisfied, the ravens preened their feathers.

“The wise man,” the dragon rumbled, “does not play games with dragons.”

With an effort, Ushahin levered himself upward to sit on the bench in the skiff’s stern and rested, arms braced on his knees. A strange exhilaration filled him at finding himself alive and whole. He took an experimental breath, conscious of the air filling his lungs, of having lungs to fill with air. “True,” he said, finding the experiment a success. “But I am not a man, and I have been accused of being mad, but never wise. Elder Sister …” he bowed from the waist, “ … forgive my folly.”

“Ssso.” The dragon eyed him with amusement. “It has gained sssome wisdom.”

“Some.” Ushahin wrapped his arms around his knees and returned the dragon’s gaze. “Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons. I am a fool, indeed. But tell me, why here, in the heart of the Delta?”

Sulfurous fumes engulfed him as the dragon snorted. “Child of three rasses, ssson of none. Not a Man, yet ssstill a man. You deny your own desire. Do you deny the power here, where Sssatorisss Third-Born arose?”

“No, Mother.” Ushahin coughed once, waving away fumes. He shook his head gravely, feeling his lank silver-gilt hair brush his cheeks. “Not the power. Only the desire.”

“Why?” The dragon’s voice was tender with cunning. “Anssswer.”

She had let him call her mother, had not denied it! No one had done as much since the Grey Dam Sorash, whose heir had castigated him. Ushahin hugged the thought to him and tried to answer honestly. “Because I despise Haomane’s Children above all else, for their cowardice in forsaking me and my begetting,” he said. “And I will not allow my flesh to become the vehicle by which they receive Lord Satoris’ Gift.”

“Ssso.” The sinuous neck flattened, its spikes lying low as the iron-grey head hovered above him. “You glimpssse the Great Pattern?”

“It may be,” Ushahin said humbly. “I do not know.”

Smoke puffed from the dragon’s nostrils as Calanthrag the Eldest, Mother of Dragons, laughed. “Then tie up your boat,” she said, “and I will tell you.”

The bark of the palodus tree was silver-grey, smooth as skin. Ushahin poled the skiff underneath its vast canopy. There was a rope knotted through an iron ring in its prow. He laid down his pole and knelt on the forward bench to loop the rope around the trunk of the palodus, securing the skiff. Mud-crabs scuttled among the thrusting roots of the palodus, and waterbugs skittered here and there on the surface of the water. The setting sun gilded the swamp, lending a fiery glory to the murky waters. Some yards away, the charred skeleton of a mangrove shed quiet flakes of ash, long past the smouldering stage. How many hours had he lost, falling through the dragon’s mind?

It didn’t matter.

Overhead, the first pale stars of twilight began to emerge and the ravens of Darkhaven fluffed their feathers, settling on their perches and calling to one another with sleepy squawks. All was quiet. in the Delta, and at its heart, a pair of yellow-green eyes hung like lanterns in the dimness, hinting at the enormous bulk beyond. Ushahin gave one last tug on the bilge-sodden rope, and smiled. “Mother of Dragons.” He bowed to her, then sat, feeling the skiff rock a little beneath his shifting weight. “I am listening.”

“In the beginning,” said Calanthrag the Eldest, “there was Urulat …”

“Pull!” Speros shouted.

The Gulnagel groaned, hauling on the ropes. They were heroic figures in the red light of the setting sun, broad backs and shoulders straining, the muscles in their bulging haunches a-quiver. The chunk of rock they labored to haul moved a few paces on its improvised skid, built of a dented Fjel buckler and rope salvaged from the Well. It hadn’t been on a pulley, either; just a straight length of it, impossible to draw. He’d had to send one of the Fjel back down the Well to sever it and retrieve as much as was possible.

“Pull!” Speros chanted. “Pull, pull, pull!”

With grunts and groans, they did. It moved, inch by inch, grinding across the hard-packed sand. He joined his efforts to theirs at the end, rolling it manually to the lip of the Well. It wasn’t easy. The standing monoliths of Stone Grove had shattered when toppled, but even the pieces into which they had broken were massive. Atop the mound of the Well, Speros stood shoulder to shoulder with the Gulnagel, heaving.

“All right, lads,” he panted, loosening the rope with dirty fingers. “Now push.”

It fell with a satisfying crash, landing only a few yards below. Their long labors showed results at last; the shaft of the Well was well and truly clogged. Speros flopped onto the cooling sand, giving his aching muscles a chance to recover.

“More, boss?” One of the Gulnagel hovered over him.

“A few more, aye.” With difficulty, Speros rose, gathering the rope. It was vine-wrought, but sturdy beyond belief. Those poor old Yarru had woven it well. “One more,” he amended, weaving toward a distant boulder. “Bring the skied.”

Stout hearts that they were, they did. He helped them lever the next rock onto the concave buckler and wrapped the rope around it, securing the boulder in place, lashing it to the handles. “Once more, lads,” he said encouragingly, helping the Gulnagel into harness. “Remember, push with the legs!”

One grinned at him, lowering his shoulders and preparing to haul. Freg was his name; Speros knew him by the chipped eyetusks. that gleamed ruddily in the sunset. There were marks on his shoulders where the rope’s chafing had worn the rough hide as smooth as polished leather. “You drive a team hard, boss.”

“Aye, Freg.” Speros laid a hand on the Fjel’s arm, humbled by his strength and endurance. Never once, since the Marasoumië had spat them out, had he heard one complain. “And you’re the team for it. Pull, lads, pull!”

Groaning and straining, they obeyed him once more. Taloned feet splayed, seeking purchase on the churned sand. Yellowed nails dug furrows on top of furrows, strong legs driving as the Fjel bent to the harness, and the buckler moved, iron grating and squealing as it was dragged across the desert.

How many times had they done this? Speros had lost count. It had seemed impossible on the first day. Boulders were like pebbles, dropped into the Well of the World. On the first day they had merely fallen an impossible distance, shattering, dispersing fragments into the cavern of the dead Marasoumië. He had been uncertain that the Well could be blocked. It had taken all his cunning to achieve it; rigging the skid, utilizing the full strength of the Fjel, moving the largest pieces first.

Even then, he had been unsure.

And yet … and yet. In time, it had happened.

The last boulder crashed like thunder as they rolled it over the lip. Speros straightened, putting his hands at the small of his back. His lower back ached, and his nails were torn and bloodied. “Good job, lads,” he gasped. “Fill in the rest with loose rock and sand, make it look natural. That ought to do it.”

The Gulnagel surrounded the shallow mouth of the Well, backing up to it and squatting low. Sand and shale flew as they dug dog-wise, shoveling a flurry of debris betwixt their rear legs, braced and solid. The remaining feet of the Well’s open throat dwindled to inches.

“Good job, lads,” Speros repeated, eyeing the rising level and trying to remain steady on his feet. “Remember to make it look natural.”

One of them grunted; Freg, perhaps. It was hard to tell from the rear. Speros clapped a hand on the nearest Fjel appendage and let his staggering steps take him down the mound. The earth was churned and torn. He had to tread with exhausted care to avoid turning an ankle. All around the desert floor, the jagged stumps of the monoliths remained, raw and accusatory.

General Tanaros was seated on one, sharpening his sword and gazing westward.

Speros wove toward him. “Lord General!” He drew himself up in a weary salute. “The Well is filled.”

“Thank you, Speros.” The General spoke in a deep voice, absentminded. “Look at that, will you?” He pointed with the tip of his sword; to the west, where a red star hung low on the horizon. “Dergail’s Soumanië still rises. What do you think it means?”

“War.” Speros’quivering legs folded, and he sat abruptly. “Isn’t that what they say? It is in the Midlands, anyway.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to scrub away the exhaustion. “The red star, reminder of Dergail’s defeat. It’s the Sunderer’s challenge, a declaration of war.”

“So they do,” the General mused. “And yet, Lord Satoris did not raise the star. He thought it a warning. A sister’s kindness.”

“Does it matter?” Speros fumbled for the waterskin lashed to his belt and managed to loosen the stopper. It sloshed, half-empty, as he raised it to his lips and took a sparing mouthful.

“Betimes, I wonder.” General Tanaros drew his whetstone down the length of his sword. “I fear we have not chosen our battlefield wisely, Speros.”

Speros glanced up at him. “Beshtanag, sir? Or Darkhaven?”

“No.” The General shook his head. “Neither. I mean the hearts and minds of Men, Speros.” He examined one edge of his ebony blade, testing it with his thumb. “Do you suppose it would have made a difference?”

“Sir?”

“The Bearer.” Sheathing his sword, General Tanaros turned his attention to the Midlander. “He made the only choice he was offered. Would it have made a difference, do you think, if we had offered another one?”

“I don’t know, Lord General.”

“I wonder.” Tanaros frowned. “But what would we have offered him, after all? Wealth? Power? Immortality? Those are merely bribes. In the end, it all comes down to the same choice.”

Speros shrugged. “A reason to say no, I suppose.”

“Yes.” General Tanaros glanced across the Stone Glade. The smaller mound that had been erected outside the circle of broken monoliths was barely visible in the deepening twilight. It had taken the Gulnagel less than an hour to dig a grave large enough to contain the corpses of the slaughtered Yarru elders. “I suppose so.”

“Sir.” Speros cleared his throat. “Will there be a lot of … that sort of thing?”

Tanaros smiled bleakly. “You told me you’d shed innocent blood before, Midlander.”

“Aye.” He held the General’s gaze, though it wasn’t easy. “But not gladly.” A creeping sense of alarm stirred in his heart. Was the General thinking of dismissing him? Speros ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the gap where one had been lost in the dungeons of Darkhaven. He had gambled everything on this. He thought about the Midlands and the disdain his name evoked, the disappointment in his mother’s eyes. He thought about how General Tanaros had deigned to meet him as an equal on the sparring-field. He thought of the camaraderie of the Fjel, and their unfailing admiration and loyalty, and knew he didn’t want to lose it. Not for this, not for anything. What did the death of a few old Charred Folk matter? They’d brought it on themselves, after all. The Lord General had asked them to give him a reason to spare them. A reason to say no. It wasn’t that much to ask. His hands clenched involuntarily into fists, and he pressed one to his heart in salute. “I failed you, I know. It won’t happen again.”

It was the General who looked away first. “I almost would that I’d failed myself in this,” he murmured, half to himself. “All right.” He sighed, placing his hands flat on his thighs. “You say the Well is filled?”

“Aye, sir!” Speros sprang to his feet, light-headed with relief. “It would take a team of Fjel a lifetime to unblock it!”

“Good.” General Tanaros stood and gazed at the twilit sky. It seemed larger, here in the desert, and the red star of Dergail’s Soumanië pulsed brighter. “We’ll take a few hours’ rest, and leave ere dawn.” Turning, he poked Speros’ half-empty waterskin. “The water-hole here is deep; Ngurra told me it never runs dry. So don’t stint yourself, Midlander, because I don’t know how lucky we’ll be crossing the desert.”

“Aye, sir.” Speros raised the skin and took an obliging swallow.

“I mean it.” The General’s eyes were shadowed and his face was hard. What had transpired here in the Unknown Desert had taken its toll on him. For a moment it seemed he might speak of it; then he shuddered, gathering himself. He fixed Speros with a clear gaze. “Drink while you can, and see to it that every waterskin we can salvage is filled to bursting. I mean to get us home alive.”

“Aye, sir!” Speros smiled, relishing the word. “Home.”