Valorian

15

In a long, single file, the wagons, carts, riders, and herds of animals reluctantly entered the cavern and followed their chieftain under the mountains. He led them along the same broad road that he and his companions had followed before. He thought the wagons and herds would be slower in the dark passages, but the Clan had no desire to dawdle.

It was a measure of the clanspeople’s growing trust in Valorian that they went into the caves at all. Once inside, though, it was their fear of the strange, dark tunnels that kept them moving, the cold and dampness that made them reluctant to stop, and the half-sensed presence of the mythical Carrocks, always out of sight, that kept them all on edge.

They ate their food on the move and stopped only long enough to water the stock at the ice-cold stream that trickled beside the road.

As they worked their way along the underground passages lit only by torchlight and several of Valorian’s spheres, the clanspeople stared in awe at the stalactites, the guardian statue, and the crystal walls that sparkled in the unnatural light. They also heeded their chieftain’s warning implicitly.

The ancient tales of the Carrocks’ legendary strength and possessiveness were more than enough to discourage any thoughts of exploring or souvenir hunting.

When at long last Ranulf trotted down the line passing the word that the exit was just ahead, the entire caravan breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and pressed forward toward the open air. Beyond the cave mouth, Valorian saw that the sun was sinking in the west. He realized his estimate of the time the Clan would be in the tunnels hadn’t been quite accurate—they had been underground for only two days, not three. He hadn’t taken into account the speed lent to the animal’s feet by nervousness or the willingness of people to push past hunger and weariness when they were apprehensive.

As soon as he had escorted the first wagon out into the cool twilight and given instructions for the Clan to make camp in a meadow farther down the valley, Valorian turned Hunnul back into the cave. He passed by the herds of livestock and the horses neighing at the smell of fresh grass. He went by the creaking wagons and carts, the tired riders, and the woebegone dogs. When at last the rear guard came up the slope toward him, he waved them on and waited while the noises slowly died away. The passage at last was empty, and he and Hunnul were alone.

Valorian heard nothing in the tunnels below nor saw any movement or sign of life, but he knew they were there. He flicked out his spheres of light, letting the darkness the Carrocks craved surround him.

“Thank you,” he called to the lightless depths. “May Amara bless your people and guard your caves forever.”

From far away out of the subterranean night came a single deep voice. “Go in peace, magic-wielder.”

Hunnul nickered softly. Moving slowly in the darkness, the black horse walked up and out of the caverns and trotted gratefully out onto the soft earth and green grass.

The Clan camped that night near the mouth of the valley, where a stream dropped in a silvery fall to a clear pool below. The Bendwater River and the relative safety of Sarcithia were only a day or two away, and the people hoped that Tyrranis and his soldiers were now behind them. Weary from the long two days under the mountains, the people settled down for the night.

On a razor-backed ridge high above the valley, a Tarnish scout peered down on the camp in surprise. There was just enough light left for him to recognize several features of the big encampment before night threw its shadows over the mountains. Excited, the man mounted his horse and rode north as fast as the animal could carry him.

“General, I swear on the honor of the Fourth Legion, I saw them last night! They’re south of us, not more than twenty leagues from the river. The commander is certain it is the Clan, and he is awaiting your orders.” The scout who was speaking touched the emblem of the crescent moon on his tunic as a sign that he was swearing to the truth.

General Tyrranis hardly noticed. As quick as a cobra, his hand reached out and clamped around the soldier’s throat, skillfully cutting off his breath and sending pain stabbing into the man’s head. “That’s impossible!” he hissed. “They couldn’t have passed around us so quickly without being seen.”

“But. . . I ... saw them,” the terrified scout choked out past the merciless fingers. He tried to pull at the hand, but he might as well have tried to remove steel claws. The other soldiers around him looked everywhere but at his red, mottled face.

Tyrranis eased his grip a fraction and demanded, “Exactly where? How many? How do you know it was the Clan?” The scout gasped for breath before he answered. “They had Clan carts and a few of our freight wagons. It was a big camp, maybe five or six hundred. In a valley past the bluffs. There was one man with a lion-pelt cloak and a big black horse. ”

Suddenly the general’s fingers let go, and the soldier fell back, clutching his throat. “So,” Tyrranis said venomously. “Perhaps he has found a way to get around me.” His fingers unconsciously found the amulet around his neck that protected him from evil magic.

“His magic must be powerful,” one officer said, then immediately regretted his words when Tyrranis’s frigid glance fell on him.

The general chose to ignore that remark and continued to ask, as if to himself. “He will still not escape. We will catch him before he crosses the river.” He turned to his officers. “I should execute every scout and guard who failed me, but I still have need of every man. Mount up!”

An orderly brought Tyrranis’s big bay stallion and held the stirrup for the general to mount. Viciously the stallion tried to lash out with a hoof at his master, but Tyrranis stepped out of the way and cracked his whip across the horse’s soft muzzle. While the stallion flung his head around in pain, the general adroitly mounted and spurred him forward. The orderly sprang out of the way to avoid being trampled.

In frantic haste, the small troop left their makeshift camp behind and galloped south to the larger camp at the edge of the towering bluffs by the canyon. Tyrranis thundered in among the tents and surprised the soldiers with a face darker than a storm cloud, then lashed the men into action.

“Mount your horses,” he shouted. “You will catch that caravan before it reaches the river, or I will drown the lot of you!”

The commander and his officers scrambled in their haste to salute their general and obey his orders. Quickly the Tarnish legionnaires and draftees made ready to leave. Horns blared on the morning breeze, calling the ranks to order; horses neighed in excitement.

In a matter of minutes, the Tarnish camp was empty, except for a few cooks and orderlies who were to tear down the abandoned tents and bring the provision wagons behind the troops. The rest of the army was thundering south to pursue the elusive clanspeople.

The late afternoon sun was beginning to dim behind gathering clouds when the foremost scout of the Clan caravan spotted the line of trees and the silvery band of water that marked the location of the Bendwater River far in the distance. Whooping, he rode back to tell Lord Valorian and the Clan. Word spread swiftly down the line of wagons. Drivers sat up straighter and slapped their reins to urge their horses faster; riders kicked their mounts into a trot. The thirsty herds smelled the water and picked up their pace.

At the same time, a lone scout far to the rear of the caravan saw something else come over the top of a far rise that froze his blood. He waited for a few heartbeats to be sure he was seeing correctly through the dust and haze, and then his eyes bugged out in recognition. A large column of horsemen was rapidly approaching from the north, with what looked like blood-red banners at its head.

His stomach roiling in fear, the clansman clapped his I heels to his mount and streaked madly back toward the Clan.

“Tarns!” he bellowed at the rear guard. “Tarns behind us!” The swelling call of a signal horn followed him up the line of animals and wagons toward Lord Valorian at the head of the caravan. Heads turned toward him and eyes followed him in sudden fear.

The scout brought his horse skidding up beside Hunnul and blurted out to Valorian, “General Tyrranis is coming!”

Valorian didn’t hesitate. “Get the Clan to the river,” he ordered Aiden and Mordan, then told his guards to stay with the wagons.

“Where are you going?” Aiden shouted in alarm when he saw Valorian wheel Hunnul around.

“To slow them down!” the chief replied as the black leapt forward. Like a thunderbolt, Hunnul raced past the Clan, back toward the north and the oncoming Tarns. Frightened faces watched him for a moment before the entire caravan broke out in a wild gallop down the long, smooth, treeless slope toward the river.

Racing over the thick grass, Hunnul stretched out his neck and legs in a run no other horse could rival. He flew over the ground along the Clan’s trail toward the top of a long, low ridge. Valorian had made a vow that he wouldn’t use his awesome force to murder humans, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use it to hinder them.

As the black slowed at the crest of the ridge, Valorian scanned the land to the north and immediately saw the Tarnish column advancing at a full canter. In fact, at the rate they were coming, Valorian estimated they could easily catch up to the slower-moving caravan long before it reached the river. Unless they ran into a little trouble, that is.

Hunnul came to a stop on the bare ridge top. Drawing a long breath into his lungs, Valorian forced himself to relax and wait. He would hold his place there until the Tarns were closer. He glanced at the sky and noticed an angry blue-gray line of clouds building in the west into a towering white peak of violent energy. He winced when thunder rumbled in the distance. A gust of wind dashed over the slopes, unfurled Hunnul’s tail, and sent Valorian’s lion-pelt cloak flapping.

The chieftain hardly needed his cloak in the warm afternoon, but he wore it now to draw on the lion’s courage intrinsic in its pelt—and for effect. He watched silently while the Tarns drew closer. He could see the crescent moon emblem on their banners and the weapons in their hands; he recognized Tyrranis at the head of the long column. Very deliberately, he pulled the lion’s head down over his eyes like a helmet visor and stared out through the empty eyeholes. He could tell the Tarns had recognized him, because their leaders pointed his way and their speed increased. The pounding of the horses’ hooves drowned out the distant rumble of thunder.

Valorian waited until the soldiers were just within arrow range, then he raised his hand and gathered the magic around him to his bidding. He felt an unfamiliar mild surge of energy in the magic, but his spell was already forming, and he didn’t want to let go of it to find out about something so small. He concentrated instead on the power building within him.

The Tarns were raising their weapons when four balls of blazing blue energy seared from Valorian’s hand in rapid succession and slammed into the ground in a line just in front of the foremost riders. The subsequent explosions sent huge fountains of blue sparks, dust, clods of earth and rock tom grass, and shattered shrubs flying in all directions. The front line of riders collapsed into a mass of neighing, bucking, falling horses and shouting men.

Valorian saw General Tyrranis’s panicked mount throw the general to the ground and bolt in terror back the way he had come. The whole column disintegrated into turmoil.

Valorian thought it was time to fall back. As Hunnul turned away, the chief caught the faintest mental impression of something like a chuckle from the big stallion before he broke into a gallop after the fleeing caravan.

General Tyrranis picked himself up out of the dirt in time to see the horse’s black tail disappear over the slope. “Get him!” he screamed at his second-in-command, who was trying to bring his own horse under control. “Or I’ll have your head!”

The man cast one wild look at his commander and decided it would be safer to chase a magic-wielder than stay and argue with the general. He rounded up all the men still on horseback, reformed the troops into a charge formation, and led them up the gentle ridge. From the top, they could see the retreating form of Valorian and, beyond him, the main body of the Clan running pell-mell for the river. The trumpeter sounded the charge. In unison, the mounted troops sprang forward.

Valorian heard the clear notes of the Tarnish trumpet with a stab of surprise. The column had reformed faster than he had expected, and he could see ahead that the caravan had already run into trouble. Several wagons had broken down during the frantic run and lay in the dust with their drivers working desperately to fix them. The brood mare herd was off to the side of the line of wagons and carts, but while the other herds of horses and livestock were moving well, the pregnant mares and mothers were forced to go much slower. They were already well behind the caravan.

Meanwhile, the head of the long tram had reached the river and it, too, had run into problems. The shallow ford was too narrow for everyone to cross at once, and the Clan wagons were starting to slow down as they reached the bottleneck.

Hunnul came to the first wrecked wagon and stopped at Valorian’s command. The driver, a lone woman with a daughter and two nearly grown sons, looked up gratefully as the chief slid off to help. Valorian was relieved to see the problem was only a broken axle. One quick spell repaired the wagon, then he and Hunnul quickly hurried the little family toward the next broken-down cart.

This one had hit a large rock, shattered its wheel, and sent its contents and occupants flying. The two people were still trying to deal with their injuries when Valorian arrived. Once again he fixed the wagon with magic, but there was nothing he could do with the broken arm and the cuts and abrasions. The woman and her children helped the driver while the chieftain returned the belongings to the cart with a spell. In moments, they were off after the caravan.

Twice more Valorian stopped to help until he had four carts and wagons with their passengers and several stragglers, a warrior with a limping horse, four dogs, and Gylden with the boys and the brood mare herd in his company. Just ahead, the rest of the Clan was rumbling down to the riverbank, while behind, the Tarnish soldiers were drawing dangerously close.

Valorian decided it was time to slow the Tarns down again. He waved on the wagons, then turned Hunnul to face the oncoming troops. He had to pause for a moment to draw a deep breath and steady his thoughts. He was growing weary from using magic, and’ he didn’t want to lose control of the power when the Tarns were bearing down on him. When he was ready, he formed a spell that crackled into the grass before the charging horses. In a blinding flash, the grass burst into towering flames. Horses suddenly screamed in terror and fell back; their riders shouted with fear as a wall of fire rose high above their heads and formed a great circle around them. Smoke billowed up in great blinding clouds.

Valorian, his expression bleak, turned back to follow the caravan, leaving the fire to hold off the Tarns. Another crash mares of thunder from the approaching storm rolled over the hills and the chief hoped fervently that his flames would last long enough to allow the Clan to cross into Sarcithia.

He was pleased to see that the repaired wagons had caught up with the tail end of the caravan. The rear guard was urging everyone and helping the stragglers as best they could, so Valorian galloped Hunnul on past the remaining wagons to the ford.

The scene there was chaotic. The heavy vehicles and men numerous hooves had churned the banks of both sides of the river into knee-deep mud that clung to legs and wagon wheels. Several conveyances were bogged down, and one terrified team was balking and blocking the way for those behind it. Mordan was trying desperately to bring order to the uproar of cracking whips, squealing animals, and shouting people. He nodded with relief when Valorian came to join him.

Once more the chieftain drew on his power and used a magic spell to help free the mired wagons. As soon as they were moving again, he and Mordan led the frightened team across the river. Together they sorted out the tangle of vehicles and animals and directed them across until the flow of traffic settled into a steady, reasonably calm crossing to the woods on the other side. Somewhere on the trail ahead, Aiden was leading the wagons deeper into Sarcithia.

At the same time, Valorian kept a cautious eye on the storm clouds filling the west and the black, soaring clouds of smoke to the north. He prayed that the wind wouldn’t shift and blow the flames toward the caravan and that the storm wouldn’t break too soon and put out his fire. As if to taunt him, thunder boomed nearby, and the wind gusted noisily through the trees along the river.

At long last, the final wagon surged into the river. Behind it came the brood mares and their foals, sending sheets of water flying as they trotted across the ford. At the rear of the herd, Gylden waved a weary hand to indicate that these were the last horses to cross. Valorian watched the mares walk up the muddy bank into Sarcithia, and he felt relief like a sudden ease of pain. The Clan was safely across.

Only a moment later, the relief was driven from his thoughts by a flash of lightning and a tremendous crack of thunder, Valorian flinched. Once again he felt that odd surge energy, as if something was increasing the magic around him, but before he had time to think about it, the sky, opened in a deluge of rain.

“Get across!” he bellowed at the rear guard. The spurred their horses into the water, followed closely by Valorian and Mordan. They had just reached the Sarcithian bank when a faint rumble of horses’ hooves came to them over the noise of the storm. Valorian half-turned to look and saw that the smoke of his fire was quickly dissipating. The heavy rain was dampening the flames, and the Tarns had apparently broken through.

Valorian and Mordan glanced at one another in weary triumph, then wheeled their horses around to follow the caravan into the woods.

By the time the Tarnish cavalry reached the river, there across the river, there was little sign of the Clan. All they could see were the churned and muddy banks, the empty river, and the trees on to the far side, dripping with rain. Then one man pointed toward the distant forest, and they all saw a large, dark shape, indistinct in the heavy rain, standing in the wind-tossed shadows of the undergrowth. The figure seemed to watch them for a moment before it moved and the Tarns recognized it as a black horse and its rider. There was a flash of lightning overhead, and the rider was gone from sight.

The commander paled. He looked up and down the river as if seeking an answer, but in his own mind he knew General Tyrranis would never forgive him for his failure.

“We could cross over,” a young officer suggested.

The commander shook his head with bitter frustration. “General Tyrranis ordered us to stop them before they crossed the river. He said nothing about invading Sarcithia. You know we cannot enter another province under arms without permission from the ruling governor.”

“Well, why can’t we just slip over there and drive the Clan back into Chadar?” another officer asked.

“Not without General Tyrranis’s direct order.

A third man grimaced. “Who are you more afraid of,” he muttered under his breath, “Tyrranis or that magic-wielding clansman?”

But Commander Lucius heard him, and the grain of truth in the man’s remark stung deeply. “It is our general’s responsibility to decide if we break the emperor’s law, not mine!” he said harshly. “It is Tyrranis who would have to face the emperor’s punishment if Governor Antonine ever found out we chased after the Clan into Sarcithia. I will not be accountable for that!”

The younger Tarn looked appalled as he realized the full import of this fiasco. “But surely the general will understand.”

Commander Lucius sagged in his saddle. His eyes followed the muddy trail of the caravan into the trees on the far bank, and he said hollowly, “The general never understands failure.”

General Tyrranis closed his fingers tightly around the hilt of the sword at his side. His basilisk eyes burned into the trembling gaze of the commander who was trying to make his report.

The officer was standing in the mud with his back to the river while the last drops of rain fell from the thinning clouds. “He started a fire, sir, that completely surrounded us,” he was saying. “We couldn’t escape without serious injuries to the men and the horses, and by the time we—”

Before Commander Lucius could finish his sentence, Tyrranis whipped his sword around and brought it slashing into the man’s neck. Blood splattered over the general’s armor as the commander’s head came loose and thudded to the ground. The body remained upright for just a moment, as if it couldn’t accept what had happened, then it, too, toppled into the mud and lay twitching at Tyrranis’s feet. In an instant, the bloody sword point was poised at the throat of a second officer.

“Tell me something useful so I do not do the same to you!” the general snarled.

The officer held very still, desperation plain in his face. “General, sir! Sar Nitina is not far from here. With a small honor guard, you could ride there in two days. You could visit Governor Antonine and receive permission for our troops to pass. We could still make it to Wolfeared Pass before the Clan.”

“How do you know that is where they are going?” Tyrranis demanded, the bloody sword still pressed against the officer’s neck. Cunning began to glow in his eyes as new possibilities emerged through his anger.

The officer swallowed hard and stared straight ahead, encouraged by the general’s slight hesitation. “They are moving south, sir, and we have heard rumors that Valorian Wants to go to the Ramtharin Plains. Wolfeared Pass is the only pass near here low enough to allow wagons.”

Tyrranis’s eyes narrowed to slits as he considered the officer’s words. The man made sense. Valorian did seem to be in command of this exodus, so it was quite likely that he was trying to lead the Clan out of the Tarnish Empire. Not that it mattered. They were never going to reach their destination.

That is where Governor Antonine would be useful. Most Provincial governors got very nervous and irritated when a neighboring governor asked to move into their jurisdiction with a large, heavily armed force. Antonine, the governor of Sarcithia, however, was a young, impetuous man who had come to his power through wealth, connections, and bribery. He had no real experience dealing with crises, so it should be possible to talk him into allowing a hunt for the Clan over his province.

The officer beside Tyrranis shot a quick look at the body of his commander lying in the mud nearby before he offered his final bid to save his life. He cleared his throat. “There is also the Twelfth Legion, sir. It is still stationed in Sar Nitina. If you remember, last winter they received word to remain there to help guard the new borders.”

A strange expression, a cross between a snarl and a smile, altered Tyrranis’s bloodthirsty grimace. Slowly he handed his sword to an orderly. “You are the commander now,” he said to the officer. “Pick five men to ride with me to Sar Nitina.”

The new second-in-command saluted Tyrranis’s back as the general whirled and strode to his horse. He tried to feel relieved and pleased by his reprieve and the unexpected field promotion, but the position of commander under Tyrranis seemed to be dubious at best and definitely not a guarantee of honor and long life. Perhaps he had merely postponed the inevitable.

Leaving the main body of his army camped on the banks of the Bendwater, General Tyrranis and his men rode late into the night through mud and darkness, following the river until they were ready to drop. He allowed them only a short rest before he pushed them on again at dawn. By noon, they had reached a newly paved road called the Tartian Way, one of the roads that united Chadar -and Sarcithia. The Tartian Way crossed the Bendwater River, then followed it south and west. The road eventually ended in Sar Nitina’s huge public square in front of the governor’s palace and the barracks of the XIIth Legion.

Sar Nitina was a river port nearly as big as Actigorium, a popular stopping place for pilgrims, and a city of artisans.

While Actigorium was a large agricultural center, Sar Nitina was a resort town catering to tourists, wealthy visitors, and a large stream of pilgrims who came through from all parts of the empire on their way to visit shrines throughout the south.

When the Chadarian governor arrived at the river port city in the afternoon two days later, Governor Antonine met him at the gates of his small but elegant palace. He noted with a qualm the soldiers’ battle armor, their full complement of weapons, and the look of cold determination on Tyrranis’s face, but he put on a pleased expression and offered them his hospitality. The knowledge that he himself had a full legion at his beck and call gave him a greater feeling of confidence and generosity, even in the face of an unexpected visit from the infamous General Tyrranis.

The two governors retired to the palace, to a large, airy garden room that Antonine had had built for the pleasure of his numerous mistresses. Servants brought cooled wine, sweet cakes, and fruit for the two men and discreetly retired. Antonine and Tyrranis settled themselves comfortably in a pair of couches to talk and sample the fine wine.

Yet neither of them relaxed. They had never met one another before, and their characters were too different to be compatible. They spent the first part of their visit taking each other’s measure.

Tyrranis wasn’t impressed by what he saw in Antonine.

The young governor hadn’t won his position through ability or service; it had been given to him, along with plenty of intelligent secretaries, aides, and legion officers to help him run the prosperous, peaceful country. The lack of any real effort in his life showed in Antonine’s every indolent movement, in his lazy gaze, and in the pudgy roundness of his body. He was a handsome young man, in a soft way, with wavy blond hair, nondescript blue eyes, full lips, and broad, uncalloused hands. Tyrranis thought to himself that Antonine’s hands probably spent more time fondling women than handling a sword.

He drowned out his contempt with friendly politeness and graciously accepted another glass of wine.

“It is such a pleasure to meet you at last,” Antonine was saying between bites on a small sugared cake. “But I must admit I was surprised to see you.” He lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

Tyrranis hooded his reptilian eyes under half-closed lids. “You have heard of the Clan?” he asked mildly.

Antonine looked puzzled. “The Clan? Hmmm . . . Oh, you mean that disreputable pack of thieves and herdsmen that hide up in the Bloodiron Hills?” He shrugged. “What do they have to do with a provincial governor leaving his capital and province for an unannounced visit to Sar Nitina?” “They have been causing some trouble,” Tyrranis replied, trying not to be irritated by Antonine’s question or his bored tone.

“They have banded together and are fleeing Chadar.”

“Banded together? Indeed. How inconvenient.” The full meaning of Tyrranis’s words suddenly occurred to Antonine, and he blinked several times before he asked in mild alarm, “Have they caused many problems?”

Tyrranis nodded. “They are heavily armed and very dangerous.” He decided not to mention Valorian’s magic until he had to, for fear of terrifying Antonine out of his ineffectual wits. He would merely stir up the young man’s sense of duty. “They pillaged and burned their way down the length of Chadar.”

His cake forgotten, Antonine straightened in his seat and asked suspiciously, “And where are these renegades now?”

The Chadarian general sighed sadly, steepled his fingers, and answered, “They crossed into Sarcithia two days ago.”

“What?” Antonine lifted his chin and sat straighter. “And you did nothing to stop them?”

Tyrranis didn’t move. “I was unable to be with my men when they chased the Clan to the Bendwater River. The commander who let them escape has been dealt with, but by law, I could not simply charge my troops into your province after those outlaws.”

“No. No, of course not.” Antonine shook his head in agitation “Where are these clanspeople going?”

“We believe to Wolfeared Pass and the Ramtharin Plains.”

The young man’s face cleared. “Oh! Well, that changes things. If they want to go to the other side of the Darkhorns and starve on those empty plains, let them.” He sat back, relieved, and helped himself to another cake.

General Tyrranis waited until the cake was eaten, then stared thoughtfully at the ceiling and said, “Unless, of course, they decide to stay in Sarcithia and raid your villages and farms, or rob caravans and travelers.”

The Sarcithian governor paled. “They wouldn’t dare do that with the Twelfth Legion here,” he cried. “That would be folly.”

“Whoever said clanspeople were intelligent? As you said, they are thieves. Greedy, violent thieves.” Tyrranis slowly leaned forward to stare unblinkingly at the younger man. “And what if they do escape the Tarnish Empire? Do you want to be the one who explains to the emperor why you refused to help me capture these outlaws who are endangering the peace and security of two of his most profitable provinces?”

Antonine sagged back on his seat and was silent for a long time while he tried to think of ways to squirm out of this onerous duty. He wanted no part of chasing a pack of bloodthirsty barbarians around the countryside. Annoyingly he could think of no way to get out of it that would leave his public image intact. Tyrranis was right: They had to bring these people to heel. However, Antonine knew he couldn’t simply let the Chadarian general march freely through Sarcithia with such a large force. Nor, Antonine swore angrily to himself, was he going to allow Tyrranis to take any part of the Twelfth Legion without him.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, General Tyrranis,” he said at last, trying not to be surly. “If you wish to accompany me, we will take the Twelfth Legion. They will have no trouble dealing with these brigands.”

Pleased, General Tyrranis ignored the insult. His mouth tightened into an unpleasant smile, and his eyes glittered like a predator’s. “That will do,” he murmured, as if to himself.

Antonine looked away, stifling a shudder at the brutal light he saw in Tyrranis’s face. “Have you a plan of action in mind?” he asked sarcastically. He had no use for tactical maneuvers, but knowing Tyrranis’s past reputation in war, the general had probably planned his strategy even before he arrived in Sar Nitina.

“Of course,” the general replied coldly. “We send a fast messenger to my men waiting on the Bendwater. They will force-march south to meet us at the Argent River near Wolfeared Pass. The Clan travels on the mountain paths, so we should easily reach the trail to the pass before they do and have time to arrange a small welcome for them.”

Antonine didn’t bother to argue, criticize, or debate the general’s plan. “So be it,” he said resignedly, and he sent for General Sarjas, the commander of the XIIth Legion.

By early evening, the legion was on the march.