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.