And judging from the old man’s stinging rebukes and even saltier language, the outland general was rapidly loosing his patience with it all.
To Prince Jatal’s disgust the traditional scheming and internecine jockeying that was the curse of the clans of the Adwami began even as the army took its first steps into the maze of bone-dry canyons and buttes: the Saar would not ride alongside the Awamir; the Salil refused its posting and instead filed up next to the Vehajarwi; while he, it had to be admitted, nearly trampled several minor families as he manoeuvred his forces to claim the head of the main column. Of course, as the largest of the contingents present, such placement was his by right in any case.
The Warleader and his mercenary army, some two thousand strong, rode as well. Such was the first of the foreigner’s requirements, and fulfilled readily enough as the Adwami counted their wealth in horses — all held against restitution from his twentieth share, of course. The infantry column marked the main body of the army. The mounted noble Adwami contingents surrounded this, riding dispersed, scouting and screening.
Jatal and his fifty loyal retainer knights had the van. As they walked their mounts through the stony valleys and washes — sodden at night but bone dry by midday — representatives of the various families joined him under pretexts of social calls and honouring distant blood-ties. Ganell was of course the first, thundering up on his huge black stallion. The man was nursing a blistering headache which did his notorious temper no favours.
‘I cannot believe these Saar fools are with us!’ he announced, wincing, and holding up a fold of his robes to shade his head.
‘The Warleader welcomes all who would contribute.’
The man’s mouth worked behind his great full beard. ‘Well … I’d best not catch sight of them after the fighting is done, I swear to that by the Demon-King!’
True to the lessons of the many tutors his father had inflicted upon him, Jatal decided to remain the diplomat. ‘We shall see if they honour their commitments.’
‘Ha! That will be a first. Well … I’ll be there to urge them along with the flat of my blade. I swear to that as well!’ And he kicked his mount onward. ‘Fare thee well, O great Prince!’ he laughed as he rode off.
Representatives of Lesser families came and went, joining him at the van for a time. Families his had allied with during various vendettas and feuds of the past. All pledged their support against the certain treachery to come. Jatal thanked them and pledged his own of course, as honour required, but inwardly he could only sigh as he imagined the very same assurances being offered to Sher’ Tal, Horsemaster of the Saar, or Princess Andanii.
As the day waned he became impatient with the army’s slow progress — so contrary to their lofty aim of a lightning-quick raid. How typical of any concerted effort from the Adwami! When the order went out from the Warleader for a cease to the day’s ride, Jatal could contain himself no longer. He turned to Gorot, his grizzled veteran master-at-arms. ‘I will scout ahead,’ he said, and kicked his mount onward even as the first objections sounded from the man.
He rode hard at first in order to put as much room as possible between himself and the encampment with its great swarm of Adwami warriors. As evening came he continued at a more leisurely pace. The route he chose was one of the most direct; it had no doubt already been scouted by the foremost outriders, but that was no concern. The excuse alone was enough to quit the column with its dust and endless bickering and childish rivalries and ages-old grudges. These last months the lurid emerald arc of the Scimitar brightening across the sky had made such night travel far less of a danger for horse and rider. However, to Jatal’s mind the benefit of the greater light was offset by the confusing twin shadows as the moon’s silver light warred with the Scimitar’s jade. He eventually gave up and found a narrow gully in which to throw down his blankets and hobble his mount. He rolled up in the blankets and went to sleep.
In the morning he awoke to an enormous passing of gas from someone. He pulled down his blanket, blinking in the light, to see the hulking shape of the Warleader’s second, Scarza, sitting opposite. The man had a cactus leaf in one hand and had frozen in the act of eating it.
‘Sorry,’ the fellow said, and took a bite of the thorny green bud. ‘Strange diet lately.’
‘They say eating charcoal helps,’ Jatal offered.
The man raised one tangled bushy brow. ‘Really? Chewing on a burnt stick? You’re having me on.’
‘Not at all. Our old healers swear by it.’
‘Old healers? Why, the force of my eruptions alone would slay them.’
Jatal cocked his head, considering. ‘Well … I’ll just have to take your word for that.’
‘You are wise to do so.’
Surprising himself, Jatal found that he was warming to this hulking lieutenant. ‘The Warleader sent you after me?’
‘Yes. He is understandably concerned regarding the safety of a prince of the Hafinaj.’
Sitting up, Jatal rested his arms on his knees. ‘Let me tell you about the so-called princes of the Hafinaj …’ He stirred the embers of the fire. ‘First, there are over twenty of us. Sons of wives and of concubines. I am nearly the youngest. Among all the Adwami, princes number as many, and are as common as, grains of sand.’
Scarza grunted his understanding, appearing even more broad and stump-like sitting hunched as he was. ‘Good. Then you won’t be expecting me to make you tea or any damned thing like that.’
Jatal grinned and blew on the fire. ‘No. I prefer to prepare my own tea — just as I like it. And you?’ He studied the fellow: his dark cast, the wide face, prominent canines — almost like tusks — heavy brows and thick pelt-like brown hair. ‘You are of the Trell, or legendary Thelomen kind?’
‘Legendary here only, Prince. As I understand, your ancestors killed them all.’
Jatal set his small bronze pot on the fire. ‘The Demon-King was responsible for that. And the gods dealt with him for it.’
‘Cursed to wander eternally.’
‘Yes. And his kingdom swallowed in a rain of fire.’
Scarza eased himself down further into the sands. ‘I don’t know … wandering eternally doesn’t sound like much of a punishment to me.’ And he laid an arm over his eyes.
Jatal fixed his tea and chewed on a stale flatbread. After his tea he cleaned the tiny thimble-cup and went to see to his toilet. Returning to their camp it occurred to him that the only horse present was his, Ash, named for his colour. Having readied the mount for the day’s ride he stood over the apparently sleeping half-breed. ‘Scarza … you have no horse?’
‘No.’
‘Then … how do you propose to keep up?’
‘I can keep up with any horse over the day. Especially in country as rough as this.’
‘So … I should simply go on ahead?’
Arm still over his eyes the half-giant answered: ‘Aye. I’ll find you. And must I point out just how easy it is to spot you, mister not so discreet at scouting. What with you riding a horse and all.’
Jatal smiled. ‘If I wished to go on more circumspectly, I could simply send him back.’
Scarza moved his arm to blink up, puzzled. ‘Send him back? How?’
‘I would merely tell Ash to return to his friends and relatives among the Hafinaj.’
Scarza eyed the horse, impressed. ‘Truly? What talented animals. Myself, I’ve never seen their use. Eat far too much, as, now that I think of it, has been said of me.’
Jatal mounted, chuckling. He nodded his farewell. ‘Until later, then.’
‘Yes. Until later, Jatal, prince of the Hafinaj.’
The canyon lands took all of the next day to cross. Swift scouts of various families came and went, saluting him. Not one subject of the Thaumaturgs, guard or picket, was evident among the draws and cliffs. As Jatal expected. For these subjects were farmers all, none rich enough to own a horse, even if their Thaumaturg masters allowed it. Late in the day he crested a shallow rise to look down on the vista of the broad plateau of channelled rivers and farmlands of the southern Thaumaturg lands. A land, if poor in portable riches, at least rich in population and fertility. To the north clouds gathered and the slanting darkness spoke of rain approaching.