Orjin turned away. It was just as he’d suspected. Facing away into the night, so very impressed by their damned tenacity, he said, ‘Hood take those Quon merchants. They meant every word they said, didn’t they?’
‘I’m so very sorry …’
He raised a placating hand. ‘It’s all right. I understand.’ Turning, he faced the woman, and regarded her for some time before saying, slowly, ‘The choice isn’t ours, then. It’s yours.’ He cocked a brow. ‘What will you do … prevost?’
In one fluid motion the woman drew her sword and dropped to one knee before him, blade proffered in both hands. ‘I say damn them to Hood’s deepest abyss.’
Orjin took hold of her shoulders and raised her up. ‘You realize you will be declared outlaw as well?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t return without you. I’ll be arrested. Perhaps we should break out across Seti lands after all.’ She offered a fey laugh. ‘There’re plenty of wars in the east.’
He shook his head. ‘We’ll settle this here. One way or another.’ He beckoned her back to the campfire. ‘We’ll just have to find a way out of this knot, hey?’
The furious debating at the fire died down as they returned. Orhan, Terath and Yune peered up, expectant, and Orjin eyed each in turn, then sighed. ‘We run. Prevost Jeral here wishes to stay with us and I say yes.’ He glanced to her, considering. ‘However, perhaps you should offer the choice to your troops: stay or try to break through to the north, re-join Purge forces.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll speak to them.’
‘Welcome, Jeral,’ Terath said. ‘But the problem remains – run where? There’s nowhere to run to.’
Orjin waved the objection aside. ‘We’ll just have to stay alive long enough to find an answer to that.’
Terath was obviously not satisfied but chose not to argue any further. Orhan slapped his leg and laughed. ‘We will lead them on such a chase, hey?’
Orjin laughed as well and passing soldiers smiled to one another, their mood brightening. Jeral smiled also; the gift of leadership – this man had it. She leaned to him, saying, ‘I will speak to my sergeants,’ and he nodded her off.
Orhan rose, quite stiffly. ‘I will rest for the morrow.’
Terath stood, appeared about to say more, but reconsidered, shaking her head, and marched off into the dark.
Orjin lowered himself to the ground before the fire. The Dal Hon shaman, Yune, regarded him steadily from across the flames. Orjin cocked a brow. ‘Yes?’
The elder sighed and poked anew at the fire. ‘I will work to locate our beaters as before, but now they are all about. I won’t be able to see them all.’
‘Thanks for the warning. Do your best.’ The old shaman nodded, a touch glumly, and returned to studying the fire. Orjin reflected that their state was indeed dire if this tough old campaigner was showing his concern. ‘We’ll get out of this – don’t you worry.’ The Dal Hon didn’t answer, and Orjin rose to limp to his bedding.
* * *
A young girl ran across the grassed savanna of northern Dal Hon at night. The bright moon lit the landscape in a silver monochrome. She wore a simple slave’s shift and her long dark hair coursed behind her. She gasped and stumbled, nearly spent, peered back with wild wide eyes, then pushed onward once again.
Eventually, staggering and panting, she halted. Tears smeared her dirty cheeks and she sobbed, gesturing into the empty night. The air ahead seemed to brighten as a light like that of the moon began to shimmer there.
A snarled ‘No!’ sounded from the night and the girl yelped, jumping. The brightening snapped away.
The thick grasses wavered all round her, lashing and writhing, and a knot of them twisted about her legs, yanking her from her feet.
The tall swaths of grasses parted, revealing a handsome Dal Hon woman, her thick black hair bunched in woven braids. Bright silk ribbons held gold coins, shells and precious stones tied among the braids; vest and trousers were of untanned hide. She thrust an arm forward and the grasses shifted to lash the girl’s hands behind her back.
Crouching, the woman set to starting a fire. ‘Who sent you?’ she asked as she worked.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ the girl gasped. ‘I … I am just a slave.’
The woman barked a laugh. ‘A slave who is a talent of Thyr? Unlikely.’ Once a small fire of grass was alight, she rose and disappeared into the dark. Alone, the girl let her head fall back, and cursed under her breath.
A short time later the woman returned, a load of dead branches in her arms. These she set down next to the diminishing fire. ‘Regardless,’ she suddenly began again, ‘whoever it was is cruel and thoughtless – sending a child to spy among the tribes. Think about that.’
‘I am just a—’
Snarling again, the woman snapped a hand and the grasses lashed themselves across the girl’s mouth. ‘I am not interested in your lies,’ the woman ground out. ‘I want only the truth. And the fire will reveal it – if only in your cracked and whitened bones.’
Once the fire became high enough the woman dragged the girl towards it until her bare feet touched its edge. The girl struggled, but the thick grasses roped her from her neck to her ankles. ‘Who sent you!’ the woman yelled and gestured again, pushing the soles of her captive’s feet up against the embers.
The girl screamed behind the gag of twisted grass and passed out.
When she came to, blinking, she saw the woman sitting cross-legged in the flickering light of the fire, a set of thin slats, or cards, arrayed on the ground before her. Seeing her awake, the woman indicated the cards. ‘Not what I was expecting. I assumed the Queen of Life would be high – involved. But she is in the far left arcade, detached.’ She tapped the deck of remaining cards to her lips. ‘You do not work for the Enchantress.’
‘I don’t work … for anyone,’ the girl murmured. ‘I’m just … a slave …’
The woman sighed and shook her head. She rose, took hold of the girl again, and thrust her feet into the fire once more. ‘Who do you work for?’ she shouted.
The girl screamed anew until her voice cracked and then she mewled, pleading wordlessly, sobbing, until unconsciousness took her again.
When she awoke the second time she found the woman, a Dal Hon witch, seated again, the wooden slats arrayed before her anew. The woman picked up a card and held it up to her. ‘This one keeps emerging. Over and over again, with each reading. Do you know which one it is?’
The girl just shook her head, her hair matted to her face and head with sweat and dirt.
‘The new one,’ the witch told her. ‘This meddler. Shadow – or Shadow House, as some would have it.’ She regarded the girl narrowly. ‘What is Shadow to you?’
The girl looked to the night sky, tears running from the corners of her eyes. ‘He pays,’ she finally stammered, her voice a thin whisper. ‘Pays for information.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘Anything. Everything.’
The witch stood over the girl. ‘Such as? What have you found? Anything?’
But the girl continued to look up, a smile slowly growing on her lips.
The woman spun, scanning the starry sky. ‘Someone is coming.’ She eyed the girl. ‘How could anyone have found you so quickly?’
The girl just smiled, and with a growl the woman gestured again, and the twisted grass ropes tightened round the girl’s neck. She gagged, thrashing, her face darkening.
The fire burst into a gyre of rising embers and flaming branches that flew, swirling, to engulf the woman, who roared her rage, ducking, and covering her face.
When the searing heat had passed she bashed her hands over her hair and leathers to put out any fires, then glared about. She stood in a widening circle of scorched ground, the grasses burning in a ring around her – alone. She pressed her fists to her chin and screamed her rage.