“Keep walking,” he said.
“I thought I was walking.”
“It’s the mists.” He sounded tired.
There was a muffled sob from ahead. “Dagii?” Ekhaas called.
“It’s nothing.” His voice was thick.
“Nothing?” Keraal now. Ekhaas looked over her shoulder. His face was drawn and wracked with guilt. “My clan is dead. I led them to their destruction. You know my grief, Dagii. Tell me yours.”
“No, I can’t. I… can’t.” Dagii struggled. “I-”
“Fight it,” Chetiin murmured like a distant echo. “You must fight it.”
Ekhaas ground her teeth together and dragged up a song from inside her. There was magic in it, but not the focused magic of a spell. Rather it was a simple magic, just as it was a simple song, the kind of tune heard in every dar drinking hall-or the drinking halls of any other race for that matter. Into it she poured all of the bawdy joy that she could, singing it as loud as she dared.
“Ahhh, when I was a baby, my mother gave me suck.
She changed my clothes and wiped my nose and tied my hair for luck.
But now that I’m a warrior, I hold other things more dear.
I love my sword, I love my song, but most I love my beer!”
She heard Keraal snort in amusement. She squeezed his hand and Chetiin’s. “Sing!” she said, and launched into the chorus.
“Beer! I love my beer! Beer I love! I love my beer! Be-eer-eer-beer!”
Slowly and dirge-like at first, the men joined in, but their song gained strength until even Dagii sang “Be-eer-eer-beer” with an offkey lustiness. By the time she launched into the second verse, their joined hands were swinging back and forth in time to the song.
“When I was a child, my father gave me sticks.
He told me they were spears and blades and taught me many tricks.
But now that I’m a warrior, I keep my weapons near.
I have my sword, I have my shield, I also have my beer!
Beer! I have my beer-”
In no story that Ekhaas had ever told or even heard had the heroes crept up on their enemy while simultaneously singing a drinking song. In fact, she was fairly confident that no duur’kala had ever heard of such a thing. There was no dignity to it. There was precious little stealth. If there had been elves lurking in the mist-though she couldn’t imagine that they would linger here-they probably would have dismissed the whole spectacle as an illusion too odd to be believed.
And yet it was ridiculously fun. By the time Marrow came to a halt and huffed at them in warning, they were all laughing softly, the terrors of the mist banished. Up ahead, the mists were thinning and honest moonlight filtering through. Marrow sat down on her haunches and growled at them. Keraal, wiping tears out of his eyes, choked, “Yes, mother! As you say, mother!”
Chetiin chuckled. Marrow actually looked bewildered.
Dagii drew a deep breath, steadying himself. “Move to the side,” he said, gesturing. “If the elves come this way frequently, they may have sentries posted.”
They followed him, each of them struggling to suppress the lingering humor of the song that had seen them through the mists. Ekhaas gulped lungfuls of air, pride warming her belly. Dagii caught her eye and gave her a thin smile that was as rewarding as gold.
As they emerged from the mists, she could feel the wrongness of the Mournland that Marrow, through Chetiin, had tried to describe. The air felt too thin, the moonlight too harsh. The stars didn’t twinkle but instead seemed hard as ice. There was a smell in the air that reminded her of a lightning strike or certain powders burned in an alchemist’s furnace. Even the land had changed-somehow they stood just below the rocky brow of a steep slope, though she was certain that they hadn’t climbed anything more than a gentle grade. Looking back along the brow, she could see a gap, probably the start of a way down the other side and likely the way that the elves had gone.
The boulders lining the brow of the slope made climbing easy, but Chetiin still reached the top before any of them. Staying low to avoid presenting a betraying silhouette, he stuck his head up over the edge, froze for an instant, then ducked back down, his eyes very wide. With one hand, he waved them all forward. With the other, he gestured for absolute silence.
Dagii reached the edge next. Ekhaas watched his ears stand before falling back flat against his head. Then she was at the edge, too, and peering between two boulders down into another wide valley — at a camp that stretched from one side of the valley to the other. Tents made a small town. Horses picketed together at the center of the camp made a herd that could have raised a noise like thunder if they’d been running. Next to the picketed horses stood a pavilion flying a long swallow-tailed banner with a pattern of stars. There was activity at the pavilion. The survivors of the attack on Tii’ator were likely reporting their defeat. Ekhaas tried to guess at how many elves moved beneath the harsh moonlight and how many more might be asleep in those tents. Far more than the four or five warbands Tariic had anticipated in his rousing speech in Khaar Mbar’ost.
Dagii touched Ekhaas’s hand and motioned for her to go back. All of them slipped carefully to the ground and joined Marrow back at the edge of the mists.
“Maabet!” cursed Keraal. “That’s a full Valaes Tairn warclan. They’re hiding an entire warclan in the Mournland! How did they get them all through the mist?”
“I don’t know,” Dagii said tightly, “but they must have some trick. How many do you think there are?”
“Three hundred,” said Keraal at the same moment as Ekhaas and Chetiin said, “Four hundred.”
Dagii nodded. “We’ll assume the worst. Four hundred Valaes Tairn warriors. Based on our experience tonight, enough to crush our troops without lathering their horses.”
“What do we do?” asked Ekhaas.
“We laugh our way back through the mists,” Dagii told her in tones that brooked no laughter whatsoever. “We return to Tii’ator, dispatch all of our messenger falcons in the hope that at least one makes it to Khaar Mbar’ost, then we run back to the main army, make a stand outside Zarrthec, and hope we can slow them down.”
Keraal grunted agreement. Chetiin nodded. Ekhaas looked at all three of them. “Slow them down? If they get through us, they won’t have far to go to reach Zarrthec.”
Dagii bared his teeth. “They’re not interested in Zarrthec, Ekhaas. They didn’t bring that many warriors to attack a village, and if they wanted to harry the countryside they would be doing it already instead of hiding here. A force of that strength is meant for a big target. They’re planning an attack on Rhukaan Draal.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
27 Sypheros
"Safe,” said Aruget and led Ashi and Vounn across a small square. Krakuul watched their rear. Ashi could have told Aruget the square was clear of assassins, assailants, thugs, thieves, or any other danger. Darkness was falling, but there was still enough light for her to see the streets of Rhukaan Draal. The houses that lined the streets here were built of stone with high, windowless outer walls that could have seen off a casual attack. It was as wealthy and peaceful an area as the city could boast-a pleasant place for a dinner party, a terrible place for an ambush. She scowled at Aruget’s back.
Vounn poked her in the ribs. Ashi forced her face to return to neutrality and wondered what Krakuul thought of Aruget’s new caution. She hoped he was as frustrated as she was. The lump at the back of her skull, two days old now but still tender, throbbed as if to torment her.
Down the street, guards stood before a door marked with the crest of House Cannith. A warforged, metal body swathed in a gown stiff with intricate embroidery, appeared from inside the doorway. “Lady Seneschal Vounn, Lady Ashi, welcome to Cannith enclave.”
In marked contrast to a mask-like face and green glass eyes, the warforged’s voice was lively, warm, and surprisingly delicate. Even more than the gown, the voice and a certain way of moving made Ashi think instinctively of the warforged as a woman in spite of her muscular frame and bald head. The effect was disconcerting, and she had to force herself to nod when the warforged offered a graceful curtsy.