‘I understand the Blacks have marched off,’ he said weakly.
‘So it would seem,’ Greymane rumbled.
‘Then we will be attacking?’ Devaleth asked.
‘Not quite yet…’ Greymane answered, his shaded gaze on the far shore.
‘Oh?’
‘It could be a ploy,’ Rillish explained. ‘A fake withdrawal to draw us into committing ourselves. The remaining troops would fall back, then the Moranth would counterattack, catching us exposed.’
Devaleth knew she was no strategist, but she was dubious. ‘Sounds very risky.’
The High Fist was nodding his agreement. ‘Yes. And unlikely — but best be sure.’ He looked to the Adjunct. ‘Kyle, take some scouts north, cross the river, and follow them till nightfall.’
Devaleth felt a stab of empathetic pain for Fist Rillish: strictly speaking, the Adjunct was not currently in the hierarchy of command. Greymane should have addressed the Fist. Yet the nobleman’s taut strained face revealed nothing. Kyle invited the Fist to accompany him, saying, ‘Perhaps you can recommend some names…’ Kyle at least seemed aware of the awkwardness.
The High Fist watched the two leave, his mouth turning sour once more, and ducked back into the tent. Devaleth was left alone to ponder the news, and she wondered whether this was the opportunity Greymane had been waiting for, or just another false hope. The gods knew some relief was desperately needed. Fist Shul remained bogged down with the rest of the invasion force, stymied by landslides, floods, downpours and two Skolati uprisings. It seemed the supplies the High Fist had counted on sat rotting in the rain and snow along some nameless track.
*
Around noon, while Suth dozed, someone came to camp. He thought he heard his name mentioned, then someone shook him. He sat up, blinking in the harsh light, to see Captain Betteries scowling down at him the way someone might regard a dog turd he’d just stepped in. Suth saluted.
The captain returned the salute; he was bareheaded, his red hair a mess. His eyes were bruised, and he wore only a dirty linen shirt hanging down over wool trousers. ‘You Suth?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘You can scout?’
Suth thought about saying no, then decided he’d probably already been volunteered for whatever it was so nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Come with me.’
Suth dragged himself upright, grabbed his armour. ‘Leave that,’ Betteries ordered. Shrugging, Suth complied.
Sergeant Goss eased forward. ‘I’ll go, sir.’
‘No, not you. Just the young bloods.’ The sergeant’s face clouded, but he said nothing. ‘Let’s go, trooper.’ Goss saluted and the captain acknowledged it. ‘Sorry, Goss.’
The captain collected three others, two squat Wickan plainsmen and a tall girl recruit, coarse-featured, wearing thick leathers, with a wild tangled mane of hair tied off with beads, bits of ribbon and leather braces. ‘Barghast,’ one of the Wickans mouthed to Suth.
The Adjunct was waiting for them. He wore plain leathers. Tall moccasins climbed all the way to his knees. His sword was sheathed high under his shoulder, wrapped in leather. Suth had seen a good deal of the young man, but he was struck anew by how rangy the fellow was, squat but long-limbed, his face seemingly brutal with its long moustache and broad heavy chin. He motioned to piled equipment. ‘Kit yourselves out.’
Suth picked up a shoulder bag and found a stash of food. A strip of smoked meat went straight into his mouth while he searched through the rest. Belted long-knives went to his waist, a bow and bag of arrows on his back.
The Adjunct spoke while they readied themselves. ‘We’ll head north then cross the river. We’re to shadow the Moranth. If you’re spotted, cut away — no leading back to anyone.’ All three nodded, stuffing their mouths. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
They jogged off. The Adjunct led them east at first, off behind a hillock until out of sight of the far shore, then cut north. Suth was wincing for the first few leagues: gods he was weak! But then his legs loosened up and he found his rhythm.
The Barghast girl jogged along beside him. ‘You are Dal Hon?’ she asked, grinning.
‘Yes.’
‘They say you are good warriors, you Dal Hon. We must fight sometime.’
Fight? Ahh — fight. He eyed her sidelong: heavier than he usually liked, but that was a promising grin. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tolat, of the Yellow Clay clan.’
‘Suth.’ He flicked his head to the two Wickans following, their eyes on the western skyline. ‘What about those two?’
‘Them?’ Tolat shook her head. Her tangled mane swung in the wind. ‘Too much like my brothers. But you… you are different. I like different.’
Wonderful. Some Barghast gal out to taste the world. Well… who was he to complain? The same could be said of him. ‘Any time you want lessons, you just let me know.’
She let out a very unladylike braying laugh and punched his arm. ‘Ha! I knew I would like you!’
‘Quiet back there,’ breathed the Adjunct.
Tolat made a face, but Suth did not. He remembered the solid iron grapnels clutching the stern of the Blue war galley, and the Adjunct swinging, severing each cleanly. And on the bridge, shields parted like cloth by that bright blade wrapped now in leather. He also recalled overhearing Goss mutter something while eyeing the young man: ‘Damned Crimson Guard,’ he’d said, as if it were a curse.
Crimson Guard? Some here claimed seeing them at the Battle of the Crossroads, where the new Emperor was victorious, but Suth wasn’t sure he credited stories like that. Surely they were long gone by now… In any case, he was fully prepared to follow this one’s orders.
Mid-morning they crossed the river. The Wickan youths held their bows and arrow bags high out of the water as they half drifted, half paddled across. Tolat and Suth followed suit. On the far shore they ran anew, now picking up the pace, eating as they went.
Night fell and still they hadn’t caught sight of the Moranth column. They’d found the main west trader road and seen signs of a large force’s passing; but still the Adjunct wanted confirmation, and so he pressed on into the dusk. Even the two Wickans, Loi and Newhorse, grimaced their pain when he’d signed for them to start off west anew.
Suth was beyond grimacing: his chest burned as if aflame, his legs were numb dead weights, even his vision swam. All his gods forgive him. Not one decent meal in weeks and now this? Neethal Looru — the god that comes in the night whom no one has seen. Take me away from this!
Tolat cuffed Suth on the back, grinning. ‘Come now, Dal Hon. Show me what you can do!’
He was beginning to dislike that grin.
It was near the middle of the night before they sighted the Moranth. The reason became instantly obvious as they saw that the damned Blacks hadn’t stopped. They obviously intended to march through till dawn and then probably through the next day as well — otherwise why bother stealing the night march? They meant to get as much room between themselves and Greymane’s forces as they possibly could.
Suth and his fellow scouts were crouched in the dark amid the brittle brown stalks of a harvested field. Snow lay in patches. The frozen ground numbed Suth’s hands. The Adjunct gestured a withdrawal back behind the ridge of the hill.
Inside a crude shack, a harvest shelter, they sat together, watching the darkened surrounding fields. ‘They aren’t stopping,’ the Adjunct said, blowing on his hands. No one disagreed. ‘We’ll rest here, then return.’
‘I’d rather rest in that farmstead we passed,’ Newhorse said.
‘No — no distractions.’
Suth sympathized completely with Newhorse. In this run, more than a full day’s march for any army, they’d come across occupied farmsteads, corralled cattle, a herd of sheep, even orchards. No scorching tactics of withdrawal and burn here. This country was rich and unspoiled.
