lightning flared through the black clouds. The storm appeared to boil up out of thin air, roiling westward from a clearly defined line, sheets of gray rain slanting down from their base to the plains below. More lightning lit the storm’s depths, the darkness highlighted in bluish whites, greens, and dirty yellows, like old bruises.
“The storm is not an omen,” Quotl lied. “The gods are troubled, but it forms to the west, and moves away from us, leaving the Riders untouched.”
Tammaric nodded and relaxed slightly, the others around them doing the same. Only Azuka frowned at this pronouncement, and Quotl shot him a warning glare to keep him silent.
“Then we will camp here until the supplies have arrived,” the clan chief announced. “Echema, select two Riders and find Clan Chief Corranu. Tell him of our location and the rest of Oraju’s plans. And warn him of Quotl’s Seeing of the Wraith army’s location.”
Echema nodded and spun his gaezel, pointing to two others before all three charged out after the scouts who’d departed earlier.
Tammaric’s gaze swept over the rest. “Set up patrols and order the Riders into training after they’ve had a chance to feed and care for their gaezels. I want everyone here gathered in my tent this evening, including you, Quotl.”
The Riders dispersed, Tammaric retreating to where his tent had nearly been finished and ducking through the outer flap. Riders and aides were toting a few chests, pillows, and other assorted amenities in through the two side entrances. Quotl heard the clan chief barking orders, but turned away, finally allowing himself to dismount with a wince and groan as he twisted and bent, trying to release the tension in his back and shoulders.
Azuka stepped forward as one of the Riders led Quotl’s mount away for grooming, Quotl’s bags left in the grass beside him.
“You lied about the storm,” Azuka accused, although he kept his voice low.
“He and the others needed reassurance, not discouragement. And the truth of the storm cannot be changed.” When Azuka grunted, Quotl pierced him with a glare. “Do you know the truth of the storm, Azuka? Do you know what it means?”
The shaman suddenly looked uncertain. “It means the gods are angry, that the winds are troubled, and it bodes ill for the battle to come.”
“Ha! It bodes ill for the battle to come because it tells us that we are no longer beneath the protection of the Summer Tree. The Wraiths and their army will be at full strength when we finally meet. And none of us can do anything about it.” He shifted his glare toward the storm. “I will warn Tarramic and the others at the meeting, but for now they need to relax as they plan and prepare if we are to have any chance of stopping the Wraith army.” And giving the Shadowed One the chance to find and halt the attack on the Summer Tree.
He suddenly realized what the small seed represented, and one of the many tensions in his shoulders relaxed.
The Shadowed One had made it past the Wraith army, then. Good.
“Head shaman?”
He glanced toward Azuka. “What?”
“You grunted and smiled.”
Quotl waved his hand. “It was nothing. Have the shamans completed the ritual?”
“Yes.”
“Have them gather in the ritual tent as soon as it is erected. I want to meet with them before the clan chief calls me into his Gathering.”
“Clear the table,” Tarramic ordered.
As the aides-all young Riders or those who were training to become Riders-moved forward to remove the platters of food, used plates, and trays, the clan chief motioned toward Quotl.
Setting aside his pipe and glaring at one of the aides who’d moved forward to remove it until the youth backed off, Quotl pulled the scepter of his office from his lap and stood, starting a chant in the ancient tongue as he began pacing the confines of the room. It was the largest chamber in the clan chief’s tent, the table surrounded by eleven dwarren Riders, all of them of significant families within the clan and the structure of the Riders. Three more aides remained behind as the last of the dinner was removed. Quotl shook the scepter along the four sacred lines to signify the gods of the Four Winds and closed off the chamber by arranging a pattern of feathers, grass, and a scattering of grain at the main entrance, then lit the brazier that hung from the center of the tent, tossing a few herbs and scented leaves onto the flames as he did so to summon Ilacqua.
Then he turned to Tarramic. “The Four Winds protect us, and Ilacqua guides our words.”
Tarramic nodded and motioned immediately to two of the aides as Quotl returned to his seat. “The map of Painted Sands. And the stones.”
One aide pulled the roll of leather from a trunk set off to one side, while the other set a small, flat, wooden box at Tarramic’s right side, removing the lid to reveal an array of compartments, each containing polished colored stone. The map was rolled out and secured using four heavy chunks of onyx at each of the rounded corners.
Everyone leaned forward to peer at the map. The lands of Painted Sands were worked into the leather, the straight line of the Andagua River cutting diagonally across the bottom left corner and stained a faint blue. Entrances to the warrens were marked with rounded impressions, the land scattered with three-lined marks that looked like tufts of grass. Unusual features of the grasslands were marked as well, including a jagged cut of land to the east called the Break that marked a sudden change in the landscape, grasses giving way to the red rock and sands that gave the clan its name. The cliffs were nothing in comparison to the Cut that bordered Thousand Springs Clan lands, not even half as high nor as long, but in terms of strategic land formations it was practically all that the dwarren had to work with. It ran for a significant distance, the eastern plains rising toward its base in a gentle curved slope that steepened until it hit the striated rock of the cliff face. Sometime in the distant past, a portion of the cliffs had given way, collapsing them into the plains beyond, creating a natural ramp to the upper plains to the west, where Tarramic and the Thousand Springs Clan now camped, although still two days distant.
Tarramic pointed toward the warren entrance west of the jagged line of the Break and the wide swath of land that interrupted it. “The Cochen has chosen this entrance as our retreat, if retreat becomes necessary. The bulk of our supplies will remain here, with only minimal supplies taken to our main encampment here.” He pointed to a spot at the top of the remains of the massive landslide. He removed twelve blue-colored stones from the box at his side and set them down there, then turned to Quotl. “Where are the other clans, according to your Seeing?”
Quotl gestured for the markers. “The Seeing was done nearly five hours ago, but at that time the Cochen and his forces were approximately here, and Corranu was here, although I assume that his forces will join ours before we arrive at the Break. Claw Lake had emerged here.” He set red-and-white-colored stones to signify the Cochen’s forces, green for Corranu, and yellow for Claw Lake. “The others I can only assume are now where the Cochen ordered them within the warrens.”
Tarramic nodded, his attention already on his eldest son. “Tumak, what did the scouts report?”
Quotl let the report fade into the background as he sucked on the end of his pipe and blew the smoke toward the brazier above, eyes on the map. Pieces shifted around as the dwarren Riders began talking strategy. The idea became obvious when seen on the map rather than the palm of his hand. The landslide, though wide, would provide the only feasible means for the Wraith army to reach the upper plains of Painted Sands, unless they were willing to add over a week to their march by traveling northward to where the Break ended and the grasslands merged with the red sands to the west. They could also travel southward, although the Break ended abruptly in a jumble of rock and stone debris, the land riddled with cracks and crevices, making the movement of such a large army nearly impossible.
And the army must be large, if his Seeing had been correct. The dwarren outnumbered them, but it was still a significant force. Larger than the armies that had clashed on the eastern plains before the Accord. Even at the Cut, the dwarren armies had numbered nearly half of what had been gathered here.
But that had been over five generations ago. The dwarren had multiplied since then. They were once again nearing what their strength had been before the arrival of the Alvritshai and the humans on the plains. The wars with those two races had been devastating.
He shook his head and frowned at himself, focusing on the map again. Tarramic had positioned the Thousand Springs and Painted Sands forces along the breadth of the base of the landslide, Claw Lake and Shadow Moon along
