habits. Nectar, water, dried meat, and pressed fruit went down with ravenous intensity. He ate like an elf long starved. No one questioned him on it, but Lofotan and the others took note.
They made good time across open country on the east bank of the river. The ground was rising, growing hillier as they neared the forested region south of the ford. When approaching the line of trees, their kender escort all but disappeared. Even Rufe departed at some unseen moment, leaving the foursome to ride on alone.
“Now that our small friends have gone, I have some things to tell you,” Balif said. Lofotan halted his horse to listen, but Balif bade him ride on.
“If this transformation of mine grows worse-and I expect it shall-you must take steps to protect yourselves and our mission,” he said. “You must restrain me each night.”
“But will you assume beast form every night?” asked Treskan.
Balif didn’t know. The previous night might have been a harbinger of things to come, or it could have been triggered by some unknown factor. Perhaps the thunderstorm provoked his metamorphosis, or the positions of the moons in the sky. Who knew?
“In any event, protect yourselves.”
“I will bind you hand and foot each night,” Lofotan vowed.
“Not enough.” Balif’s strength was enhanced when in beastly form. Rope would not hold him. Had they any chain?
“I have a few lengths in the baggage,” said Lofotan. It was heavy logging chain, used to drag timber behind a sturdy horse.
“Use it.”
His old comrade objected. Binding with chain was undignified.
“So is rending your friends to bits with claws and fangs.”
Chain might injure the general’s wrists and ankles, Lofotan added.
“Do it, nonetheless.”
“We will do as you command, my lord,” Treskan said. Lofotan looked at the reins in his hand and said nothing.
Before dark, they carefully chose to camp on a hilltop amid a thicket of overgrown myrtles. They were unloading the horses when Balif turned his head sharply and announced that he smelled smoke. So saying, he alerted the others, and they smelled it too, even Treskan with his less-than-keen nose. Lofotan climbed the tangled branches of the tallest myrtle and quickly spied the source of the smoke.
“There’s a large column of smoke rising from the next ridge,” he called down. It was a single, thick spire, probably a large campfire. Wildfire smoke would rise from many smaller points.
“Humans?” Mathi wondered aloud.
At her elbow Rufe said, “Yes, a big camp of them.”
She started at his sudden proximity. “Don’t do that!” she cried.
“Do what?” asked Rufe.
Balif laughed heartily. He hadn’t done so all day. “Have you scouted them already?” Balif said. Rufe admitted he had. He had “found” a few items too, things he hadn’t seen before.
Balif held out his hand. Reluctantly the kender put his spoils on display. He had a stone knife made of obsidian. It was too finely made to be a nomad’s tool. The shell inlay on the handle make it look like a cleric’s blade. Rufe had an amber necklace, a beaded headband, and most remarkably, a full-length arrow that he pulled out through his collar. It was so long, it must have gone straight down to his foot, but no one noticed him limping before he pulled it out.
“Let me see that.”
Balif examined the arrow closely. The shaft was daubed white, had a bronze head, and used soft, gray- white feathers for fletching. Balif paid special attention to the feathers.
“Ghost owl feathers,” he said, frowning. The ghost owl was unknown in Silvanesti territory. Its range was in the Plains River Valley west of the Khalkist Mountains. The nomad band must have come from there.
“Maybe they traded for arrows with bands further west?” Mathi asked. Balif said no. Among nomads, every archer made his own arrows, matched to his bow. Whoever made the arrow had access to ghost owl feathers. The invaders had come a long way.
“Do we move on?” Lofotan asked. Rufe could not give them any guess as to the size of the nomad party, but there must have been many to merit such a large campfire.
Balif said, “No. We stay here.” Night was close upon them. They were right under the nose of the humans, but if they kept quiet, they ought to be able to pass unnoticed.
Everyone ended up looking at Rufe.
“What?”
“You know, my lord, it might be worthwhile to have a look at this human camp. Governor Dolanath and the Speaker will need an accurate count of the invaders,” Lofotan said.
Balif was reluctant. He finally agreed to send Lofotan, Mathi, and Treskan to reconnoiter the nomads’ camp. Rufe would stay behind to guard their camp-and him.
“I do not trust the little man, and what good is the girl if a fight comes?” Lofotan protested.
“You insult our friend Rufe. He comes and goes but always comes again. Mathi is quieter than the scribe and has good eyes.”
Mathi would have preferred to stay with Balif but no matter. A spy mission might give her a chance to leave a message for her friends, whom she knew must be shadowing their party.
“Go right after dark,” Balif said. He had lived among and fought against humans a long time and knew their ways. “After sunset they will be eating, washing, or falling asleep.” Going later would only put them up against alert watchmen.
They huddled among the myrtles, eating silently. Lofotan and Balif were in their element, Mathi observed. Hiding in the trees like thieves, eating cold rations, dueling with danger-that was their chosen life. Treskan obviously missed his bed and three squares a day. At least the nectar was good. Rufe managed to pass the time without chattering. When he was done eating, he put his head down on his knees and went to sleep.
Everyone was awakened later by gentle prods. Mathi was surprised that she had slept. It had not been her intention, but slumber crept up on her before she knew it.
It was a clear night, with strong starlight and no moons yet risen. The wind moved to and fro, changing directions in little puffs this way and that. They were dangerous conditions, Balif observed. Starlight could reveal them even to human eyes. The deceptive wind could mask important scents or send theirs wafting in unfriendly directions.
“Shall we stay here?” asked Lofotan. Balif said no.
Before they left, Lofotan had his commander sit with a sturdy myrtle sapling between his knees. Balif put his arms around the trunk. Lofotan wound chain around his wrists and ankles, securing the ends with twists of wire.
Plainly unhappy with having to truss up his revered commander, Lofotan put a skin of water on Balif’s lap. Even chained, he could reach it. He gave Treskan a sword, warning him not to clank or clatter as they approached the nomad camp. The scribe, very unmilitary with the weapons in his hands, swore he would not.
After apologizing to his commander for the fourth time, Lofotan took Mathi by the elbow and propelled her into the darkness. Rufe gave Balif a wink and sat down beside the general. He launched into a tale of his wanderings. It promised to be very long and very strange.
Lofotan, Treskan, and Mathi soon were swallowed by the night. Beyond, the eastern horizon was alive with the glow of a mighty campfire in the same spot they had earlier seen the smoke.
CHAPTER 12
Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan walked parallel a while, wading through knee-high scrub toward the fire-lit hill.
