thinking quite close.
Brother Orlad’s shoulders grew steadily larger until a bronze link snapped with a sharp crack. He chuckled and lifted Witness Tranquility in both arms as if she weighed nothing. With two quick steps he jumped over the side of the boat to land silently on the grass. “You will have to get wet, lady,” he said, wading into the river.
“You think I mind that, Hero? I am so grateful to you both!”
Dantio followed them into the water. “And New Dawn is on its way.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman said. “Can’t you see them?”
A seer had no trouble finding the way back to Free Spirit ’s camp, and all Fabia had to do now was follow. The mission had been a complete success, and yet the fruits of victory left a sour aftertaste.
She had killed Master Pukar in self-defense when he tried to rape her. She had killed Perag Hrothgatson in an act of justice for his murder of Paola Apicella. Now she had doomed two men to certain death in order to rescue an abused old lady. Each time the rationale grew weaker. Where would it end? Was she fated to become another Queen of Shadows?
HETH HETHSON
was awakened by a faint tap. He had been sleeping soundly through a barrage of much louder raps, squeaks, wails, and creaks as a moorland wind howled around Nardalborg, but this was business. He was off his sleeping platform and across the room before he was truly awake. A dim predawn light showed around the window shutter. He opened the door a finger-width. Inevitably, the caller was Frath Thranson, leader of white pack, which had the guard tonight.
“My lord, perimeter patrol reports a sighting. Seven warbeasts pulling a sled, my lord. Approaching Cleft Rock.”
Heth said, “Wait.” He recrossed the room, shivering now, and by touch found the stool on which his pall lay ready folded. His wife Femund had not moved, but he knew from her breathing that she was awake. Aided by a lifetime’s practice, he wrapped himself while pushing his feet into his shoes.
He had instituted perimeter patrol very soon after being promoted to lead Nardalborg Hunt. Hostleader Therek, who disapproved of anyone else’s ideas on principle, had sneered: “Who are you afraid of?” That was back in the years when the family had stamped out the last opposition in Vigaelia and the Florengian Mutineer was still no more than an annoyance.
Heth had said, “Only holy Weru, my lord. But it keeps the men on their toes and exercises the stock. And if we ever do have concern that some enemy may try to sever our communications with your noble brother, then we shall not have to seem weak by introducing such precautions at that time.”
The satrap had walked away and never mentioned the subject again, which was his way of giving approval. Every night since then, except in truly lethal weather, a team of twelve men and three mammoths had patrolled the environs of Nardalborg.
The door pivots squealed as Heth opened it, and louder as he closed it. Frath handed him a fur cloak.
“When did this wind get up?”
“Very suddenly, my lord. Less than a pot-boiling ago.”
No sane enemy would launch an assault in such a gale, but there might have been no way to recall it once it had started. The two men strode the gloomy corridor with Frath’s lantern dragging their shadows along the stonework.
“You did say a sled?”
“Yes, my lord. Four pulling it, he said, and the others escorting.”
Heth had known his sins would come home to roost eventually. He had just not expected them this soon. It was only two days since he had bundled Flankleader Orlad’s former classmates into a makeshift flank and sent them off to Tryfors to back up the boy if the satrap tried to carry out his mad threats. That had not been the official purpose of the expedition, of course, but the brighter ones had guessed what was required of them. Strictly speaking, Heth had not been disobeying orders, but he had certainly exceeded his authority and sought to frustrate his commanding officer’s intentions. The timing was tight but possible. Counting Orlad, twelve warriors had departed. Only seven returning? The sled might hold wounded, but a Werist either died or healed himself. If he needed to be carried, he had been maimed for life. Heth would have to justify five men lost, not counting casualties on the other side. Therek would have his liver for breakfast. He might find himself leading Caravan Six over the Edge, leaving Femund and the children forever.
His shadow led him up the stairs. Frath followed with his lantern.
Whatever was making them traverse the snowbound moors at night and in battleform? Such a suicidal overexertion could only be justified by a foe breathing on one’s collar. Therek’s men in hot pursuit? The future looked seriously uninviting.
“What flank?”
“Rear, my lord.” Frath’s voice raised hollow echoes in the staircase.
That was good. Flankleader Verinkar was an excellent youngster, first choice to be promoted the next time Nardalborg Hunt needed a packleader. He would keep his head no matter who or what he had met out there.
Because another possibility was that Heth’s old pessimism might be justified at last. For the last two years, he had been picking up rumors of desertions among forces being posted to Florengia and this summer the losses had become blatant. Men had arrived grumbling about whole packs disappearing. One flank coming overland from the south claimed to be the only remnant of an entire hunt that had failed to reach Tryfors. Heth had listened, questioned, and had his tallyman tally for him. Whenever he had tried to discuss the matter with his father, Therek had refused to listen. Heth had even considered sending a letter directly to Saltaja, in Skjar. He might do so yet, as soon as the downstream winds began to blow. That would be a second act of insubordination, but this was his problem more than anyone’s. Desertion on such a scale required an overall conspiracy, a revolution brewing, and in the past rebels had often chosen to start by trying to cut Stralg’s supply line through Nardalborg.
So had a new revolution started? If it had, the rebels’ timing was bad. Not only was Nardalborg Hunt up to strength, but there were another four sixty packed into the fort, waiting to move out in Caravan Six. Heth could put up a good fight.
The night air was waiting for him outside the door like an ocean of ice water. Shuddering, he stepped out on the wall. Eastward the solar corona was rising in a black and star-salted sky, blazing silver, breathtakingly beautiful. Red and green auroras danced silent minuets overhead, while to the west a pinkish wall of cloud with brighter towers and battlements told of doldrum weather seaward. Behind him stretched the frosted roofs of the fortress. The open ground between it and the town was washed by billows of blowing snow. Almost anything could creep in under that blanket, except it would freeze to death on the way.
A well-muffled picket saluted.
“See anything?” Heth growled. Another warbeast should be on its way from Verinkar by now.
The boy pointed. “My lord is kind. A mammoth approaching, my lord. Flankleader Hrankag ran down to report.”
What? Heth’s neck prickled. Had Verinkar gone crazy? The drill was that the patrol leader would send back a warbeast to report a sighting. If the intruders seemed peaceable, then he had authority to make contact and establish their identity before sending a second warbeast to Nardalborg. Breaking up the formation by detaching a mammoth was a flagrant breach of standing orders. Breath smoking, Heth turned to Packleader Frath. “Sound general quarters.”
Frath gaped. Then his training asserted itself and he vanished down the stairs, leaving the door wide.
“You’ll have company in a moment,” Heth told the sentry. “Meanwhile, keep your eyes skinned. We may be under attack.” He headed for the door.
“My lord is kind. Two more mammoths following, my lord. Just coming into view.”
Heth’s eyes were watering too much for him to see such detail at that distance in that light. Baffled, he stared into the night. “You sure?”
“Not certain, my lord. Think so.”
“Well done! You understand that either those are not our mammoths, or the wrong people are riding
