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As they slogged on, Killen caught snatches of the silent conversation between the Kärds.
Like this joker, every mini-peckered, small-time K?st defender has descended on us for this ill-timed contest.
Not ill-timed, fool. We’ve no Kíríga on the throne. The court is frothing, and the arokí are stirring up their madness. If we don’t get a new Commander soon, and one who is a king, Katáne might well implode.
I hear Kaxim and Kione are hunting the usurper down. It’s a clusterfokknest.
The usurper, though. I can’t wait to set eyes on his Kän?dôr sized balls and see if he’s what we need to take down the facetious K?'nere.
Why can’t Kaxim forget about the Král-In-Waiting, and take full command?
He doesn’t have the support of the Kubaí or the Kíama. Only a royal K?str?l would. Rumour has it this usurper wears the ancient Hawkstone.
Hawkstone, my ass. The thing probably doesn’t exist. We haven’t seen one nigh-on twenty years.
Hotdamnfokkinhellandfeathers
Killen took it all in, musing at their telepathic debate, his jewel lode making short work of the convoluted Katánian dialects.
When the party reached the pinnacle of a small hill, the shadows below the trees were at half-length, and Killen got his first glimpse of the military camp, a vast site in the cool, green basin at the centre of an extensive plateau.
A whistle drew from between Killen’s slips, unbidden.
One of his escorts turned to him. ‘Never been here before?’
Killen shook his head, eyes taking in the raw glory of the view. ‘First time.’
‘There’s nothing like seeing the largest Kainôs encampment on the planet for the first time.’
Thousands of warriors scurried like flocks all over the area.
Some were engaged in mid-flight drills, their plumes, swords and koyas glinting like the facets of dancing diamonds in the sky.
‘What do you call this place?’ Killen murmured.
‘This the Desolation of Karth, due south of the capital under the shadow of the Mountain of the same name. These are the summer training grounds, on the low plains where the Sab?r Hawks gather during the dry season.’
Further back at the camp’s perimeter, a hovering phalanx of more winged Krypós spectres streaked towards the incoming party and came to a flurried stop above and around them.
They studied the Kärds accompanying Killen before resting their eyes on him, their irises widening as they sensed his unusual presence.
Killen met their steady, unwavering gaze with one of his own as their stony-faced, eagle eyes darted in alert mode.
His lead escort raised his talons. ‘Oy fokkers, we’ve been in the forests on undercover patrol for days now. Any word of Kaxim and Kione? Are their krests back in the kambí? We hear there might be a possibility?’ he snarled, glancing at Killen.
‘The Kogun has been sighted not more than five minutes away. He returns from their hunt. Given the early hour, not many know of their coming yet.’
The lead escort’s expression slipped into momentary awe before he rearranged it. He gave Killen a dirty look. ‘Funny that. Someone did know. The question is how?’
Nods and grunts were exchanged between the heads of both parties as the encircling sentries let the group pass.
They headed towards the centre of the grand encampment, which stretched for at least one hour’s walk in each direction.
Killen’s eyes took in the little he could see of the dust-whipped panorama.
The sky above the plain below was packed with infantry, winged warriors immersed in various drills and koya training regimens.
Warriors jumped under and over torturous obstacles on the ground, carrying massive logs on their bruised backs. More practised a series of standard attack formations.
