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‘Aye, sir, I’ll leave you to it, then.’
Riding clear of the press, Gamet brought his horse into a canter and moments later reined in alongside the Adjunct.
The position afforded them a clear view of the enemy emplacements, and, just as they observed, so too in turn were they being watched by a small knot of figures atop the central ramp.
‘How sharp are your eyes, Fist?’ the Adjunct asked.
‘Not sharp enough,’ he replied.
‘Korbolo Dom. Kamist Reloe. Six officers. Kamist has quested in our direction, seeking signs of mages. High Mages, specifically. Of course, given that Nil and Nether are with me, they cannot be found by Kamist Reloe’s sorceries. Tell me, Fist Gamet, how confident do you imagine Korbolo Dom feels right now?’
He studied her a moment. She was in her armour, the visor of her helm lifted, her eyes half-lidded against the bright glare bouncing from the basin’s hard-packed, crackled clay. ‘I would think, Adjunct,’ he replied slowly, ‘that his measure of confidence is wilting.’
She glanced over. ‘Wilting. Why?’
‘Because it all looks too easy. Too overwhelmingly in his favour, Adjunct.’
She fell silent, returning her gaze to the distant enemy.
Is this what she wanted me for? To ask that one question?
Gamet switched his attention to the two Wickans. Nil had grown during the march, leading Gamet to suspect that he would be a tall man in a few years’ time. He wore only a loincloth and looked feral with his wild, unbraided hair and green and black body-paint.
Nether, he realized with some surprise, had filled out beneath her deer-skin hides, a chubbiness that was common to girls before they came of age. The severity of her expression was very nearly fixed now, transforming what should have been a pretty face into a mien forbidding and burdened. Her black hair was shorn close, betokening a vow of grief.
‘Kamist’s questing is done,’ the Adjunct suddenly pronounced. ‘He will need to rest, now.’ She turned in her saddle and by some prearranged signal two Wickan warriors jogged up the slope. Tavore unhitched her sword-belt and passed it to them. They quickly retreated with the otataral weapon.
Reluctantly, Nil and Nether settled cross-legged onto the stony ground.
‘Fist Gamet,’ the Adjunct said, ‘if you would, draw your dagger and spill a few drops from your right palm.’
Without a word he tugged off his gauntlet, slid his dagger from its scabbard and scored the edge across the fleshy part of his hand. Blood welled from the cut. Gamet held it out, watched as the blood spilled down to the ground.
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‘Aye, sir, I’ll leave you to it, then.’
Riding clear of the press, Gamet brought his horse into a canter and moments later reined in alongside the Adjunct.
The position afforded them a clear view of the enemy emplacements, and, just as they observed, so too in turn were they being watched by a small knot of figures atop the central ramp.
‘How sharp are your eyes, Fist?’ the Adjunct asked.
‘Not sharp enough,’ he replied.
‘Korbolo Dom. Kamist Reloe. Six officers. Kamist has quested in our direction, seeking signs of mages. High Mages, specifically. Of course, given that Nil and Nether are with me, they cannot be found by Kamist Reloe’s sorceries. Tell me, Fist Gamet, how confident do you imagine Korbolo Dom feels right now?’
He studied her a moment. She was in her armour, the visor of her helm lifted, her eyes half-lidded against the bright glare bouncing from the basin’s hard-packed, crackled clay. ‘I would think, Adjunct,’ he replied slowly, ‘that his measure of confidence is wilting.’
She glanced over. ‘Wilting. Why?’
‘Because it all looks too easy. Too overwhelmingly in his favour, Adjunct.’
She fell silent, returning her gaze to the distant enemy.
Is this what she wanted me for? To ask that one question?
Gamet switched his attention to the two Wickans. Nil had grown during the march, leading Gamet to suspect that he would be a tall man in a few years’ time. He wore only a loincloth and looked feral with his wild, unbraided hair and green and black body-paint.
Nether, he realized with some surprise, had filled out beneath her deer-skin hides, a chubbiness that was common to girls before they came of age. The severity of her expression was very nearly fixed now, transforming what should have been a pretty face into a mien forbidding and burdened. Her black hair was shorn close, betokening a vow of grief.
‘Kamist’s questing is done,’ the Adjunct suddenly pronounced. ‘He will need to rest, now.’ She turned in her saddle and by some prearranged signal two Wickan warriors jogged up the slope. Tavore unhitched her sword-belt and passed it to them. They quickly retreated with the otataral weapon.
Reluctantly, Nil and Nether settled cross-legged onto the stony ground.
‘Fist Gamet,’ the Adjunct said, ‘if you would, draw your dagger and spill a few drops from your right palm.’
Without a word he tugged off his gauntlet, slid his dagger from its scabbard and scored the edge across the fleshy part of his hand. Blood welled from the cut. Gamet held it out, watched as the blood spilled down to the ground.
Dizziness struck him and he reeled in the saddle a moment before regaining his balance.
Nether voiced a hiss of surprise.
Gamet glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, both hands pressed against the sandy ground. Nil had assumed the same posture and on his face flitted a wild sequence of emotions, fixing at last on fear.
The Fist was still feeling light-headed, a faint roaring sound filling his skull.
‘There are spirits here,’ Nil growled. ‘Rising with anger-’
‘A song,’ Nether cut in. ‘Of war, and warriors-’
‘New and old,’ her brother said. ‘So very new… and so very old. Battle and death, again and again-’
‘The land remembers every struggle played out on its surface, on all its surfaces, from the very beginning.’ Nether grimaced, then shivered, her eyes squeezed shut. ‘The goddess is as nothing to this power-yet she would… steal .’
The Adjunct’s voice was sharp. ‘Steal?’
‘The warren,’ Nil replied. ‘She would claim this fragment, and settle it upon this land like a parasite. Roots of shadow, slipping down to draw sustenance, to feed on the land’s memories.’
‘And the spirits will not have it,’ Nether whispered.
‘They are resisting?’ the Adjunct asked.
Both Wickans nodded, then Nil bared his teeth and said, ‘Ghosts cast no shadows. You were right, Adjunct. Gods, you were right!’
Right ? Gamet wondered. Right about what ?
‘And will they suffice?’ Tavore demanded.
Nil shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Only if the Talon Master does what you think he will do, Adjunct.’
‘Assuming,’ Nether added, ‘Sha’ik is unaware of the viper in her midst.’
‘Had she known,’ Tavore said, ‘she would have separated his head from his shoulders long ago.’
‘Perhaps,’ Nether replied, and Gamet heard the scepticism in her tone. ‘Unless she and her goddess decided to wait until all their enemies were gathered.’
