"Truly, Uncle," Dani said, his voice muffled against Thulu's shoulder, "if I am the Bearer, I could ask no better guide."
It took a long time to get from ledge to cliff-top. When it was done, both were trembling with a mix of exertion and the aftermath of fear. Uncle Thulu unwound the rope from his waist and unknotted it from the anchor, a proud jut of granite. He kissed the rope in gratitude, and for good measure, the stone itself. "Uru-Alat be praised," he said fervently, shoving his digging-stick into his waistband.
"Truly," Dani murmured, collapsing onto the chilled stones. His arms ached and his shoulders felt half-pulled from their sockets. "How much farther, Uncle?"
Uncle Thulu paced the edge of the cliff, eyeing the river below. "We'll find another route." His voice was decisive. "A better route, Dani. The Spume is a key, I'm sure of it. There are… traces, a foulness in the current." He stroked his digging-stick, humming absently for a moment, then stopped. "There is a branch underground that leads to the Defile. That much I sense for, even here, the waters are tainted." Pausing in thought, he tapped his lips. "It must happen some leagues to the west. Perhaps, if we abandon the heights and cut westward… yes. Such is the pattern of Uru-Alat's veins." Thulu glanced at his nephew, who sat huddled in his cloak, cradling his aching limbs. "Have you the strength, lad?" he asked gently.
"Aye." Dani shuddered, and laughed. "At least," he said, "we've not encountered the Fjeltroll."
"WE HAVE RECEIVED NO REPORTS of such travelers."
Their host spoke smoothly; but then, Coenred, Earl of Gerflod, was a smooth man. His auburn hair was smooth, flowing over his shoulders. His beard was groomed and silken, and his ruddy lips were smooth within their tidy bracket of facial hair.
Osric nodded. "Like as not, they've not been spotted yet."
"Like as not," Earl Coenred agreed, hoisting a tankard of ale. His fingers, with their smooth nails, curved about the bejeweled tankard. He nodded to one of the serving-maids. "Gerde, fill our guests' cups. Drink up, lads, the mutton's yet to come!"
Bobbing a nervous curtsey, she obeyed, circulating around the long trestle table. It took a long time to serve the Staccian lord's contingent and Osric and his men. There were a great number of the former, clad in handsome attire. Another servant brought her a fresh jug of ale. As she reached the far end of the table, where the Fjeltroll were seated, her steps began to drag, and her hand trembled visibly as she poured.
Osric and Coenred spoke in murmurs, ignoring both her anxiety and its source. While the earl had extended hospitality to the Fjel in a gesture of allegiance, it did not include taking them into the counsel of Men.
With an attempt at a benign smile, Skragdal extended his tankard. For Lord Satoris' sake, Skragdal was doing his best to honor the earl's hospitality, hunkering on the tiny chair provided him. It was built to Men's scale and he perched awkwardly on it, broad thighs splayed, his rough-hided knees bumping the edge of the table. It was not his fault it was too small, nor that his taloned grip dented the soft metal of his tankard, rendering it lopsided. He tried to convey these things with his smile; easy and apologetic, wrinkling his upper lip and baring his eye-tusks in a gesture of goodwill.
The serving-maid squeaked in terror, and the lip of her jug rattled against his tankard. Ale splashed over the rim. Setting the half-empty jug upon the table with a bang, she fled. Earl Coenred glanced up with brief interest, beckoned to another serving-maid to bring another jug, then resumed his conversation, intent on Osric, spinning a web of smooth words.
Skragdal frowned.
"I… do not like how this smells."
A deep voice; a Fjel voice, speaking their tongue. He glanced up sharply to see the young Tungskulder Thorun, sitting with shoulders hunched, a posture of uncertainty. "Speak," he said.
Thorun's hunched shoulders shrugged as he peered out from under his heavy brow; his eyes were red-rimmed and miserable. "I do not trust my senses."
"Ah." Skragdal remembered; there was a story, one that mattered. "Bogvar."
Thorun nodded. They remembered it together—Thorun who had lived it, Skragdal who had heard it, left behind to command as field marshal in Hyrgolf's absence. Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass, where the Lady of the Ellylon had awoken the wraiths of the dead. There, confused by the magic she had awakened, Thorun had mistaken his comrade Bogvar for an Ellyl wraith. Death, a foul death, had been the result. Thorun had offered his axe-hand in penance. The Lord General had refused it.
Skragdal flared his nostrils, inhaling deeply. "There is no enchantment here," he said calmly. "Only fear, only greed. Such are the scents of Men. Speak, Tungskulder."