With a grunt, one of the three remaining Gulnagel dropped his burden and gave chase, returning triumphant with a furry morsel clutched in his talons. Despite the fact that he was panting with the effort, he offered it to his general.
"No, Krolgun," Tanaros said, remembering Freg, and how he had offered him a handful of termites. "It's yours." He looked away as the Fjel devoured it whole, hoping the scant nourishment was worth the effort.
Another hour, and another. Tanaros slowed their pace, scanning the skies with growing concern. He forgot to watch his steps, fixing his gaze on the sky. Had he kept their path true to the trajectory of Fetch's flight? He thought so, but it was hard to tell in the featureless desert. They had been too long on the march, and their waterskins were dwindling toward empty. Nearby he could hear Krolgun still panting, his steps beginning to drag. The others were little better and, crane his neck though he would, there was no sign of the raven.
Only the empty blue skies, filled with the glare of Haomane's Wrath.
"Lord General?" Speros' voice, cracked and faint.
"Not now, Speros," he said impatiently.
"Lord General!" The Midlander's hand clutched his arm, dragging his attention from the empty skies. Speros' mouth was working, though no further words emerged. With his other hand, he pointed westward, where a line of twisted forms broke the horizon. "Look!" he managed at length.
Frowning, Tanaros followed his pointing finger. "Are those… trees?"
"Aye!" Releasing his arm, Speros broke into a mad, capering dance. "Jack pines, Lord General!" he shouted. "Good old Midlands jack pines! General!" There were tears glistening in his eyes, running down his sunburnt face. "We've reached the edge!"
It was the Gulnagel who broke ranks with an exuberant roar, abandoning his command to race toward the distant treeline. What sparse reserves of energy the Lowland Fjel had hoarded, they expended all at once. Their packs bounced and clanked as they ran, powerful haunches propelling their massive bodies in swift bounds. With a wordless shout, Speros discarded his near-empty waterskins and followed them at a dead run, whooping in his cracked voice.
Four figures, three large and one small, raced across the barren landscape.
Tanaros Blacksword, Commander General of Darkhaven, shook his head and hoped his army of four would not expire before reaching the desert's edge. He gathered up Speros' waterskins and settled them over his shoulder, then touched the hilt of the black sword that hung from his belt. It was still there, the echo of his Lordship's blood whispering to his fingertips. Back on course, the compass of his branded heart contracted.
Westward.
He set out at a steady jog, watching the treeline draw nearer, watching the racing figures ahead of him stagger, faltering and slowing. It was farther than they thought, at least another league. Such was always the case. Though his feet were blistered and his boots were cracking at the heels, he wound his way across the stony soil and kept a steady pace, drawing abreast of them in time. He dispensed waterskins and an acerbic word of reprimand, accepted with chagrin. They kept walking.
Their steps grew heavier as they walked, all energy spent. Heavy, but alive.
Tanaros' steps grew lighter, the nearer they drew.
Jack pines, stunted and twisted, marked the western boundary of the Unknown Desert. Beyond, sparse grass grew, an indication that the content of the soil was changing, scorched desert slowly giving way to the fertile territories of the Midlands.
In the shadow of the jack pines, Fetch perched on a needled branch, bobbing his head in triumphant welcome. His black eyes were bright, as bright as the reflection of sunlight on the trickling creek that fed the pines.
A small kindness.
CROUCHED UPON THE BACK OF the blood-bay stallion, Ushahin Dream-spinner floated above the horse's churning stride, borne aloft like a crippled vessel on the waves of a wind-tossed sea. And yet, there was power in him, far beyond the strength of his twisted limbs. Riding, he cast the net of his mind adrift over the whole of Urulat, and rode the pathways between waking and dreaming.
It was a thing he alone knew to do.
The Were had taught it to him; so many believed. It was true, and not true. The Grey Dam Sorash had taught him the ways of the Were, in whose blood ran the call of Oronin's Horn. Because there was Death in their Shaping, there were doors open to them that were closed to the other races of Lesser Shapers.
Ushahin had heard Oronin's Horn. It had blown for him when he was a child and his broken body had lain bleeding in the forests of Pel-mar. Somewhere, there was a death waiting for him. But the Grey Dam had claimed him, grieving for her lost cubs, and whispered, not yet.
So she had claimed him, and taught him. Yet he was not Were, and their magic twisted in his usage. The Were, like the Fjeltroll, could smell Men's fear; unlike the Fjel, they could hear a Man's heart beat at a hundred paces and taste the pulse of his fear. Ushahin. in whose veins ran the blood of Haomane's Children, could sense Men's thoughts. And it was their thoughts—their dreams, their unspoken terrors and wordless joys—that formed the pathways along which he traveled. It was a network as vast and intricate as the Marasoumië, yet infinitely more subtle. He had walked it many a time. This was the first time he had ridden it.