Ants scurried on the cracked earth as it stirred beneath them, departing in black rivulets. Dry spikes of thorn-brush rattled, trembling.
"Look!" It was the young Vedasian, Hobard, who saw it first, pointing. A green tendril of life emerging from the cracks in the desert floor, questing in the open air. "A drought-eater! Yrinna be blessed!"
It grew beneath the Counselor's fraying chant, the green stalk thickening, branches springing from the trunk with a thick succulent's leaves; grew, and withered, even as flowers blossomed and fruited, seeds swelling to ripe globes. A drought-eater, capable of absorbing every drop of moisture within an acre of land and producing fruit that was almost wholly water. Water, held within a tough greenish rind.
They fell upon it, ripping the fruit from its stems even as the branches shriveled. Hobard split his with both thumbs, sucking at the pulpy interior. Blaise Caveros, for all his harsh words, had a care with the Arduan woman, cutting the fruit and feeding it to her piece by dripping piece. Malthus the Counselor leaned wearily on his walking-staff and watched them, and among all his Company only Peldras of the Rivenlost, whose light step left no tracks on the red, dusty soil, waited his turn until the rest were sated.
Thirst could not kill Haomane's Children; only steel.
Peldras shaded his eyes, gazing at the endless vista of baked red earth. If the Counselor's wisdom were true, they should have found the ones they sought long before; the Charred Ones, who had hidden from the scorching fire of Haomane's wrath.
"What do you see, my long-sighted friend?" Malthus asked in a low tone.
The Ellyl shook his head. "Nothing."
"HUSH."
Staring at the vine-curtained opening, Tanaros lifted a hand for silence. To a fellow, Men and Fjel obeyed him alike. No need to caution the Were, who were silence itself. Only the shuffle and stamp of the horses disturbed the quiet, and even that was minimal. Green light filtered into the tunnel, and beyond the opening he could hear birdsong.
"Go." He motioned to the Were brethren. "Clear the perimeter, and report."
They went, both of them, like arrows shot from the bow, low to the ground and sleek, traveling at an inhuman gait, muzzles pointed forward, ears pricked and wary.
"Good hunting, brothers," the Grey Dam murmured.
Tanaros repressed a shudder.
Always, the waiting was the hardest. He felt awkward in the unfamiliar Pelmaran armor; steel plates laced onto boiled leather, and an ill-disguised conical helmet. Their arms had been chosen with care, to give a semblance of Beshtanagi troops in disguise. Tanaros rolled his shoulders, loosened his sword in its sheath. A borrowed sword, not his own, with a Pelmaran grip.
Behind him, Vorax's Staccians whispered in excitement. This was their moment, the role only they could play. Among them, Vorax had chosen the youngest, the fiercest, the swiftest. They had trained hard, and rehearsed their roles to perfection. They had shaved their beards and stained their skin with walnut dye. Tanaros turned in the saddle to survey them, feeling the battle-calm settle over him.
Their lieutenant met his eye; Carfax, a steady fellow. They exchanged nods. And there, in the vanguard, Turin, the yellow-haired decoy, swallowing hard. Choose one who is fair, his Lordship had said, fair as morning's first star. He was a youth, still beardless, his skin undyed and pale, clad in bridal silks. The troops had laughed, to see him thus. Now, none laughed.
"We strike a blow this day, brothers," Tanaros said in a soft, carrying voice, jostling his mount to face them. "A mighty blow! Are you ready?"
They gave a whispered cheer.
"Field marshal." His gaze roamed past the Staccians, falling upon Hyrgolf, who stood with the massed Fjeltroll at the rear. "Are you ready?"
Hyrgolf of the Tungskulder Fjel stood like a boulder, stolid and dependable. "We are ready, General," he rumbled. "Bring us the Ellyl lady, and we will conduct her in all speed to Darkhaven."
"Dreamspinner." Tanaros bent his gaze upon the half-breed, who crouched at the entrance to the tunnels, holding the Helm of Shadows in his trembling hands. "Are you ready, cousin?"
"I am ready." Ushahin bared his teeth, the enlarged pupil in one eye glittering. In the green light, his face looked ghastly. The thing in his hands throbbed with a darkness that ached like a wound, unbearable to behold. "Upon your command!"
As if summoned by his words, one of the Were brethren dashed through the hanging vines that curtained the entrance, eyes glowing amber, bloodstains upon his muzzle. "The way is clear," he said, the words thick and guttural in his throat. Sharp white teeth showed as he licked blood from his chops. "Why do you wait? In the Dale, they wed. Go now, now!"