Finding the Empire’s forces inside the Ordas wasn’t difficult in the slightest.
They even seemed to be expecting them.
The New Rosanthe camp was a half a day’s hike from their afternoon lunch spot. They were picked up by a patrol as the sun was setting and marched into the camp under heavy guard after being relieved of their weapons. Caelan was searched three times. The soldiers grew increasingly more confused by the fact that he didn’t have any weapons on him.
By the time the highest-ranking commander marched to them to oversee the search, Drayce’s face was red from trying to hold in his laughter. Rayne appeared thoroughly annoyed, while Eno was simply pissed that their king was being manhandled in such a fashion. Caelan smirked through it. There was no need to carry weapons when he could simply summon his sword at any time.
At the very least, the Empire was thoroughly wary of him. Swords, knives, and guns were pointed in his direction at all times. This probably wasn’t Zyros’s doing. She didn’t appear to be the type to give New Rosanthe a warning that they now had a god in their possession. No, this was more likely a reaction to the events of Sirelis and Stormbreak weighing on their minds.
For now, everyone was being civil, but Caelan could guess why. Zyros wanted him—either for gloating purposes or to win him over to her side against Tula. And if she wanted him cooperative in the slightest, she knew she needed to keep his companions safe and unharmed for the time being.
But the air of civility and cooperation was growing thinner by the second.
They stayed the night in the camp, were fed crappy rations and given nothing more than thin blankets for protection from the hard, cold ground. Rayne grumbled softly about wanting to put up a shield over the four of them, but Caelan vetoed that idea. The Empire had guesses as to what he could do, but they should have little to no information about Rayne’s gifts. He wanted to keep it that way.
The big question that gnawed on his mind was: Did they know about Drayce?
Zyros did. As Gilea, she’d witnessed Drayce shift into his dragon form plenty of times. But had she told her New Rosanthe partners? There were rumors of dragons on Isle of Stone, old myths and legends, but did the Empire know for sure that there were dragons?
He was praying they still had a few surprises up their sleeves for the Empire, because he was going to have his hands full dealing with the Goddess of the Hunt and her lover, the God of Wisdom.
The next morning, they were roused early as the soldiers broke camp and started the march for Green Spring. They remained in the middle of the massive column of soldiers. By his rough count, at least an entire company—close to two hundred soldiers—had been sent into the Ordas to patrol.
And judging by the numbers they’d lost on the way to Green Spring due to animal attacks, it looked as if the Empire had already suffered casualties that accounted for another quarter. It was unexpected and unnerving.
The shadowed areas of the forest were regularly punctuated with screams of pain and terror as soldiers were snatched away from their platoon and dragged into the brush where their cries were silenced in a wet gurgle and gasp. The damp air was constantly tinged with the coppery tang of fresh blood.
Why was Zyros allowing the animals to attack her allies?
Did the goddess have no control over them?
Or did she simply not care who died?
The closer they got to Green Spring, the more frequent the attacks seemed to grow. Caelan was willing to guess that no one slept that last night before reaching the lost city. Gunfire and screams were nearly constant in the darkness. Caelan sat up, drifting in a meditative state, both hands wrapped tightly around his powers, ready to protect his companions should any creature sneak too close to them.
And he was sure these were creatures, not animals. Their stealth and cunning were too sharp for mere animals. No, he was willing to bet the Empire soldiers were being hunted by the inhabitants of Green Spring.
The next day, prior to the sun peeking above the horizon, they were on their feet for the march. What little sky they could make out through the leaves was still slate gray while the air held a heavy dampness that promised rain. It was perfect for the bleak mood of the soldiers. They’d lost far too many of their compatriots in the night. They’d likely been losing a steady stream of soldiers since entering the Ordas, and not one of them to their enemies—namely, Erya and Caspagir. That had to be eating away at the morale of the Empire’s army.