‘-and war.’
‘And are the Barghast gods pleased with your efforts, Talamandas? Or do they snarl with fury as you flit this way and that at the behest of human gods?’
‘They cannot live in isolation! We cannot! They are stubborn! They lack all sophistication! They embarrass me!’
Sighing, Cafal stepped outside.
The sticksnare scrambled after him, skittish as a stoat. ‘If we fight alone, we will all die. We need allies!’
Cafal paused and looked down, wondering if Talamandas was, perhaps, insane. How many times could they repeat this same conversation? ‘Allies against whom?’ he asked, as he had done countless times before.
‘Against what comes!’
And there, the same meaningless answer, the kind of answer neither Cafal nor Tool could use. Hissing under his breath, the Great Warlock set off once more, ignoring Talamandas who scrambled in his wake.
The war-party had left the camp. At a trot, the warriors were already reaching the north ridge. Once over the crest, they would vanish from sight.
Cafal saw the wolf-child, Setoc, standing at the camp’s edge, evidently watching the warriors, and something in her stance suggested she longed to lope after them, teeth bared and hackles raised, eager to join in the hunt.
He set out in that direction.
There was no doubt that she was Letherii, but that legacy existed only on the surface-her skin, her features, the traits of whatever parents had given her birth and then lost her. But that nascent impression of civilization had since faded, eroded away. She had been given back to the wild, a virgin sacrifice whose soul had been devoured whole. She belonged to the wolves, and, perhaps, to the Wolf God and Goddess, the Lord and Lady of the Beast Throne.
The Barghast had come to find the Grey Swords, to fight at their side-believing that Toc Anaster and his army knew the enemy awaiting them. The Barghast gods had been eager to serve Togg and Fanderay, to run with the bold pack in search of blood and glory. They had been, Cafal now understood, worse than children.
The Grey Swords were little more than rotting meat when the first scouts found them.
So much for glory.
Was Setoc the inheritor of the blessing once bestowed upon the Grey Swords? Was she now the child of Togg and Fanderay?
Even Talamandas did not know.
‘Not her!’ the sticksnare now snarled behind him. ‘Cast her out, Cafal! Banish her to the wastes where she belongs!’
But he continued on. When he was a dozen paces away, she briefly glanced back at him before returning her attention upon the empty lands to the north. Moments later, he reached her side.
br />
‘-and war.’
‘And are the Barghast gods pleased with your efforts, Talamandas? Or do they snarl with fury as you flit this way and that at the behest of human gods?’
‘They cannot live in isolation! We cannot! They are stubborn! They lack all sophistication! They embarrass me!’
Sighing, Cafal stepped outside.
The sticksnare scrambled after him, skittish as a stoat. ‘If we fight alone, we will all die. We need allies!’
Cafal paused and looked down, wondering if Talamandas was, perhaps, insane. How many times could they repeat this same conversation? ‘Allies against whom?’ he asked, as he had done countless times before.
‘Against what comes!’
And there, the same meaningless answer, the kind of answer neither Cafal nor Tool could use. Hissing under his breath, the Great Warlock set off once more, ignoring Talamandas who scrambled in his wake.
The war-party had left the camp. At a trot, the warriors were already reaching the north ridge. Once over the crest, they would vanish from sight.
Cafal saw the wolf-child, Setoc, standing at the camp’s edge, evidently watching the warriors, and something in her stance suggested she longed to lope after them, teeth bared and hackles raised, eager to join in the hunt.
He set out in that direction.
There was no doubt that she was Letherii, but that legacy existed only on the surface-her skin, her features, the traits of whatever parents had given her birth and then lost her. But that nascent impression of civilization had since faded, eroded away. She had been given back to the wild, a virgin sacrifice whose soul had been devoured whole. She belonged to the wolves, and, perhaps, to the Wolf God and Goddess, the Lord and Lady of the Beast Throne.
The Barghast had come to find the Grey Swords, to fight at their side-believing that Toc Anaster and his army knew the enemy awaiting them. The Barghast gods had been eager to serve Togg and Fanderay, to run with the bold pack in search of blood and glory. They had been, Cafal now understood, worse than children.
The Grey Swords were little more than rotting meat when the first scouts found them.
So much for glory.
Was Setoc the inheritor of the blessing once bestowed upon the Grey Swords? Was she now the child of Togg and Fanderay?
Even Talamandas did not know.
‘Not her!’ the sticksnare now snarled behind him. ‘Cast her out, Cafal! Banish her to the wastes where she belongs!’
But he continued on. When he was a dozen paces away, she briefly glanced back at him before returning her attention upon the empty lands to the north. Moments later, he reached her side.
‘They are going to die,’ she said.
‘What? Who?’
‘The warriors who just left. They will die as did the scout troop. You have found the enemy, Great Warlock… but it is the wrong enemy. Again.’
Cafal swung round. He saw Talamandas squatting in the grasses five paces back. ‘Chase them down,’ he told the sticksnare. ‘Bring them back.’
‘Believe nothing she says!’
‘This is not a request, Talamandas.’
With a mocking cackle the sticksnare darted past, bounding like a bee-stung hare on to the trail of the war-party.
‘There is no use in doing that,’ Setoc said. ‘This entire clan is doomed.’
‘Such pronouncements weary me,’ Cafal replied. ‘You are like a poison thorn in this clan’s heart, stealing its strength, its pride.’
‘Is that why you’ve come?’ she asked. ‘To… pluck out this thorn?’
‘If I must.’
‘Then why are you waiting?’
‘I would know the source of your pronouncements, Setoc. Are you plagued with visions? Do spirits visit your dreams? What have you seen? What do you know?’
‘The rhinazan whisper in my ear,’ she said.
Was she taunting him? ‘Winged lizards do not whisper anything, Setoc.’
‘No?’
‘No. Is nonsense all you can give me? Am I to be nothing but the object of your contempt?’
‘The Awl warrior, the one so aptly named Torrent, has found the war-party. He adds to your doll’s exhortations. But… the warleader is young. Fearless. Why do the fools choose one such as that?’
‘When older warriors see a pack of wardogs drag themselves into the camp,’ said Cafal, ‘they hold a meeting to discuss matters. The young ones clutch their weapons and leap to their feet, eyes blazing.’
‘It is a wonder,’ she observed, ‘that any warrior ever manages to get old.’