Halfway through the third rank Hymneth stopped, his thoughts distracted. Behind the sloping helmet, penetrating eyes drew slightly together. Mailed hands clasped behind his back, he turned slightly in Peregriff’s direction.
“Do you see that?”
The general, who had allowed himself to relax slightly, stiffened. “See what, Lord?”
High above him, the helmeted skull nodded slightly. “Sixth rider from the end.”
Peregriff’s gaze narrowed. He badly wanted to lie on behalf of the young man thus singled out, but did not for a moment seriously consider doing so. “Yes, Lord. I see it.”
“What do you think we should do about it?” Behind Hymneth’s back, steel-clad fingers tick-ticked against one another.
“I’m sure my Lord will think of something suitable.” Again the single, singular nod. “I dislike rendering precipitous judgments. Let’s give him another minute or so to straighten himself out.”
“Yes, Lord.” As they resumed the inspection, the general betrayed no outward shift in expression or emotion. Inside, he found himself praying for the soul of the unfortunate young warrior.
Instead of improving, the soldier’s condition continued to worsen. Already trembling badly, his shaking grew worse as Hymneth and Peregriff drew nearer. Halting beside the man’s mount, the lord of Ehl-Larimar looked up at him speculatively. Quaking, the man looked down.
And dropped his lance.
Not knowing whether to dismount and recover it, flee, or remain as motionless as he could manage, the terrified soldier stayed where he was. Glancing down, Hymneth contemplated the fallen weapon. The ever-present pair of juvenile eromakadi circled it excitedly, inhaling of the potential darkness it represented.