‘Anything you say, lord.’
Viruk moved to the dead Almecs and hefted one of the fire-clubs. He spent several minutes trying to understand its mechanisms, then hurled it to one side. ‘Ugly weapons,’ he said. ‘Noisy – and the smoke smells worse than a pig fart.’
‘We obviously move in different circles,’ said Ammon. ‘I cannot say I have ever seen a pig’s backside. However, I will take your word for it.’
Viruk laughed aloud, with genuine good humour. ‘Can it be,’ he asked, ‘that you dislike me? Surely not.’
‘You are no more than an assassin, Viruk. A man in love with death, I think.’
‘Your point being?’
‘Putting it simply? I despise you and all you fail to stand for. Is that clear enough?’
‘You’ll change your mind when you get to know me better. Now let us be moving. My zhi-bow has no more bolts. I do not relish the thought of tackling a kral with only a dagger.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
As they reached the mist barrier Talaban bade farewell to Caprishan and the supply column and led his fifty riders further north-east. He glanced at the young man riding alongside him. The rider was clad in expensive riding clothes, his tan jerkin crafted from the finest of skins and decorated along the shoulder seams with black pearls. His knee-length riding boots were also of fine leather, each adorned with a silver band at the ankle. He had spoken little since they had left Egaru and then only to answer direct questions.
Up ahead Touchstone was riding scout, and the column moved slowly, seeking to raise as little dust as possible.
The Questor General’s orders had been specific. ‘Harass the enemy. It is time they learned the cost of invasion. Hit them hard, then move. Do not engage in any pitched battles. Strike like the hawk, then ride.’ Talaban had passed the captaincy of the Serpent to Methras, the exchange of power witnessed by Mejana and Rael. The young sergeant had accepted his new role with quiet dignity and Talaban had felt a surge of pride.
He was not as happy with his own appointment. He would have preferred to have chosen his own men, but with power being shared now he had also been forced to accept a compromise. Twenty Avatar archers and thirty Vagar warriors, led by the inexperienced young man who rode now beside him.
Talaban knew little about him – save that he was a merchant, the grandson of Mejana, and he was said to know well the lands into which they rode.
‘How far is the first settlement?’ asked Talaban.
‘Around four miles,’ the young man answered. He seemed nervous and on edge.
‘Touchstone is a fine scout. There will be no ambush, Pendar.’
‘I am not afraid,’ said Pendar, his tone defensive. That the Vagar disliked him was obvious, and, Talaban realized, wholly natural. But the Avatar hoped that when they came into contact with the enemy Pendar would have the intelligence to put his hatred aside. Until then there was little point in trying to make a friend of the man.
Urging his horse into a run Talaban moved ahead of the column. The land was becoming more ridged. Towering cliffs of red stone reared to their left and they were approaching the wide Gen-el Pass. Touchstone had reined in his pony and was staring ahead. He glanced back as Talaban rode alongside.
‘What have you seen?’ asked the Avatar.
‘Nothing. But enemy there.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Someone watches. I know this. I feel his eyes.’
Talaban scanned the pass. The sun was high and there was no movement to be seen. Not a bird flew, and even the breeze had dropped.
Talaban swung his mount and rode back to his Avatars, calling the sergeant aside. Goray was a large man, his short-cropped hair dark, his trimmed trident beard dyed blue. He was a veteran of many tribal wars and was one of the older Avatars, well over three hundred. For sixty years he had been an officer of high rank, but had retired from the army twelve years before to spend more time studying the stars. He had not been best pleased when the Questor General summoned him and other retired Avatars to return to the army. ‘The enemy is in the pass,’ Talaban told him.
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