WOREF SWUNG his leg over the stallion and dropped to the sand. Behind him, a hundred of his best soldiers waited on horses that stamped and occasionally snorted in the cool morning air. They’d approached the firelit sky last night, camped at the edge of the Southern Forest, and risen while it was still dark. This could be the day that marked the beginning of the end for the albinos.
The lieutenant who’d first located this camp had never been wrong— once again he hadn’t disappointed. Still, they’d been in similar situations a dozen times, the albinos within reach, only to return home empty-handed. The Circle didn’t fight, but they had perfected the art of evasion.
Woref stared at the canyons ahead. The blue smoke of burning horse manure was unmistakable. Soren had reported a small oasis south of the camp—roughly a hundred trees around one of the poisonous red pools— but the albinos were too smart to use any wood unless it was already fallen. Instead they used recycled fuel, as a Scab would. They’d adapted to the desert well with Martyn’s help. Johan’s help.
Woref ’s dreadlocks hung heavy on his head, and he rolled his neck to clear one from his face. Truth be told, he’d never liked Martyn. His defection was appropriate. Better, it had opened the way for Woref ’s own promotion. Now he was the hunter and Martyn the prey, along with Thomas. The reward for their heads was a heady prospect.
“Show me their retreat paths,” he said.
Soren dropped to one knee and drew in the sand. “The canyon looks like a box, but there are two exits, here and here. One leads to the pool, here; the other to the open desert.”
“How many women and children?”
“Twenty or thirty. Roughly half.”
“And you’re sure that Thomas is among the men?”
“Yes sir. I will stake my life on it.”
Woref grunted. “You may regret it. Qurong’s losing his patience.”
A thousand or so dissidents sworn to nonviolence didn’t present a threat to the Horde, but the number of defections from the Horde to the Circle was water on Qurong’s flaky skin. He was adamant about preempting any deterioration in his power base. Thomas of Hunter had defeated him one too many times in battle to take any chances.
“As are we.” Soren dipped his head then added, “Sir.”
Woref spit to one side. The whole army knew that Thomas of Hunter’s head wasn’t the only head at stake here. What they didn’t know was that Qurong’s own daughter, Chelise, was also at stake.
The supreme leader had long ago promised to allow his daughter to marry once the Horde captured the forests, but he had changed his mind when Thomas escaped. As long as Thomas of Hunter was free to lead a rebellion, Chelise would remain single. At the outset of this campaign, he’d secretly sworn his daughter’s hand to Woref, pending the capture of Thomas.
At times Woref wondered if Qurong was only protecting his daughter, who’d made it clear that she wasn’t interested in marrying any general, including Woref. Her dismissal only fueled Woref ’s desire. If Qurong refused him this time, he would kill the leader and take Chelise by force.
“They have no intelligence of our approach?” he asked.
“No sign of it. I can’t recall an opportunity as promising as this.”
“Send twenty to cover each escape route. Death to the man who alerts them before we are ready. We attack in twenty minutes. Go.”
Soren ran back and quietly leveled his orders.
Woref squeezed his fingers into fists and relaxed them. He missed the days when the Forest Guard fought like men. Their fearless leader had turned into a mouse. One loud word and he would scamper for the rocks, where the Horde had little chance of ferreting him out. The albinos were still much quicker than Scabs.
Woref had watched the battle at the Natalga Gap, when Thomas had rained fire down on them with the thunder he called bombs. None had been used since, but that would change once they had Thomas in chains. The battle leading up to that crushing defeat had been the best kind. Thousands had died on both sides. Granted, many more thousands of the Horde than the Forest Guard, but they had Thomas on his heels before the cliffs had crushed the Horde.
Woref had killed eight of the Guard that day. He could still remember each blow, severing flesh and bone. The smell of blood. The cries of pain. The white eyes of terror. Killing. There was no experience that even closely compared.
His orders were to bring Thomas in alive, in part because of information the rogue leader could offer, in part because Qurong meant to make an example of him. But if given the excuse, Woref would kill the man. Thomas was responsible for his loneliness these last thirteen months— these past three years, in fact, ever since Chelise had grown into the woman she was, tempting any whole-blooded man with her leveled chin and long flowing hair and flashing gray eyes. He’d known that she would be his. But he hadn’t expected such a delay.
He’d objected bitterly to Qurong’s decision to delay her marriage after the drowning of Justin. If Martyn had still been with them, Woref ’s indiscretion that night might have cost him his life. But in the confusion of such wholesale change, Qurong needed a strong hand to keep the peace. Woref had assumed Martyn’s place and performed without fault. There wasn’t a Scab alive who didn’t fear his name.
“Sir?”
Soren stepped up to him, but Woref didn’t acknowledge him. He suppressed a flash of anger. Did I say come? No, but you came anyway. One day no one will dare approach me without permission.
“They’ve gone, as you ordered.”
Woref walked back to his horse, lifted his boot into the stirrup, paused to let the pain in his joints pass, then mounted. The albinos claimed not to have any pain. It was a lie.
“Tell the men that we will execute one of them for every albino who escapes,” he said.
“And how many of the albinos do we kill?”
“Only as many as it takes to capture Thomas. They’re more useful alive.”