Chapter Five

On the ride back to the enemy camp, Faelan stayed as close to Duncan as his horse permitted. The animal didn’t trust her scent and tolerated her presence only because Duncan willed it. The other members of the search party shared the horse’s opinion. They oozed suspicion, all but the warrior woman. Faelan sensed the woman trusted Duncan. It was none of her business if the field marshal picked up a stray dog, a stray wolf, or a stray lion.

Avoiding the elf proved easier said than done. He walked at Duncan’s stirrup, shoulder to boot, leading his horse with its sad burden mile after mile. He kept pace with the horses. His stamina never flagged. His contented scent told Faelan he preferred walking.

The enemy camp had looked imposing, orderly at a distance, but up close, from Faelan’s wolfish perspective, it was anything but. Men stood stiffly, raised one arm level with their shoulder, and touched two fingers to their brow as Duncan rode past. Each time they did this, Duncan returned the gesture, fast and sharp. Everyone spoke rapidly and although the language was eerily similar to her own, Faelan could not keep up. Doubt dragged at her paws. She fell behind.

Up ahead, Duncan stopped, turned his horse, and stood in the stirrups, reminding Faelan he was not overly tall. A slight smile touched his lips when he caught sight of her.

“Azure, come.”

His voice cut through the camp noise. Faelan heard him cleanly. He had a voice accustomed to issuing orders and he knew how to pitch it to carry over the clash of armies. Faelan’s human emotions screamed he is dangerous, run, but her human brain argued for her mission and her freedom. Her wolf side longed to obey Duncan’s alpha voice and in the end, her wolf won. Faelan trotted to Duncan’s side.

He leaned down, brushing long warm fingers over her head.

“Be easy, beautiful. It is a bit much, I know. It scares me too, sometimes. We will reach the garrison quarter soon. It is not much quieter, but still…”

Duncan had an odd habit of pausing between sentences. It made him easy to understand. Faelan grabbed onto the sound of his voice like a rope in a sand storm.

“Eamon.” He straightened in his saddle. “Help me keep an eye on my dog.”

They lost their companions one by one as each man peeled off and returned to his own regiment. By the time they reached the center of camp where Duncan’s large tent stood surrounded by blue-jackets, only Duncan, the elf, and the other blue-jackets remained. In spite of what he had said, it was quieter. A sense of calm order permeated the area. Faelan breathed easier. Her confidence returned. She could do this. She could spy on this man.

Young boys dressed in light blue tunics took charge of their mounts, and another group of blue-jacketed troopers took charge of the scout’s body.

“Set the remembrance for sundown, please, Bird,” Duncan called after one of them.

Faelan plastered herself against Duncan’s leg and moved with him into the tent. Large trestle-style tables overspread with maps filled about a third of the outer chamber. Frame and leather chairs and as many small campaign tables filled up the remaining space. Thick soft rugs covered raked ground.

A stocky youth who sat hunched over the writing desk, leapt to his feet as they entered. Long braids trailed down his back and a small rectangular scar lay near his left ear. His eyes widened.

“A dog! What’s its name? Where’d you find it? Are you keeping it? May I pet it?”

Faelan’s tongue lolled. Her tail wagged. It was as close to a laugh as she could manage in her present form.

Duncan crossed the room, unbuttoning his jacket as he went and tossed it over a chair. A black sleeveless under shirt clung to his trim musculature. A tattoo, rendered in a lacy tracing of sepia, barely visible against smooth golden skin, bisected his right biceps. He poured himself a drink while his elf, Eamon, scooped up his discarded jacket and disappeared deeper into the tent’s interior.

Duncan took a deep breath and turned to the lad. “I am calling her Azure. We found her in the woods. Yes. As to whether she will let you pet her, I could not say. Try it and see.”

He delivered this whole speech in one breath, as the boy had done, without his usual pauses. Faelan sensed he was fond of the boy and decided to allow the petting. The boy knelt in front of her and ran his hands over her head.

“She’s a real beauty.”

“Thank you, Roland. I think so.” Duncan glanced at a tablet on boy’s abandoned desk. “Have you tested your formula?”

Roland scratched behind Faelan’s prick-ears. “I’ve tried it six times. It doesn’t work.”

Duncan frowned. “You made an error.”

“Did not.”

“Did not, what?” Duncan’s tone was mild. Still frowning at the tablet, he eased himself into the chair the boy had vacated.

Roland rolled his eyes, but only Faelan saw it. “Did not, sir.”

“Come here, please.”

Faelan padded over with Roland, resting her front paws upon the edge of the desk. A rack of small jars containing foul smelling powders stood in the center. On the left side a bronze dish held white ashes. A stack of musty books occupied the upper right corner. Faelan nosed Duncan’s cup. Fruit juice. He moved it out of her reach without looking up.

“Eamon,” Duncan called out. “Azure is thirsty. Bring water, please.” He slid out of the chair, and the boy reclaimed his seat. Leaning over Roland’s right shoulder, Duncan tapped a squiggle on the tablet with his finger. “What is this value here?”

“Potassium nitrate?”

“I asked first.” There was no reproof in Duncan’s voice. “Look it up.”

Pulling a leather-bound book out of stack, the boy flipped through the pages. “Shit.”

Duncan cuffed him lightly on the ear. “Gentlemen do not use vulgarisms.”

“My Captain does.”

“True. But Captain Fawr outranks me and may speak as he chooses. You, my goddess-born cadet, may not. In my tent you learn from my example.”

Roland rubbed his ear although the gentle blow could not have stung more than his pride. “I must have guessed wrong.”

“Do not guess. My journals are available to you as well as those of other philosophers.”

Eamon returned carrying water and a platter of fruit Faelan did not recognize. The elf sat the bowl on the rug and the platter on a low table. “I laid out your Midnight jacket for the Remembrance. I’ll go check on the preparations."

“Hey,” Roland complained loudly. “That’s my job.”

“Shush.”

“Well, it is.”

“Your job is whatever I say it is. Retest your formula, please. I will speak to Eamon.”

The boy mixed pinches of this and that, all the while shooting resentful glances in the direction the elf had gone. The mixture smoked and exploded in a small jut of flame.

“Ha! Ha!” Roland clapped his hands, delighted, his resentment over Eamon’s intrusion on his territory forgotten in the bright flush of success.

Duncan tugged one of the boy’s braids. “You see. When the formula is correct, the outcome is predictable. One does not develop incendiaries empirically. Not if one wishes to keep one’s fingers.”

Roland placed a lid on the box of powders. “You do.”

“You do. What?”

“You do, sir,” Roland stumbled over his feet in his rush to pick up Duncan’s jacket before Duncan could. Faelan was certain she would see the boy’s ears boxed in earnest, but Duncan chuckled.

“No.” He paused, took a breath, and slipped his arms into the short black jacket trimmed with startling blue piping the lad held for him. “Each step builds upon the foundation of my previous work.” Duncan turned resting his hands on Roland’s shoulders. “When that is not possible, I work to scale so in the event of catastrophic failure, I lose my tweezers, not my fingers.”

Batting the boy’s hands away, Duncan fastened the braided frogs down the front of his jacket. “For tomorrow, your problem is a twelve foot high stone curtain-wall. The job requires more punch, less bang. I want you to make adjustments to your formula and devise a delivery system.”

“What’s the width of the wall, sir?”

Duncan propped one foot on the campaign table and swiped at the dust on his boot with a rag. “You will solve for it.”

“I hate you,” the boy huffed.

Duncan’s lips twitched. “I hate you. What?”