Desh Krohan stood next to the Emperor and looked out at the sea of people. There were five great tables, each capable of seating twenty people, and every last one of them was seated to capacity. The only exception was the table where he and Pathra would be sitting soon.
“What have you learned about our guests?” Pathra gazed past the simple spell Desh had placed on the wall. The men could look upon the dining hall and see all that needed to be seen. The people on the other side of the wall could only see the tapestry that covered the stone. The spell was permanent and had been set by Desh before Pathra Krous was born. People without the right jewelry could not use the scrying portal. There were exactly three pieces of jewelry that had been ensorcelled at the same time. Two of them were on Desh’s person. The third was the ring that bore the Emperor’s seal.
“Which ones? The Sa’ba Taalor? Or your family?”
“My family I know all too well.” The Emperor’s voice was dry and bitter. “Tell me about the strangers.”
“I’ve only just met them myself. They’re not like us, I can certainly tell you that much. They are more direct, for one. From what I’ve seen so far they tell a soul exactly what they think and what they feel.”
“That alone should make this an interesting feast.”
“True enough, Pathra.” The Emperor’s kin were a very large assembly of liars and collaborators. The path to the throne was murky at the present time and everyone knew it. There were no heirs as yet. The Emperor was a widower and his wife had passed while delivering a stillborn child. To date he had not successfully sired an heir and that was a pressing matter. In reality, in comparison to other issues it was hardly urgent, but it was a consideration in almost every discussion. Thus the young princess from Roathes, Lanaie, was meant as a messenger, true enough, but she was also offered as a consideration for a bride. No one was openly saying anything, but everyone knew that was the situation.
There were many women at the Emperor’s table. Most of them were guests from the Valley of Seven Forges – Taalor, Desh reminded himself, was the proper name as far as anyone could tell – but there were a few exceptions. Lanaie was sitting to the Emperor’s left. To his right his cousin Nachia was already seated and waiting. She had changed since last Desh had seen her. She was always a beautiful girl but now she had grown to full womanhood. Her red-blonde hair was falling in curls around her face; the difference between her and her cousin was that her curls were natural, and her cousin’s were the product of rare oils and a hairdresser he desperately wanted to bed. Her eyes were clear and her skin was flawless. Most of the men in the area looked at her with open admiration, but they did so most often when she was not looking at them. Nachia was not a woman known for keeping her tongue.
Desh rather liked the idea of keeping the woman company. Nachia’s claim to the throne was the most legitimate. If anything happened to Pathra before he sired an heir she would likely take the throne. She was not overly concerned about it one way or the other, and that made her the exception. As far as Desh Krohan could tell, Nachia genuinely liked her cousin, despite the decades of difference in their ages. She had been raised at the Emperor’s side for several years before heading off to her own place on the other side of the great city. Her parents had rudely decided to die at a fairly early age, and left her in Pathra’s care.
Certainly she would have Desh’s backing if something happened. But that didn’t mean there weren’t a dozen others who felt they had claim as well. That was the problem with the Krous family: there were a lot of them and it seemed most believed they should be in charge of the Empire. Pathra didn’t take the threat seriously enough for Desh’s liking. Towdra Krous, a bilious waste of breath as far as Desh was concerned, was even now wandering around and leering at the various members of his family. He didn’t much seem to care if they were male or female. He just leered and pretended to know what everyone was talking about.
Aside from Towdra, most everyone else in the family was at least pretending to behave. Pathra had made clear that this was a very serious situation. He had no intention of letting his family cause an incident. Desh looked at them just the same: Nachia, the heir apparent; her brother Brolley; a few withered men who had once been important and now were merely decorations. The men in question dressed in finery and smiled and nodded at all the right times, but they knew the situation well enough. They were there mostly to show their support for the throne.
Further away from the head of the table a very heavy man – portly, but also muscular – sat scowling at his plate. His hair was also dredged in fine oils and formed into tight curls. Desh scowled. He hated the latest fashion. There had been a time when Laister Krous had been considered a possible heir to the throne, and there were still a few who believed he should be on the throne right at the moment, but his backers lacked the power to place him there when Pathra was younger and the Emperor had done an excellent job of making sure that fact didn’t change.
There were other members of the family there, but mostly they preened and did their best to look at everyone around them without being seen to show any curiosity.
Desh spoke softly as he looked away from the family members. “You’ve met Drask. He seems to be a rather tolerant example of his people.”
Pathra looked at him. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yes.” Desh nodded. “The Sisters assure me that the Sa’ba Taalor are a very direct people and from what they have gleaned, the people as a whole do not appreciate anything but direct answers and brutal honesty.”
Pathra stared at the visitors again. Almost half the seats were occupied by them. There were forty-one in total in the town and they were all present. All of them came offering gifts, and all of them came wearing clothes that seemed positively barren. To be sure, a few sported jewelry, but most wore only simple outfits and even the women wore outfits better suited for farming or riding than for the palace. In comparison the Krous family was wearing insane finery at the very height of fashion. The only exception was Nachia, who wore comfortable clothes that were well-crafted but bordered on being scandalously out of fashion. She liked to walk her own path, and as one of Pathra’s favored relatives she could get away with a great deal.
“Are we sure about this?” The Emperor of the Fellein Empire gestured down the length of his body, which was currently sporting a nice pair of leather breeches and a tunic of blue silk. He did not wear his crown, nor did he cover himself with robes, as was the tradition. The wizard sported his robes as he always did, but they both understood that was for show.
“We discussed this. You want to make these people feel welcome, then you should dress as they do. To do otherwise might well prove insulting to them.”
“And you wear your robes because…?”
“Because half of your family remains in the dark about me and that’s for the best. They don’t need to know more about me than they already do.”
“And I don’t need to wear a veil before these people? Because I would rather not.”
“No. The veil is because their gods have decided we don’t need to know their faces for some reason. It’s not an insult, it’s just the way of their people.”
“It still feels like an insult.”
“They’re a very direct people. If they wanted to insult you, I suspect they would have spit at you or just possibly sent one of those great slavering mounts of theirs to piss on your leg.”
Pathra chuckled. “They are outrageously large things, aren’t they?”
“Do you know they feed on the Pra-Moresh?”
“That’s a terrifying notion by itself.”
“Let’s go, Pathra. It’s time to eat and to meet your new neighbors.”
The Emperor shook his head. “Why do I think I’m going to regret this?”
“You say that whenever your cousins are around.”
“Yes. And I’m normally right.”
“You’re the one that decided not to have them all executed on general principles.”
“You know, I am never quite certain if you’re joking when you say that.”
“You know, neither am I.”
They entered the room and dealt with formalities for nearly twenty minutes. Pathra nodded and listened to half of his family making speeches and praising him, and while that went on, Desh settled himself at his normal location to the right of the Emperor and flirted shamelessly with Nachia. Shamelessly, but subtly, because there are only so many ways you can misbehave in front of the royal family.
He paid better attention when the visitors came forward and introduced themselves. The surprise came from the first man he’d met aside from Drask, the fellow who’d been introduced to him as Tusk. The man was dressed in black breeches and a black tunic. He sported no finery. His presence was enough. Everyone looked at the man as he rose from his seat.
The stranger stood, took four paces toward the throne and bowed formally to the Emperor, his pose flawless, the scars on his body made more prominent as a result of his lack of accessories. There was nothing to hide every wound he’d suffered, except of course for the veil that covered his face below the eyes.
“I am Tuskandru, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem and Obsidian King.” Well, that was a surprise. “I come to you with my brethren, the Sa’ba Taalor. We bear gifts from the Seven Kings in your honor and a hope for a long and lasting friendship.”
He nodded and the first two of his people came forward bearing a metal box of apparently impressive weight. Neither of the men carrying it was small, but they strained with the burden. Once the box was set down the men raised the lid. Inside the crate was a small fortune in gold, presented as a gift from N’Heelis, Chosen of the Forge of Wrommish and King in Gold.
Next the Emperor was offered a shield made of what seemed to be pure silver. The craftsmanship was as brilliant as the metal itself and sported an image of an oak tree planted on a mountain top. A gift from Ganem, Chosen of the forge of Ydramil and King in Silver.
There were more offerings, different metals and different designs. It was the last offering from Tuskandru that stuck out the most. Four of the Sa’ba Taalor brought forth the offering, the skull of a beast, a truly terrifying thing by any account. The head was as long as a man and nearly as tall. The entire thing had been cleaned and preserved, and was adorned with gold and gems. Every surface had been meticulously carved, and even from a distance Desh could see the loving detail that had gone into the work.
Several of the Emperor’s kin looked upon the offering with contempt, but not Pathra. He rose from his seat and walked a slow circuit of the great skull, marveling. Pathra had always loved the idea of traveling, had longed to explore his realm and well beyond it, but had never been given the opportunity.
“What sort of beast is this from, friend Tuskandru?”
Tuskandru – “Tusk” as he corrected – called it a Mound Crawler. “They are glorious enemies. We have only seen two in my lifetime, and they always bring with them great carnage and bloodshed.” Tusk walked to the head and rested one scarred hand on the largest of the canines. There were rows of the things. “This Crawler came from the Mounds and found entrance into Taalor through the Gate of Durhallem, my kingdom. Once there it killed my father, my uncle, my mother, my brothers, and seventeen of my people.”
Pathra Krous looked at the man with horrified eyes. “I am so very sorry. Your sorrow is mine.”
Tusk nodded brusquely. “Their names and their stories adorn the skull of my enemy. This Mound Crawler earned the name Kingmaker and Kinslayer. Its actions brought it to my attention and so I was forced to kill it. That was when I was made king of my people. I offer this to you as a gift. It is my greatest prize and my greatest sorrow. It is the cause of my pain and my ascension. I ask that you do me the honor of caring for it.”
Pathra Krous looked at Desh Krohan and remembered their earlier conversation. “It is I who am honored by your request, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem. It is my hope that we will long remain friends and allies.” He offered a formal bow to the king who had come before him and after a moment the king returned the gesture.
And after that there was feasting.
The meal was excellent, some of the finest food that Andover had ever consumed, but he was far more interested in the people he would be joining on their journey back home. All of them had the same odd tint to their skin, though the amount varied. Drask had a strong shade of gray. But Tusk looked to have been rolled in ash in comparison.
Tega sat at the same table during the meal and though she was friendly enough there was a distance between them now. Maybe it was his imagination but it seemed she frowned upon his dubious mercy when it came to his enemies.
That was hardly important. His hands were his now, and Drask assured him that Truska-Pren was satisfied that he had paid the price to keep them.
Blood, yes, but not necessarily lives. He would remember that.
When the meal was done the groups moved around and celebrated, conversing about their different lands and about every subject under the sun. Several of the men in the room stared at the Sa’ba Taalor women with open curiosity. Many of the women did the same regarding their men. Their cultures were different down to the way they dressed and no one missed the fact that every last member of the visiting people was heavily scarred.
The pain in Andover’s thigh reminded him that he would soon be sporting a severe scar himself. The wound had been cleaned and tended to by the women who studied under Desh Krohan, and while the wound was severe, it was well on its way to healing. Not because Andover was a special case, but because the circumstances demanded that he be in relatively healthy shape for his coming travels. He had looked at the wound before the meal started and even though not a full day had passed, he could see that the damage was substantially healed.
He shadowed Drask Silver Hand around the event. Drask introduced him to Tusk – The man did not stand on formalities – who heard the story of how he lost his hands and how he fought for the right to keep them and then nodded his satisfaction. Then in the language of their people the king rattled a series of words at Drask and congratulated Andover on his victory. He felt rather like a simpleton being congratulated by a scholar: the man had killed the sort of beast that had a head large enough to sleep in and his praise seemed directed at making Andover feel more comfortable with his own inadequacies. Still, he supposed that was courtly manners. He honestly didn’t understand half of what went on around him when it came to the matters of the aristocrats.
And he was supposed to be an ambassador. The very notion made him more nervous than fighting his attackers had.
Drask tapped his arm. “The forge where you got your hammer earlier, it’s near here?”
Andover frowned and nodded. “Yes, of course. Burk’s smithy is on the premises. Well, just off them, really. He’s the smith to the City Guard.”
Drask looked past him and nodded. “We should go there.”
“Why?”
“You know how to use a blacksmith’s hammer, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must use it now. It is time to forge your first weapon.”
“My what?”
“Tuskandru is a king. He says you will travel with us, but you will do so as an equal, not as a burden. For that you must have a weapon. Now you must forge that weapon.”
“Burk will not be pleased.”
Drask looked directly at him. “Burk will under-stand. You must do this thing, Andover Lashk. You must.”
Andover looked around the dining hall and nodded his head. There was little he wanted that was in this area anyway, except of course, for Tega. But he wasn’t foolish enough to think that anything would happen with her. Dream yes, expect, no.
The Emperor himself had asked that he go with the strangers and they had gifted him with new hands. He would do as Drask asked for now, if only to ensure that all who expected from him were happy with their decisions.
An hour later the forges were burning brightly and Burk was watching him with the shrewd eye of a master smith. He was also watching with several small gold coins in his pocket, which had done wonders for stopping the man from being upset about being disturbed.
At first Andover had no idea what he was going to do, what he was going to make for his weapon of choice, but eventually the answer came to him as he stared at the raw materials around him. What else would he use but what he had used earlier to win his combat?
Of course he would use a hammer. But there would be modifications, oh, yes. There would be changes a-plenty.
Both Drask and Burk watched as he first gathered the materials and then began the work of making his weapon. He looked to Drask and asked three questions. First, “Why do I have to make my own weapon?”
“Because a weapon should be as much a part of you as your arm.” The brute pointed. “Or your hands.”
“I am to choose the materials that are used in forging my weapon?”
“Yes. Of course.” The man’s expressive eyes showed little comprehension.
Andover nodded. “If I am to have a connection with the weapon, and the weapon is to be a part of me, then I want the weapon to actually be a part of me. May I have the metal from the blessing box?”
“Of course. It is only metal. Why?”
Andover smiled. “If I am to have a weapon that is as much a part of me as my hands, than let it be the very same metal that forged my hands.”
Drask went back to his room and brought the box with him. They waited together while the metal slowly melted into the crucible where the blacksmith did his work.
There were three people present, but to Andover it seemed like a great number more watched him as he worked. His new hands got a great deal of exercise and his arms strained as he worked the metal after casting it. The weapon had a good number of metallic parts and he worked on each one, seldom letting himself think as he brought down the very hammer he’d used earlier to mete out his justice. The metal had tasted the blood of his enemies and that seemed to him a very important thing. Before he was finished the sun was nearly ready to rise and his leg ached from standing on the wounded limb for so long. His shoulders and arms burned with the hard work, and the small stings of a dozen sparks burning his skin remained to annoy aggravated nerve endings.
And he felt content, as if he had finally accomplished something worthwhile.
He had one day to recover and part of that was spent being fitted for his new clothes. A small army of tailors went to work making sure he was prepared for the trip, supervised in part by the Sisters who served with Desh Krohan.
And while he was allegedly recovering from the work of creating his new weapon, Drask examined the device and then began schooling him in the best way to use the bloody thing. The man seemed to understand instinctively how Andover meant to employ it, and he expanded on those ideas.
Despite the discomfort in his arms and the exhaustion he felt, Andover reveled in the new weapon and learning its potential.
It felt as if the weapon had been waiting all along for him to make it and then wield it.
It felt right in his hands, as surely as his hands felt natural and right attached to his wrists.
They traveled for days before they finally reached Roathes and days more before they made their way to the great stone keep of King Marsfel. It seemed at least half the time that the people with him were mesmerized by the ocean. Considering where they’d come from it must have seemed an impossibility. Merros could still remember the first time he’d stared at the vast expanse of choppy waters. He’d been nearly overwhelmed and he’d at least known of the ocean’s existence. Swech kept looking it over and shaking her head as if, even after days, she had trouble accepting the reality.
Though Merros hadn’t been in the area in a very long time little had changed, really. The people in the area lived a fairly routine life and aside from a few structures like the castle and the town center outside its walls there was little aside from well-designed huts to run across. Very elaborate huts, granted, but built from materials that seldom seemed like they’d hold up in a strong wind, despite the evidence to the contrary.
King Marsfel received them with a dubious expression. Reading the note that was passed over by Merros didn’t seem to help much, really. On the other hand, no one threatened to execute them. You take your victories where you can find them.
Within an hour they were settled at an inn not far from the palace. The rooms were small, the air was hot and humid, and it was still a welcome change of pace from sleeping on a bedroll. One wing of the rather large affair was set aside for them. The cost seemed prohibitive at first, but then there was the feeding of the mounts to consider. They did not eat grass or hay, and as they’d learned in the last village, sometimes the damned things went off hunting if they were not fed in advance. On the bright side, the money was provided by the Emperor.
He would let kings and emperors work out the bills.
When they had all settled in Merros called the Sa’ba Taalor to join him and laid out a map of the area that the king had finally provided after a bit of haggling. There were limits and a map of the affected area didn’t seem too much to ask.
The map was clear enough. There was a large stretch of ocean; on one side of it there was Fellein, on the other was nothing. Somewhere in the middle of that vast ocean there was a long stretch of islands that had been unified under the Guntha flag. The problem seemed to come from the notion that the islands the Guntha called home were sinking. Seemed they wanted to live on dry land. In the defense of the Guntha, he could understand their dilemma. King Marsfel on the other hand seemed to find the notion of giving up his lands to accommodate their desires reprehensible. His father before him had felt the same way.
So he had to explain the situation to Swech and her friends. And once he started, the group immediately began expressing opinions.
Swech said, “They cannot come and simply take the land?”
Merros countered with, “Well, we’re here to assess that situation, to see if the Emperor has enough forces here already to repel the invasion or if he needs to send more troops.”
Swech shook her head. “No. We are here to stop them.”
“I don’t think so. We’re here to examine the situation.”
Swech shook her head again. “We are here to show your Emperor what ten Sa’ba Taalor can do. That is what Drask Silver Hand said.”
He pointed to the map. According to Marsfel, the Guntha had already claimed an area to his south, less than a day’s travel away. The land was considered inhospitable and it was hard to actually do anything there but settle a few hundred tents. However, that was where they were amassing a fighting force.
“Why does he not send his soldiers there to stop them?” Swech asked.
“Well, Roathes doesn’t really have an army. They have soldiers, yes, but more as a force to guard against possible attacks from the land. They don’t really have enough men to have an army and to tend to the villages as well as they should. They have many ships, and they’re certainly very good at sailing, but they don’t have an army. They depend on Fellein to handle issues where they might need an army.” He could see the way they looked at each other. They weren’t getting it, so he clarified. “As part of the Empire they’ve made negotiations in the past to guarantee assistance. They provide ships for transport of goods to different areas, and in turn the Empire is supposed to offer defense in situations like this.”
“Then why does your Emperor not offer soldiers?” That was Blane.
“We’re here to assess the situation. To see if soldiers are necessary.”
“How many of the Guntha have already settled here?” Swech pointed to the area on the map called the Blade of Trellia. The jutting finger of land was a harsh area, covered with rough terrain and a good number of easily defended rock outcroppings. Oddly enough, the Guntha almost always chose that spot. Apparently somewhere back in time it was sacred to their people. He had long since given up trying to understand why as he found it genuinely unattractive and uninhabitable.
“According to King Marsfel, the Guntha have over a thousand people there right now.”
“A thousand?” Swech looked at her friends.
“Over a thousand and more showing up daily.”
“We should go there. We should investigate.”
“Well, yes, that’s the idea. We just had to present ourselves to the King first.”
Swech nodded her head and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good! Then let’s go see these Guntha.”
“Well there’s more to it than that.”
The whole lot of them were already standing up and getting ready to move. Swech looked at him again. “What more is there? They are here.” She jabbed a finger at the map. “We are here.” Another jab. “We need to be there.”
“And that’s true, but no one here has ever been to the Guntha homeland and that includes me.”
“And?” Blane leaned in closer, his eyes watching every expression, every motion of Merros’ face to the point where Merros was nearly made uncomfortable.
“We know that there are people resting on the shoals, here.” Jab at map. “We do not know how many for certain, and we do not know if that is all the people they can spare, or if it is an advanced scouting party, or if this is a carefully laid trap to make sure the Guntha have good reason for declaring war. No one has been attacked yet. They have merely posted themselves on an inhospitable piece of land.”
“Did the king’s people not ask for help?”
“Yes, they did. But they are not the Emperor. He must know what forces are against his people before he decides to commit himself to an act of war.” They were a direct people, the Sa’ba Taalor. They didn’t really seem capable of understanding duplicity. That was a good thing when it came to relationships, but a bad thing when it came to understanding the fine art of backstabbing, also known as politics. Years in the military had taught Merros that much.
“No one has ever been to the islands of the Guntha?”
“No. Anyone coming close is normally not heard from again. The Guntha are not a gentle people.”
The people with him looked at each other and then back to him if trying to assess why, exactly, he was addled. There comes a point where you simply can’t make your point any clearer. Tomorrow, they would see.
Merros sighed. “Yes, well a good night’s rest would be the right point for starting this.”
“Come. We have a long ways to travel.”
That effectively ended the debate. The Sa’ba Taalor wanted to head on and he was supposed to be their intermediary. That meant he had to move along as well.
Within the hour they were well away from the castle and the town and moving along the shoreline. They rode through most of the day and stopped only well after the sun had set.
The weather was delightfully warm, even with the sun down and the breeze coming off the ocean. Tents went up quickly, more as defense against the sand and the breeze than because they needed any real shelter. The mounts were sent out to find their own food. Merros hoped they didn’t find anything that would cause problems later, like a herd of cattle or possibly a small village. There seemed to be sign of neither around the area; that would have to do.
Ludicrous. He was riding with strangers and heading into a strange situation. He’d have packed his bags and walked away from the situation, but the money was simply too damned good. He was still contemplating the money situation when he drifted off to sleep.
His sleep was interrupted sometime later when Swech entered his tent and climbed on top of him. He looked up at her sleepily and she looked down at him. Her fingers found his mouth and she shushed him before he could protest.
“We come closer to battle, Merros Dulver. Tonight I feel restless.” She leaned down closer, her words spoken softly. “Make me tired and satisfied.” Her hands, strong and callused but still feminine, ran across his chest and shoulders as she spoke, feeling the texture of him through the shirt he wore. His hands reached out as well and soon they were exploring each other more thoroughly. They did not make love; they rutted, neither pretending that what they did was meant to have a greater meaning.
When he woke in the morning, pleasantly sore, Swech was still beside him, but dressing herself. Some communications do not require words. They dressed in silence and worked together to break down the tent they’d shared. If anyone with them failed to notice what had occurred, it was simply because they were all just as busy breaking camp. If anyone did notice, they chose discretion when it came to making comment.
They rode for a good portion of the next day, moving across the land without fear of being seen by much aside from the occasional fisherman. Neither Swech nor Merros spoke of what had occurred the night before though there were many opportunities to do so. They did not avoid the subject either. It was simply something that did not need discussing, not now at least. Perhaps after they had dealt with what was coming when they made camp.
“What do you intend to do when you see the Guntha?”
“Drask Silver Hand wants us to work on behalf of your Emperor. To handle the matter. We will handle the matter.”
Frustrating. The woman was frustrating. “Yes, fine, but how?”
Swech shrugged. “I will know after we have seen these Guntha and assessed what they are capable of.”
The conversation continued along those lines until they finally stopped at the Blade of Trellia. The land was mostly dark rock, black sand, and thick patches of grass that often stood as tall as a man. Occasionally, to break the monotony, there were trees laden with a thick gray moss that was almost the same color as Swech’s hair. Merros had thought there would be no proper places to hide the great mounts or the group as a whole, but he was wrong. There were enough hills and enough patches of the thick saw grass to allow a substantial gathering to hide. As they were almost a mile distant from the camp of the Guntha it was easy enough to conceal their location.
The great mounts did not roam or wander off as they sometimes did when they were finished for the day. Instead they lay down and slumbered, but Merros could tell they were not asleep so much as they were waiting. Blane and another of the group left the area, heading toward the beachfront where the Guntha were supposed to be camped. They came back when the sun was setting and nodded. “They are there. There are many.”
“Are they armed? Do they prepare for battle?” Swech spoke softly, but it was easy to hear her. None of the Sa’ba Taalor spoke out of turn and most barely moved as they listened to the discussion.
For the first time Merros realized on a conscious level what he’d noticed and acknowledged silently before: Swech was the leader of this group. It wasn’t unheard of for a woman to be a fighter, not even a solder, but it was rare. Never had he run across a female who was in charge of any sized group of soldiers before.
Still, considering her talents, he could not exactly blame them for choosing her. Her skills as an archer alone would have made her a just choice.
He had been gifted with the ability to understand their language. For that reason he was genuinely surprised when Swech spoke again and not a single word she said made any sense to his ears.
After several minutes of the group conversing they broke apart, each moving back to their mount and quickly undressing, gathering different clothes and then different weapons.
“What’s going on, Swech?”
Swech spoke as she stripped out of her clothes and changed into darker fabrics. “We are going to investigate the camp. And then we are going to handle the matter of the Guntha for King Marsfel.”
“What do you need me to do?”
Swech shook her head and took off her shirt. He looked away out of old habit, despite their recent intimacy. “You are here to observe for your Emperor. You are not here to be a part of this. We are here to handle the matter as Drask has requested.”
“I am to do nothing?”
“You are to wait here.” She patted the face of her mount. “And you should avoid getting eaten.” The beast made a rude noise. Sometimes he was certain the things understood every word said around them.
“Why are you changing your clothes?”
Swech looked at him as she pulled on a dark gray blouse that fell loosely around her. “We do not need armor for what we are about.”
“And what is that?”
“There are times when a warrior needs shields and swords, Merros Dulver, and there are times when silence and a short blade are better suited. Now is a time for silence and fast actions.”
“What?” He shook his head. They couldn’t actually mean to attack, could they?
“Do not think about this. Simply know that when we return it will be time to leave.”
Within moments Swech had gathered a small collection of weapons and was on her way. The others moved with her, slipping into the night and running along the beach where the sounds of the tide quickly washed away any noises they might have made.
Merros waited exactly long enough for them to move out of sight before he followed. He prayed very hard that the great beasts had not been told by their masters to keep him there. Apparently the gods listened, because he was not torn apart for his insolence.