The day passed far too quickly for Ramien’s liking, but the day dragged on endlessly for Handir. He was no good out here. He was a liability, incapable with a sword, a slow runner, vulnerable to the wiles of nature. The others were warriors, except for Llyniel, but even she was accustomed to the outdoors and enjoyed it.
Thirty minutes later, Handir’s tent stood upon dry ground, and two fires cast warmth about the camp. The warriors fetched water and collected more wood, as the sun hung low on the horizon. Soon, the smell of smoke mingled with the heady perfume of Sontúr’s special brew of tea. The aroma of roasting fish made their mouths water and their tongues tingle. Handir watched them all as he knelt before the larger fire, observing the still unfamiliar routines of a military camp and its workings. It was a welcome distraction from his growing anxiety, the need to be home.
Opposite, Gor’sadén sat with his leg stretched out before him, absently rubbing his thigh as he, too, watched the camp settle. Beside him, Sontúr mixed a concoction. Smelling it, he turned and placed it under Llyniel’s nose. She nodded, satisfied.
“My nightly torture approaches,” murmured the commander.
“You seem steadier on your feet,” ventured Sontúr.
“Perhaps.” The commander shrugged as he blew hot steam from the surface of the brew, knowing what awaited him afterwards. He watched Fel’annár as he approached the fire.
“I have sent Galdith and Carodel to forward scout along the riverbank.” It wasn’t a question, but Galadan knew Fel’annár needed his approval.
“On what grounds?”
“The trees are tense, expectant. But I can’t fathom the nature of their worries.”
“Not Deviants? Hounds?”
“No.”
“Then you have done well. Have you set a time limit?”
“One hour.”
“Inform me when they are back.”
Fel’annár nodded and then left to make another round of the camp.
“He will make a good leader.” Galadan nodded.
“If this idea of the Warlord comes to fruition, I wonder where his loyalties will lie,” said Pan’assár as he watched Fel’annár leave. “It will be his duty to defend the best interests of the Silvan people, but if it comes to it, should he ever have to decide between his people and his father, what will he choose, I wonder?”
“He will do the right thing.”
Handir’s gaze lingered on Gor’sadén, saw the certainty in his eyes and the doubts in Pan’assár’s. Handir understood him. Thargodén had reached out to Fel’annár, and he had acceded to meeting him. But the king was nothing but a stranger to him. At the end of the day, it would come down to loyalties. Or’Talán had chosen the welfare of his people over the love he held for his son. Would Fel’annár do likewise?
“Prince. Will you tell us of your father’s missive?”
Handir looked up from the fire and nodded slowly, knowing all eyes were upon him—all except those of Fel’annár, Galdith and Carodel. “The enemy is closing in. Band’orán is manoeuvring his assets, moving in on the throne. The king calls for our urgent return, in silence. He asks us to take the Dark Road.”
Pan’assár nodded, but he said nothing, in spite of Gor’sadén’s insistent stare.
“What’s the Dark Road?” asked Ramien.
Sontúr stifled a chuckle, and Idernon pursed his lips.
“Nothing you need worry about,” said Pan’assár.
And so they sat, the chunks of fish crackling as they roasted, spitting juices, impregnating the humid air with their irresistible smell. Ramien watched, fascinated as the translucent flesh slowly turned white and flaky. Idernon sat cross-legged, once more engrossed in his readings on the Sand Lords and the open scroll he had copied from the academics at his side. He did not look up when Fel’annár returned, sat beside Llyniel and turned to Galadan.
“There is something unsettling, Galadan. But for some reason, we cannot fathom what it is. From experience, I would say that if it is danger, then whatever or whoever it is, is inside the rock.”
“How close would you say this danger is?” asked Pan’assár, leaning forward.
“If I am right, we may have a little time should they wish to attack.”
“Enough to pack up our camp and escape?”
“I believe so, Commander.”
“Suggestions?” prompted Gor’sadén.
“I would double the guard, rotate every two hours. I have spoken to Talen and Deron. Our boats should be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I will not sleep.”
Gor’sadén nodded slowly at his Disciple, turned to Galadan as he spoke. “And neither will I.”
Silence fell over them. It was not unexpected. They were past Senge and the safe zone. To the warriors this was routine, but to Handir and Llyniel it was unsettling. They were anxious, and so Fel’annár turned to Idernon in search of a distraction. “Any developments, Idernon?”
“This. This is … interesting,” murmured Idernon, his book open on his lap and a stick of fish in the other. Sontúr peered over his hunched shoulder, eyebrows rising. “This diacritic is repeated here, and here.” He pointed. “And then in this phrase here.” He shuffled to another extract of the Calrazian language. “See? It is the same, and because we know the meaning of this word…” Idernon’s brow furrowed even more deeply, a sudden agitation in his questing fingers. He shuffled through the book more roughly than he ever had. It surprised Fel’annár because Idernon never mistreated books.
“You have lost me, brother. What is it?” asked Sontúr.
“A moment,” ground out the Wise Warrior, Sontúr’s question an unwanted distraction. “And take this bloody skewer off me,” he said, shoving it at Ramien who shrugged and began to eat it.
The rest of The Company sat forward while Llyniel took the spits out of the fire and lay the second batch of fish to one side, smoking and untouched. Only the sound of rustling parchment joined the crackling fire. The hoot of a nearby owl was loud enough to startle.
“Ab, en, or, di …”
“What?” asked Ramien through the fish in his mouth.
“Ab, en, or, di—one, two, three, four,” said Idernon curtly as he flicked through the pages. “Ebanuk, San Ebanuk, King Ebanuk …”
“’San’ is ‘king’?” murmured Sontúr.
“I believe so, but look here.” He pointed to the scroll with the copy of the Nim’úan sword. “Here.” He tapped roughly on two words along the curve of the sword.
San dir.
“The name of the king?” suggested Sontúr.
“No. Not capitalised.”
“Look here, Prince.” He tapped again, this time to a word in his book. “This we know is the name of a Chieftain.”
Batún.
“See here?”
Batún dir.
“Some sort of suffix,” said Sontúr, shaking his head.
“Son of Batún, Sontúr. ‘Dir’ means ‘Ar’—‘son of’.”