The door opened, and a howling sounded as the warm air rushed out. Thealos looked towards the door and watched four hooded men enter the Foxtale Inn. They quickly took a table near the doors, hunching forward. One tossed off a hood, and Thealos saw his silver-blonde hair scooped and tied back – tied with a red-dyed leather thong. Thealos stared at another and saw the rough sailor’s garb. But it was the red dye that made his stomach lurch. It was the color…
Thealos wanted to shrink in his seat as his stomach coiled with fear. Sweet Vannier, it wasn’t possible! Four men – a quaere. And they weren’t human either. He could sense it from across the room as if someone had whispered it right in his ear. No. They weren’t human sailors in for a drink of ale.
They were Crimson Wolfsmen. And he didn’t think it merely chance that they had entered the Foxtale behind him.
XIII
Dujahn pulled the reins back and eased the gelding into a light trot. Scratching the sweat-dampened skin behind his ear, he gazed at the picket fires ahead. Before reaching the south sentries, he dismounted and led the horse towards the flickering nests of light in the sharp darkness. His shirt was soaked, and sweat dripped down his ribs. The ground was spongy, moist and smelled like bitter weeds and mud. The vine maple and cedar crowded in on each other and in between the ruts grew thick patches of witch-thorn. His boots crunched over slick-beetles and crickets. Clouds of gnats and mosquitoes buzzed around him. The road was barely visible that night, but he studied the dimly-lit ruts and tracks and maneuvered without stumbling.
A Kiran Thall hooted like an owl, three low bursts from the wall of trees on his left. An alert call, Dujahn remembered from the training Miestri had given him. Just thinking about the Sorian made him shiver. She and Dairron had tricked him into serving them, letting him eavesdrop until he knew too much and now he had no choice but to forsake Folkes and work for them. Miestri had said exactly what would happen when he reached the picket lines and told him exactly what to do and say. She was well-informed about military affairs – she knew all the right things to say. Just as she had promised, the Kiran Thall had spotted him earlier than he thought they would. Impressive, but still not enough. If he hadn’t wanted to be seen, he would have left the horse and started around the camp on foot as soon as the firelight was visible farther back.
An answering whistle replied in short crisp tones. Dujahn knew it meant he didn’t appear threatening and that someone with a crossbow was tracking him closely. Maybe more than one. He continued forward, dragging the horse after him. From the south pickets, a detachment of sentries carrying torches approached. Their mail vests looked insufferably hot. None of them had drawn weapons yet. There wasn’t a need to.
“Hold there, friend,” the sentry captain announced warily. “Shine some light on him, Vison. I don’t see a uniform.”
The torches were raised, and Dujahn squinted as the light stabbed his eyes. He held the reins out so they could see his hands, and he took a step forward. “Good evening. My name is Dujahn of the Gray Legion. I’m here to see Commander Phollen.”
“You’re Gray Legion?” the sentry captain asked skeptically.
“Is Commander Phollen here?” Dujahn repeated. He looked to the right and left and studied the soldiers. They wore simple tunics and makeshift armor, not the black and gold of Bandit officers. Wearing drab brown and gray clothes himself, Dujahn looked more like a peddler. The sentry guards edged closer. They were scrutinizing him, as were the two or three Kiran Thall lurking in the trees. He stared at the sentries calmly, waiting for them to get over the fascination.
“What is the pass?” the sentry captain demanded.
“It’s the name of Commander Phollen’s ship…”
“And what is that?”
“– the Khariidawn,” Dujahn continued.
Three Kiran Thall appeared from the trees. Dark streaks painted their faces, making their mud-colored uniforms blend better. They were certainly more skilled than the soldiers in front of him. Each held a black-iron crossbow mounted on wooden stocks, but they raised them deferentially and nodded to him.
“If he’s Gray Legion, escort him into camp.”
Dujahn didn’t recognize the Kiran Thall who had said it, but the soldiers obeyed him at once.
That was much better.
“Commander Phollen hasn’t arrived yet,” the sentry captain explained as they fell in around Dujahn, leading him into the warmth and firelight of the Shoreland Regiment. “We expect him soon. Our orders are to mobilize and be prepared to march on the fortress, but to wait until he gets back.”
“Who is in command then?” Dujahn asked, handing a sentry the reins.
“Colonel Hallstoy.”
“I need to see him immediately.”