“Well done,” Tyrus said.
“I would have killed it easily enough,” Kiranrao said petulantly. “Next time, send me to do such work.”
Tyrus turned and looked at the Romani solemnly. “That was a Vecser, Kiranrao. The plural is Vecses, as they hunt in packs. It was trying to get our scent. They are different from Weir . . . more like dogs than cats. Their hinds are lean, like a greyhound, but their chests are massive and their jaws lock tight. They have long tails with a pod-like sac on the ends. I did not want it getting our scent yet. Annon’s suggestion avoided the confrontation.”
Kiranrao leaned forward, his jaw jutting arrogantly. “Tyrus, you are as fearful as a child. I could feel it all the way over here. If you could only see yourself. We haven’t even entered the Scourgelands yet and you are already trembling.”
Annon felt a surge of anger at Kiranrao’s words. He had noticed the tremor in Tyrus’s hand as well, but he would never have stated it as nakedly as Kiranrao had.
“Of course I am terrified,” Tyrus replied, a half smirk on his mouth. “I know what we are about to face. I know the dangers far better than you. Trust me, Kiranrao. Even you will face your fears when we enter. Even you.”
The Romani snorted. “I fear nothing. You lacked the proper weapons when you last ventured in there.”
“We will see.”
Annon did not like the tension filling the tent. He watched the two men stare at each other, wrestling with their expressions instead of words, their faces illuminated by the flames in Tyrus’s hands. Kiranrao rolled over against the pile of provisions, turning his back on them all.
Annon breathed easier when he did.
A firm hand jostled Annon’s shoulder, rousing him from his sleep. “The storm is easing. We will go.” It was Tyrus.
Annon rubbed his eyes, his neck stiff and his legs cramped from the awkward position inside the tent. The others were coming awake as well and the tent door flapped open in the breeze. Annon stood and stretched and tried to speak to Nizeera, but she was still angry with him and skulked out of the tent ahead of him. Ducking his head to pass through the flap, he saw the air had a strange greenish cast to it, still full of dust, but the visibility was much improved. The wall of the storm was ahead of them now and the amount of sand that had built up around the tent wall was surprising. The camels were hacking and snorting, their hides thick with dust and sand, and several rebuffed the drovers who were trying to tend them.
Craning his neck, Annon stared up at the sky and saw that the sun had already faded into twilight.
Tyrus emerged from the tent and tossed a water bladder to Annon. “Fill your pack with provisions, as much as you can safely carry. There will be no other food inside the Scourgelands. We’re going tonight.”
“Why not wait until sunrise?” Annon asked, brushing the dust from his sleeve. The drovers were beginning to load the camels with burdens.
“A thought,” Tyrus replied, approaching him. “That sandstorm is blowing directly toward the Scourgelands. It will lose its fury when it reaches the trees, but if we approach from behind it—”
“Then it will shield us from the gaze of those who watch the borders,” Annon said, realizing it. He chuckled to himself. Tyrus was a cunning man. “You are right. And approaching by night will also help hide us.”
“Precisely. I thought the storm would delay us, but actually it comes as a boon. It was impenetrable, remember? The darkness lasted for a long time before the storm blew past us. The drovers know we are close to the borders of the Scourgelands. The presence of the Vecses tells me that Shirikant is watching the borders closely for us. Let’s take advantage of the storm to slip inside unnoticed.”
“I didn’t realize we were that close,” Annon said nervously.