The attendant returned with the long sword. “Some of the men thought the Abyss of Pitan was boiling over. Odd storm, sir.”
Folkes smiled at his favorite weapon. Slender and sharp. Fashioned of tinted Shae steel. The blade of a Shae warrior from the Wildnerness of Vale. He buckled the weapon around his waist, felt it reassuringly against his hip.
While Meloc, stone-faced, tightened the leg bracers, a shriek and gust shook the tent walls. Cries outside in the regiment told of trouble, and Folkes scowled. He recognized the scream of a Dragonshrike. Pounding hooves of cavalry stamped outside.
“Commander!” one called. “You’d better get out here!”
Meloc tossed a gray cloak around Folkes’ shoulders as he snatched back the tent flap and stepped outside into the dawn air. The wind bit and tugged, but bore the promise of another mild summer day. Six of his cavalary officers sat on their chestnut geldings, frowning as their mounts fidgeted.
The breeze tousled Folkes’ rusty hair. He blinked as the fresh-dawn sun stabbed his eyes. “Where’s the Dragonshrike?”
One of the cavalry officers pointed.
Folkes turned and almost came out of his boots. “Sweet Hate!” he said with a start, staring wide-eyed at the creature looming behind his tent. It had landed two stone-throws away. Its black scales rippled as it hunched its shoulder feathers. The long serpentine tail swished in the grass. The beak looked big and sharp enough to snap off his head in one bite. He had seen the birds soaring in the mountains. But not this close.
The chink of plate mail sounded and the rider dismounted it. The bird’s glassy eyes blinked twice and the creature straightened, proud as any king.
A sour taste came in Folkes’ mouth. He spat on a clump of prairie grass and folded his arms as he saw Ballinaire’s lead general.
Stanjel Dairron.
Folkes rubbed his mouth, feeling his whiskers rasp. What was Dairron up to now? Why fly that beast all the way out into the Yukilep Plains unless the news wasn’t good?
Only one way to find out.
Folkes stepped away from his tent and approached the towering General, pretending that the big beast meant nothing to him. Dairron had black hair, speckled with gray, and chiseled blue eyes. He was the strongest man Folkes knew. But he was a man—a man you could cut with a sword. And he would bleed. Oh, he would definitely bleed.
The wind kicked up again, blasting across the plains and tugging loose tarps and tent ropes.
“What are you doing away from your army?” Folkes shouted over the wind.
Dairron approached, crushing the grass beneath his riding boots. He wore the black-tinted armor of the Bandit Rebellion and the chain hauberk rustled as he walked. Four gold general bars were pinned at the shoulder of his ashen cloak. He stopped several paces from Folkes and rested his hand on the green-hilt of his sword.
“There’s been a change of plans, Folkes,” Dairron said. His face was unreadable.
“That so? I thought it was pretty clear what we’re supposed to do. Has your army crossed the Dayspring Rush yet? What’s changed?”
“It’s simple. My army will not be crossing any river. I’m not taking part in the madness at Landmoor.”
A chunk of ice congealed in Folkes’ blood. He shook his head, not certain if he had heard right. “Say that again?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary to repeat myself. You don’t really think Ballinaire is going to win, do you?”
Folkes coughed. “What are you saying? He’d sure as Hate better! You’re going to leave us to fight this alone? We’re counting on a combined attack! You need to draw Amberdian and Cypher away from…”
“If I did that, then we would all die. Ballinaire may have the Everoot, but he won’t hold it long. I saw it in his eyes when he talked to us at Landmoor. He does not consider the Shae a threat. He forgets their customs, their Rules of Forbiddance. I know of them, Folkes. I know he cannot win. The Shae are massing south of Landmoor right now, preparing to strike the heart of the Rebellion from the rear. Amberdian and Cypher are moving down from the north. In fact, you have no idea how very close they are to you.”
The ice turned to rage. “Are you some Druid with second-sight? How in all that’s banned can you know what will happen? We saw what the Everoot can do. It can heal any wound, cure any sickness. The armies of Dos-Aralon or the Shae aren’t strong enough to stand against that! You’re slitting your own throat telling me this!”
Dairron was cool, which infuriated Folkes even more. He had the smug grin of a man who knew more than he was letting on.
“Oh, that is only a matter of opinion,” General Dairron said. “Either way—my army will not participate in the battle. You’ll tell me how it ends, won’t you?”
His words cut. “You’re always a step ahead,” Folkes said, moving forward. The General didn’t budge. “You’re all fine and high-and-mighty leaving Tsyrke and me alone in this. You’re craven, that’s what…”
Dairron’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no reason you have to, Folkes,” he whispered.