The two men stood side by side among the trees, peering ahead. Fergus had said Tapel’s one-eyed man didn’t cross the bridge, which meant he would be either downriver or upriver. For some reason these men were in hiding; there was a surfeit of campsites closer to the city. Where would this man go if he didn’t want to be seen? A camp used a lot of water, and occasionally left flotsam to float downstream. If this man—or men, more likely—were clever, they would have made their camp down from the bridge, where any leavings would float away from the people crossing.
Hearing the sound of voices behind him, Bartolo whirled and saw a group of seven youths heading up the road. Their ages ranged from seventeen to nineteen, and all carried steel swords and wore determined expressions. Leading them was Dorian, the recently elevated bladesinger. Bartolo waved his arms to get their attention and made a cutting motion with his hand across his throat. Immediately, they were silent. Bartolo could only pray they hadn’t been heard.
Seeing how Bartolo was pressed in among the trees, the recruits, led by the yellow-haired Dorian, followed suit. The young bladesinger approached, and Bartolo leaned forward to whisper into Dorian’s good ear.
“I figure they’ll be camped downriver,” Bartolo murmured, “but it’s prudent to check in both directions. I’ll take Fergus and two of the recruits—say, Martin and Timo—and start searching downriver. You take the others upriver. They’ll be in the trees, so keep a sharp eye out. The lads are under your protection; use them for scouting, but do the fighting yourself.”
“Understood,” Dorian said. “Also, this is for you.”
Dorian handed Bartolo a bag and a scabbarded sword. Reaching into the bag Bartolo pulled out garments of shining green silk. Bartolo gripped Dorian’s shoulder in thanks, and swiftly donned his armorsilk before fixing his scabbarded zenblade at his waist.
“From now on we stay silent,” Bartolo said. “Keep your ears open. If either of us hears sounds of a fight, come to the other’s aid.”
Bartolo motioned Fergus and two of the youths to follow. He led his small group through the trees that followed the riverbank south, walking with Fergus on his right and the two boys on his left, closer to the water. Martin was a sturdy lad of seventeen, with broad shoulders and flaxen hair. Timo was a year older, and though he looked reedy, he’d been training with a sword for well over a decade.
Bartolo sniffed the air as he walked. If they were clever, he wouldn’t be able to smell their smoke, but not everyone was skilled with woodcraft, and Tingarans least of all.
He tried to keep his movements steady and graceful, making no sound through the forest mat, but Bartolo kept tensing as his thoughts turned to Tapel.
What had they done with the boy? What would he say to Amelia if Tapel were dead? What would he say to Rogan?
The lad deserved a better fate than to die at the hands of some brigands. Tapel had been brave, but foolish, to follow this one-eyed man. Even if there were brigands camped here, it wasn’t so important that it was worth Tapel’s life. Any day now they were expecting the Buchalanti scouts to announce they’d sighted enemy ships. With Altura clear in the enemy’s path, it would be a cruel joke indeed to lose Tapel to bandits before the battle even started. Even if Tapel were unharmed, it was a distraction Bartolo could do without.
“Foolish boy,” Bartolo whispered under his breath.
Bartolo stopped. He smelled smoke.
He waved his arms until he had the attention of his whole group. Bartolo pointed at himself and then made an inverted vee with his index fingers. The others fell back while Bartolo moved ahead so that he was the point of their wedge.
Bartolo activated his armorsilk.
Chanting under his breath, he started to name activation sequences and felt the armorsilk tighten around his shoulders, the material shifting to the texture that could turn away steel. Bartolo was practiced at this, and to a man standing a few paces away, he would make no sound. He was in tune with his armorsilk and knew how to call forth its power in a way no one would hear.
He gave the armorsilk strength and shadow, and glancing at his forearm, he could soon see the leaves of the forest floor through the material.
Bartolo drew his zenblade, slowly, until he held it out in front of him in a scarred hand.
Continuing the near silent chant, Bartolo again crept forward.
The smell of smoke grew stronger, and Bartolo thought he saw an encampment ahead, but the trees weren’t as thick as he might have liked this close to the river, and his vision was impaired as he was forced to flit from one tree to the next like a bird. If it was a camp, without the shadow effect of the armorsilk, he would have already been seen.
He hoped the others had the good sense to stay back.
Bartolo heard voices; it was definitely a camp, and he was now perhaps twenty paces from the fire. He had his back to a tree, but he now poked his head around. Two tents surrounded a low circle of embers, and Bartolo smelled grilling meat.
Bartolo flitted to one more tree, and then he could make out their words.
“We’re low on food again,” a gruff voice said.
“The city’s in chaos. It’s not a good time to go in,” an assertive voice spoke.
“How long have we got, eh, Brin? How much food?” a higher pitched speaker asked.