“Let the southern goat-fuckers die,” Erlin translated as Pertak stomped back to the settlement, still chuckling. “Then their seams will be ours to mine.”
The first of them appeared after a wait of several moments, a single kilted figure standing at the cave mouth, staring down at Vaelin with axe in hand. Vaelin raised both arms, showing his hands to be empty. Several more figures resolved out of the blackness of the cave, growing in number until perhaps six hundred people stood regarding him in silence. Vaelin lowered his arms and waited, hearing the growing tumult raised by the approach of the Wolf People. The spear-hawks came first, calling out their pealing cries as they glided into the valley and wheeled above, then the wolves, several packs numbering well over a hundred individuals. They loped forward to surround Vaelin, drawing an involuntary shudder from Scar.
Vaelin peered at the face of the first figure to appear as the Wolf People marched into the valley. He was too distant to fully make out his features, but Vaelin judged him to be the oldest tribesman present, possibly a chieftain. However, judging from the mismatched symbols and colours adorning the clothing of his companions, he doubted this man would be able to speak for all those who had taken refuge here. Nevertheless, he clearly commanded some form of regard, exchanging a few short words with the others before starting down the slope. Some of his companions followed immediately, all wearing similar colours and symbols to his own. The others lingered for a short time, exhibiting a fractious disunity as they exchanged shouts and threatened each other with raised weapons. Their disagreement proved short-lived, however, and soon all were following the older man to the valley floor.
Vaelin kept his eyes on the leading figure, not turning to witness the Wolf People coming to a halt at his back. The man walked towards him without undue haste, though there was a definite purpose to his gait. He halted twenty paces away, the other tribesfolk lining up on either side. Vaelin took hold of Scar’s reins and trotted him forward, stirring a ripple of unease throughout the small throng, though they made no move to oppose him.
He halted Scar a few yards short of the possible chieftain, looking into his face and seeing the besmirched, near-maddened gaze of a man who had lost much of his world in the space of a few days. Kiral had advised her song told of rage and confusion among these people, but sounded no note confirming they were on the right course. “My song grows darker and less tuneful every day,” she said. “Ever since we found the endless man. I doubt I have any more certainty to offer.”
But looking into the pain behind this man’s eyes, Vaelin saw all the certainty he needed. He had seen this face many times during the march towards Alltor. The face of the tortured, the raped, the widowed . . . and the vengeful.
His Volarian was poor, but Erlin had coached him on the correct pronunciation. “We go south,” he said, patting his chest and pointing to the southern end of the valley. “Kill Volarians. Come with us.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lyrna
Aspect Arlyn’s face betrayed no recognition as he regarded Nortah, nor any emotion at all as his gaze shifted to Lyrna, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Bound, Lyrna realised. Like Brother Frentis or the Kuritai. The Aspect reached over his shoulder to draw a sword of the Asraelin pattern, the steel bearing the signature flame-like markings of an Order blade.
“Aspect!” Nortah said again, taking a forward step, sword arm now limp at his side. “Do you know me?”
The Aspect’s gaze switched back to Nortah, the long features giving a faint tic of remembrance. “I know you, brother,” he said in a soft, reflective tone. “You died.”
He raised his free hand, paused a moment in expressionless consideration, then gave a barely perceptible flick of his wrist and the Arisai surged forward, manic joy on every face, swords moving in a blur of expertly wrought carnage. At first the Queen’s Daggers recoiled from the assault, Lyrna finding herself crushed between Davoka and Iltis as the surrounding ranks compressed, but the pressure slackened as they voiced another savage roar, rallied and fought back.
She struggled to turn, catching a glimpse of Nortah in combat with the Aspect, face drawn in reluctance as he fended off Arlyn’s blows. “Sister!” Lyrna called to Davoka, holding her spear above the thrashing ranks, eyes watching hawk-like for an opportunity to use it.
“The flasks!” Lyrna forced her way to the Lonak’s side, grabbing her arm. “Do you have the flasks?”
Davoka blinked at her in momentary bafflement then nodded, patting the small satchel at her side. “Only two.”