The woman inclined her head at Erlin’s words then asked a question of her own. “How do you intend to defeat the Seven when others could not?”
Vaelin glanced over to where Wise Bear held counsel with the other Gifted, all gathered round as he imparted another lesson from his bottomless well of knowledge. “Tell her we have powers of our own. If she would see them, she should come with us.”
Erlin listened to her reply and forced a placid smile. “She will, but only if you name her leader of the army. Her people won’t come otherwise.”
“We already have a leader.”
“I suspect it won’t matter if you name two. The tribes rarely speak to each other except to exchange insults. I profess myself amazed they’ve managed to spend more than a day here without finishing what the Volarians started.”
“Very well.” Vaelin gave a weary nod and bowed to Mirvald before turning back to Wise Bear. “I await her wise commands and, with her permission, will now consult with my captains.”
? ? ?
“How do we find them?” Marken asked. “Hidden in such a host?”
“The Rotha woman said they move as one,” Vaelin said. “I suspect if we find one, we find them all. Even so it will be no easy task in the midst of battle.”
“My song may guide us,” Kiral said. “But the tune is so uneven now . . .”
“No.” Vaelin shook his head to clear red-tinged memories of Alltor. “Singing during battle is best avoided.” He turned to Astorek. “Could your mother’s spear-hawks find them?”
“Commanding a beast becomes difficult when the killing begins,” he said. “The sound, the scent of blood, makes them either fearful or hungry. It requires great concentration to ensure they attack the enemy and not our own people. To maintain enough focus to seek out a particular prey would prove difficult, perhaps impossible.”
“I can find them,” Dahrena said, her tone soft but certain. “Their souls are like black pearls in a sea of red.”
“You have flown enough during this enterprise,” Vaelin stated.
“There is no other way, as I suspect you know, my lord. Besides”—she reached for Cara’s hand—“I have friends to share the burden.”
“More than one,” Marken added, moving to her side. “Doubt my old bones are fit for fighting in any case.”
“So you see, my lord.” Dahrena met his gaze with a bright smile. “Our course is set.”
? ? ?
“Remember, they need to be taken alive,” Vaelin told Astorek. “Until Wise Bear touches them, they must not be killed.”
The Volarian nodded as his wolves moved to take up position alongside Vaelin and Scar. The army had mustered to the north of the ridge, marching through the night to arrive before the onset of dawn. Dahrena would remain atop the ridge with Cara and Marken, their cats prowling the cliff-top with twenty of the Wolf People’s most trusted warriors.
Vaelin went to Dahrena, the others retreating to a respectful distance. Her anger seemed to have dissipated and she clasped his proffered hands without demur, returning his kiss and letting it linger.
After a moment he drew back, speaking softly, “I have asked too much of you . . .”
She put a hand to his lips. “No more than you ask of yourself. We came to make an end, and I hunger for it. I want to go home, Vaelin. I want to go home with you and that can’t happen until this ends.”
He touched his forehead to hers and clasped her hands once more before moving back and striding towards Scar and the wolves.
? ? ?
The Witch’s Bastard had chosen his campsite well; the only cover was provided by the shallow river running through the valley floor. He led Scar at a walk through the waters, the banks just high enough to conceal his tall frame. The wolves moved ahead, keeping to the sides. The predawn gloom was fading fast by the time he paused a mile short of the camp and requested Alturk take his Sentar in a wide sweep around the Volarians.
“Lorkan will go with you,” he told the Tahlessa. “Carve a hole in their picket line.”
“Can’t wait,” Lorkan said, forcing a smile, his new-found courage now plainly faltering despite the presence of his cat.
“The first break of dawn,” Vaelin told Alturk, extending a hand. “Not before.”
Alturk stared at his hand for a moment before briefly clasping his forearm. “My son’s name was Oskith,” he said. “It means Black Knife, he was aptly named.” He glanced over at Kiral, crouched in the current and playing a hand through her cat’s damp fur. “As was my daughter. I would have her know this.”
“Then live and tell her yourself.”
“That would make me a liar. Last night I sang my death song to the gods.”