The water witch noticed him looking at her and commented, her tone warm, “I love the way the ground smells after a rain.”
Fidelias didn’t answer her. He reached up, instead, using his knife to make a deep cut, scoring a branch on the nearest tree. He broke it off and, as the others turned to watch him, put his knife away, took the heavy branch in both hands, and, from out of the lamed Marat’s knife reach, methodically clubbed him to death.
“That’s one way to do it,” Aldrick commented. “If you don’t mind spattering blood everywhere.”
Fidelias tossed the branch down to one side. “You got blood everywhere,” he pointed out.
Aldrick walked back to the clearing’s center. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to fastidiously clean his blade. “But mine’s in a pattern. It’s aesthetically pleasing. You should have had me do it for you.”
“Dead’s dead,” Fidelias said. “I can do my own chores.” He glanced at Odiana and said, “Happy now?”
The water witch, still atop her horse, smiled at him, and let out a little sigh. “Do you think we shall have more rain?”
Fidelias shook his head and called out, “Atsurak. You saw what they intended.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Aldrick tense and half-turn to one side, and even Odiana caught her breath in her throat. The former Cursor smiled and took up his horse’s reins, laying a hand on the beast’s neck and stroking it.
From the trees came a gravelly voice, a satisfied-sounding, “Hah.” Then there was the sound of motion through the brush, and a fourth Marat appeared. This man had eyes of glittering, brilliant gold, a match for those of the sleek, swift-looking bird beside him. He wore his knife at his belt, rather than in his hand — and he also carried a sword, bound with a rawhide thong about its hilt and blade and slung over one shoulder. He had a half dozen grass plaits bound over his limbs, and his face had been rawly abraded, bruised. The Marat stopped several paces from the trio and held up his hands, open, palms toward them.
Fidelias mirrored the gesture and stepped forward. “What I did was necessary.”
Atsurak looked down, at the dead man only a few paces away, whose skull Fidelias had crushed. “It was necessary,” the man agreed, his voice quiet. “But a waste. Had they met me openly, I would have killed only one.” The Marat squinted at Odiana, staring at the woman with a silent, hawklike intensity, before turning an equally intent regard to Aldrick. “Deadlanders. They fight well.”
“Time is pressing,” Fidelias responded. “Is everything in readiness?”
“I am the Cho-vin of my tribe. They will follow me.”
Fidelias nodded and turned to his horse. “Then we go.”
“Wait,” Atsurak said, lifting a hand. “There is a problem.”
Fidelias paused and looked at the Marat chieftain.
“During the last sun, I hunted humans not far from this place.”
“Impossible,” Fidelias said. “No one goes here.”
The Marat took the sword from his shoulder, and with a pair of casual motions, unbound the thong from the weapon. He flicked it forward, so that its point drove into the ground a pace ahead and to one side of Fidelias. “I hunted humans,” Atsurak said, as though Fidelias hadn’t spoken. “Two males, old and young. The old commanded a spirit of the earth. My chala, the mate to this one,” he put his hand on the herdbane’s feathered back, “was slain. Wounded the old one. I hunted them, but the young one was swift and led me from his trail.”
Aldrick stepped forward and took up the sword from the ground. He used the same cloth he had cleaned his own weapon with to brush the mud from the blade. “Legion-issue,” he reported, his eyes distant. “Design from a few years ago. Well cared for. The wrappings are worn smooth.” He took off a glove and touched his skin to the blade, his eyes closing. “Someone with a measure of experience used this, Del. I think he’s a Legion scout. Or was one.”
Fidelias drew in a sharp breath. “Atsurak. These two you hunted. They are dead?”
Atsurak shrugged. “The old one’s blood flowed like a stream. His spirit carried him away, but he was already pouring out into the earth. The young one ran well and was fortunate.”
Fidelias spat a sudden, acid taste out of his mouth and clenched his jaw. “I understand.”
“I have come to look at this valley. And I have seen. I have seen that the Deadlanders wait to fight. That they are strong and watch carefully.”
Fidelias shook his head. “You were unfortunate, Atsurak, nothing more. The attack will be a victory for your people.”
“I question your judgment. The Marat have come. Many tribes have come. But though they have no love for your people, they have little for me. They will follow me to a victory — but not to a slaughter.”
“All is in readiness. Your people will sweep clean the valley of your fathers and mothers, and my lord will see to it that it is returned to you. So he has pledged.”
Atsurak’s lip curled into something like a sneer. “Your Cho-vin. Cho-vin of the Aquitaine. Do you bear his totem as bond?”
Fidelias nodded, once.
“I will see it.”
Fidelias stepped back to his horse and opened one of the saddlebags. From it, he drew Aquaitaine’s dagger, its hilt elaborately worked with gold and with the seal of the House of Aquitaine. He held it up, so that the savage could see the weapon. “Satisfied?”
Atsurak extended his hand.
Fidelias narrowed his eyes. “This was not a part of our agreement.”
The Marat’s eyes flashed with something hot, vicious. He said, in a very soft voice, “Nor was the death of my chala. Already, there is bad blood between your people and mine. Now there is more. You will give me your Cho-vin’s totem as bond. And then I will fulfill my end of the bargain.”
Fidelias frowned. And then he flicked the knife, still in its scabbard, to the Marat in an underhand throw. Atsurak caught it without looking, nodded, and turned to walk back into the woods. A few paces past the first branches, he and the stalking bird beside him vanished.
Aldrick stared after the savage chieftain for a moment and then at Fidelias. “I want to know what in the name of all the furies you think you are doing.”
Fidelias glared at the man, then turned back to his mount and secured the saddlebags again. “You heard him. Something’s got the Marat spooked. Without the dagger, he wasn’t staying.”
Aldrick’s expression darkened. “That’s a signet weapon. It can be traced back to Aquitaine. He’s a Marat hordemaster. He’s going to be fighting in the front of the bloody battle—”
Fidelias grated his teeth and spoke in a slow, patient tone. “Yes, Aldrick. It can. Yes, Aldrick, he will. Thus, we had best be damned sure that the attack succeeds.” Fidelias slapped the saddlebags back over the horse. “After the Valley has been taken, it won’t matter what plunder the Marat have. Events will be in motion by then, and it will all fall into politics.”