They liked it, well enough to cheer.

“Haomane’s Prophecy might be fulfilled someday, lads.” Vorax shook his head. “But not today,” he said with satisfaction. “Not on my watch! And not on yours, damn your eyes. Mark my words, Darkhaven will prevail!”

It braced them like strong drink, and the cheering continued. Vorax grinned some more, slapped a few more sturdy shoulders, ordered a keg of svartblod breached and raised a cup to the success of their mission. The Fjeltroll drank deep, roaring toasts in their guttural tongue. Nåltannen, most of them; a few Kaldjager for scouting work, and a pair of Gulnagel from the lowlands. Skragdal was the only Tungskulder, save one. The other Staccians drank the svartblod too, gasping and sputtering. It was a matter of pride with them to keep it down.

“Right,” Vorax said, gauging the moment. “You have your orders, lads. Report to field marshal Hyrgolf for weapons and supplies, and head out at dawn.”

THE DELTA’S WARMTH WAS A GLORIOUS thing.

Against all likelihood, Ushahin found himself humming as he poled the skiff along the waterways. Dip and push; dip and push. It was a soothing motion. The flat-bottomed skiff he’d purchased in Arduan glided effortlessly over the still water. Caitlin’s Da, he reflected, was a fine craftsman.

Passing beneath a stand of mangroves there was a green snake, unlooping itself lazily from a limb. Its blunt head quested in the air beside his face, forked tongue flickering.

“Hello, little cousin.” Leaning on his pole, Ushahin smiled at the snake. “Good hunting to you, though you may wish to seek smaller prey.”

The questing head withdrew and he pushed onward. Dip and push; dip and push. The hot, humid environs of the Delta were kind to his aching, ill-knit bones. For once, his joints felt oiled and smooth. He had not felt such ease in his flesh since he had been a child; indeed, had forgotten it existed. Out of sight of Arduan, he had shed the concealing cloak with its itchy hood. It was good to be unveiled in the open air. Sunlight usually made his head ache, but the dense foliage filtered it to a green dimness gentle to his eyes. That terrible awakening on the plains of Rukhar seemed distant, here.

“Kaugh!” Atop the highest branches of a further mangrove, a raven landed and perched there, swaying, its claws clenched on a too-slim branch. It clung there a moment, then launched itself in a flurry of wings, finding a similar perch a few yards to the south. “Kaugh!”

“I see you, little brother,” Ushahin called to the raven, one of those serving to guide him through the swamp. He thrust strongly on his pole and the skiff turned, edging southward. “I am coming.”

Satisfied, the raven pecked at something unseen.