The Men had it too, but Men often reeked of fear, except for General Tanaros. It didn’t seem to bother the Nåltannen or the Gulnagel, and the Kaldjager hadn’t been there for the terrible moment when the world had gone away in a rush of red light and stone had closed in upon them all. And now all that was gone, too, and the old wizard trapped inside it. The Men were talking about it, had been talking about it since they entered the tunnels, talking without cease, talking over one another, releasing nervous energy.

“ … tell you, I’d rather be above ground, where you can see what’s coming at you. Who knows what’s down here now?”

“Yah! What, are you afraid the wizard’s gonna get you?”

“ … keep telling you, he’s not dead, not with a Soumanië on him. He’ll be back.”

“ … love of his Lordship’s weeping wound, they’re not even the same tunnels, the Ways aren’t the same as our tunnels!”

“Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t.”

“ … Kaldjager would catch him a mile away!”

“ … even hear what happened? The old bugger’s got a Soumanië, he can come out of nowhere and turn our arses to stone!”

“ … Godslayer!”

“ … back in the marrow-fire, where it belongs.”

“And a right lot of good it’ll do us there.”

“Shut it, Einar.” Osric, delivering an order. “That’s treason you’re talking.”

“Lieutenant, I’m just saying—”

“Shut it!”

Skragdal wished Men wouldn’t talk so much. Their restless minds grasped at thoughts like squirrels at nuts, gnawing and stuffing, dashing here and there, burying some and discarding others. And then words. Words! An endless stream, spewing from their lips, wasted with careless ease. It stemmed from Haomane’s Gift, he supposed, and he ought to envy it. That’s what Men and Ellylon said.

Only Lord Satoris had ever said otherwise.

They made camp in a vast cavern that night, a day’s ride away from the Vesdarlig Door. Countless thousands had camped there before; Skragdal had done it himself, as an eager young pup on the way to honor the Fjel oath. The sleeping-places were worn smooth, broad grooves in the cavern floor, with suitable rough spots left untrammeled. He took comfort in seeing his fellows situated, freed from their cumbersome armor, rumbling and grumbling, working backs and shoulders against the stone. There was comfort in the evidence of countless members of the tribes who had done the same, leaving faint traces of their scent. It felt good to scratch itching hides against the rock.

Osric’s Men took the southern quadrant, as was tradition.