“General!” one of the Gulnagel shouted. “Water-hole!”

The staggering cavalcade made its way across the wasteland of the Unknown Desert. They fell to their knees and dug by hand in the scrubby underbrush, marking the signs the Yarru had taught them. There, where thorn-brush grew and the termites built their mounds. There was life, ounce by precious ounce. Moisture darkened the sand and collected, gleaming, where they dug. An inch of water, perhaps more. Sand flew as the Fjel widened the hole, then scooped assiduously at the gathering moisture with Tanaros’ helmet, husbanding every drop. They had carried the general’s armor on their backs, reckoning it too precious to leave.

A lucky thing, since it made a good bucket.

“Sir?” A Gulnagel held out his helmet. It looked small in his massive hands. An inch of water shone at the bottom. “Drink.”

Tanaros licked his dry lips, squinting at the sky. It was blue and unforgiving, the white sun blazing in it like Haomane’s Wrath. “Let him have it,” he said, nodding at Speros, whom he had laid gently in what scant shade the thorn-brush afforded. “What is left, take for yourselves.”

“All right, boss.” The Fjel squatted on the parched earth, cradling Speros’ head in his lap and tilting the helmet. “Drink,” he said, coaxing.

The Midlander drank, his throat working, then sighed.

What was left, the Gulnagel shared. It amounted to no more than a sip apiece. One of them approached the largest termite mound and thrust a thorny branch into the opening at the top, stirring and teasing. The others gathered around the dry tower as indignant insects emerged in a marching line, pinching with deft talons and popping them into their mouths, crunching antennae and legs and swollen thoraxes with relish.

“Eat, General.” Freg, grinning through his chipped eyetusks, approached him. His horny hands were cupped and filled with squirming bounty. “They’re good.”

Tanaros shook his head. “You have them, Freg. You’ve earned them.”

“You’re sure?” The Gulnagel seemed anxious.

“Aye.” He nodded.

Better that the Fjel should eat, and imbibe whatever moisture the termites held. It was not that Tanaros disdained the meal: They needed it; as much as Speros, though they reckoned it less. He knew. He knew Fjel. They were Neheris’ Children, born to a land of mountains and leaping rivers, not made for desert travel. The hides of the Gulnagel had grown desiccated and stark on this journey; leeched of color, dry and cracking.

Still, they would go and go and go, obedient to his orders, legs churning, never a complaint among them.

They ate until there were no more termites.

“We’re ready, General.” Freg stooped over the Midlander’s supine form. “You want I should carry him? I’ve strength enough for it.”