Will Lord Satoris kill her, do you think?

The thought of it made his palms itch and bile rise in his throat. He remembered altogether too well how his wife’s face had looked in death; blind eyes staring, all her lively beauty turned to cold clay. Even in his fury it had sickened him. The thought of seeing Cerelinde thusly was unbearable.

He was glad when the landscape made one of its dull, inhospitable shifts from rippled sand to barren red earth, dotted here and there with thorn-brush. Loose rocks and scattered boulders made the footing tricky, and it was a relief to have to concentrate on the task of walking. Fetch’s shadow wavered on the uneven ground, then vanished as the raven veered westward, becoming a tiny black dot in the unbroken blue sky, then disappearing altogether. Tanaros led his company in the direction the raven had taken, keeping its flight-path fixed in his mind and placing his feet with care. There was little else to relieve the tedium. Once, a hopping-mouse broke cover under a thorn-brush, bounding into the open in unexpected panic.

With a grunt, one of the three remaining Gulnagel dropped his burden and gave chase, returning triumphant with a furry morsel clutched in his talons. Despite the fact that he was panting with the effort, he offered it to his general.

“No, Krolgun,” Tanaros said, remembering Freg, and how he had offered him a handful of termites. “It’s yours.” He looked away as the Fjel devoured it whole, hoping the scant nourishment was worth the effort.

Another hour, and another. Tanaros slowed their pace, scanning the skies with growing concern. He forgot to watch his steps, fixing his gaze on the sky. Had he kept their path true to the trajectory of Fetch’s flight? He thought so, but it was hard to tell in the featureless desert. They had been too long on the march, and their waterskins were dwindling toward empty. Nearby he could hear Krolgun still panting, his steps beginning to drag. The others were little better and, crane his neck though he would, there was no sign of the raven.

Only the empty blue skies, filled with the glare of Haomane’s Wrath.

“Lord General?” Speros’ voice, cracked and faint.

“Not now, Speros,” he said impatiently.

“Lord General!” The Midlander’s hand clutched his arm, dragging his attention from the empty skies. Speros’ mouth was working, though no further words emerged. With his other hand, he pointed westward, where a line of twisted forms broke the horizon. “Look!” he managed at length.

Frowning, Tanaros followed his pointing finger. “Are those … trees?”

“Aye!” Releasing his arm, Speros broke into a mad, capering dance. “Jack pines, Lord General!” he shouted. “Good old Midlands jack pines! General!” There were tears glistening in his eyes, running down his sunburnt face. “We’ve reached the edge!”