Carfax rubbed at the sweat on his brow with the heel of his hand, leaving a grimy streak. “As long as they can’t see us.”

“Not here.” Hunric glanced at him. “Long as we stay quiet. It’s tall grass, and we’ve a clear sight-line to the verge, there. Lay low and you’ll see, Lieutenant.”

Overhead, the sun was relentless. One forgot, in Darkhaven, how bright it could be—and how hot. It had made him squint at first and, despite many days on the road, he had not fully adjusted to it. A moist heat arose from the earth, smelling of roots. Carfax was aware of his own odor, too, rank as a badger, and Hunric no better. A good tracker, though, the best in the company. In Staccia, he could track a snow-fox through a blizzard. Pity there wasn’t a blizzard here. The place could use one. Or a good hard frost, like Vilbar had said. It wouldn’t be so bad, hoar-frost glistening on the sedge grass, every blade frozen …

“Sssst!”

Hoofbeats, and a single voice raised in tuneless song, the words unfamiliar. Plastered to the earth, Carfax squinted through the tall grass and caught himself before he whistled in amazement.

“What the sodding hell?” Hunric whispered.

Seven strangers, traveling in company, led by a bearded old man in scholars’ robes, astride what was clearly the best horse in the lot. An Ellyl, who traveled on foot, stepping lightly, with that annoying air of his kind. A young man sweltering in the armor of a Vedasian knight, ill-fitting and much-mended. Another, older, dun-cloaked and watchful.

“Borderguard,” Carfax muttered. “That one’s from Curonan.”

“Blaise Caveros?” Hunric’s eyes widened. Everyone in Darkhaven knew that General Tanaros’ distant kinsman was second-in-command among the Borderguard.

“Could be.”

“Then that’s—”

“Malthus’ Company.” Carfax studied the remaining three. One, to his surprise, was a woman; clad in leathers, a quiver and an unstrung bow at her back. An Archer of Arduan. And good, too. She would have to be. The carcasses of three ravens dangled from her saddle, tied by their feet, a sad bundle of black feathers. But the others … he frowned.

“Charred Folk,” Hunric murmured. “Heard tell of those, Lieutenant.”

Indeed they were, their skins a scorched shade of brown. It was one of the two who was singing tunelessly, riding astride a pack mule, clad only in a threadbare breechclout. From time to time he patted his brown, swelling gut, punctuating his song. Carfax, listening to the incomprehensible words, found himself thinking of water, flowing the hidden pathways of Urulat, coursing like blood in the veins, racing from the leaping snowmelt of a swollen Staccian river to sink torpid in the Delta, bearing life in all its forms …

“One’s scarce more’n a boy,” Hunric observed.