“How are you feeling?” she asks him, certainly to change the subject, but also because she’s still worried about his condition.

“Alive. Although the smell of this place isn’t helping.”

Evie tries to laugh, but there’s nothing real fueling its fire.

The Sicclunan base camp from which they launched their assault on the Skrain vanguard is deep in a swampy marsh of foul, poison sludge. Evie thought the cursed earth over which they hiked before meeting Sirach was a wasteland, but that ground was fertile compared to the muck here. Sirach explained that’s one of the ways they keep their mobile camps hidden from Skrain patrol; no Crachian would think to venture this deep into the swamp, despite the fact Crachian mining and harvesting efforts created these sunken wastes.

A large head draped in a leather hood and stringy tendrils of brown hair poke through the tent flap, along with the double-sided hammer of a gargantuan mallet.

“What is it, Bam?” Evie asks.

“Sunset-eyed girl,” he mutters, the words sounding flattened by his thick lips.

“That’s fine, Bam, you can let her inside.”

His head and war hammer retreat, and a moment later Sirach enters the tent, an irritated expression on her face. She’s traded in her masked night warrior garb for another expansive hat whose crown is decorated with brightly dyed horsehair and leather armor, the breastplate of which has a magnificent phoenix painted on it, the fiery bird’s wings extending down her arms. Sirach has several parchment scrolls rolled up tightly and clenched inside her right fist.

“Did you order that great ape to guard your tent and deny me entry?” she asks Evie.

“No. He just sort of… stationed himself there. He’s been following me wherever I go.”

The irritated twist to Sirach’s lips relaxes into a grin. “He’s taken a shine to you, dearest. I think I’m jealous.”

“Lariat or Mother Manai probably told him to keep a watchful eye,” Evie says, although she doesn’t really believe it.

“It’s probably for the best. I’m sure you’re already becoming a figure of some lore amongst the Skrain and the Savage Legion.”

“We picked off all their soldiers. How would they know?”

“There are eyes everywhere, even out here. Everyone employs their own spies, scouts, and informants. Information is the most highly prized Crachian currency, dearest, or rather control of that information. They may not know where we went, but they’ll find out who led the charge. Soon the Protectorate Ministry itself will know the name ‘Sparrow General.’ And they’ll kill to ensure not one citizen ever hears it.”

“You’re the bird they should be worried about,” Evie says, eager to dismiss what Sirach is telling her.

Sirach spreads her arms and glances down at the phoenix blazing from its own ashes on her breastplate.