The tall one, Sarl explained in a low murmur, was called Feather, though Achamian could see nothing avian about his ornament. Several shrunken Sranc heads adorned his crazed red-and-grey hair. His war girdle used knuckle-bones in the place of beads. Aside from his hauberk, the gold-wire Circumfix hanging about his neck seemed his only concession to civilization. Even paces back, Achamian could smell his furs, the carnivore reek of blood and piss. He was, Sarl continued in a low mutter, the chieftain of one of the so-called tribal companies, most of which were made up of Thunyeri, a people who had warred so long and so hard against the Sranc it had become a missionary calling.

When Kiampas and Feather concluded their business, the tall chieftain reached out to clasp forearms with Lord Kosoter. It struck Achamian as a formidable moment, two storied Scalpoi, each with their own aura of assassination, each garbed in tattered parodies of their nation’s battledress. It was the first time he had witnessed the Captain extend anything so precious as respect. With an enigmatic gesture, the chieftain returned to the trail, followed by the long line of his men. His manic blue eyes scraped across Achamian as he passed.

“They plan on camping on the low slopes,” Kiampas was saying to Lord Kosoter, “hunting, foraging …”

“What’s the problem?” Achamian asked.

Kiampas turned to him, his eyes smiling in an otherwise guarded expression, the triumphant look of a man who kept fastidious count of wins and losses. “A spring blizzard in the mountains,” he said. “We’re stuck here for at least two weeks, probably more.”

“What are you saying?” Achamian looked to the glaring Captain.

Kiampas was only too happy to respond. “That your glorious expedition has come to an end, Wizard. We can wait or we can hump round the Osthwai’s southern spur. Either way we’ve no hope of reaching Sauglish by summer’s end.” There was no mistaking the relief in his eyes.

“The Black Halls,” someone said in the tone of contradiction.

It was the Nonman, Cleric. He had his broad back turned to them, his cowl facing east, toward the nearest of the mountains to their right. His voice pimpled the skin, as much for its import as for its inhuman resonances. “There is another way through the mountains,” he continued, twisting his unseen face toward them. “A way that I remember.”

Achamian held his breath, understanding instantly what the Nonman was suggesting but too dismayed to truly consider the implications. Sarl snorted, as if hearing a joke beneath even his vulgar contempt.

Lord Kosoter studied his Nonman lieutenant, stared into the black oval with cryptic intensity.

“Are you sure?”

A drawn silence, filled by the guttural banter of the Thunyeri trudging behind them.

“I lived there,” Cleric said, “on the sufferance of my cousins, long ago … Before the Age of Men.”

“Are you sure you remember?”

The cowl bent earthward.

“They were … difficult days.”