“How is your arm?” Tamas asked.
Beon looked down at his left arm where it hung in a sling. “It is well, thank you. My physician says that the arm is not broken, but I lost quite a lot of blood in the melee. I should recover in time. Your injuries?”
“Fine.” Tamas ran a couple of fingers over his ribs, wincing at the tenderness. He didn’t think they’d cracked from his fight with Gavril, but his body felt like one big bruise. “I’m wishing I’d brought Dr. Petrik along when I left Budwiel. But then again, my plans at the time were greatly different from how things ended up.”
Beon nodded, staring into the fire. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, only to close it again. It was several minutes before he finally spoke.
“I remember riding through the Northern Expanse once,” Beon said. “It must have been six or seven years ago. I went along with some of my father’s Privileged on a delegation to Deliv. This land was greener, more full.” Beon smiled sadly. “Towns threw festivals in our honor. There were thousands of people — proud, happy farmers.
“Now I can’t help but wonder: what has happened to my country?” Beon looked around. “The last two days, I’ve seen countless abandoned farms. The bean fields are all gone. The land is brown and dry. I’ve heard reports of the droughts, both here and in the rest of the Nine, but I didn’t imagine it to be so bad.
“What’s more, where are all my people? We passed a farm this morning. The crop — and there had been a crop, I’m not so removed that I can’t see that — was trampled, and the farm buildings burned remnants. I must ask you, Field Marshal. Have you sent men on ahead? Are you destroying these lands?”
“The desolation you see,” Tamas said, his pride pricked at the accusation, “was not caused by my men. I swear it.”
“It must have been bandits, then.”
Tamas wondered how much he should tell Beon of his suspicions. “I don’t think so.”
Beon didn’t seem to hear him. “Two days ago,” Beon said, “I rode past an old man on a pack mule. He begged me to right the wrongs and expel the Adran foreigners that were ravishing our lands.” Beon spoke carefully, as if testing the waters before a swim.
“My scouts tell me another army has come through this way,” Tamas said. “And reports from what serfs remain in the area say that they wear Adran blues. This makes me wonder, as I know for a fact that I have no men in northern Kez.”
Beon gazed at Tamas, brow furrowed, as if trying to decide whether Tamas was speaking the truth.
Tamas asked, “Do you know whether your father sent legions north, disguised as Adrans, in order to sneak through Deliv and over the mountains?”
“I don’t. Besides, our soldiers wouldn’t do this to their own land.”
Tamas wondered where Beon got such a high regard for the morals of infantry.
Olem suddenly grabbed his rifle and surged to his feet. “Sir,” he said, “did you hear that?”
Tamas paused and listened. Nothing.
Wait. There. It sounded like a shout. Very distant. He climbed to his feet. Nearby, a slight rise in the terrain gave him a better vantage point. He scanned the horizon, listening for the shout again.
“There,” Olem said, pointing north.
Dust rose off the plateau, a billowing trail of the kind made when multiple riders were coming hard. “Saddle my mount,” Tamas said to Olem. “Quickly!”
Tamas ran through the camp. A few hundred yards from his own tent, the powder mages were camped together. Most of them were there, their legs splayed, boots off, talking as they passed around a bottle they’d got from who knew where. Vlora stood when she saw Tamas.
“Andriya, Vlora,” Tamas barked. “With me! The rest of you, raise the general alarm. Riders on the northern horizon.”
“How many, sir?” Vlora asked as they headed back to the north end of the camp.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Tamas said. “Do you know where Gavril is?”
“Ranging,” Andriya answered.
“Where?”
“North, I think.”
“Pit. You two, get horses.”
Olem brought Tamas his horse and rifle. He threw himself into the saddle and headed north, not waiting for anyone else. Olem caught up to him quickly enough — he’d not yet unsaddled his own mount from the day.
“What’s happening, sir?” Olem shouted over the sound of hooves thundering on the dusty soil.
“Riders,” Tamas said. “A lot of them.”
“Could it just be Gavril’s rangers?”
Tamas wanted to say yes, but he fixed his eyes on the cloud of dust rising in the distance. It was getting larger. Too big to be less than twenty horses, and Gavril’s rangers worked in pairs.
They left camp behind and headed north along the main road. A glance over his shoulder told Tamas that more riders were following him out of the camp, a few hundred yards behind him.
Tamas fumbled in his pocket for a powder charge as his body rocked up and down with the motion of the stallion beneath him. He put it straight in his mouth and bit down, tasting the bitter sulfur and the grit between his teeth. He spit the soggy charge paper out as the powder trance coursed through his veins.
