over at Asayaga, wondering what the hell he was doing and the Tsurani drew closer.
‘Respect forestalls the killing,’ Asayaga said, his voice suddenly cool. ‘My men will be more receptive to your “suggestions” in the future.’
He looked back at his men who were gathered around the two marmots which had been split open. Eager hands were reaching in, pulling out the steaming hot meat. One of the men came up respectfully to Asayaga and held out his hand. Resting on the palm were two steaming pieces of meat.
‘The liver and heart,’ Asayaga said, offering one of the curled up pieces of flesh to Dennis.
Dennis reluctantly took one and popped it into his mouth. In spite of his initial reaction he had to admit it tasted half-way good. He nodded.
A number of Kingdom troops, drawn by curiosity, were gathered into the crowd, several of them munching on bones and strings of meat, then turning back to their comrades, laughing and challenging them to join in.
‘Laughter also forestalls the killing,’ Asayaga said. ‘From what I heard and what I sense, there will be fighting tomorrow. We must fight together, Hartraft: eating and drinking tonight will make that easier come dawn.’
Dennis found that he had to agree. He forced himself to take the sack of aureg and to drink. This time it didn’t seem quite so bad, at least if he swallowed quickly, and though it wasn’t brandy from Darkmoor, it did indeed bring a touch of warmth to his insides.
As they passed the sac back and forth, watching their men feast, Dennis suddenly felt a strange sadness. Stripped down as they were, laughing, gorging themselves, the moment struck him as tragic. He had long ago come to accept life as an unrelenting tragedy but somehow, this night it seemed more poignant than usual.
He was by no means falling into the maudlin thoughts that poets and ballad-makers spoke of – how enemies might share a moment of friendship. What he felt was sentimental foolishness: the war had done far too much to him. Looking over at Asayaga he knew he could kill him without hesitation and sensed that Asayaga felt the same.
And yet, if it wasn’t for the dread closing in – the memory of what was occurring at this very moment but sixty miles to the south – he felt as if he could almost enjoy this evening. Perhaps we are fey, he thought. We know we’re doomed and have lived with terror these last three days and the break is a final grasping at a moment of laughter.
He had shared many a campfire with strangers, and got drunk around many a fire as well, pledging friendships and then, come dawn, they had all gone their separate ways. He knew enough to place little weight on such things. Perhaps that was the reason for the melancholy. Or perhaps it was the sudden loneliness he felt with Jurgen not being here.
What would Jurgen say of this moment? He most likely would have smiled and stepped forward to share the juice, then clapped Asayaga on the shoulder.
But they had killed Jurgen, the same way they had killed my father … and her.
‘Something troubling you?’
He looked down at Asayaga who was offering the sac of aureg and actually smiling.
‘No more,’ he said coldly.
Asayaga nodded, and in an instant his features were again the blank expressionless gaze of a Tsurani officer.
‘Divide up your men. Once we are done eating, two sleep while one stands watch. I want the fires banked down. We’ll keep them going but not the inferno we have now. Once past midnight, I want half on watch. We’ll break camp the moment there is the first trace of dawn.’
‘I take that as a suggestion only, Hartraft,’ Asayaga said coldly.
‘Take it any way you want, Tsurani.’
‘You are a hard man.’
‘That is how I stay alive, Tsurani.’
‘Is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
Asayaga shook his head and tucked the sac of aureg back under his tunic. ‘Two sleep, one on watch till midnight. Then half watch while the other half sleep. We break at first light. I’ll stand the first watch, Hartraft: you sleep.’
Asayaga stalked away, joining the circle around the fire and within seconds he started to laugh again, accepting a handful of steaming meat, but as he laughed he looked back at Dennis, eyes watchful and intent.
Dennis cursed softly. Picking up a stick, he speared a piece of venison out of the fire and walked into the woods to be alone.
THE RISING MOOON WAS BLOOD-RED.
Tinuva, all senses as taut as a bow-string took the colour of the large moon to be an omen, a warning from his ancestors, as it climbed over the forest behind him.
There was nothing direct to tell him of the danger, no sound of snow crunching, no scent on the frigid wind: the warning was deeper, coming from the core of what he was. He knew that humans, at times, could vaguely touch that sense, the feeling of being watched, or better yet the bond that twin brothers had, knowing what the other was thinking and feeling.
He felt hatred, an ancient hatred that stretched across centuries. He knew it as intimately as the presence of beloved friends, the memory of the sacred groves, the sight of the eternal heavens at night.
Bovai was close, very close. Stalking, reaching outward, trying to touch into his heart, and above all else calling to him.
He felt as if they were two serpents who had sighted each other at last, unblinking, staring, each trying to seek the first advantage before the lightning strike.
He was torn: the call of Bovai was like a deep longing, strangely almost like the whisper of a lover’s voice that beckoned, seeking the release of passion, except that this was the passion of death.
Tinuva turned his head, gaze fixed, not seeing with his eyes, but with his soul, and the colour of the world shifted. It was no longer filled with the dark shadows of night, but instead was changing to a pale glimmer of light which settled over the frozen woods, sparkling and flashing. All was bathed in a lovely blue sheen and there were no shadows, though to a mortal standing next to him the night would seem unchanged.
He could see Bovai, advancing alone, moving without stealth, into the open, but still distant far beyond bowshot range. He knew that walk well: disdainful, bold with arrogance, confident in his power. There was more familiar about the moredhel chieftain, but he chose to not dwell on those familiar qualities. He knew the resemblances were the heart of the blood debt between them.
Each was aware of the other’s presence. This was not like Kavala, who, preoccupied with other thoughts had only yesterday ridden to his well deserved doom. No, Bovai would never be so foolish, even if he were two hundred miles away, in the safety of his own dwelling, still he was always alert, always watching, for he knew that
