'As you wish,' Bauchelain replied with an indifferent shrug.
'A moment,' Itkovian said. 'You both bear wounds that require attending to.'
'No need, Shield Anvil, though I thank you for your concern. We heal. swiftly. Please, concentrate on our companions. Now, that is odd — our beasts of burden and sundry horses are untouched — do you see? Fortunate indeed, once I complete my repairs to our carriage.'
Itkovian studied the wreckage to which Bauchelain now swung his attention.
Repairs? 'Sir, we return to Capustan immediately. There will be no time to spare effecting … repairs … to your carriage.'
'I shall not be long, I assure you.'
A shout from the ridge pulled the Shield Anvil round, in time to see Korbal Broach flying backwards from a backhanded blow — delivered by the Bonecaster Pran Chole. The man struck the slope, rolled down to its base.
Bauchelain sighed. 'He lacks manners, alas,' he said, eyes on his companion, who was slowly regaining his feet. 'The price of a sheltered, nay, isolated childhood. I hope the T'lan Imass are not too offended. Tell me, Shield Anvil, do these undead warriors hold grudges?'
Itkovian allowed himself a private smile. You can ask that of the next Jaghut we happen across. 'I wouldn't know, sir.'
From the ruins of the smaller carriage, three wide travois were cobbled together. The T'lan Imass fashioned leather harnesses for the undead ay chosen to pull them. The caravan's collection of horses went under the care of Farakalian and the recruit.
Itkovian watched Korbal Broach lead the oxen back to the rebuilt carriage. The Shield Anvil found his gaze avoiding the contraption; the details in the mending made his skin crawl. Bauchelain had elected to use the various bones of the dismembered K'Chain Che'Malle hunters in the reconstruction. Sorcerously melded into the carriage's frame, the bones formed a bizarre skeleton, which Bauchelain then covered with swathes of grey, pebbled skin. The effect was horrific.
Yet no more so than the carriage's owners, I suspect.
Pran Chole appeared at the Shield Anvil's side. 'Our preparations are complete, soldier.'
Itkovian nodded, then said in a low voice, 'Bonecaster, what do you make of these two sorcerers?'
'The unmanned one is insane, yet the other is the greater threat. They are not welcome company, Shield Anvil.'
'Unmanned?' Itkovian's eyes narrowed on Korbal Broach. 'A eunuch. Yes, of course. They are necromancers?'
'Yes. The unmanned one plies the chaos on the edge of Hood's realm. The other has more arcane interests — a summoner, of formidable power.'
'We cannot abandon them, none the less.'
'As you wish.' The Bonecaster hesitated, then said, 'Shield Anvil, the injured mortals are, one and all, dreaming.'
'Dreaming?'
'A familiar flavour,' the T'lan Imass said. 'They are being … protected. I look forward to their awakening, in particular the priest. Your soldiers displayed considerable skill in healing.'
'Our Destriant is High Denul — we are able to draw on his power in times of need, though I imagine his mood is dark at the moment. Exhausted, knowing that healing has occurred, but little else. Karnadas dislikes uncertainty. As does the Mortal Sword, Brukhalian.' He gathered his reins, straightened in the saddle. 'The eunuch has completed his task. We may now proceed. We shall ride through the night, sir, greeting the dawn at Capustan's gates.'
'And the presence of the T'lan Imass and T'lan Ay?' Pran Chole enquired.
'Hidden, if you please. Excepting those ay pulling the travois. They shall lead their charges through the city and into the compound in our barracks.'
'And you have reason for this, Shield Anvil?'
Itkovian nodded.
The sun low at their backs, the entourage set off.
Hands folded on his lap, the Destriant looked upon Prince Jelarkan with deep sympathy. No, more than that, given the man's obvious exhaustion … empathy. Karnadas's head pounded behind his eyes. His Denul warren felt hollow, coated with ash. Were he to have left his hands on the tabletop, their tremble would have been obvious.
Behind him, the Mortal Sword paced.
Itkovian and two wings rode the plain to the west, and something had happened. Concern echoed in every restless step at the Destriant's back.
The prince of Capustan's eyes were squeezed shut, fingers kneading his temples beneath the circlet of cold-hammered copper that was his crown. Twenty-two years old, his lined, drawn face could have belonged to a man of forty. His shaved pate revealed the scatter of moles that marked his royal line, as if he had been sprayed in blood that had since dried and grown dark. After a long sigh, the prince spoke. 'The Mask Council will not be swayed, Mortal Sword. They insist that their Gidrath occupy the outlying strongpoints.'
