‘Go now,’ he said to the rider, ‘and find Sergeant Teven and send him to me at once.’
‘Yes, sire.’
As the man climbed back down, the Captain leaned hack in his throne, staring down at the dusty backs of the yoked slaves. Kindaru there, yes. And Sinbarl and the last seven or so Gandaru, slope-browed cousins of the Kindaru soon to be en-tirely extinct. A shame, that-they were strong bastards, hard-working, never com-plaining. He’d set aside the two surviving women and they now rode a wagon, bellies swollen with child, eating fat grubs, the yolk of snake eggs and other bizarre foods the Gandaru were inclined towards. Were the children on the way pure Gandaru? He did not think so-their women rutted anything with a third leg, and far less submissively than he thought prudent. Even so, one or both of those children might well be his.
Not as heirs, of course. His bastard children held no special rights. He did not even acknowledge them. No, he would adopt an heir when the time came-and, if the whispered promises of the spirits were true, that could be centuries away.
His mind had stepped off the path, he realized.
Sixty slain soldiers. Was the kingdom of Skathandi at war? Perhaps so.
Yet the enemy clearly did not dare face him here, with his knights and the en-tire mass of his army ready and able to take the field of battle. Thus, whatever army would fight him was small-
Shouts from ahead.
The Captain’s eyes narrowed. From his raised vantage point he could see with-out obstruction that a lone figure was approaching from the northwest. A skin of white fur flapped in the breeze like the wing of a ghost-moth, spreading out from the broad shoulders. A longsword was strapped to the man’s back, its edges oddly rippled, the blade itself a colour unlike any metal the Captain knew.
As the figure came closer, as if expecting the massed slaves to simply part be-fore him, the Captain’s sense of scale was jarred. The warrior was enormous, eas-ily half again as tall as the tallest Skathandi-taller even than a Barghast. A face seemingly masked-no, tattooed, in a crazed broken glass or tattered web pattern. Beneath that barbaric visage, the torso was covered in some kind of shell armour, pretty but probably useless.
Well, the fool-huge or not-was about to be trampled or pushed aside. Motion was eternal. Motion was-a sudden spasm clutched at the Captain’s mind, digging fingers into his brain-the spirits, thrashing in terror-shrieking-
A taste of acid on his tongue-
Gasping, the Captain gestured.