Frays In The Weave 24 Sacrifice: 2

The caravan felt emptier. Colonel Laiden had left with less than half a hundred, but everyone noticed their absence nonetheless. Outworlder machines and imperial uniforms were so much more visible than uncoloured leather, and the single squad remaining only made them remember how much stronger, how much safer they had been before. And so the caravan hugged closer, wagons driving five abreast instead of on a single line. For every word of comfort there were two of irritation or fear. On their way to Braka it had been an adventure, a hope to make fortunes. Now the wagons were loaded with those very fortunes. Where they once had stood to gain they now stood to lose.

Nakora pulled the reins closer. She rode with Karia, the lordling who had fought side by side with the enemy to keep his capital free of marauding outworlders. The enemy ran between their horses, but Nakora was only grateful for Gring's presence.

You valued your life less than the taleweaver's, Gring had said. Now I value mine less than yours. Honour needs honour That is only right. And after that Gring had refused to stay out of sight. Not when they ate, not when they slept and not even when Nakora really wanted her privacy.

Karia never laughed once. As much as he admired Gring it was clear he despised the men from Ri Khi. Mercenaries, not sworn men. Nakora shrugged. Not soldiers would have been Trindai's choice of words.

Now they were headed for yet another dressing down of Watoai Takarak, oldest son of the Takarak family and so full of himself you could burst a khragan stomach with him. He had been problem on the way to Braka, but not he was unbearable. Major Terwin wanted him stripped of his commission, but it was paid for in full long before Nakora even knew of a caravan bound for Belgera. They were stuck with him, more so since the caravan elders from Ri Nachi fawned all over the next Clan lord.

She hated politics.

#

They rode madness. From early morning to dusk, with only a few short breaks they soared over the Sea of Gra.s.s hearing nothing but the roar of outworlder machines. Twice the speed of a racing horse.

The ground blurred around them, and only Major Goldberger's small command never took notice of the insanity. Trindai was as shaken as his men, some of who even made warding signs against evil.

He stared as far away from the hovercraft as he could to avoid watching the onrus.h.i.+ng ground. Nothing was supposed to be this fast. Man was never meant to flaunt his pride in the face of G.o.ds this way.

As sun set they reached the gorge where they had exited the mountains. Over a moons worth of travel in less than a day.

They made camp, they woke, they rode. Slower now. Mountains were treacherous, but a wide path, blackened proof of outworlder use of explosives, was cleared ahead of them. Christina and her thugs must have taken even longer than the caravan to cross the mountains, blowing their way through every obstacle that prevented the hovercraft from pa.s.sing. As it was they spent only two nights in the mountains, and after one more, adapting the speed to the roads on the other side, they reached Erkateren.

It was a nation under siege. Everywhere small wagons and carts with food and everywhere guards in the bright colours of imperial uniforms.

What madness is this? Trindai stared from where he sat. We're Keen. We don't steal food from people in spring. He exchanged a look of shock and fury with Ingeld. They'll starve before summer. He dropped to the ground and started marching. The huge outworlder machine and the thunder it spread was impossible to miss, and he meant to make as much use of the attention he commanded. "Who commands this atrocity?"

Two soldiers from the south gate regiment stared at him. If they believed he was unable to carry his voice over the roaring hovercraft they were sadly mistaken.

One tried to edge away.

"Halt!" And if they really believed they had been born with the spine to leave when Trindai wanted answers someone else, much higher in command, was simply going to be sad. They traced their immediate line of command to General de Markand, a formidable person in his own right, but no one in their right mind wanted problems with the Council of Twelve. "Bring me the sorry a.s.s of your superior!" One hesitated. "Now you s.h.i.+t faced piece of worthless sc.u.m!" They hesitated no longer.