“No, no,” said the wounded man. His voice was pained but strong. “Bastard got me in the shoulder. Be a while before I can fight, worse luck, but Kev’ll bind it up fine for the moment.”
“Good man,” said Olvir. He sounded only a touch out of breath. Vivian wasn’t shocked, given how well the knight had maintained his composure the rest of the time she’d known him, but she admired him for meeting this latest and worst test so readily. “I’ll help you over to the tent when we’re done here.”
“Areyouall right?” Katrine asked.
“Yes. Thanks be to Tinival, and to all of you as well. I’d bow, but I fear I’m likely to fall over.”
“No blame to you if you did,” said Olvir’s fellow knight. “I’d no idea you were such an appealing target.”
“Neither had I.” When Olvir spoke, Vivian noticed a series of red lines marking the right side of his winter-pale neck, evidence of how close the twistedman had gotten.
“And they were in here with us all the while,” said Kev.
“I’d imagine their plan was to wait until Sir Yoralth left, then slip out after and ambush him, or to bide their time until the others took their leave. Katrine ruined that idea neatly. Well done,” Vivian added.
“So the gods forged me,” Katrine said, the traditional answer in such circumstances—not that there were many circumstances similar to those they were now in.
“But you were the one who heeded their call,” said Vivian. She went to run a hand through her hair, realized that the hand in question was coated with twistedman blood, and allowed herself a grimace. “I’ll have a word with Magarteach and the others. It’d be best if we established signs and countersigns when our forces come in, now that we know they can resemble us.”
“A rough resemblance, but yes,” said the knight. They frowned suddenly. “Do you think there are more? That they’ve gone after others?”
“I doubt it,” said Vivian. “We’d have heard the noise, just as I’m sure others have heard ours. We’ll have company soon. And they seemed to ignore the rest of us.”
“There’ve been”—Olvir actually blushed a little, as if he was afraid they’d think he was bragging—“strange things about me since the war started. Since Oakford. Thyran might have wanted to get rid of a threat, or get revenge.”
“It spoke to you before it died, sir,” said the unwounded soldier. “What’d it say?”
“‘Soul.’” Olvir’s broad forehead wrinkled. “But I’ve never heard of the twistedmen eating those. The dalhan, yes, but…do you think Thyran’s combined the two?”
“No.” Memory stirred in Vivian, like the memory of Oakford when she’d spoken to Olvir a few days earlier: words breaching the surface of a sea of reports. “I think there may be another meaning. I’ll have to check, but we may both need to go talk to a few more people soon.”
Chapter 5
“Sir Yoralth.” Magarteach eyed Olvir with no particular sign of recognition. Olvir wasn’t surprised. There were a thousand people at the outpost. “Seems you’ve made things interesting.”
“Not my intention, General, I assure you.”
The general had offered a camp stool. Olvir had preferred to stand: the attack had been a day ago, and the god-touched healed quickly. He’d realized, too late, that standing made him feel like a criminal on trial—or a two-headed calf at a fair. He tried to trust in Tinival, as well as his knowledge of his own innocence, as he took stock of the yurt’s smoky interior and the people gathered there.
Lord Marshal Nahon, his direct commander, sat on one end, frowning. He’d known about Oakford, of course, but the war transformed events from a mere six or eight months before into faint historical notes. Now his strange knight’s strangeness had become a matter of immediate concern, and he clearly didn’t enjoy the development.
Next came Magarteach, then Vivian, and finally a priest who wore the gold robes of Sitha over sturdy travel clothing. They were short, thin, and bleached-looking, with a not-quite-present cast to their pale-gray eyes. By those signs, Olvir recognized a senior member of the Golden Lady’s clergy—and knew he hadn’t seen them in camp before. He didn’t want to consider the significance of that too closely.
“It could be to our advantage, in the end,” said Vivian. Olvir could tell that she wasn’t trying to reassure him, which was itself more reassuring than otherwise. “We’ve discovered, with no fatalities, that the twistedmen can assume some semblance of human form. If that was all, that would be useful. It isn’t.”
“No,” said Nahon, “but I wouldn’t call the rest ‘useful.’”
“It may be,” said the priest. “And it may need to be.” They exchanged glances with Magarteach. “Have you told them?”
“No. I haven’t had the opportunity since you told me. This is Gwarill,” the general said. “He’s come from the western shore, from Amris. Got in with the storm on his heels.”
In a moment, Olvir stopped being the most interesting thing in the room. General Amris had gone to the western shore to advise the Princess-Regent of Kvanla on defenses, in case Thyran was planning an attack by sea. Gerant was consulting with the wizards there about potential methods of stopping Thyran’s various magics.
Messages between Kvanla and Criwath were unreliable at the best of times. Gwarill bore the first news they’d gotten in weeks, and everyone hung on his words.
“I was sent,” he said, “to collect information but also to give it, and this is no occasion for gentleness. This storm isn’t natural. Poram’s archpriest had been sensing disruptions for a while, but he’s lately become certain. Thyran’s started his old spell working once again.”
Magarteach hissed in breath like they’d suffered a physical wound. Nahon whispered Tinival’s name. Vivian was completely still. Olvir watched all of them and himself from a mile away, noting the twisting sickness at the pit of his stomach without really feeling it. They’d all known of the possibility. They’d all feared it. Every snowstorm in the winter had been the subject of talk among the whole camp. There had been no point in the speculation, no definite conclusion they could come to, but everybody had talked regardless.
