When all their plates were full—and Urtzi was unsurprisingly already on his second round—they cleared the serving dishes, allowing the middle of their circle to be bare. Tala unrolled a large parchment map so that all could see. “The plan is simple. We lay a trap before the Warlord does.”
Luca and the others bent over the map—one solely of Torrent and rife with detail. While Mannah did her farm chores, Luca had spent several hours with a map like this one. All the major landmarks were marked, as were the locations of each of the Warlord’s fire pits, dotting the landscape like pox. They stood where former cities did, a testament to the Warlord’s power. A former civilization destroyed, and from its ashes more pain as the Warlord lit one pit a night with flames spawned by human kindling.
But there was more, too—lines marking tunnels like the one where they currently sat spidered off in arteries and veins from certain locations. The tunnels weren’t completely connected, but they were extensive. Years in the making. Some were marked through with ink—damaged, dangerous, or discovered.
Tala gestured to a fire pit to the north and east of the spindle-treed forest that had sheltered Luca and the pirates the night Amarande had rescued him. “The Warlord is here, and moving west. Tomorrow, all caravans will convene at the Hand.”
Luca followed Tala’s fingers, his mind picturing Koldo’s stern face frowning over similar maps in the Itspi library as she tutored Amarande in military strategy. “If we are laying a trap, do we arrive before the Warlord does? Be in position and ready?”
Luca thought of Amarande—how long would it take to get word to her? How long would it take her to get here with or without her army? Surely more than a day.
Tala shook his head. “Thatwasthe plan, but this is exactly where your timing has proved to be excellent, my Otsakumea, and our plans have shifted with another advantage. There is a new Warlord—it is a passing title, and we believe it changed hands recently.”
The sentence hung for barely a blink before the first stunned question came.
“How new?” This from Osana.
“As of a few days ago. In our position, it is difficult to be precise with timing.”
Luca’s mind raced. It was almost too much of a coincidence to believe that Amarande’s mother was installed as the Warlord on the night she and Osana were prisoners in the Warlord’s camp. Yet, Amarande was sure the woman in the tent was Geneva. Perhaps her mother wasn’t installed, but on her way out—and if she were leavingwhy then and where was she going? Of course, it might not have been that night that the title changed hands. Or, her mother might not have been there at all—Amarande’s sighting of her a figment of the princess’s feverish escape.
“This new Warlord has ordered all other caravans within the Torrent to join hers—within two days, no exceptions.” Tala pointed to the Hand. “Those who don’t report will be hunted down and pay the price—in the fire pits.”
Osana sighed. “This new Warlord is looking for protection—”
“In the form of innocents,” Ula muttered.
Tala did not assuage their horror. “Burning all dissenters in the fire pits is a punishment the second Warlord instituted. The first Warlord created the caravans as a means of control—never letting the people settle down, keeping them forever on the move and starved. A hungry people can raise no rebellion. When that didn’t work and some rebelled, the second punished them in the most horrifying way. The third demanded an added penance for autonomy. The fourth, it seems, does not believe penance to be enough to prove loyalty.”
That was a terrible sign—it was no secret what those with royal blood would do to maintain a tenuous hold upon power in the Sand and Sky; it was something else entirely to navigate the right to rule on someone else’s stolen power. Luca licked his lips. “One who will likely try to make a big statement for perceived legitimacy.”
“Or one who knows we will attack and is preparing,” Ula charged. She exchanged a long look with Luca before turning to Tala. “How do we know which it is?”
The old man did not so much as blink before answering, “We don’t. Though the reasoning does not matter as long as we stop it. And use it to our advantage.”
Luca nodded. “Hundreds, maybe thousands, are required to enter camp at once—and we enter with them.”
Tala nodded. “Yes.” He pointed to a location about twenty miles from the Hand. It was drawn as a tight web of tunnels just south of the forest where Amarande rescued Luca from the pirates when they were all on opposite sides. “Get in position here. Infiltrate with a small reconnaissance group to verify the watchers’ reports, and then, after midnight the second night, we attack.”
Luca nodded. “Stage one is to head to the secure location?”
“Yes—the staging area.” Tala tapped the spot. “Everything is currently being packed and prepared for movement. Stage two is to infiltrate; stage three is report; stage four is attack.”
Luca’s heartbeat quickened. He’d thought perhaps it would take weeks or months to raise what was needed to strike. And somehow it was here. Immediately.
“How is that for a plan, my Otsakumea?”
It was decisive, made use of previous planning and unique circumstances, and it wiped away the present threat brought by the dead raiders and the Warlord’s obvious knowledge of them.
The only thing the plan did not do was give Luca ample time to warn Amarande. If she made it back to his side in time, it would be by the greatest luck. Still, he’d promised to send word. Luca drew in a breath so deep his stitches pulled. “Tala, before we leave, I do have a request.”
“Anything, my Otsakumea.”
Luca felt a twinge of guilt that he’d decided to take advantage of his newfound title. “I promised Princess Amarande I would send a message as soon as I connected with the movement. She plans to fortify our fight with her power and her soldiers.”
Tala’s sun-worn face drew tight. “I am hesitant about this, my Otsakumea.”
“Why, Tala?” Then he added, “Be direct. Please.”
