Fifty paces farther on, the ten men of the spearhead were watching the slopes above them, though not as carefully as they should have. Too many men who rode spearhead relied on the forward scouts to find any dangers. Karede made a note to speak to them personally. They would do their duties properly after that, or he would send them to the labor levies.
A raken appeared in the east ahead, skimming low over the treetops, twisting and turning to follow the curves of the land like a man running his hand down a woman’s back. Peculiar. Morat’raken, fliers, always liked to soar high unless the sky was actually full of lightning. Karede lowered the looking glass to watch.
“Maybe we’ll finally get another scouting report,” Jadranka said. To the other officers waiting behind Karede, not to him. Three of the ten matched Karede’s rank, yet few except the Blood disturbed a man in the bloodred and nearly black green of the Deathwatch Guard. Not that many among the Blood did.
According to the tales he had heard as a child, one of his ancestors, a noble, had followed Luthair Paendrag to Seanchan at Artur Hawkwing’s command, but two hundred years later, with only the north secure, another ancestor tried to carve out a kingdom of his own and ended sold from the block instead. Perhaps it was so; many da’covale claimed noble ancestors. Among themselves, at least; few of the Blood found such chatter amusing. In any case, Karede had felt lucky when the Choosers picked him out, a sturdy boy not yet old enough to be assigned duties, and he still felt pride in the ravens tattooed on his shoulders. Many Deathwatch Guards went without coat or shirt whenever possible, to display those. The humans, anyway. Ogier Gardeners were not marked or owned, but that was between them and the Empress.
Karede was da’covale and proud of it, like every man of the Guard, the property of the Crystal Throne, body and soul. He fought where the Empress pointed, and would die the day she said die. To the Empress alone did the Guard answer, and where they appeared, they appeared as her hand, a visible reminder of her. No wonder that some among the Blood could become uneasy watching a detachment of Guardsmen pass. A far better life than mucking out a Lord’s stables or serving kaf to a Lady. But he cursed the luck that had sent him into these mountains to inspect the outposts.
The raken darted on westward, the two fliers crouched low in their saddle. There was no scouting report, no message for him. Furyk knew it was his imagination, but the creature’s long, outstretched neck somehow looked... anxious. Had he been anyone else, he might have been anxious, too. There had been few messages for him since his orders three days ago to assume command and move east. Each message had thickened the fog more than cleared it.
The locals, these Altarans, had moved into the mountains in force, it seemed, but how? The roads along the northern border of this range were patrolled and watched nearly to the border of Illian, by fliers and morat’torm as well as horsemounted parties. What could have made the Altarans decide to show so many teeth? To stand together? A man might find himself in a duel for a look — though they had begun to learn challenging a Guardsman was just a slower way of cutting your own throat — but he had seen nobles of this socalled nation trying to sell each other and their Queen for the mere suggestion that their own lands might be protected and perhaps those of their neighbor added to them.
Nadoc, a big man with a deceptively mild face, twisted in his saddle to watch the raken. “I don’t like marching blind,” he muttered. “Not when the Altarans have managed to put forty thousand men up here. Forty, at least.”
Jadranka snorted so hard that his tall white gelding shifted. Jadranka was the senior of the three captains behind Karede, having served as long as Karede himself. A short thin man with a prominent nose and such airs you might have thought him of the Blood. That horse would stand out at a mile. “Forty thousand or a hundred, Nadoc, they’re scattered from here to the end of the range, too far apart to support one another. Stab my eyes, likely half are dead already. They must be tangling with outposts everywhere. That’s why we aren’t getting reports. We’re just expected to sweep up the remnants.”
Karede swallowed a sigh. He had hoped Jadranka was not a fool atop his airs. Praise of victors spread quickly, whether they were an army or half a Banner. It was the rare defeats that were swallowed in silence and forgotten. So much silence was... ominous.
“That last report didn’t sound like remnants to me,” Nadoc persisted. He was no fool. “There are five thousand men not fifty miles ahead of us, and I doubt we’ll take them with brooms.”
Jadranka snorted again. “We’ll crush them, with swords or brooms. The Light burn my eyes, I can hardly wait for a decent engagement. I told the scouts to press on until they found them. I won’t have them slipping away from us.”
“You did what?” Karede said softly.
Soft or not, his words jerked every eye toward him. Though Nadoc and a few of the others had to struggle to stop gaping at Jadranka. Scouts told to press ahead, scouts told what to look for. What had gone unseen for those orders?
Before anyone could open his mouth shouts rose from the men in the pass, screams and the shrieks of horses.
Karede pressed the leather tube of the looking glass to his eye. Along the pass ahead of him, men and horses were dying under a hail of what he thought must be crossbow bolts, the way they hammered through steel breastplates, exploded through chests protected by mail. Hundreds were down already, hundreds more sagging wounded in their saddles or afoot and running from horses thrashing on the ground. Too many were running. Even as he looked, men still mounted whirled their horses to try fleeing back up the pass. Where in the Light were the sul’dam! He could not find them. He had faced rebels who had sul’dam and damane, and they always had to be killed as fast as possible. Maybe the locals had learned that.
Suddenly, shockingly, the ground began to erupt in roaring fountains all along the writhing snake of his command, fountains that flung men and horses into the air as easily as dirt and stones. Lightning flashed out of the sky, bluewhite bolts shattering earth and men alike. Other men simply exploded, ripped to shreds by nothing he could see. Did the locals have damane of their own? No, it would be those Aes Sedai.
“What are we going to do?” Nadoc said. He sounded shaken. As well he might.
“Do you think to abandon your men?” Jadranka snarled. “We rally them and attack, you —!” He cut off, gurgling, as Karede’s swordpoint went neatly into his throat. There were times fools could be tolerated, and times not. As the man toppled from his saddle, Karede deftly wiped his blade on the gelding’s white mane before the animal bolted. There were tim