Axes three days to reach the nomad camp; he estimated that if they hadn’t had to go slowly because of Balta’s injuries, it would have taken only two days. And he thought two days might be too long, given the reputation of the High Desert Nomads.
But given that reputation, two days or three likely didn’t matter.
They heard the camp before they saw it. Corporal Kaplar, still leading the point team, signaled a halt and dismounted when he heard the lowing and honking of comitelots on the wind.
Haft turned his head and called back, “I want Jurniaks!” He heeled his mare’s flanks and she reluctantly shifted her gait to a canter. Balta also urged his mount into a canter; he’d healed a great deal during the three days since they found where the desert men had surrounded Alyline and her Royal Lancers.
“Sir Haft,” the refugee sailor said when he reached the point element.
“Do you hear the animals?” Haft asked.
“Yes, Lord, Sir Haft.” Jurniaks still didn’t know which way he should address Haft, so he decided to use both titles.
“Do they sound like camp animals?”
Jurniaks made a show of listening, then nodded. “Yes, Lord, they sound like the animals in the camp sounded when I was held captive.”
He looked all around. “I don’t see any outposts, no sentries. Why do you think that is?”
Jurniaks swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat before saying, “Because they are too well hidden for you to see them? Or maybe,” he went on hastily, “it’s because they feel so secure on their wasteland that they don’t need lookouts.”
“That makes sense,” Balta said. “There weren’t any sentries around their camp when you escaped, were there?”
“No, Sir. None that I saw.” Here, Jurniaks was on firmer ground as to how to address these people. He knew that Balta was an officer, and officers are addressed as “Sir.”
Balta nodded at Jurniaks’ confirmation of what he thought, then shook his head at the carelessness of a warrior people who didn’t bother with sentries around their camps.
“That means we can just ride right in?” Haft asked rhetorically.
“In theory,” Balta said. But he sounded like he didn’t think the theory was very sound.
Haft twisted around to look at the column strung out to his rear.
“Bring in the flankers, and tighten the column,” he ordered. “If we get a hard reception when we enter the camp, I want enough axes up close to make a real difference when we fight.”
They went forward another fifty yards and the camp spread out before them in a shallow hollow that hadn’t been hinted at in the uniformly dull landscape. Haft estimated the camp to be one mile in circumference. They saw thin tendrils of smoke rising from fires.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They rode tall and proud into the camp of the High Desert Nomads. Even Haft, who would have preferred to be walking, and Jurniaks, who wished with all his heart that he was somewhere else, rode tall and proud. Despite the sights that met their eyes.
The camp was circular, with three rings of woven-grass huts around a central clearing. The huts were dome-shaped, and decorated with crude pictures of people and animals drawn or painted on skins laid over the thatch. The tendrils of smoke Haft had seen before the camp came into view vented from holes in the centers of the huts’ domes. Their entrances were on the inner sides of their circles, and two narrow windows that looked suspiciously like archer’s loopholes on a castle wall faced outward. The huts in the outermost ring were spaced so close together that a man on foot could barely squeeze between them, much less a mounted man. There was a wider spacing after twenty close huts;
But given that reputation, two days or three likely didn’t matter.
They heard the camp before they saw it. Corporal Kaplar, still leading the point team, signaled a halt and dismounted when he heard the lowing and honking of comitelots on the wind.
Haft turned his head and called back, “I want Jurniaks!” He heeled his mare’s flanks and she reluctantly shifted her gait to a canter. Balta also urged his mount into a canter; he’d healed a great deal during the three days since they found where the desert men had surrounded Alyline and her Royal Lancers.
“Sir Haft,” the refugee sailor said when he reached the point element.
“Do you hear the animals?” Haft asked.
“Yes, Lord, Sir Haft.” Jurniaks still didn’t know which way he should address Haft, so he decided to use both titles.
“Do they sound like camp animals?”
Jurniaks made a show of listening, then nodded. “Yes, Lord, they sound like the animals in the camp sounded when I was held captive.”
He looked all around. “I don’t see any outposts, no sentries. Why do you think that is?”
Jurniaks swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat before saying, “Because they are too well hidden for you to see them? Or maybe,” he went on hastily, “it’s because they feel so secure on their wasteland that they don’t need lookouts.”
“That makes sense,” Balta said. “There weren’t any sentries around their camp when you escaped, were there?”
“No, Sir. None that I saw.” Here, Jurniaks was on firmer ground as to how to address these people. He knew that Balta was an officer, and officers are addressed as “Sir.”
Balta nodded at Jurniaks’ confirmation of what he thought, then shook his head at the carelessness of a warrior people who didn’t bother with sentries around their camps.
“That means we can just ride right in?” Haft asked rhetorically.
“In theory,” Balta said. But he sounded like he didn’t think the theory was very sound.
Haft twisted around to look at the column strung out to his rear.
“Bring in the flankers, and tighten the column,” he ordered. “If we get a hard reception when we enter the camp, I want enough axes up close to make a real difference when we fight.”
They went forward another fifty yards and the camp spread out before them in a shallow hollow that hadn’t been hinted at in the uniformly dull landscape. Haft estimated the camp to be one mile in circumference. They saw thin tendrils of smoke rising from fires.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They rode tall and proud into the camp of the High Desert Nomads. Even Haft, who would have preferred to be walking, and Jurniaks, who wished with all his heart that he was somewhere else, rode tall and proud. Despite the sights that met their eyes.
The camp was circular, with three rings of woven-grass huts around a central clearing. The huts were dome-shaped, and decorated with crude pictures of people and animals drawn or painted on skins laid over the thatch. The tendrils of smoke Haft had seen before the camp came into view vented from holes in the centers of the huts’ domes. Their entrances were on the inner sides of their circles, and two narrow windows that looked suspiciously like archer’s loopholes on a castle wall faced outward. The huts in the outermost ring were spaced so close together that a man on foot could barely squeeze between them, much less a mounted man. There was a wider spacing after twenty close huts;
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