unless something goes amiss.”
Caina nodded, adjusting her turban and squinting into the glare of the sun.
They had ridden for six days, traveling alongside the Great Southern Road, passing caravan after caravan. The caravan guards gripped their swords and bows as they passed, and did not relax their vigilance until the Black Wolves and the Anshani archers were out of sight. Caina did not blame them. Again and again they had passed corpses lying strewn alongside the Road, the air filled with the reek of putrefaction, dozens of vultures circling overhead.
They had seen a lot of corpses.
Twice roving bands of men wearing the coiled whip badges of Collectors had attacked. The first time a volley of arrows from the Anshani horse archers had sent them running. The second group of Collectors was better armed and armored, and they had closed with eagerness. Then Dio ordered his men to attack, and a charge of heavy horsemen scattered the Collectors. Shopur’s men amused themselves shooting down the fleeing Collectors until Nasser had called them back. Kazravid himself had killed five Collectors, sitting with perfect calm in his saddle and loosing arrow after arrow. The man knew how to handle a bow.
“Yes, your worship,” said the Istarish tribesman they had hired, a ragged little man in dusty brown robes. Nomadic tribes of Istarish horsemen wandered the Trabazon steppes, and the recent chaos had disrupted their flocks and campsites. That meant the tribesmen were amenable to mercenary work, and Nasser had hired one band to work as scouts. “They are perhaps six miles ahead. A hundred men in the black armor of the Immortals.” He scratched at his ragged beard. “Foolish to wear black armor in this sun. Perhaps if we wait long enough they shall roast in their armor like a ham in an oven.”
“A striking image,” murmured Morgant.
“Alas, I fear the Immortals consider heat and cold alike with indifference,” said Nasser. “Steel shall prove more effective against them.”
“I hope your worship’s steel is up to the task,” said the tribesman. “Among my kin, it is said that the Immortals are demons clothed in human flesh.”
“They aren’t entirely wrong,” said Caina.
“Wagons,” said Nerina. “Did you see any wagons?”
“Some,” said the tribesman. “Attended by slaves. Perhaps a dozen wagons, I think.” He looked up at Nasser. “We will not help you fight the Immortals. Every time my kin have fought the Immortals, it has not ended well.”
“Very well,” said Nasser. “You have earned your pay. Go now, or else you may find yourself pulled into the battle.”
The tribesman nodded and rejoined his kin. They mounted their little steppe horses and galloped away to the west, deeper into the grasslands.
“Well,” said Dio. “Seems that we have a hundred Immortals to kill. Any ideas on how to go about it?”
“We’ve two hundred men,” said Shopur. “Two hundred horsemen against a hundred footmen makes for winning odds.”
Kazravid gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Not if those hundred footmen are Immortals. They fight like devils, and regard pain and injury with contempt. If they have a chance to form into proper ranks, they might overcome us.”
“Then we do not permit them to form into proper ranks,” said Shopur. “Even with their inhuman strength, they cannot outrun a horse.” He patted the neck of his mount. “We shall harass them with arrows, turn them into pincushions from a distance. The Immortals may be devils, but they are still men of flesh and blood, and not even the finest soldiers can stand motionless under arrows forever. Sooner or later they shall break. Then Dio’s lads can run them down.”
“Don’t kill Cimak,” said Caina. “The entire point of this is to kidnap him.” Actually, she supposed, kidnapping was hardly necessary. They could just kill Cimak and have Caina take his place. Yet Cimak might know useful information about the Inferno and Rolukhan, information that might let Caina avoid making a critical error when it came time to impersonate Cimak before Rolukhan himself. For that matter, she had no wish to kill an innocent man, and Kuldan Cimak might well be ignorant of Callatas’s plans.
Morgant was not the only one who refused to kill people who had done nothing to deserve it.
“Agreed,” said Dio, scratching at his beard. “Can’t ransom a man who’s dead.” Nasser had given Dio and Shopur the impression that the plan was to kidnap Cimak and hold him for ransom, and Caina saw no reason to correct that misapprehension.
“I fear that we shall need to kill all the