was in deadly danger, if he hadn't been killed already. Otah closed his
eyes. Right now, the throbbing sting of his abused thighs bothered him most.
"Go ask the physicians to send some salve," he said.
"I'll call for the physician."
"No! Just ... just get some salve and bring it here. I'm not infirm. And
I wasn't moaning. It was the cot."
The boy took a pose of acceptance and backed out of the tent, shutting
the door behind him. Otah let the netting fall closed again. A tent with
a door. Gods.
The first few days hadn't been this had. The sense of release that came
from taking real action at last had almost outweighed the fears that
plagued him and the longing for Kiyan at his side, for Eiah and Danat.
The Northern summer was brief, but the days were long. He rode with the
men of the utkhaiem, trotting on their best mounts, while the couriers
ranged ahead and the huntsmen foraged. The wide, green world smelled
rich with the season. The North Road ran only among the winter
cities-Amnat-"Tan, Cetani, Machi. There was no good, paved road direct
from Machi to the village of the Dai-kvo, but there were trade routes
that jumped from low town to low town. Mud furrows worn by carts and
hooves and feet. Around them, grasses rose high as the bellies of their
horses, singing a dry song like fingertips on skin when the wind stirred
the blades. The feeling of the sure-footed animal he rode had been
reassuring at first. Solid and strong.
But the joy of action had wearied while the dread grew stronger. The
steady movement of the horse had become wearisome. The jokes and songs
of the men had lost something of their fire. The epics and romances of
the Empire included some passages about the weariness and longing that
came of living on campaign, but they spoke of endless seasons and years
without the solace of home. Otah and his men hadn't yet traveled two
full weeks. They were still well shy of the journey's halfway mark, and
already they were losing what cohesion they had.
With every day, most men were afoot while huntsmen and scouts and
utkhaiem rode. Horsemen were called to the halt long before the night
should have forced them to make camp, for fear that those following on
foot would fail to reach the tents before darkness fell. And even so,
men continued to straggle in long after the evening meals had been
served, leaving them unrested and fed only on scraps when morning came.
The army, such as it was, seemed tied to the speed of its slowest
members. He needed speed and he needed men at his side, but there was no
good way to have both. And the fault, Otah knew, was in himself.
There had to he answers to this and the thousand other problems that
came of leading a campaign. The Galts would know. Sinja could have told
him, had he been there and not out in some Westlands garrison waiting
for a flood of Galts that wasn't coming. They were men that had
experience in the field, who had more knowledge of war than the casual
study of a few old Empire texts fit in between religious ceremonies and
high court bickering.
The scratch came at the door, soft and apologetic. Otah swung his legs
off the cot and sat up. He called out his permission as he parted the