“Ah yes, the Sunken Ship.” Lanther turned to Linsha, who had never been to the City of Morning Dew and said, “It’s an old boat they grounded at the edge of the swamp and converted into the city’s only tavern, inn, watering hole, gathering spot, and gaming house. All the Legionnaires go there to sit around and tell wild stories of their exploits.”

She crossed her arms. She knew the tales, too-of his dangerous trips into Sable’s black swamp to rescue slaves and escaped prisoners-but she couldn’t helping asking, “So who did you have to rescue from the tavern?”

“Two barmaids and a confused crocodile.”

His comment brought several smiles, a chuckle from Dockett, and gave them all a moment of lighthearted humor-something rare in that canyon. As soon as it faded, Horemheb returned to his questions.

“What did you mean they want Iyesta’s realm?” The centaur asked, unable to disguise his alarm.

Lanther tapped a forefinger on a map. “The Tarmaks do not seem content to stay where they are. From the news I have picked up from prisoners and our few spies in the city, the Tarmaks are building a new army-one equipped for a land campaign rather than a seaborne invasion.”

Sir Remmik agreed. He despised the Legionnaire, but he knew the business of supplies, shipping, and organizing an army, and he, too, had been keeping a watch on the port. “They are receiving several ships a week-filled with reinforcements and supplies. They have already outstripped us in numbers, and they are far better equipped.”

“Where are they coming from? I thought these Brutes were only a slave race controlled by the Knights of Neraka?”

Linsha shook her head. “We don’t know. Even their mercenaries have no knowledge of their origins.”

“At least we’ve seen no indication of Dark Knight involvement,” Falaius added. “The Tarmaks seem to be attacking us on their own initiative.”

Horemheb rubbed a large hand across his face and looked pensive. “I will have to get this news back to Duntollik. If this realm falls to these Tarmaks…”

He didn’t need to finish. They all understood the pressures of Duntollik’s geography.

Linsha, the men, the centaurs, and Varia stared down at the maps scattered across the table. No one had to explain the grim truth staring them in the face. The forces of Iyesta had refused to admit defeat even after the city fell. Led by the three commanders, they had formed a thin line of defensive positions, fortified outposts, and roving patrols anchored on the Scorpion Wadi that surrounded the Missing City in a rough half-circle. At first they had waged a successful campaign to keep the mercenaries and the Tarmaks confined within the boundaries of the city. But as the weeks passed and the numbers of besiegers dwindled, the effort to contain the Tarmaks had become little more than a waiting game. Before too long, Iyesta’s forces would either have to find another way to keep fighting or retreat back into the empty Plains of Dust.

“How long do you think it will be?” Horemheb asked quietly.

“If they are planning a campaign for this year,” General Dockett replied, “they will have to move before winter.”

Linsha stirred, remembering what Falaius had told her. The centaur had come with news of his own. “What about your people? What is the news from Duntollik?”

A look of frustration marred the centaur’s face. “We are watching and preparing what we can. Something is happening in Qualinesti. There have been large troop movements over the border and a great deal of activity among the dwarves in Thorbardin. Sable has been quiet, but we heard disturbing news from Schallsea.”

The men bent over their maps again, intent on gleaning every bit of information from Horemheb’s news. Soon they were asking questions of their own, jabbing at the maps, and talking to the centaur.

Linsha listened for a moment, hoping to hear the news about Schallsea, then felt herself pulled back by a hand on her arm. “Come see this prisoner who spoke of the eggs,” Lanther whispered. “He won’t last much longer.”

She turned to go, but Horemheb stopped her with one last question. “Lady, where is this Abyssal Lance you spoke of? Do you still have it?”

Linsha could not speak for a moment through the welter of emotions that suddenly assailed her. Anger, shame, dismay, and regret whipped on by a deep-seated fear-all charged through her thoughts.

“I don’t know where it is,” she said at last. “We were forced to leave it in Thunder’s body, and when we returned to retrieve it, it was gone.”

She said nothing more, nor did she wait to hear any possible disappointed comments or critical remarks from anyone. She’d already heard them all or said them to herself. She turned and walked away with Lanther, leaving Leonidas, Horemheb, and the men to finish their discussion.

The prisoner huddled against the wall of the stone cell. There were only three holding cells in the Post, all carved into the rock wall of the canyon and all large enough to hold at least five large men. The prisoner, the sole occupant of his cell, looked small and pathetic on the floor, like a pale pile of bloody rags.

Linsha eyed him critically. “Another one?” she said with some disapproval.

Lanther was not known for his ability to treat enemy prisoners with kid gloves. He was usually a patient and deliberate man, but almost two years ago he had spent too many days in the hands of Sable’s guards after they caught him in the swamp. He still bore the limp and the scars to prove it. Since that time he had little patience or mercy left to offer uncooperative enemy prisoners.

He shrugged at her question. “In truth, we found him like this. I think the mercenaries left him out in the Rough to die.”

The Rough, the rock-strewn, scrubby grasslands on the outskirts of the Missing City certainly would have finished off a wounded man-if the wild dogs, the lions, or the ants did not find him first.

Linsha looked closer at the prisoner and realized the tatters and rags she had taken for his clothes were just an undertunic and some leggings. There was no sign of boots, cloak, outer tunic, vest, jerkin, or even armor. The man had been stripped of everything but his undergarments.

“Did your men take-?”

“We would have if he’d had any, but he was left the way you see him. I think he irritated someone.” He pulled the rough wooden door open further, lifted a torch from its bracket, and thrust it into the gloom.

The two stepped inside. Varia dropped from Linsha’s shoulder and glided into the darkness of the cell. Extending her taloned feet, she landed gently on the wounded man’s back. The prisoner did not move. The owl craned her neck to study the man’s face half-hidden by his out-flung arm.

“This one is dead,” Varia hooted softly. She hopped to the ground close to his head.

Lanther swore and hurried over. Rolling the man over, he held the torch over the slack, battered face.

A stink of urine, sweat, and old blood rose from the body. The corpse’s face stared glassily through half-closed lids. He was a young man, Linsha noticed, too short to be a Tarmak and too well fed and heavily muscled to be one of the townsfolk still living in the city. A mercenary, probably. He had been viciously beaten on his head and torso and whipped across his back. She also noticed some odd burn marks on his temples. What had he done to deserve such treatment?

She knelt beside the body and closed the bruised eyelids. “Leonidas mentioned the eggs?”

Lanther irritably pushed a hank of dark hair out of his eyes and glared down at the corpse. “Gods blast it. I wanted you to hear this man’s story from his own lips.”

“Does it matter? Did you think I wouldn’t trust you? Since he can’t, you tell me.”