Kitai returned with Varg a moment after that.

“Aleran,” Varg rumbled. “How do you like Shuar?”

“Cold and flat. And my men don’t care for taurga,” Tavi replied.

“Sane beings do not,” Varg agreed, settling down on his haunches, the posture a casual one among the Canim. He tossed a waterskin to Durias, who caught it casually, opened it, and drank it Canim-fashion, squirting the water into his mouth without touching it to his lips. Durias tossed it back to the Cane with a nod of thanks.

“Varg,” Tavi said, “from what I have seen of the maps of Shuar, the place is essentially a single enormous plateau. A natural fortress.”

Varg drank from the waterskin and nodded. “Yes. Close enough to it. There are three passes into the plateau, all of them heavily fortified. The Shuar’s range has always been all but impregnable.” He yawned, and flicked his ears dismissively. “Not that anyone wants it.”

“That’s what has made them strong,” Tavi said.

“That and the mines in these mountains,” Varg said. “They make arms, armor, and goods of acceptable quality here. Their warriors often make alliances with other battlepacks, lend aid and support in battle.”

“I noticed that Molvar was built with impressive defenses.”

Varg showed his teeth. “Shuarans are lords of the mountains. Narash rules the seas. Shuarans know that they cannot challenge us there. But if there is one thing their warriors know better than any other pack, it is fortifications.”

There was an outcry from the other side of the ring of stones, as four of the young warriors evidently erupted into some kind of personal brawl. Weapons were drawn, and blood followed a moment later. It might have gotten more serious if Anag had not stepped in with a taurg-goad-essentially a long-handled, heavily weighted club with a sharp spur sticking out of one side. Anag knocked half of the brawling foursome unconscious with two efficient swings, dragged another to the ground by one ear, and bludgeoned the last into docility by sheer force of will.

Once order was restored, Tavi stared at Varg for a long moment. Then he said, “Tarsh. Defending Molvar. With this band of crack troops.”

Varg fell silent and returned the stare for a moment. Then he said, his voice deep and barely audible, “You see well, Aleran.”

The Cane rose and stalked silently away.

Durias stared after him, an expression very like shock on his face.

Max and Crassus watched Varg go. Max came back over to Tavi, and said, “What was that all about?”

“He doesn’t know,” Durias said. He glanced at Tavi. “Varg isn’t sure what’s happening, is he?”

Tavi shook his head and said, “I don’t think he’s certain.”

“But you are,” Kitai said quietly.

Tavi grimaced. “I’m certain we’ll see for ourselves tomorrow.”

They slept on the cold ground, bedrolls laid out close together for simple warmth. Though there were no wood-burning fires, as there would have been in a Legion camp, the Canim instead built fires in trenches that burned low, hot, and slow on some kind of thick bricks of springy moss. The fire trenches made the nights survivable, but just barely. Max and Crassus were both familiar with firecrafting techniques used along the Shieldwall for keeping oneself warm in the bitter cold, but they couldn’t be done when sleeping, and their nights were as miserable as everyone else’s.

The next day began with the bawling of hungry taurga waking everyone from their sleep. Max, who had begun bringing a stone to his bedroll with him specifically to hurl at the first taurg to begin bellowing near him, threw nothing more than a muttered oath, and the day got under way almost immediately. Canim camp procedure was elementary in the morning: feed the taurga and shovel their leavings out of the ring of stones and into the mound where they would be allowed to dry and used to supplement the fuel for the fire trenches. Then saddle the beasts and mount up. The warriors ate dried jerky from their own packs as they worked or as the morning’s ride began.

As on the other days they’d spent on the road, they rode at the swaying, swift pace of the taurga’s loping walk, following the road southwest, continuing farther inland, as they had for the previous three days, and stopping only once at midday, to feed and water the beasts. By the time evening approached, the wind had begun to rise, swift and cold, and pellets of stinging ice fell in irregular intervals with spats of chilling rain.

Kitai drew her beast up beside Tavi’s. The taurga slammed their heads together, bawling and huffing at one another until they had settled which of them had herd precedence over the other-though Tavi had no idea which of them was the superior once it was done. They behaved exactly as they had before the ruckus.

“Aleran,” Kitai said quietly, “do you smell it?”

Tavi looked at her sharply and shook his head. “Not yet.”

The Marat woman grimaced at him and tugged at the guide straps, to haul her taurg back into line. “Keep your nose to the wind.”

It took perhaps another half an hour for Tavi’s less acute senses to pick up on the scent. But once he did, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and flashes of hideous memories flickered through his mind.

From the line of taurga ahead of him came a sudden bellowing, then one of the beasts broke out of the line. Tavi looked up to see Varg employing his goad, jabbing his taurg from the routine comfort of the company of its herdmates, driving it into a pace that was less a run than it was a continual series of bounding leaps that covered ground at an astounding rate.

One of the young warriors in the column ripped a balest from the holster on his taurg’s saddle, slapped a bolt home, and raised the weapon to his shoulder, but Anag flung his goad, sending it whirling end over end, and the club slammed into the warrior and sent him tumbling from the saddle before he could send a deadly missile into Varg’s back.

“Stand down!” Anag roared, his voice carrying down the entire column. “Stand down, you fool, or I’ll have your throat!” The young Cane glowered at Varg, then up and down the line. “Column halt! Dismount! Ready yourselves for inspection before we arrive at the fortifications!”

The command began to echo down the length of the column as it was relayed, but Anag did not dismount. Instead, he pulled his taurg out of line and rode back down the column until he drew even with Tavi. “Aleran,” he growled. “I think you should bring your people.”

Tavi frowned at Anag but nodded to him. He signaled to Kitai and the others with a hand, and they turned their mounts out of the column, to follow Anag. They rode in pursuit of Varg, though at a far more sedate pace.

The dark-furred Warmaster had ridden to the top of a low rise half a mile away and halted his mount. As they approached, Varg was nothing but a black shadow against a grey sky, an outline of silent menace atop the still-puffing form of the massive taurg.

The wind grew stronger, and less chilly as they neared the crest. The rain, less frozen, grew into a steady, stinging shower that would shortly make outdoor travel all but unbearable.

And the scent grew stronger.

They crested the little rise and looked down over the edge of the Shuaran plateau, onto the lands below.

Tavi had tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming.

Even so, his heart went sick with raw terror.

The rise upon which they stood thrust slightly out from the plateau, like the prow of some unimaginably large ship, offering a vista of the lands below that would have been spectacular if not for the dim veil of rain. Varg had not exaggerated when he said that their land was a fortress, and that the Shuarans knew how to defend it. Below them, the land dropped away into sheer cliffs and bluffs that fell hundreds, if not thousands, of feet to the plains below.