12 XII
Wrolf looked out into the night. Two hills over, campfires poked holes into the darkness, like stars fallen to earth.
Thyrn's army had finally reached whomever it was they were fighting.
"Who could it be?" he found himself wondering aloud. "There's no poleis this far north."
"Sharwahh's about this far north," Sorth said, "and Cethon."
"Sharwahh's in the desert, smart ass," said Thold, "or should I say dumb ass? And Cethon's even further east."
Sorth flushed, almost imperceptibly behind his sandy beard and the red glare of the cooking fire.
"How do you know so much about geography?" Wolm asked from where he sat by Dett, watching him turn dinner on a spit. It was corn tonight, full ears of the stuff; an oddly extravagant ration.
"I worked on caravans," Sorth admitted. "We crossed the desert a few times, going to the Oasis Cities and even as far as Kharboldur once."
"But not Cethon," Thold jeered.
"No, but I've seen maps. Cethon's about as far north, and there's poleis north of it."
"In the Sodden Lands," Wrolf said, sitting down by the fire. "Not the Laks Valley. Who lives up north out here?"
"There isn't a polis up here," Sorth repeated dumbly. "Just goat herders, but they don't have an army. Maybe goblins invaded from the north. Thyrn probably isn't the only one who resorted to violence because of the drought."
"Goblins, huh?" Wrolf looked towards the goblins' camp.
The slaves had been bivouacked between the army proper and the enemy camp, but they were not all treated equally. The dwarf slaves had been given better spots on the hilltop, while the goblins had been placed on the more vulnerable slopes.
"If it is goblins, don't you think our goblins will turn on us?"
"Probably not," said Wolm. "Goblins love killing each other almost as much as killing dwarves. This could be the sworn enemy of whatever tribe Thyrn bought these ones from."
"Is that how he got them?" Sorth asked.
"Who knows?"
The conversation lulled, leaving the crackle of the campfire and sizzle of corn as the only sounds. That corn worried Wrolf. Corn was a luxury food, an exotic novelty. They'd been issued corn before, but only in handfuls of loose kernels, not full cobs like this. In addition to the increased booze ration—an extra wineskin of pulque between them—Wrolf thought it could indicate that they would attack on the morrow.
Wrolf laid back, looking up at the sky. The white moon was not visible that night; she hid behind her larger, dimmer sister, the blue moon. Nights like that were supposed to be better for star gazing, but the grosses of campfires more than made up for the lost glare. As it was, he could still see the brightest stars, twinkling silver and gold, red and blue.
He could see the shapes of constellations, though he only recognized the Golden Triangle: a trio of golden stars, near the western horizon this time of year. Hrorth had known more, Wrolf reflected. If only he hadn't stabbed himself...
"Looks about done to me," Dett said at last.
"They've sounded done for a while," Thold grumbled, scooting over next to Dett as the cook pulled the spits from the fire.
"Careful," Dett said as he distributed the ears, "it's hot."
Wrolf took his with a bare hand, then winced and dropped it into his bowl. It was, in fact, hot.
"Eat up, then get some sleep." Wolm spoke solemnly as corn was distributed. "The enemy's in sight, and Thyrn's got no reason to wait to attack a smaller army. I'd bet a month's wages we'll attack 'fore noon tomorrow."
"I'll take that bet," Sorth quipped, eliciting a round of chuckles.
Wrolf didn't laugh; he had hoped he was wrong, and he had hoped Wolm would be the one to contradict him. He took a sip from the pulque skin, in an attempt to wash out the bitter taste of dread.
