At the command tent stood Lucian de Nocteyn, absently fingering the hilt of his sword. War does strange things to people: turns them into philosophers at dawn, beasts by noon. When from the dust cloud emerged a familiar rider's figure, his heart skipped with the joy that accompanies meeting someone who shared mortal danger.
"Scholn de Lorens!" Lucian called. "What devil brought you to the edge of the world, where even stars lose the way home?"
Scholn dismounted with the graceful fatigue of a man who had overcome the impossible. His face, usually mocking, had hollowed under a layer of dust. In eyes the color of stormy sky splashed such fatigue that it seemed—he would dissolve in the twilight.
"I need to see the Marshal. Urgently," he rasped.
Lucian narrowed his eyes, studying his face with the keen attention war instills. This manner of bursting in like a steppe hurricane, with the air of a man carrying the world's weight, was familiar. And didn't bode well.
Other captains approached—not yet knowing the truth, but sensing trouble like animals sense a storm.
"de Lorens!" rumbled the old captain. "Weren't you supposed to stay with the king?"
"In our business, it's customary to answer questions from superiors," added Lucian, leaning on a spear shaft. "What's the urgency?"
Scholn glanced at the command tent, from where muffled voices came.
"Personal report for the commander-in-chief," he said quietly. "There are things that can't be entrusted even to the wind. He must know first."
Lucian nodded. In war, there are secrets that kill if told to the wrong person.
"Lord Brandt de Mortvel is now with the Kriver troops' marshals," he explained. "Judging by the creak of chairs, better not interrupt their strategic debates."
Scholn sighed with relief.
"Good, I'll wait. I've been on the road twelve days. Hardly slept. My Wind..." he glanced sadly at the hitching post, "on his last breath. He carried me through half the kingdom."