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Over the following days, as Dancer regained his strength, he got to know the Moranth assigned to nursemaiding him. Food, thankfully, was plentiful. As far as he understood it, no pots or such had survived the Moranth shipwreck, but they found natural pits in the rocks along the shoreline that they filled with fresh sweetwater from small creeks, dropped hot stones in, and boiled caught seafood, which they cracked open with rocks.

He and his companion walked the shore working on a shared vocabulary. Each spoke of his own homeland, as best he could. His nurse’s name, as far as Dancer could make out, was Balak.

‘We are soldiers,’ Balak explained. ‘We only. We Black, and the Red. Silvers are our priests and sages and … ah, how you say … orderers?’

‘Managers? Bureaucrats? Governors?’

‘Ah, yes. Governors. And wise males and females. Golds are our rulers. Always. For ages uncounted. Always the Gold caste. And we always following orders. Fighting. But with no say in why. So, some of our higher commanders, Twist among them, began to question such things. Began to … how you say … push back?’

‘Resist? Agitate?’

‘Ah yes, resist. And for this they are caught, tried, and exiled.’

‘I am sorry.’

Balak shrugged his armoured shoulders. ‘It was the risk we took.’ He motioned to the camp. ‘Your friend … he is, how you say, a mage? Can he really take us home?’

Dancer nodded. ‘Yes. Or as close as he can.’

Balak shook his helmeted head, obviously rather doubtful. ‘Such things are of the lowlanders who are our enemies. In the cities of Pale and Darujhistan. It is difficult for us to trust such things.’

‘He will try.’

Balak resumed pacing the shore. ‘Let us hope so.’

Within the week the raft was ready – or as ready as it ever would be. Remaining supplies were loaded aboard and it was pushed out into the surf. The Moranth piled on. Space was made for Dancer and Kellanved right at the very edge, where their feet dangled in the water. The last of the Moranth were tied to the raft by twisted ropes wound round their chests.

Paddles no more than carved branches and planks churned the water. The overburdened craft broached the surf like a waddling, drunken sailor. Dancer got off and helped by kicking with his feet. After more than a few attempts they pushed past the breakers at last and out to open sea.

A touch worried about sharks, Dancer levered himself out of the water and brought his legs up to his chest. Water splashed as those at opposite edges heaved away with their makeshift paddles. They worked on through the night.

The sun blasting down woke Dancer, and reminded him uncomfortably of his trial in the wasteland. A new shift of the Moranth roused themselves and set to paddling once more. They were heading east, trying to get as far from shore as possible – perhaps as Kellanved advised. Dancer shot a significant glance to the mage, who shook his head in answer.

At the end of the first full day Twist came pushing through the jammed bodies. ‘Now?’ he demanded.

Kellanved shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Tomorrow then,’ the Moranth said, sounding final.

‘Possibly …’

‘Tomorrow.’

Dancer gave Kellanved a glance. He leaned closer, murmuring, ‘Perhaps just us if need be …’

‘Well,’ the mage answered, ‘I’m not going to simply sit there while he cuts my arm off.’

Thirst began to assault Dancer on the second day. He thought he’d seen the last of that agony. It could turn into his march across the desert all over again, and he was not looking forward to it. He couldn’t help casting worried glances to his partner, who sat with his eyes firmly shut, concentrating – or so Dancer hoped.

At dusk Twist returned to them. ‘Now?’ he demanded.

Kellanved shook his head. ‘Not quite yet … Best to wait one more—’

The Moranth to either side of Dancer grasped his arms and held firm, pulling. Woven ropes were wound about him and yanked taut. Twist pointed to him. ‘We know who is danger now. Not you,’ he said, ‘this one,’ meaning Kellanved. He drew a honed curved blade that he held to Kellanved’s shoulder. ‘Dawn.’

The mage raised a brow. ‘You can’t force these things,’ he observed, remarkably composed.

‘No,’ answered Twist. ‘But you can do your magic with only one arm.’

Kellanved now raised both brows. ‘Well … I suppose you do have a point.’

Twist rapped his blade to Kellanved’s forehead and edged away. Dancer sat tied up next to him. He couldn’t help but murmur, ‘You’re quite certain …’

The mage sighed. ‘Do you want to appear in solid rock?’

‘You’re just going to have to.’

‘If he would just give me four days. Four days would be perfect.’

‘Was that the left or the right?’

‘Oh, shut up.’

It was not quite dawn when Twist returned. Dancer had barely slept throughout the night. The Moranth commander took hold of Kellanved’s left arm and yanked it taut. ‘I believe you lie,’ he said. ‘You lied for room on raft. Now you serve us. One must die so that many may live. We honour your sacrifice.’

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