Chapter seven
JilianBarty reined up and swung his zorca about to fall in with me.
“They’re three ulms away, off beyond that ridge of trees.”
He pointed ahead. The trees lined the horizon, barring off forward vision. The clouded sky towered above and, I fancied, when the wind dropped there would be rain. The turf compacted firmly beneath the hooves of the zorcas and nikvoves, the breeze rustled bushes and small trees among the grassland, and we were approaching Dogansmot, which is a lively enough little town in the vadvarate of Thadelm in the southwest of Vallia.
I said to Volodu the Lungs: “Do not lift your trumpet, Volodu. Word of mouth, and quietly. Dismount.”
Approaching us walked three zorcas, one of whom had a broken horn, carrying two dead men and two wounded. I looked at them a
