“Maybe only this morning. Do you know this marking?” Arskane did some grisly work to hold up a broken shaft ending in a smeared leaf-shaped point.
“Plainsman made. And it is part of one of their lances, not a spear. But who—”
Arskane swabed off the disfigured face of the dead with a handful of grass.
“Noraton!” The name was bitten off as his teeth snapped together. The other scout, the one who had not answered the summons.
Arskane wiped his hands, rubbing savagely as if he did not want to think of what they had touched. His face was stone hard.
“When the tribe sends forth scouts, those scouts are sworn to certain things. To none were we to show an unsheathed sword unless they first attacked us. We would come in peace if we may. Noraton was a wise man and of cool, even temper. This was none of his provoking—”
“Your people are moving north to settle,” mused Fors slowly. “The Plainspeople are proud-hearted and high of temper. They may see in your coming a threat to their way of life—they are much bound by custom and old ways—”
“So they would take to the sword to settle differences? Well, if that is as they wish—so be it!” Arskane straightened out the body.
Fors drew his sword, sawing through the turf. Together they worked in silence until they had ready a grave. And afterward, above that lonely resting place they piled up a mound to protect the sleeper. On its summit Arskane thrust deep the long knife Noraton had worn and the shadow of its cross hilt lay straight along the turned earth.
Now they pushed on through a haunted world. Death had struck Noraton down and that same death might now stand between them and the tribe. They held to cover, sacrificing speed once more to caution. Arskane took out his weapon of balls and thongs and carried it ready for action.’