Godslayer by Jacqueline Carey

head.
    "I know, I failed you in the desert." Speros took a deep breath. "Believe me, Lord General, I have sworn an oath. I have said it before and will say it again. A thousand times, if need be. It will never happen—"
    "Speros!" The General's grip on his shoulder tightened until it hurt. "Enough," he said quietly. "You will speak no more of it. I bear you no blame for what happened with the Yarru. What happened there…" He sighed and released Speros' shoulder, gazing out across the gorge of the Defile. "It will be good to fight an enemy who comes seeking a battle."
    "Aye, sir." Speros followed the General's gaze uncertainly.
    "Not
yet
, lad!" His mood shifting, Tanaros smiled at him. "They'll come soon enough. And I thank you for making us that much the readier for it."
    "Aye, sir!" Speros smiled back at the General.
    "You're a good lad, Speros of Haimhault." With another clap on the shoulder, Tanaros left him, striding across the stony ground to greet the Tordenstem. He knew them all by name. In another moment, he was gone, swinging astride the black horse and heading back toward the fortress, his figure dwindling beneath the dull grey sky.
    Watching him go. Speros retained a lingering vision of the General standing on the edge of the cliff, the wind tugging at his dark hair, a specter of sorrow haunting his eyes. He wished there was something he could do or say to dispel that shadow.
    He wished it
was
his own failure that had put it there.
    It wasn't, of course. In his heart of hearts, he knew it. That was his own specter, the ghost of his father's voice, his family's disapproval. It had nothing to do with General Tanaros. That was something else altogether. He had heard what the old Yarru had said about the General's choice, and he had heard the General's reply, his final, agonized shout:
Give me a reason not to make it
!
    Rut he hadn't. The old man had just stood there.
Choose
, he'd said; as if his people hadn't sent one of their own off upon a quest to fulfill Haomane's Prophecy, to destroy Lord Satoris and everything General Tanaros held dear. And what had followed afterward, the black blade flashing, the dull thud of Fjeltroll maces and blood sinking into the sand…
    "What else was he supposed to do?" Speros asked aloud.
    "Boss?" One of the Tungskulder glanced quizzically at him.
    "Nothing." He squared his shoulders. There was one thing, at least, he could do. "Come on, lads, let's move. We've got another one of these to build before Haomane's Allies come a-calling."
     
    Fjeltroll were hunting them and Uncle Thulu was sick.
    He had denied it for days; and long, thirsty, grueling days they were. After the first Fjeltroll to follow them had turned back. Dani had dared to hope. They worked their way slowly westward, avoiding all save the smallest water sources, concealing their trail as they went. It was slow and laborious, and he was increasingly worried about his uncle's condition, but at least they were spared the threat of Fjel.
    Then they had seen another.
    Dani had spotted it in the distance. It wasn't like the others that had attacked them. This one traveled alone, moving swiftly and silently. It worked its way back and forth across the terrain in purposeful arcs, pausing at times to lift a narrow, predatory head and scent the air. If it hadn't been for the glint of sunlight on its armor, he might have missed it.
    Armor.
    The Fjel hunting them was armed: worse, it carried a waterskin. Dani choked out a warning. Uncle Thulu clamped a hand over his mouth, casting around wildly for a place to hide.
    Uru-Alat be thanked, he had found one—a cave, scarce more than a shallow depression, its opening partially hidden by pine branches. Uncle Thulu shoved Dani into it, scrambling after him and dragging the branches back in place. He stripped off a handful of needles as he did, grinding them hard between his palms.
    "Here," he whispered, pressing half of the damp wad into Dani's good hand. "Rub it on your skin. It will