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substance to the legend of the Kanarekii heir, she must be
stopped before she reaches the tomb of Zal-Azaar. I will not allow her to stand
between me and the coast. I will not allow our great campaign to be damned to
Al-Gomar's deepest hell and forgotten.”
    Larz cast a glance over his shoulder at the column of men and horses awaiting
their orders. “Without the Amber, how are we to take Kholer?”
    “Quite simple.” Rau reached into the pouch at his waist and drew out a thick
stake of Amber which he pressed into Larz's gloved hand. “You will have the
Amber.”
    The Captain recoiled as if scalded. “Your Highness, I am not of Shraal
blood!”
    “The dead have weak minds,” Rau said. “You need only lead them to Kholer and
order them to fight. If the men believe you carry the Amber, they will obey your
command.” He fingered the Amber clasp on his cloak. “Besides, I control the
Master Stone, you need only use this one sliver to maintain control.”
    “What if I cannot control the dead?” Larz whispered back. “Can we not set
camp until you return?”
    “With luck I will return before you reach Kholer.”
    “Forgive me for asking, Your Highness, but what if you do not?”
    “Then you will do as I have ordered.”
    Larz read the threat in Rau's tone and fell silent. “Will you not take some
men with you?” he asked, accepting at last his fate.
    “I need not lead an army against one woman,” Rau snapped. A multitude of eyes
turned toward them. Rau sighted down the column and watched with satisfaction as
each gaze turned abruptly away. Larz knew better than to argue. So did the
men.
    “I shall return victorious,” he said with more conviction than he felt.
    “May Moraah bless you, Sir,” Larz said, his eyes fastening on Rau's.
    “May Laalan, God of War, bless Hael,” the Prince said and put the spurs to
his horse.
    The gaze of an entire army followed him as he rode down the long line of the
column, back towards Kanarek, and the plains of Kor-Koraan.
     
     
     
     

The Deadwalk
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    Not a word from Riordan. Not even a glance in his direction during the long
ride from Kanarek. In silence she ate the meal he prepared. Nhaille watched as
she sat stonily staring into the flames, the firelight dyeing her hair crimson.
Then like a shadow, she rose and crossed their camp. Slipping into her bedroll,
she fell into an exhausted sleep.
    Nhaille bent over Riordan's sleeping form and frowned. So much pain, and he
could bear none of it for her. Feelings twisted like a knife inside him,
emotions he could never express aloud, thoughts he shouldn't even be having.
    In any case, he had no words with which to comfort her. Comfort would only
weaken her resolve. Kanarek's new Queen could not be spared even a moment of
weakness. No, he couldn't feel sorry for her. Couldn't allow her to feel sorry
for herself. With a deep sigh, Nhaille pulled the blanket up around her
shoulders and went to seek his own bed.
    #
    Riordan raced along the ranks of cadavers marching toward the sinking sun. He
was among them. Somewhere. She knew it instinctively. The air was stifling, even
in the twilight, and the dust kicked up by a myriad shuffling feet swirled about
her in scarlet clouds.
    She wiped dust from her eyes and swallowed hard on the urge to vomit. It was
barely possible to breathe past the stench of rot and decay. She sucked the
putrid air into her lungs and kept moving.
    Filthy tatters were all that was left of their clothing. White bone showed
through the ruin of their flesh and the rags of their clothing. Some wore shoes,
others tottered along unevenly on one boot. Still others had lost limbs, hands,
arms, sometimes even a leg, yet they still stumbled onward, crawling when that
was the only method of locomotion left to them.
    In the center of the vast column she caught sight of a black wool cloak. On
some invisible signal, the waves of cadavers parted to let her through. Suddenly