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Nesryn leaped off her ruk in an easy
movement, her face grave as any pocket of
Hellas’s realm. “Morath is three days away,
possibly four,” she said breathlessly.
Sartaq came up behind her, the ruks
needing no hitching post. “We kept high
overhead, out of sight, but Falkan was able to
get closer.” The shifter remained in falcon
form by Salkhi.
Yrene stepped forward. “What did you
see?”
Nesryn shook her head, her normally
golden-brown skin bloodless. “Valg and men,
mostly. But they all look fast—vicious.”
Chaol reined in his grimace. “No sign of
the witches?”
“None,” Sartaq said, running a hand over
his braided hair. “Though they might be
waiting to sweep down from the Ferian Gap
when the army arrives here.”