Rastaban and his men reached the halfway point between the borders of their own land and the first grasses of the steppes, and guards formed a nervous line around the camp that night. Rhajj, Khouri, and Rastaban gathered in Rastaban’s tent to confer by candle light.
“What the hell was that?” Khouri asked. “They just slaughtered our men.”
Rastaban considered the core of the candle. “If I had been her, I would have done the same.”
Rhajj cleared his throat nervously. “We all heard the tales,” he began.
“Tales do not matter,” Rastaban said. “We need to know what’s real.”
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