Tennea stared at Chekwe, breathing hard, anger rising in her throat, grief pounding in her skull. The strange story Chekwe told was staggering, but she forced herself to control her breathing and push down the sorrow.
“I’ve hunted you for half a year. Now I find you stooped over the bodies of my men, busy with Quam knows what devilry. Why shouldn’t I take your head off?”
“Well, I’m trying to do something to dress your dead, which is better than any Quamdamn cavalryman could expect from a foot soldier, so I guess that’s one reason. Also, you have two survivors who have me to thank for binding their wounds – they’re in that hut over there. Unconscious for now, but they might live. And if that’s not enough, you ungrateful pile of goat turds, your man here promised to let me live, and I expe
