No one ever shared the whims of kings with slaves, and so Wrolf had no idea why they left the wall half-built to march north into the bushland.
The followed the river's north bank, marching southwest for weeks before coming to the Laks River itself, the waterway that gave its name to the valley at the edge of the world.
The river was wide and slow, a vein of blue in the dusty brown country. Trees lined the banks, at least where they weren't cut through by irrigation canals and cleared for farming. Villages sat on all three sides of the intersection of rivers, with bridges leading between them. These had already submitted to Thyrn.
They crossed to the western bank and turned north, marching upriver. Villages grew sparser and sparser the further they strayed from the poleis, and the well-trafficked trade routes between them.
Foraging parties were still sent out, though even Wrolf knew the army had been resupplied while encamped at Kurbrom.
"He must want to make them last as long as possible," Wrolf heard Wolm say, in response to Thold's complaining. "Live off the land, take some a' the burden off 'is supply train."
Some slaves had been left in Kurbrom to work on the wall, but Wolm's posse had remained in tact—the core members of it, at least. The Nuxish foremen seemed content to let the predefined group act as a foraging party, though Wrolf thought their guard was a bit heavier than the other parties.
"But there's nothing to live off," Dett complained.
"Rabbits," Thold said.
"Where?" Dett looked around, astounded.
"I didn't see one, dumbass," Thold snapped. "I mean there's rabbits out here. 'Bitz cursed pests like breaking into tater patches, eatin' crops, starvin' my damned—" he caught himself.
"Rabbit sounds good right about now," Wolm said, almost wistful.
"Not my favorite meat, but I could do something with it," said Dett.
"Ah, they wouldn't let us keep it if we found one."
Wrolf said nothing, studying the brown foliage around him. He was out of his element out in the countryside, but he thought he had heard something about edible plants. His friend Hrorth had been something of an outdoorsman, between jobs. He would have been able to find something, maybe.
"Hey, what's that?"
Some other slave in Wolm's orbit—Sorth, Wrolf thought his name was—pointed northwest. Wrolf shaded his eyes from the hot sun as he followed Sorth's finger, and saw a cloud of dust on the horizon.
"It's just dust," Thold said dismissively. "When it don't rain for long enough the wind picks it up. I lost a harvest to it once, but it shouldn't be a problem for us."
"I don't know," Wold contradicted. "We don't have crops to lose, but I've caught an eyefull of dust down in the mines before. It ain't pleasant."
"Well the wind ain't blowing at us, so we ain't got nothin' to worry about."
"The wind isn't blowing at all," Wrolf piped up.
"And it is getting closer," Sorth cut in.
Wolm shaded his eyes, staring intently. "Well I'll be..."
The soldiers with them—part guards, part task masters—noticed their distraction. "Oi, what's the holdup?" one asked, walking over.
"Dust to the north," Wolm reported. "Kicked up by something by the looks. Think it could be the enemy?"
"The enemy don't got chariots," the soldier said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "It's prolly scouts coming back to camp."
"And who is this enemy?"
"If you needed to know, you'd know," the asshole said smugly.
It was not the enemy, but neither, Wrolf thought, was it scouts; he didn't think Thyrn sent over two dozen chariots like this. The rider of the lead chariot looked familiar, though Wrolf could not place him.
"Your majesty!" The soldier from earlier knelt. Clearly he knew who this was. The other soldiers knelt, and the slaves followed suit just to be safe.
"Rise," the charioteer said in a gruff voice. "You lot with King Thyrn?"
"Yes, your grace," said the commander of the soldiers. "We are with High King Thyrn's army."
"Great. Which way is it?"
"They are south of us, your grace, marching in this direction."
"Can you point me to it? Ah, you know what? Just take me there."
"Your grace, I cannot, we were ordered to forage—"
"In the bush?" His Grace scoffed. "The 'Bitz does Thyrn think you'll find out in drylands at the height of the worst drought in dwarven history?"
The charioteer shook his head as the commander paled. Clearly, he could not handle a king speaking so frankly. Wrolf stifled a laugh at the sight.
"I'll tell him you're on my orders. He'll understand."
"Yes, your grace."
And so, not four hours after mid day, the foraging party found itself on a brisk march back to the army.
"King Farn of Bruston," Wolm said as they marched. "What do y'all think of him?"
"Ain't very kingly," Thold griped.
"But he's getting us back early," said Dett. "That makes him the best king I've ever known."
"Yeah," agreed Sorth, "that's more than Komn did for any of us."