by Glen Cook
“No? He’s already as down on us as anybody can be.”
Michael’s next report said Hsung’s move had inspired more guerrilla activity than even the Disciple’s commanders had hoped. Yasmid’s troops, too, were fighting more stubbornly than expected.
Bragi wondered, “How long before Megelin starts moving? That’s when Yasmid will have real problems. She’ll be hopping like a one-legged fireman. Gjerdrum, keep moving down the pass. Don’t stop till somebody gets in your way.”
“Yes, Sire.” Gjerdrum looked sour.
“Caught between the Tervola and Magden Norath,” Bragi mused. “I don’t envy her.”
The pass proved to be clear all the way to Gog-Ahlan.
Michael sent another message. Hsung was stalled. His Throyen puppets had suffered severe losses. Throyes itself was in flames. Hsung had had to move his headquarters out of the city. He had called for reinforcements from his legions at Necremnos and Argon.
“That does it,” Bragi said. He assembled his captains. “We can tip the balance. We’re going ahead. Into Throyes.”
The arguing grew loud and bitter. Ragnarson ended the debate, at last, by thundering, “I’m not asking. I’m telling you what we’re going to do. Just like the raid on Argon at the beginning of the Great Eastern Wars. We’re marching. First light tomorrow. And I’ll have the head of any man who sends word back to Vorgreberg. Understood?”
The meeting broke up in anger and disaffection. Bragi watched his captains nervously. Would they stick it out? They’d better.
Hsung was going to be one surprised son of a bitch.
TWENTY-ONE: YEAR 1016 AFE
Dahl double-checked his document case, made sure his gear was secure, swung into the saddle. There was a lot he wanted to say, but he wasn’t good with people. He just said, “Good-bye, Colonel. Thanks for everything.”
“Godspeed, son. Tell your King we’ll try to break it up at this end.”
“Right.” Dahl urged his mount into the street. Dawn hadn’t yet broken. He had Kristen in his eyes. He was in a hurry to get home.
Home? he thought. I always thought of the stead as home. The old saw was right.
Introspective, wondering what would become of himself and Kristen, he wasn’t alert. It wasn’t till he had begun riding through farmland south of the Silverbind that he suddenly realized the three men behind him had been there for some time. He increased his pace. They did the same.
He was in trouble.
What to do? He couldn’t fight. Could he outrun them? Not likely. They were travelling light. His mount was loaded for a long journey. Lose them somehow? How? This was open country. It was a good fifteen miles before the road entered wooded ground…. They didn’t seem eager to catch up, though. Why rush it? If they were just following him, let them. He could outlast them. His horse was a tireless beast. His own stamina was superb. He could keep on till they couldn’t stay with him anymore.
Good thinking. It would have worked, too, had they not been herding him toward confederates waiting in the woods.
The trap closed neatly. Dahl found himself surrounded by tough-looking men. Their captain was Josiah Gales.
They looked at one another. Dahl knew there was no lie he could tell that would explain his presence. Gales knew exactly what he was doing, just as he knew about Gales. He sighed. “What now, Colonel?”
“You come see a man who wants to talk to you.”
Haas shook his head, smiled weakly. “Nine women in one day,” he said.
Gales scowled. “Not here, Haas. That game is over.” He wheeled his mount. The others followed, Dahl tucked neatly in amongst them.
Got to get rid of those despatches, he thought. Can’t let them get hold of those. He racked his brain. Nothing came to him. No opportunity arose. His escort remained close and watchful.
They took him to a small hunting lodge. Gales politely asked him to accompany him inside. Dahl decided to make no fuss over his possessions. They might decide to dig through them.
They would be expecting him to be carrying something, of course. Maybe they could be distracted with the smaller courier’s case strapped to his side.
He studied the lodge as he moved through it. It hadn’t been designed as a fortress or prison. Get out of sight of his captors for a few minutes and he could be gone.
Gales took him to a bone-thin old man eating pheasant in a small, comfortable room off the kitchen. “Sir Mortin, this is Captain Dahl Haas. Dahl, Sir Mortin.”
Dahl knew the name. He had learned a lot about the Greyfells family during his stay. “Good morning, sir. Why have your men waylaid me?”
Mortin smiled. “You might ask that, young fellow, but why bother? You know perfectly well why, and you know I know. Let’s not bluff each other. Sit down.” He indicated the chair opposite him by pointing with his knife. “Reeves. Bring another setting for our guest.”
Dahl decided to cooperate for now, to disarm them with his amenability. “Thank you, sir. And, sir, I really don’t see why your men have waylaid me.”
“Young man! Do you take me for a fool? Because you’re carrying information to Kavelin.”
“Nothing the King doesn’t already know. Stopping me is meaningless. I’m just going home. The important information went south by courier the day Gales arrived in Itaskia. He was recognized by people from the Ministry.”
Mortin looked up at Gales. “Josiah?”
“He could be right, sir. That’s the sensible thing to have done.”
“Yes indeed. Yes indeed. Young fellow, you present me with a quandary.”
“Sir?”
“Evidently we shouldn’t have bothered intercepting you. But we have. So what do we do with you? Go ahead. Eat. It’s a fine bird. It’ll just go to waste. Let’s see, then. Assuming that courier did go out, you’re no longer of any significance. No use to us, and of insufficient value to our enemies to make it worth killing you. Yet the idea of just turning you loose again grates. Josiah? Do you have a suggestion?”
“Well, sir, we might try talking him around to our side.”
Dahl was astounded. He wanted to spit out a defiant curse. Common sense made him keep his mouth shut.
“Why didn’t I think of that? What could be more useful than having the King’s adjutant on our payroll? There’s a problem, though. From what you’ve told me about this lad, we’d have to invent some leverage. He wouldn’t turn for money, and certainly wouldn’t for love of our Duke or his Queen.”
Gales smiled. “No. But we’ll have time to consider it along the way, wouldn’t you say?”
Dahl looked up sharply, a string of pheasant flesh trailing from his lips.
“Ah, yes, Dahl. We’re headed for Kavelin. This mob and a lot more, as you’d surely learn being around here. If for no other reason than that, we can’t let you go. Sir Mortin?”
“Definitely. His courier couldn’t have known that. Well, son, we’ll have to keep you with us. I’ll be a good host as long as you’re a good guest. But I can’t guarantee your health if you do something dramatic. We do have to protect ourselves. Josiah, I’d say the pantry would be the best place to keep him.”
“Yes, sir. When you’re finished, Dahl.”
Haas ate slowly. His mind raced. He seemed to be in no immediate danger. But his chances of getting away with his documents, and warning the King that the whole damned Greyfells clan was about to descend on him, looked slim.
He wondered what they were doing back at the Ministry. Had they caught on yet? Would someone be coming after them?
It looked like time for a prayer.
TWENTY-TWO: YEAR 1016 AFE
Michael watched Credence Abaca limp into his office. He leaned toward Aral. “Looks like that limp is going to be permanent.”
Aral whispered, “I heard they cut him up pretty bad.”
“Sit down, Credence. Derel should be here any minute.” He eyed Abaca. Maybe they should recall Liakopulos from Karak Strabger, where he was training the year’s recruits. Credence’s woun
ds were awfully slow healing. Perhaps he had fallen foul of a poisoned Tervola blade.
They might need a garrison commander who could get around fast. Liakopulos could turn his trainees over to someone else.
Derel came in. He looked exhausted. “Hard day in the Thing. The Estates are trying to revoke the weapons act again. We barely defeated them. Mundwiller almost had apoplexy. Two of his people deserted him. We’ve got to get Hardle back here to whip the Nordmen into line.”
The weapons act had given freemen the right and obligation to keep and bear arms. It was the single most effective constraint on the power of the nobility, who no longer dared ride roughshod over their tenants. Another law enacted about the same time had virtually eliminated serfdom, freeing peasants from their bonds to the land they worked. They could now desert an unjust liege. That law, too, was unpopular with the Estates.
Prataxis sagged into a chair. “So what is it now, Michael? Your message sounded desperate.”
“Could be. Is Cham coming?”
“No. He’s planning tomorrow’s counterattack. He’s on his last legs, though. If the King doesn’t get back soon…. What is it? You look grim.”
“I’ll let Aral tell you. That’s why he’s here.”
Dantice hemmed and hawed. He felt out of place.
“Get on with it,” Michael said. “Just tell them what you told me.”
“This came in this afternoon,” Aral said. “From a friend who just got back from Throyes.”
Prataxis said, “I was becoming concerned. We hadn’t heard anything for so long.”
“You have reason,” Michael said. “Aral?”
“Hsung was assassinated.”
“What? The guerrillas?” Prataxis was shocked. How did an assassin reach Lord Hsung?
“No. His own people did it,” Aral said. “I didn’t get many details. Just that he was killed, and another Tervola stepped right in. Sent by Mist.”
Michael interjected, “Meaning she was behind the assassination.”
Prataxis nodded. “Lord Hsung was way out of line. I’m surprised the Council would authorize that vigorous a sanction, though.”
“All very interesting,” Abaca said. “But why are you in a panic? This Tervola or that, what’s the difference?”
“This one has stopped the invasion of Hammad al Nakir,” Aral said. “He ordered the troops to stop where they were, and not to fight unless they were attacked. He’s trying to negotiate with Yasmid, hoping she’ll make peace.”
“And she will,” Michael opined. “Word I get out of Al Rhemish, also courtesy of friend Aral, is that Megelin has sent Rahman, Norath, and five thousand men to attack Sebil el Selib.”
“So the fighting has stopped. So what?” Abaca asked.
Prataxis replied, “So we’ve had no contact with the King for eight days. Right, Michael?”
“Exactly. When I send a message to Maisak I get evasive replies. Nothing from the King. I queried Liakopulos. He’s in the dark too. What it suggests is, the King got a wild hair and moved on down to Gog-Ahlan. Maybe even decided to attack Hsung from the rear.”
“We’re in trouble,” Prataxis said.
“Maybe big trouble,” Aral agreed. “There’s already rumors saying he went east. Right now they’re just bull put out by the Estates, but in a few days people are going to be asking serious questions. And we won’t have the answers. Michael, I told you he would shoot the long odds again.”
Trebilcock closed his eyes. “I sent Aral’s news to Maisak right away. I demanded a direct response from the King. They acknowledged receipt. I haven’t heard anything else. I’m praying I do get something from him. If I don’t pretty soon, though, I’ll assume he went on through the pass.”
“Stupid,” Abaca muttered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’d better call in reinforcements.”
Prataxis suggested, “Better warn the garrisons in Damhorst, Breidenbach, Forsberg, and Sedlmayr too. If there’s trouble it’ll spread from city to city fast. I’d recommend a general alert. Better do something about Kristen, too, Michael.”
Michael asked, “I take it we all expect the worst?”
“Maybe not expect it,” Prataxis said. “But plan for it. Be ready for it. Damn. I wish we could send the Thing home. Get them scattered around so it would take them longer to cause trouble.”
Michael said, “Let’s get to it. We may not have much time.”
Abaca grumbled, “I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it anymore. We never seem to make any headway.”
“I hear you,” Derel replied, and stumbled wearily out of the room.
Michael growled, “I feel the same way sometimes, Credence. Like right now.”
Inger had gathered those of her dowrymen who were party to the family plot. She was ready to accept Michael’s offer. “Anyone have anything to tell me?” They knew what was on her mind. The King’s people had mounted a harsh psychological offensive. “Trebilcock asked to see me tomorrow. He wants my answer. My mind is pretty much made up. Karl?”
“Stall him if you can. We’ve finally established communication with the outside. The Estates say you should hang on. Ragnarson may have overstepped himself and gone on through the Gap. Let’s find out if that’s true. Could be the break we need.”
Inger asked, “That’s a rumor, right? What’s the source? The Estates? Or someone less likely to be making it up?”
“Can’t tell for sure. Estates agents are spreading it, but they claim they picked it up in the streets. You know the King better than anyone. Would he go off like that?”
“Yes and no.” Yes, he would do something like that. He’d done so before. But no, not under today’s conditions. He’d had half the wizards of the west with him during his raid on Argon. He had no wizard now, and faced one of the top dozen Tervola of Shinsan. Bragi wouldn’t attack in those circumstances.
“He wouldn’t do it,” she decided. “He might let everybody think he was doing it. Then he could see what we’d do if we thought he was off doing something insane. No. He’s up there in the Gap where nobody can see what he’s doing. He’s waiting, studying the news. At the right time he’ll swoop down like an eagle. And anyone who’s fool enough to believe the rumors and try to profit will get snatched up like some hapless rabbit.”
Her advisers looked thoughtful. One observed. “This morning Abaca ordered a new gibbet put up. A big one. Might mean he’s expecting something.”
Inger’s stomach tightened. “The Estates aren’t planning another riot?”
“No. The last one went so badly….”
“Find out for sure. Trebilcock said the next one would kill us. Abaca could be building that gibbet for us.”
The man added, “Abaca also sent secret orders to all the major military commands. He’s called some units into Vorgreberg. He must know what’s going on.”
Another said, “Sounds to me like he’s part of what the Queen was saying. That buzzard is sitting up there laughing at us. The way things were going, he couldn’t do anything that didn’t make him look bad. But if we do anything now, it’ll look like treason. Nobody would much complain if something happened to us.”
Inger said, “There are a lot who would cheer. A lot who resent the fact that there are so many foreigners in the palace. They like us less than they like my husband.”
“That raises a question that’s never been adequately answered, My Lady. What do we do with the man? Assuming we ever do take over?”
“That’s a moot question.” And one I want to avoid, Inger thought. “Our taking power isn’t even a pipe dream anymore. Survival is the question here. We have to decide what I’m going to tell Trebilcock tomorrow.”
“Stall him.”
“Put him off.”
“What if he won’t be stalled?” She didn’t want to stall. She was tired of this dreary little kingdom and its plague of selfish nobles, tired of the role her family had thrust upon her. She was tired of being afraid, and tired of being in continuous danger. She was rea
dy to meet Michael’s conditions. She just wanted to get away, to go home, to raise her son, and be free of the vicissitudes of politics.
She wished she could ride away the way Bragi had described, drifting off into history, Kavelin’s crown left for whoever wanted it. Maybe she should have offered to ride away with him. It might have been interesting, living with him the way his first wife had, with every day an honest struggle for honest pay….
“My Lady?”
“Yes? Sorry. I was daydreaming. All right. I’ll try to stall him. Meantime, find out what’s going on. Try to contact the Estates again. If there’s anything I should know, tell me before Trebilcock shows up. Now go somewhere. I need to think.”
What she needed was time alone, time not so much to think as to weep for everything that might have been, everything she had hoped for in the few hours between her receipt of Bragi’s proposal and her having gone to Dane for advice.
Dreams die hard.
Ragnarson gave the signal. The light horse company surged forward, swept round the flank of the hill, hurtled toward the shanty trading center built alongside the ruins of Gog-Ahlan. “Drums,” he shouted. “Double cadence, forward.”
Drums began grumbling. The troops picked up the beat and double-timed forward. The heavy horse rolled along at their flanks. “They look good,” Ragnarson told Baron Hardle. “Very good indeed.”
Sourly, Hardle replied, “They’ve had good leadership. And they believe in their supreme commander.”
Ragnarson scowled. Hardle was worse than Gjerdrum. But give the man his due, he wasn’t sabotaging anything. He was performing his tasks to the limits of his capacity.
“Back with your men. Septien!” he shouted at the commander of his Marena Dimura scouts. “Move out. If anybody gets by you I’ll have your scalp.”
The scouts galloped off to interdict the road to Throyes. They were to stop anyone who escaped the light horse.
Ragnarson spurred his mount, hastened to the head of the column. He rounded the flank of the hill and looked out on the plain where the ruins lay. “What the hell?”
There was nothing there. At least, nothing to compare with what had been there last time he’d come this way. The trading town had been a city then, wild and colorful and ramshackle. Now there was nothing but a neat geometric layout. A barracks city with only a few non-standard buildings off to one side. The barracks and the low curtain wall surrounding them seemed to have been assembled from stone salvaged from the ruins.
