‘Yes,’ agreed Edgar. ‘But does that mean they’ll do anything about it? I want them to commit troops. Russell has already said that Bastien will not send troops without the agreement of King Nicolas.’
‘That was always likely, Edgar,’ said Ealdnoth. ‘Guivergne were never going to give any of its soldiers to Baldwin. To be fair, Nicolas will doubtless be concerned about his own borders.’
Wilchard entered the room. Edgar noted at once that he was trying to conceal a grin.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve just spoken to Prince Cerdda. Seems like he’s been testing out Lord Kass. He’s drawn a commitment from Kass—Baldwin will pay half the wages of any troops we send once they arrive in Brasingia. Cerdda says he’ll discuss precise numbers with us, but he is prepared to match ours, within reason.’
‘Great,’ said Edgar. ‘A fair enough demand, since Baldwin will in reality have command over any soldiers we send. Go back; see if he’ll agree to two thousand each. What about the others?’
Wilchard frowned. ‘Well, I’m not sure yet. Brock and Frayne are in a private meeting with Rosmont. I tried to find out what was going on. Rosmont was polite enough, but beneath all of his pleasantries he basically told me to get lost. I don’t know what they’re up to.’
‘Speak to Cerdda. Ask him whether he has a leader for his forces in mind. Do your best to find anything else out.’
The North Magnians were on board. But Edgar wanted more. He waited for an hour. Wilchard came back and forth, but there was no more news from Rosmont and the Middians. Edgar wanted them to commit. If King Glanna were to send troops to fight for the Empire, it would effectively be a declaration of war against Ishari and Haskany. Edgar wanted as many rulers as possible to join with the Empire now. It would encourage the other powers in Dalriya to do the same.
But Edgar waited, and no news came. Wilchard would enter the room and shrug. Lord Rosmont would not be disturbed. And then Wilchard arrived a final time. His shoulders did not shrug this time, and his mouth was twitching into a smile.
‘Lords Rosmont, Brock and Frayne send news,’ he began. ‘They are making us privy to a private agreement between Cordence and the two tribes. It amounts to this. The Middians match our commitment and provide a total of two thousand mounted fighters, which Brock will lead himself. Cordence has agreed to pay for all expenses incurred.’ Wilchard smiled sardonically. ‘The sum involved was not disclosed.’
Edgar nodded. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. The Cordentines have managed to get on board without actually sending any troops. The Middian chiefs are making a profit out of it. So be it—the result is a substantial number of well-trained fighters. Wilchard, can you organise a final meeting with everyone present? We need to sort out logistics.’ Edgar smiled grimly at Ealdnoth and Wilchard. ‘The second army I will raise in the space of two weeks. And unlike the first, this one is going to see action.’
The vaulted ceiling of the throne room rose so high above them that Shira almost felt herself losing her balance when she looked upwards. At the top, it was finished with a gold dome, that could be seen from virtually anywhere in the fortress of Samir Durg. She turned her attention to the throne itself.
Situated in the centre of the room, the carved red crystal shone uninvitingly, drawing the eye nonetheless. Shira felt her feet move in that direction, alongside Arioc. Her eyes flickered on to the small, crumpled figure occupying the throne before she forced them to look at the second figure present, standing to one side. Siavash, High Priest of Ishari and fellow council member to Shira and Arioc, was wearing the hooded black cloak of his order. The Order of Diis was a powerful but secretive sect in Ishari. Shira knew little of their ways, but understood that they had a special relationship to Erkindrix, making Siavash a commanding figure. Even Arioc treated him with care.
Before she knew it, Shira and Arioc were standing before the throne. The fetid smell of decay assaulted her nostrils, and it was all she could do to stop herself from gagging. Someone had scented the throne, or Erkindrix himself, with a sweet, cloying perfume, but it did nothing to hide the smell.
Erkindrix was living in a dying body. It had been rotting away for years, kept alive only by his immense magical powers. It was clear to Shira, however, that even such magic could not hold back time forever.
Erkindrix turned to look at Shira full in the face. Shira now had to look back, without revealing her disgust. His flesh was not lined and wrinkly like the elderly she knew in Haskany. For the most part it was grey and waxy, but frequently interrupted by red and black sores. Shira could see a sore on his neck oozing with yellowish-green pus. This was unpleasant, but Shira had seen much worse after a battle.
The eyes, which looked at hers, were grey and watery, almost lifeless. But once Shira looked into those eyes, she could see the second pair of eyes, staring back. Like burning black coals, they fired alive once they realised that they had been seen.
Shira felt them boring into her, feasting on her, as her chest tightened. The black eyes would know everything about her.
Hard and bruising, they interrogated her. Her body, her private parts, her private thoughts—nothing could be hidden from them.
The eyes abruptly withdrew. Shira controlled a little convulsion. She wanted to scream out, turn around, and run. Now she could see more of the second face, moving and rippling beneath the pallid grey surface of Erkindrix’s skin.
Shira experienced what true fear was. A fear that no human could ever cause or recreate, deep and primeval, spirit-sapping. Shira’s being knew instinctively that this was a creature she should never have met.
But Shira stood still, looking at Erkindrix.
‘You have my congratulations, Shira,’ said Erkindrix, his voice stronger and harder than should have been possible when one saw his weak and crumpled form. He dribbled as he spoke, as if he had too much moisture in his mouth.
‘Thank you, My Lord,’ Shira responded. ‘Trevenza and Grienna are secure. We need to fortify our position on the Brasingian border.’
Erkindrix turned away, as if he had not heard her. He fixed his gaze on Arioc. Shira turned to look at Arioc and wondered at his ability to remain composed and nonchalant in front of such a sight.
‘You have not found King Mark.’
‘No,’ replied Arioc. ‘Persala is secure but Mark has not been found. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.’
‘Persala is not secure if King Mark is alive,’ retorted Erkindrix sharply.
Arioc said nothing.
‘Our enemies are becoming aware of our power and may try to unite against us,’ began Erkindrix. ‘The time for secrecy is now over. We must finish the process quickly. I have decided to move against our two greatest enemies simultaneously. Arioc, you will leave Persala and plan the destruction of the Grand Caladri. The magi of Ishari and one third of the Drobax will be at your disposal.’
Shira could not help but take a sharp intake of breath. The Grand Caladri were the greatest of their race, heirs of a civilisation which had stood in Dalriya for centuries, a place of great learning and magic. Erkindrix had dismissed them to oblivion in a sentence. Even Arioc showed surprise, his expression changing to pleasure as he considered the enormity of the task given him.
The leader of Ishari turned back to Shira herself.
‘Shira, you will continue south and occupy the Brasingian Empire.’
A thrill coursed down Shira’s body. What an honour! This was better than Persala. Persala had been an overripe fruit, easy to pluck. Its greatness was in the past. The Empire would be a different, far more worthy opponent. And in Persala she had been Arioc’s number two. This time Shira, a girl from Haskany, would be the one to bring the Empire to its knees.
She trembled again at the thought. This was too good!
‘You will command the Haskan army. I will al
so divert one third of the Drobax to your command.’
Shira reacted instantly. Her disgust at the thought of commanding those creatures prompting her to challenge the dread Erkindrix.
‘I don’t need the Drobax. They are not soldiers. I can take the Empire with the Haskan forces.’
‘You misunderstand me. The time for human warfare, for pitched battles and sieges—that time is over. This is Ishari’s war. You will use both the Haskans and the Drobax. The fall of the Empire must be quick, decisive, and inevitable. The humans’ defiance must be totally crushed.’
Shira nodded her acquiescence, not quite believing that she had dared to argue in the first place. Her excitement at the charge given her had been dulled slightly by the knowledge of how it would be done. One thing was certain, however.
The Brasingian Empire would fall.
XX
Secret Paths
Gyrmund’s excitement mounted as they left behind the last traces of human habitation and moved ever closer towards the alien lands of the Caladri.
It had been a tiring two days of travelling. On the first day Duke Ellard of Rotelegen had led them at a hard pace, northwards along the Great Road. He was a tough old boot of a soldier and had a clear schedule which he always kept to when travelling between Essenberg and Guslar. At midday they stopped at the town of Appen, where he had his own stables. He had enough spares to swap everyone’s mount before they headed off again. By the end of the day they had reached Herdorf, not far from Ellard’s duchy.
The next morning, they set off at the same pace, leaving Kelland for Rotelegen. To the west they could see the formidable, brooding presence of Burkhard Castle. As the castle retreated into the distance, they were met by a small group of Rotelegen soldiers, bearing weighty news for their duke.
The Haskan army had invaded Trevenza and Grienna and the vanguard was stationed on Ellard’s northern border. Given that the two provinces had recently been incorporated into the Empire, the two states were now at war. If the Haskans continued further south, Rotelegen was clearly the next target.
It was at this point that Ellard curtly made his farewell and his force galloped off at an even faster pace. The threat from Ishari and Haskany suddenly seemed very real to Gyrmund. Although he and the others went their separate way, Gyrmund at least felt that what they were doing was part of the same fight that Ellard was involved in.
Gyrmund took his group at a slower pace than the Duke had led them. There was no point pushing them to reach the land of the Blood Caladri that evening. It was better to give them one last night in a decent bed before stepping into the unknown.
They headed east, entering Luderia by midday. The roads turned into paths as they pushed into the sparsely populated northern part of the duchy. Gyrmund was familiar with this part of the Empire and knew it to be different from the farming regions of Barissia and Kelland. The Luderian Forest covered the land—miles upon miles of pine trees, inhabited by only a few woodsmen. To the east, the run-off from the Karnica mountain range had created wetlands. Here lived the Sparewaldi tribe, largely independent from the rest of the duchy. Gyrmund had spent half a year living with the tribe. They lived a good life from river and lake fishing and burned peat for fuel. The quiet, slow pace of life had done him good, and he still felt a sense of regret at having left.
It was evening when they reached the village of Guben. The White Boar Inn had been recommended by a couple of travellers as one of the last places big enough to sleep and feed them all with comfort.
The White Boar served a simple vegetable pottage with huge chunks of dark bread. They were so famished that they wolfed it all down. Gyrmund could see that Elana could barely stay awake long enough to eat. She went to bed immediately after the meal, as did Rabigar and Dirk. The others stayed up awhile to talk with the innkeeper and his guests.
It was only natural for them to ask Gyrmund and the others where they were going. When Herin confidently replied that they were headed to the Blood Caladri, a lively conversation followed, with much advice given.
The innkeeper seemed worried for them. ‘You’re not invited? If you’re not invited, you won’t be coming back. The Caladri don’t let strangers come and go in their lands—you must know that. They want to protect their secret paths, don’t they? To their cities.’
‘He’s right,’ joined in one of the regulars, who seemed to be glued to a stool at the bar. ‘There’s a few in these parts disappear each year. They get too far into the forest and aren’t heard of again.’
‘Some say they don’t kill ‘em. They just don’t let them leave. Have to live amongst the Caladri ‘til they die.’
‘Well, anyone who gets caught by the Caladri is plain stupid,’ said an old man, nestled by the fire. ‘They’ve got poles up in the forest, marking their territory. There’s writing on ‘em, in their own language sure enough, but the message is plain and simple. Don’t go any farther. If you go farther, you’re invading their territory. Shouldn’t expect to come back alive.’
‘Whose side are you taking, Trevor?’ countered an angry woman. ‘We want Duke Arne to show his face `round here with an army at his back. That would sort the Caladri out.’
‘You ignorant woman,’ responded Trevor. ‘We’ve had peace here for generations. It works because we respect them and leave them alone, and they do the same. You all know what happened to my brother. Now there was a stupid man. We was out hunting in the forest and he got himself too close to a boar. Nearly sliced him in two. I couldn’t move him. He was dying on me. Then three Caladri came along and dressed up his wounds. Used these special medicines on him. I seen them do it with my own eyes. They’re an old, wise people.’ The old man turned to face Gyrmund and the others. ‘They don’t need folk barging into their lands for no good reason.’
‘We’ve got good reasons,’ Gyrmund heard himself say, almost before he realised he was speaking. ‘You know that the Empire is under threat. We may need the help of the Caladri.’
‘Hmm…’ pondered the old man. ‘I can understand that. I just don’t see why they should stir themselves to help us out.’
Farred turned in the saddle to look behind him. Over a thousand mounted troops waited there. His army.
He had burst with pride when Prince Edgar had first asked him to lead the South Magnian troops. It was a sign of how close they had become since the attack on the Temple of Toric ten days ago. Edgar had turned down a number of other noblemen who had demanded the position. He had insisted on Farred being the right man for the job. The good relationship Farred had built with Cerdda was also important, given that troops from both countries would have to work together. His Middian heritage was another quality in his favour. It was the chance he had been waiting for, to rise above his position as a middling lord on the outskirts of the realm.
After a while, other thoughts had crept in to Farred’s thinking. His prince had given him a difficult mission. The Empire was in serious danger from Haskany and Ishari. Farred and his men would soon be in the middle of that. What would happen when Farred and his men reached the Empire? How would Emperor Baldwin treat them once they were there? There were uncertainties ahead. But there was doubtless action as well. And Farred was ready for it. He thought of Gyrmund, journeying around Dalriya on his adventures. Now it was his turn.
In recent hours he had enjoyed little time for further reflection. Farred wanted as large a proportion of the South Magnian troops to be as personally loyal to him as possible. He travelled to his homeland on the border between Magnia and the Midder Steppe. The fighting men from his own estate formed the nucleus of his force. He then recruited from his friends and neighbours, men who could be vouched for and who knew him. Edgar was offering excellent wages for recruits, but insisted that each supply their own mount, armour and weaponry. This reduced the pool of potential soldiers, but did ensure that only those with a decent level of training we
re likely to sign up.
When Farred returned to Bidcote, Edgar had also managed to raise around five hundred mounted soldiers. They were mostly young sons of noblemen, eager for glory. This made them naïve but well equipped and, in the main, well trained. This combined force was now ready to head north. Wilchard, Edgar’s steward, had ridden north immediately after the Southern Conference. He had been given the task of raising around another thousand soldiers. This was to be done by gathering the only permanent army in the kingdom: those men who were stationed as guards in the castles on the border with North Magnia. These men would be career soldiers, though perhaps, thought Farred, less than keen to leave their easy existence for the obvious dangers in the Empire. Since Edgar already paid their wages, however, they had to go where he asked. Cerdda of North Magnia was using his border soldiers for the same purpose, leaving both sides of the border undefended.
This would become the full contribution of troops from South Magnia. The Conference had agreed that all troops raised should be mounted, since it would be a long journey north. Farred would lead his force to the north-east corner of the kingdom. Here the forces of South and North Magnia and the Steppe would combine to make six thousand. Prince Cerdda’s own brother, Ashere, was leading the North Magnians, and Brock was leading the fighters from his tribe. It was hoped that Bastien of Morbaine could arrange safe passage for the force to travel through Guivergne on its way to Kelland. This would help them to avoid trouble from the rebellious Duke Emeric.
The moment to leave had arrived fast. Farred trotted forwards. Ahead, a scaffold had been erected. The flag of Magnia, the Sun in Glory, had been draped around it to create a kind of rostrum. It was an image rarely used in recent years, since it represented the whole of Magnia; neither Edgar nor Cerdda had been willing to use it very often. But Edgar had requested it for this occasion, since troops from both countries would be fighting together in one army.
Toric's Dagger: Book One of The Weapon Takers Saga Page 26
