He and Zethul had been classmates at the university. The straightforward little man had been one of the few dwarves who’d attended. Dwarves were a relatively new people to Kartha. Almost two hundred years ago a colony had arrived from over the western ocean and settled into the one true mountain in the lowlands, Mount Cairen, a huge monolith of granite. They’d dwelled there ever since, hollowing out a home in the mountain and producing a number of unique ores from their smelters for trade and sale.
“There’s Vlan coming now. I think Meagera is with him.”
“Keep her away from me,” Zethul said. “I don’t care for mages.”
Cagle chuckled at the dwarf’s superstitions. “She can’t really turn you into a skunk, you know?”
“You’re sure about that?” Zethul gave him a sidelong look.
“Well, no, actually. I don’t know very much about mages.” The thought bothered him. If he didn’t know what Meagera and the other casters could do, how could he use them best in battle? He needed to sit down with her and learn what he could.
Of course, that means I’ll have to spend time with her.
Already Cagle found his time in short supply. Even inside Kartha’s borders the needs of the army demanded a great deal of attention. Problems he’d never considered cropped up on a daily basis. A multitude of tasks all nagged at him: supply and logistics, promotions and the chain of command, latrine assignments, drilling and training, care for the horses...the list was endless. Creighten, the bookkeeper who’d been assigned to the expedition, was a master at finding orders Cagle needed to sign. So far today the wiry little man hadn’t made an appearance, but that would certainly change.
I need to assign more to Felnasen; he can do more to help.
So far, Felnasen hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint about being passed over for command. Twenty years older, the man was the perfect professional. Cagle felt stumbling and inept around him.
Felnasen looked like a proper Karthan general. Between his steely gray eyes and the streaks of mature white framing the sides of his raven-black hair, he cut an imposing figure. Though starting his career off as a foot soldier, he rode well, tall in the saddle, back rod-straight, his red-and-brown trimmed uniform crisp and without so much as a smudge of dirt on it.
By contrast, Cagle’s own uniform, a dyed blue material with shining silver buttons and red stripes, chafed at his neck and wrists. As soon as King Geron and the Senate saw them off, he’d unfastened the cuffs and rolled them up to his wrists, then opened the top button around the neck. Though far from comfortable, he could at least breath that way. His own horsemanship was marginal at best. The devilish brown beast seemed to fight him at every turn.
Meagera rode up to them on a pony of pure white. She was a pleasant woman, always smiling and grandmotherly, though she often talked to herself. Were it not for her dress she could easily be mistaken for some farmer’s wife instead of a mage. She wore thick purple robes, and an assortment of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings each jangling as she moved. Most will be enchanted in some way or another, Cagle knew. She reined in and, though several decades his senior, doffed her hat, bowing to Cagle.
“General,” she said.
“Mistress Meagera,” Cagle nodded respectfully. “I am afraid this may be the last of our pleasant days. I’m glad to see you out of your wagon and making the most of it.”
“Yes, I believe we’re in for a bit of weather,” she smiled.
“Not too much, I hope. We need to get through the mountains before the pass snows shut.”
“We should be fine. Getting through won’t be a problem. I worry more about getting out.”
Walking beside her was Vlan, one of the sixteen Yoghens that had come with him. The Yoghens were a race of giants. Each stood taller than a house, almost twice as tall as Meagera even on her pony, but other than that they mostly resembled ordinary humans.
“Vlan, how are you and your men today?”
“We travel well,” Vlan said with a grin. “We are ready to see the snow.”
The Yoghens lived on the very southern tip of the Karthan peninsula among the sheer cliffs and caves. They’d been there longer than anyone could remember, and until the time of Welter Niall, Cagle’s grandfather, they’d lived in an isolated peace with the area’s humans.
That changed when Draka, their current leader and Vlan’s father, had sent a messenger to the Nialls, begging for help. A fever had ravaged their numbers, killing almost half their already small population. The survivors were all infected and would perish as well if nothing was done.
As a gesture of friendship, Welter had sent the lowlands’ best healers and mages to the Yoghens. The healers succeeded in saving the Yoghens, but at a terrible cost. In order to keep them alive and the disease at bay, the Yogs had to be fed raw magic by way of a mage’s spells almost daily. Continuing to this day, the effort cost the lowlands most of their spellcasters, but as repayment the Yoghens had pledged their finest warriors in service to the Nialls. Over the years, particularly during the Fleure invasions, they had proven powerful allies. In battle each of them was worth a hundred footmen.
“You’ll see all the snow you can imagine soon enough,” Cagle smiled up at him. “I’ll wager you’ll never want to see snow again by the time we’re through.”
Beneath his thick brows and heavy forehead, the Yog grinned. “I’ve been spending my time documenting our journey. I plan on composing a song for it.”
“Have you chosen a title yet?” Cagle asked.
“The March of Kartha. Though the title may change before we’re done. It’s easier once the song is written.”
“I’m sure you will have many verses before we return. Have your people ever traveled so far?”
“Not in many, many years,” Vlan’s deep voice rumbled. “Long before even my great-grandfather’s day, when my people were numbered amongst the stars. In those days we roamed the length of Kartha and your own kind hadn’t arrived yet.”
Cagle enjoyed talking with Vlan. Many believed the Yoghens to be a dull-witted people, thick and slow of thought. Cagle had never found that to be the case. To learn more about their ways, he’d spent a few summers living among them, climbing and exploring their caverns and cliffs. Vlan, of the same age if not size, had been assigned to watch over him, and they’d been fast friends ever since.
“How are you feeling?”
“We are well. Mistress Meagera is holding the hunger at bay.” Vlan nodded to the tiny woman.
“And how is the strain on the mages?” Cagle asked her. There were but twelve mages on the expedition; the gift of magic had never been common in Kartha, and most of those born with the talent in the lowlands were needed to preserve the Yoghens. The giants’ numbers were up in recent years, and Vlan’s generation was the largest since before the fever.
“The burden is not too great. We have quite a bit of strength to spare. Enough to turn a few of these dwarves into something more useful, for example.” She gave Zethul a steady look, and Cagle wondered how much she’d overheard.
Zethul’s eyes bulged.
That night they arrived at the base of the mountains, camping on the banks of a frigid mountain river. After the evening meal Cagle walked among the men—over fifteen thousand of his countrymen, each with his own thoughts and fears. He stopped at a few of their campfires, asking them how they were handling the travel, making sure they had the gear they needed, answering any questions as best he could, and reassuring them that all would be well.
The hopes of their nation traveled with these men. Together, they would decide the fate of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives. They could not afford to fail. He could not afford to fail.
He stared up at the peaks, wondering how high they’d have to climb during the crossing. The mountains shone blue as the snow reflected the full moon’s light. Fro
m the Yogs’ camp he heard bits of their song. Vlan was practicing some of the verses he’d composed. Meagera and her mages kept their own tents nearby, and he thought he heard the mage’s voice lift to join the singing.
Strange to think of a spellcaster singing.
Vlan and the little old woman made an odd pair, but Meagera had devoted her life to preserving the Yoghens. She’d told Cagle she had been there the day Vlan was born and had been nourishing him with her talents ever since. She was as close to him as his own parents, whom she also nourished. The mages who went to the cliffs were like that. Often they became attached to a group of families and met the needs of multiple generations.
Zethul and his dwarves were camped next to Cagle’s own tent. They too were singing—a stout song about cutting stone and shaping steel. Closing his eyes and listening, he could almost hear the ring of steel in the rhythm, feel the heat of the bellows.
“Commander,” a voice called from the night. A soldier approached, one of the camp’s sentries. He led an older man dressed in skins and heavy furs. Wrinkles lined the man’s craggy face, a testament to long years of outdoor living. The soldier carried the man’s knife and bow in one hand. “He claims he was to meet you here.”
“What is your name?” Cagle asked.
“Reeve, Reeve Stonesguard,” the old man said. “I’m to guide you through the mountains.”
“Tresam sent you?”
The man spat. “He did. Paid me well to do it. ‘Course I took the money in advance. Men like Tresam Dalrone can’t be trusted.”
Cagle nodded. It seemed even in his own lands Tresam wasn’t well-liked. He studied Reeve closer. The man wasn’t so old as he’d first appeared. His sandy hair was streaked with swaths of grey, but his skin was tan and coarse beyond his years. He looked fit.
“You’ve been over the route?”
“When I was a boy my father crossed often enough. He traded with several cities on the other side and took me with him once or twice. I’ve also hunted up and down the Jandas. I’ve haven’t been all the way through since the Iridin stopped trading, but I’ve seen the high pass often enough.”
“Give him back his weapons.” I don’t think he’s a threat, not here in the center of camp.
Reeve belted on his dagger. He placed the butt of the longbow on the ground, leaning on it.
“Why did trade stop?” Cagle raised a hand to forestall the hunter’s prevarications. “I already know the old vague speculations. I want to know what you think happened.”
“No one knows for sure,” Reeve said. He scratched the long whiskers along his jawline. “My father’s group was one of the last through. When we went back the next spring, the Iridin turned him away at the end of the pass. He tried twice afterward, as did others, but they never made it through.”
“Are there defenses at the other end? How did the Iridin keep the traders out?”
“A wall stretches end-to-end across the trail. Not a strong looking thing, but imposing enough to send a message to simple traders. I’ve seen it once long ago. I didn’t get close, though.”
“And what are they like? The Iridin?”
The man shrugged under his furs. “About the same as us. They live in cities quite a bit larger than ours. Most larger than LaBrogue.”
“Your father spoke their language?”
“They aren’t like the Fleure. They talk the same as we do, mostly.”
“Very well, thank you, Reeve. You can bed down as you please.” Cagle turned to face the guard. “Summon Vlan, Meagera, Felnasen, and Zethul to my tent. And let the sentries know Reeve is a member of the expedition, not an outsider. He may come and go as he pleases.”
Cagle watched the guard go and then addressed the hunter again. “I will look for you in the morning.”
Retreating to his tent, Cagle removed his traveling cloak. He laid it across an open wooden chest near the entrance flap. Oil lamps lay scattered around the inside for light. Cagle held his hands near a small glowing brazier, palms open, warming them over the orange coals.
Behind him the flap opened again. Meagera walked in the lead followed by huge Vlan, bent almost double, squeezing in around the fabric. The tent wasn’t large enough for him to stand, but there was a special cushion custom-made for him to rest on. Zethul trailed in after them. The dwarf sat opposite the pair, eyeing both with suspicion. Felnasen was the last to arrive, well-dressed in thick robes even without his uniform.
I’ll have to speak with Zethul about trusting Vlan and Meagera. We all want the same thing, and soon we’ll be surrounded by enemies on all sides. We can ill afford problems within. How would his father handle this?
“This is our last chance to meet before starting over the Jandas,” he began. “There are a few last things we should discuss. All four of you know why our journey is so urgent. Each of us have families back home. Each of us know the cost of failure.”
Cagle paused, clearing his throat.
“The hardest part of our journey begins tomorrow. There may be fighting ahead, but each of us have faced battle before.” He nodded to Zethul. “To some of us, battle is an old friend, even.”
Zethul nodded along; he raised a clay mug in salute. The dwarves had done much against the Fleure.
“The first thing I have to share with you is this.” Cagle removed a thin piece of oily leather from his pocket. He unfolded it into a map. “The king himself entrusted me with this to aid in our journey. It shows mostly Kartha, but here along the top border it reveals several cities and the terrain in Iridia. It doesn’t indicate much—we know that Iridia covers a large area—but it’s a start.”
Drawn by the map, all four edged closer.
“What are these markings?” Meagera asked.
“This town, Crow’s Bay, lies on the coast, and the marks indicate a deepwater port.” Cagle tapped the city with a fingertip. “That’s the first place I plan on going. If we’re to ship the supplies out by boat we’ll need to secure a port.”
“Captain Pal Turas and his men are ready,” Felnasen said in his drawling baritone.
“Good. If we can’t capture any ships without damaging them, Zethul and the dwarves will have to repair them.” Zethul nodded and Cagle went on. “I think we’ll include the captain in these gatherings from here forward.”
Creator knows I’ve tried talking to the man, but even Felnasen seems warm and friendly compared to the tall captain. Tomorrow, he needed to force the issue. He couldn’t afford a single man under his command who might undermine their efforts, much less two.
“Was that the guide we passed on the way here? The man in all those furs?” Vlan rumbled.
“It was,” Cagle said. “I’ll assign someone to watch him. Reeve is his name. He claims his father knew the trail and that he’s hunted all through the Jandas. Reeve seems trustworthy enough, but I don’t trust Tresam, especially when he sends us…help.”
“Pity this is even necessary. If the Esterians or some of the smaller seafarers could trade us enough grain, there would be no need for this invasion,” Meagera said.
We all think it, Cagle knew. No one is comfortable with this. She’s just the only one to say it. We’re lying to ourselves if we think this will end in any other way but blood. He’d much rather be home rebuilding his country than attacking another people.
“The Esterians have their own problems. They’re stuck in a morass with the Tyberon savages and now the Pyre Riders.”
“Whatever did they do to anger Hycropolis?” Meagera asked.
“I’ve no idea. According to the last trader we met, the Esterians have lost over half their fleet. But that isn’t our trouble. We’ve got plenty of our own. The Esterians can’t help us. Our own fleet can’t draw enough fish from the waters. This expedition is the only chance we have,” Cagle said. He still had difficulty
using the word invasion, even though he and everyone else knew full well that’s what they planned to do. Invade.
“Did your hunter, this Reeve, say anything of use?” Felnasen asked.
“He said the Iridin turned the traders away the last few trips. He said they’d built a wall at the trail’s end,” Cagle said, silently grateful for the shift in conversation back to the practical elements of the task ahead.
“I doubt it’s still manned,” Vlan said.
“I agree,” Felnasen added. “Manning defenses is costly and no traders have attempted to cross in decades.”
“Defended or not, we have to breach it,” Cagle said. “There’s no other way.”
“Are you going to try convincing the Iridin to trade with us?” Meagera asked.
“Yes. Both the king and father were in agreement on that. We are to seek trade first and to fight only if necessary. I won’t waste a drop of precious blood, ours or theirs, once we have what we need.”
Each of them nodded in agreement. Even Felnasen seemed to want to avoid bloodshed.
After his visitors left, Cagle summoned the two guards at his door.
“Creen, will you see if there’s any of that soup left? And please see where Reeve decided to bed down.”
“Of course, General.” The guard tapped his armored fist against his chest and then vanished.
Cagle waited until he departed and then addressed the remaining guard. “What do you think?”
The guard’s face shimmered, rippled, and then transitioned into Olinia’s. She threw herself down into a low chair to Cagle’s right. “Felnasen seems to be coming around. Father talked with him before we left. I don’t know what was said, but I’m sure it was for your benefit.”
Cagle knew well enough what his father had said. Felnasen is to support me more as a partner than a true second-in-command. I am to take his advice, but the ultimate decisions are still mine.
Sons of Plague: Tales of Kartha Book One Page 6
