She gave Hellsbane a little nudge, and the mare took her accustomed place, so used to it now that she didn’t even sigh. As the gates closed behind them, leaving the skeleton training staff and the new recruits deemed still too green to fight in this campaign, Kero settled comfortably into her saddle, and went over everything she had learned once more.
The one advantage they all had, and one Kero had never been able to count on before, was that all of Selenay’s knowledge of their enemy was actually fore-knowledge. Evidently some of these Heralds were able to actively, consistently, see the future. They knew when he would strike, and where.
Mostly. And at least for the next six moons or so. After that, according to Talia, they were seeing “different futures.” The Herald had tried to explain that to Kero, something about how what they did now to alter things would affect what had been seen and make different outcomes possible—it had all been too much for Kero. She’d always thought the future was like the past; a path that started somewhere and ended somewhere else, solid, immutable. It was disconcerting to hear otherwise. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of the future being so nebulous and fluid.
It was a pity that they couldn’t see what was happening now as well; it would have been useful to know where this army of Ancar’s was forming up. If Kero had known that, she could have arranged for a little exercise of the Skybolts’ other specialty, the one she didn’t talk about. A few careful assassinations, some sabotage, some meddling with supplies; that was what helped cut the Prophet campaign so short, and let us get her cornered. That, and the strikes from behind, ambushes, and traps until she had to find somewhere she considered safe to make a stand. If you can ruin your enemy’s morale, and make him think everyone and everything is after him, it doesn’t do your side any harm.... Oh, well, we’ll do what we can with what we have.
They had Guild blessing on this one, too, which was no bad thing. She’d checked with the Guild, as required, to find out if Ancar had hired on either Guild free-lancers or Companies, and had gotten a delightful surprise. Ancar had actually had the gall to chase the Guild out of his country and deny them access to Guild members still inside his borders. So as far as the Guild was concerned, it was no-holds-barred, and anything the Skybolts did to Ancar’s troops or on his side of the Border was all right with them.
That was really phenomenally stupid, she reflected. Not even Karse or Valdemar have ever thrown the Guild out. They may not be welcome, but they’re tolerated, because sooner or later, everyone comes to us. Even Valdemar.
She shook her head over Ancar’s foolishness.
But I’d better watch my strategy with him. A fool can kill you just as dead as a wise man, and is unpredictable enough to do so.
She saw something bright in the packs of the horse ahead of her, and recognized some of the paraphernalia strapped to the pack of the final horse in the train as an object belonging to Quenten, a remarkable leather-covered box he kept his books in, that had survived floods, fires, and even being struck by lightning.
That turned her thoughts toward her chief mage. He should be just about ready for Master-status, she thought. Maybe he can figure out my puzzle for me, why there are no mages in Valdemar.
For Talia had confided to Kerowyn, with an unmistakable tone of fear and bewilderment, that Ancar had mages in his employ. She’d looked at Kero as if she expected the Captain to challenge that statement, and had been even more bewildered when Kero had simply nodded.
Bewilderment was a pretty odd reaction to magic, especially when the Heralds had magic of their own—mind-magic that was, from all Kero had ever learned from Eldan, equal in strength and refinement to the powers of any Master of any school Kero had ever met. And probably there were those who were the equal of any Adept as well.
Then again, he didn’t seem to recognize real magic when he saw it, even when the Karsites were working it on us and calling it the hand of their god. And I think I remember that it was kind of hard even to talk to him about magic, as if I was saying one thing, but he was hearing something else.
The box swayed from side to side, hypnotically. Hellsbane had already gotten into her “march pace;” a steady, head-bowed walk, an easy motion to match.
Though not what I’d choose if I had a hangover or a twitchy stomach.... I wonder if magic doesn’t work inside Valdemar? I think Grandmother said something about that, once. But if that’s true, why is Ancar using mages against them? Unless it is true, but he either doesn’t know it, or has a way to counteract whatever it is.
Kero gave up speculation as a bad job, and turned her mind toward the immediate future. Instead of supplies, the quartermaster carried cash. Since they would be traveling through exclusively friendly territory and harvests had been good this year, they were going to buy every bit of food they needed, for horse and human alike, except for what they needed to get them over the mountains. That was going to keep them light enough to travel at a good speed, and ensure the locals were always happy to see them.
We should meet Daren and the army about halfway between Petras and the Valdemar border, she figured, making rough calculations in her head. And may the gods watch over them. Foot-slogging in winter is as bad as anything I can think of. I bet they’ll be glad we broke the trail for them. Let’s see; about a moon to the Valdemar border, then at least a fortnight to get across the mountains if I figure on bad weather all the way. Then another moon to get to the capital. Not bad. Better than any other Company I ever heard of, including the Sunhawks. Of course, without the cousins to help me with packhorse breeding, we’d be pulling wagons through this muck, and making the same kind of time as anybody else.
And I don’t even want to think about taking wagons over the mountains in the dead of winter.
Hellsbane’s eyes were half-closed; Kero suspected she was dozing. Although the road was churned-up muck, it wasn’t really too bad, since it was too warm for the stuff to freeze before the hooves of the tailmost horse went through it. Later though, it would be bad.
Let her doze, Kero thought, settling. This is the easy part. Anything from here on is gong to be worse.
Pray gods, not as bad as I fear.
Pray gods, the dreams don’t follow me....
Twenty-one
Snow swirled around Hellsbane’s hocks, as the wind made Kero’s feet ache with cold. Kerowyn huddled as much of herself inside her cloak as she could, and kept her face set in a reasonable approximation of a pleasant expression.
She would not dismount until her tent was set up. Her tent would not be set up until the rest of the camp was in order. The troops could look up from their own camp tasks at any time, and see her, still in the saddle, still out in the weather, for as long as it took for all of them to have their shelters put together.
Wonderful discoveries, these little dome-shaped, felt-lined tents. The wind just went around them; they never blew over, or collapsed, and instead of needing rigid tent-poles, you only needed to find a willow-grove, and cut eight of the flexible branches to thread through the eight channels sewn into the tents. You wouldn’t even damage the trees; willows actually responded well to being cut back, and the Company had passed groves they’d trimmed in the past, whose trees were more luxuriant than before they’d been cut.
The hard part, especially in midwinter, was pounding the eight tent stakes into the rock-hard ground to pin the tents in place. Without those eight stakes, the tents could and had blown away, like down puffs on the wind. That was what took time, lots of time, and each pair of troopers was sweating long before the stakes were secure.
And meanwhile, the Captain got to sit on her horse and look impressive, while in reality she wanted to thump every one of her troopers who looked up at her for taking even a half-breath to do so, forcing her to be out in the cold that much longer. She’d rather have been pounding stakes herself; she used to help with setup, before she realized that helping could be construed as a sign of favoritism. Then she set up her own tent, before her own orderlies told h
er in distress that it wasn’t “appropriate.”
So she sat, like a guardian-statue, turning into a giant icicle, a sodden pile of wet leather, or a well-broiled piece of jerky, as the season determined.
The sun just touched the horizon, glaring an angry red beneath the low-hanging clouds. No snow—yet. It was on the way; Kero knew snow-scent when she caught it.
A wonderful aroma of roasting meat wafted on the icy breeze, making her mouth water and her stomach growl. In that much, at least, being Captain had its privileges. When she finally could crawl down off Hellsbane’s back, her tent would be waiting, warmed by a clever charcoal brazier no larger than a dish, and her dinner would be sitting beside it. She sniffed again, and identified the scent as pork.
Good. The past three weeks it’s been mutton, and I’m beginning to dislike the sight of sheep. Then she had to smile; when she’d last been this far north, she’d have sold her soul for a slice of mutton. In fact, most merc Companies would be making do with what they’d brought in the way of dried meat, eked out with anything the scouts brought in. This business of buying fresh food every time they halted had its advantages. Given the opportunity of making twice an animal’s normal price, in midwinter when there was no possibility of other money coming in, most farmers and herders could manage to find an extra male, or a female past bearing. Just before they’d gotten into the Comb, in fact, they’d found a fellow with a herd of half-wild, woolly cattle who had been overjoyed to part with a pair of troublemaking beasts at the price the quartermaster had offered.
“Them’s mean ’uns,” he’d said laconically, as he delivered the hobbled, bellowing, head-tossing creatures to the cooks. The smile on his face when he accepted a slice of roast, and the tale her quartermaster told later of putting the cattle down, convinced her that they had done the man a favor.
The last tent went up, and Geyr, currently in charge of the crew digging the jakes, hove into view from the other side of the camp, and waved his hand. Kero sighed with relief, and dismounted.
Slowly. She was having a hard time feeling her feet. Hellsbane let out a tremendous sigh as Kero pulled her left foot out of the stirrup and the youngster assigned as the officer’s groom came trotting up with his mittened hands tucked up into his armpits. He took the reins shyly from Kero, and led the mare off to the picket lines at a fast walk.
Kero made her way toward her tent at a slow walk; first of all, it wouldn’t do for the troops to see the Captain scurrying for her tent like any green recruit on her first winter campaign. And second, she didn’t trust her footing when she couldn’t feel anything out of her feet but cold and pain.
The command tent was easily three times the size of the others, but that was because the troops’ tents only had to hold two fighters and their belongings. Hers had to hold the map-table, and take several people standing up inside it, besides. That was the disadvantage of the little dome-shaped tents, and the reason she had a separate packhorse for her own traditional tent.
Her orderly held the tent flap open just enough for her to squeeze inside without letting too much of the precious heat out. And the first thing she did, once in the privacy of her quarters, was peel her boots off and stick her half-frozen, white feet into the sheepskin slippers he’d left warming beside the brazier for her.
As life returned to her extremities, she thanked the gods that she had made it through another day on the march without losing something to frostbite.
“There has to be a way to keep your feet from turning into chunks of ice the moment the wind picks up,” she said crossly to her orderly. “It’s fine when there’s no wind; the horse keeps your feet warm enough—but once there’s a wind, you might as well be barefoot.”
Her orderly, a wiry little fellow from the very mountains they’d just crossed, frowned a little. “’Tis them boots, Cap’n,” he said solemnly. “ ’Tis nothin’ betwixt the foot an’ the wind but a thin bit’a leather. ’Tis not what we do.”
She took an experimental sip of the contents of her wooden mug. It was tea tonight, which was fine. She hadn’t had any more of those dreams of Eldan since crossing the Comb, which left her with mixed feelings, indeed, and wine was not what she wanted tonight, even mulled. She didn’t want to go all maudlin in her cups, mourning the loss of those illusionary lovemaking sessions.
Whatever was wrong with me is cured, she though resolutely. I should be thankful. I’m back to being myself. But—come to think of it, Need’s been as silent as a stone, she realized, with a moment of alarm. Nothing. Not even a “feel” at the back of my mind. She might just as well be ordinary metal!
Dear gods, what if she won’t Heal me anymore?
I’ll deal with it, that’s what. It’s too late to turn back now. Think about something else. “Enlighten me, Holard. What do your people do?”
“Sheepskin boots, Cap’n,” he replied promptly, “An’ wool socks, double pairs. Only trouble is, ’tis bulky, an’ has no heel. We don’t use stirrups, ye ken.”
She shook her head. “That won’t do, not for us. I guess I’ll just have to suffer—”
At that moment, the guard outside her tent knocked his dagger hilt against the pole supporting the door canopy, and let someone in with a swirl of snow.
Quenten, and Kero had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say the moment he came fully into the light from her lantern. He was haggard and nervous, two states she’d never seen Quenten in—and the mages had been conspicuous by their absence since they’d crossed the Comb. There was something up, and whatever it was, it was coming to her now because they couldn’t handle it themselves.
“Captain,” said Quenten, and his voice cracked on the second syllable. She waited for him to try again. “Captain,” he repeated, with a little more success this time. “We have a problem....”
Gods. Need, and now the mages?
“I’d already gathered that, Quenten, since you look like a day-old corpse, and I haven’t seen so much as a mage’s sleeve for a fortnight. Is it just you, or do all the mages look like you?”
“All of us,” Quenten replied unhappily. “We’d like permission to turn back, Captain. It isn’t you, or the Company, or the job. We think it’s Valdemar itself. There’s something strange going on here, and it’s driving us mad.”
He waited for a moment, obviously to see if she believed him. She just nodded. “Go on,” she told him, figuring she was about to have her little puzzle of mages and Valdemar solved, at least in part.
“I remembered what you told me, about how the Heralds seemed surprised by magic, and you never heard of a mage up in Valdemar. I thought maybe it was coincidence or something.” His hands twisted the hem of his sleeve nervously. “Well, it isn’t. The moment we got across the border, we all felt something.”
“What?” she asked, impatiently. “What is it? If there’s something around that’s costing me the use of my mages, I want to know about it.”
Quenten ground his teeth in frustration. “I don’t know,” he said, around a clenched jaw. “I really don’t know! It was like there was somebody watching us, all the time. At first, it was just an annoyance; we figured there was just some Talented youngling out there, thinking he could spy on us. But we never caught anybody, and after a while, it started getting on our nerves. It was like having somebody staring, staring right at you, all the time. It goes on day and night, waking and sleeping, and it’s like nothing any of us have ever seen or heard of before. We couldn’t get rid of it, we couldn’t shield against it, and its been getting worse every day. I can’t even sleep anymore. Please, Captain, give us permission to go back. We’ll wait for you at winter quarters.”
Now if it had been one of the others who asked that of her, with a nebulous story like that, she’d have suspected fakery, slacking, or at least exaggeration. But it was Quenten, as trustworthy as they came, and not prone to exaggerate anything. And he did look awful.
And if all this was true, even if she kept them, they wouldn’t do
her any good. You can’t take time to aim when you have to keep ducking, and that’s obviously the way they feel right now.
“Are the Healers being affected?” she asked anxiously. “Or is it only you?”
“The Healers are fine, Captain,” Quenten reported, with a certain hangdog expression, as if he felt he was somehow responsible for the mages being singled out.
Then with luck, Need will still be able to Heal me. And with none, she’s still a good sword. Besides, a sword probably wouldn’t care about being stared at. “All right,” she said unhappily. “You can go. You go back on noncombatant status, though, and we can’t spare anyone to get you back home.”
“That’s all right,” Quenten replied, nearly faint with relief. “Once we’re across the border we’ll be fine. Thank you, Captain. I think if I’d had to go two more days, I’d have killed someone. We’ve already had to restrain Arnod twice; he tried to run off into the snow last night with nothing on but a shirt.”
The Price Of Command v(bts-3 Page 9
