“Indeed, my lord.”
“Elsane believes that I will beggar Tar-Alem in this war, and that Sevairn or Navren will destroy us once we have spent our army against the Hoven-Thalar. Do you wonder that she has come to resent me?”
“But surely you are not leaving Tar-Alem defenseless?”
“Very nearly.”
Jermain frowned in surprise. “Then perhaps the lady’s fears are justified.”
“Yet what else can I do?” Carachel said, half to himself. “Should I let the nomads make a ruin of the southern kingdoms? And even if it were possible, how could I allow the Matholych to suck the life and the magic from every kingdom except Tar-Alem? That would be as bad as what my lady fears; even if so many deaths meant nothing, Tar-Alem depends on trade with the other six kingdoms. No, I have no choice.”
Jermain pressed his lips together to avoid a too hasty reply. From what he had seen, he doubted that Elsane’s reserve was due solely to a disagreement with her husband over the disposition of the army. Furthermore, he was certain Carachel was not telling him everything; but whatever stood between Carachel and Elsane, investigating it was certainly no part of his duties. Jermain cleared his throat.
“Just what does the Matholych do, my lord?” he said.
Carachel’s head came around abruptly. “Why do you ask?”
“If it follows the Hoven-Thalar closely, it is possible that it will have some influence on the way I command your army,” Jermain said, trying to keep his voice from becoming sarcastic. What seemed obvious to him might not be to Carachel; a wizard was not likely to have the same outlook as a warrior.
There was a long pause. “We can discuss it tomorrow,” Carachel said at last.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Carachel studied him a moment longer. “See Estrik about your quarters and a uniform, and come here tomorrow morning. Good eve to you.”
Jermain rose and bowed, then left the pavilion. A few questions to one of the soldiers produced directions to Estrik’s tent. Estrik proved to be a thin, black-haired man with the perpetually sour look common to every army quartermaster Jermain had ever seen. Jermain explained his business, and Estrik scowled.
“You want a uniform? I’ll have to take something from stores; there’s no time to make one, not if we’re moving tomorrow.”
“Whatever you have will be fine,” Jermain told him.
Estrik looked at him critically. “Hmmph. You’re Carachel’s new commander? You’ll want dark gray and gold, then. As if I kept officer’s uniforms just lying around. Bah! I knew Carachel was going to replace Suris, but he might have told me when.”
Still grumbling, Estrik turned and began rummaging among the stacks of bundles at the rear of the tent. After a moment he handed one of them to Jermain. “There. It’ll have to do you till we get to Barinash; I can’t possibly have one made before then, so don’t ask.”
“I won’t. What makes you think I’m replacing Suris?”
“Every man with a brain knows, which means about six in the whole camp. Suris is a good soldier, but he’s too stupid for King Carachel.” The quartermaster’s lip curled slightly. “So was the one before him. You won’t last, either.”
“Indeed.” Jermain’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Estrik smiled thinly. “You’re too smart. And I talk too much. I put up a tent for you in the corner when I saw you arrive with Carachel; I’ll show you where it is.”
Jermain spent the brief walk to the tent puzzling over Estrik’s cryptic statements. Some of the quartermaster’s ill-natured remarks could be attributed to the man’s obviously sour disposition, but Jermain knew better than to dismiss them all as one man’s bad temper. Tomorrow, thought Jermain, I will have to talk to some of the men, and find out what they think about Suris and Carachel. And me.
His reflections were cut short as they reached the tent. Jermain stifled a gesture of surprise and pleasure. His accommodations consisted of a relatively private tent furnished with a cot and a folding table: certainly more than he had expected, and far more than he had become accustomed to in recent months. Estrik provided him with blankets, towels, and wash water, then left him to himself.
As the tent flap closed behind his escort, Jermain sighed in relief and began stripping off his grimy clothing. He knew better than to expect a hot bath from an army camped in the field, but even the inadequate sponging he could manage with the washbasin would be welcome. The medallion Amberglas had given him swung against his chest as he turned toward the table. Jermain smiled, remembering the confusing, bewildering sorceress. His smile faded after a moment, and he frowned as he reached for the water pitcher.
Why hadn’t he mentioned Amberglas to Carachel? He had considered it several times during their journey to the army, but he had never quite been able to bring himself to do so. The three days he had spent at Amberglas’s tower were among the few pleasant memories that were unshadowed by his life in Sevairn, and he was unwilling to share them even with Carachel. Of course, the Wizard-King did not seem particularly interested in talking about other magicians; under the circumstances, that was quite understandable.
Jermain shrugged and picked up a towel. If an opportunity arose, perhaps he would say something to Carachel about the sorceress, but suddenly it did not really seem important. He finished drying himself, then wrapped one of the blankets around his shoulders and lay down on the cot. He fell asleep fingering the medallion and thinking of Amberglas.
Jermain had no chance to speak to Carachel the following day. The wizard was busy with preparations for the march; he sent Jermain a note expressing his regrets and canceling their appointment. Jermain was too busy to be either angry or concerned. Though the army did not actually begin to move that day, the preparations occupied the entire camp, and everyone who was able was pressed into service.
To his surprise, Jermain discovered that the officers seemed to expect him to direct the move. Apparently Carachel’s comments on their arrival were sufficient guarantee of his authority. Everyone from Estrik to Suris came to Jermain with their questions, and he dealt with them as best he could. By the following morning the army was ready at last, and soon a long column began moving slowly along the edge of the hills.
Jermain continued to wear Amberglas’s medallion under his tunic, though he could not have explained why he wore it or why he kept it hidden. It certainly was no longer of any use to him. Most of the time he did not even remember that he had it; he was too busy with the officers and the moving column of soldiers.
At the end of his second day with the army, Jermain felt almost comfortable in his role as commander. The men and the other commanders accepted him without comment or challenge, which served to impress him more with Carachel’s control of the soldiers than with his own ability to handle them. Evidently Carachel’s orders were thoroughly respected; if Carachel said Jermain was the commander, no one in the army would question Jermain’s right to command, not even in the small testings that were usually the lot of a new officer.
Carachel sent for Jermain as soon as the army had made camp. When Jermain presented himself at Carachel’s quarters, the Wizard-King was seated at a long table covered with maps and scrolls, frowning. Jermain waited for a moment, then said, “You sent for me, my lord?”
“Yes, of course,” Carachel said, looking up. “Come in and sit down. We have more to discuss than you may think.”
Jermain took a seat opposite Carachel and waited expectantly.
The wizard hesitated, then slid a large map out from under three smaller ones and spread it out in front of him. “We have a month and a half, perhaps two, before we will actually face the Hoven-Thalar, but I wish you to know my plans. This is the route we will take.”
Carachel’s forefinger traced a curving line from the eastern end of the Morlonian Hills into Barinash, and paused. “Here we meet King Urhelds’s army, if he has not changed his mind. I do not think he will.” The finger continued south into Gramwood, then west until it
paused again at the border between Mournwal and Gramwood. “The armies of Mournwal and Gramwood will meet us here. I expect Vircheta to send some troops as well. Once they arrive, we will have little to do except wait for the Hoven-Thalar. And the Matholych.”
“My lord, I am impressed. Combining the armies of five of the Seven Kingdoms is an accomplishment indeed.”
Carachel sighed. “I had hoped for all seven. But the King of Havren listens too closely to his wizards, and Sevairn refuses to listen to a wizard at all.”
“How did you persuade the others?”
“Mournwal and Gramwood know what they will face; they were glad to join me in return for a promise of aid. Vircheta, too, has a border close to the wastelands, and my brother rules there now. He was not unwilling to lend me some troops, once he was assured that I would be with the army.” Carachel’s smile was slightly twisted. “Barlistene has no objection to supporting a war that may remove his nearest possible rival for his throne, nor would he die of grief if the same stroke gave him the opportunity to become regent of Tar-Alem until my son comes of age.”
Jermain nodded. Mournwal stood between Vircheta and the Hoven-Thalar, but Mournwal was neither large nor strong. Vircheta’s king would hardly object to sending a few troops south on the chance of keeping the nomads from reaching his borders, and if he saw a chance that the war would rid him of a brother he disliked, so much the better. Jermain began to think Carachel was singularly unlucky in his family. “And Barinash?”
“The King of Barinash is ruled by his Chief Adviser, a man called Salentor Parel. I see you know him. I managed to . . . persuade Salentor to cooperate.”
“You asked Salentor for help? And he agreed?” Jermain was shocked. “My lord, Salentor Parel is only interested in ways of enhancing his own power, and he is not particular as to the means he uses. Whatever promises he made, you cannot trust him to keep them.”
“I know what he is, but I think the bribe I offered will be sufficient.”
“You know what he is, and you dealt with him anyway?”
Carachel’s face tightened. “I do what I must.”
“Must! I don’t believe it; surely there was some other way.”
“If I knew one, I would use it. But Barinash’s soldiers will be desperately needed when we face the Hoven-Thalar, and this was the only way to get them in time.” Carachel’s eyes caught Jermain’s and held them. “We will need every man we can find. If the same methods would win Sevairn’s support, or Navren’s, I would not hesitate to use them again. If you can neither understand nor accept, you may leave my service when you will.”
For a long moment, Jermain hesitated. He knew what the Hoven-Thalar would do to the southern kingdoms if they were allowed to move north, but he could not quite believe that the combined armies of Gramwood, Mournwal, Tar-Alem, and Vircheta would be insufficient to stop them.
“If it were only the Hoven-Thalar, I would not need Barinash so badly,” said Carachel, answering Jermain’s thoughts with uncanny accuracy. “Because if the Hoven-Thalar had simply decided to move north, some of the clans would undoubtedly prefer to remain in the wasteland. But this is not their choice; the Matholych is forcing them northward, and none of the clans will stay behind to face it. We will have to hold the entire strength of the Hoven-Thalar until I can defeat the Matholych.”
“Hold them!” Jermain frowned. “My lord, I know the Hoven-Thalar, and it will be nearly impossible to hold them. They can move more quickly than any army; if we don’t defeat them at our first meeting, they’ll simply circle us and go on.”
“We must hold them,” Carachel repeated firmly, “and with as little loss of life on both sides as possible. That is why I need someone of your skill.” He smiled. “You see, I am one of the few who know that you directed the men who threw back Barinash when they tried to invade Sevairn eight years ago.”
“I thank you for your confidence, my lord, but what you are seeking would take a miracle!”
“Not for a large-enough army and a skilled commander.”
The argument continued for some time. Jermain drew on all his knowledge of the Hoven-Thalar in his attempt to explain why it would be impossible to keep them penned in the area Carachel indicated, but Carachel refused to accept any change in his strategy. Finally Jermain left, taking with him several of the maps to study in more detail. In spite of his frustration, he had to admit to a grudging admiration for Carachel’s position; he had never before met any commander who expressed the slightest concern for the lives of an enemy army.
Jermain spent much of the night studying the maps and returned to Carachel at the end of the next day’s march with a proposal of his own. A little to the southeast of the battleground Carachel had chosen, the River Clemmar passed through the Hills of Starglen, forming a natural barrier. If the Hoven-Thalar could be driven toward the hills, it might be possible to hold them as Carachel wished.
Carachel studied the plan only briefly, then shook his head. Jermain argued in vain. At first, Carachel refused even to explain why the plan was unacceptable, but at last he sighed and said, “It is too far south.”
“My lord,” Jermain said, clinging firmly to the last shreds of his patience, “I thought you would find that an advantage. The Hoven-Thalar would not come nearly as far into Gramwood and Mournwal before we engage them.”
“That is precisely the problem. We must meet them as close to the Sevairn border as we can, or we shall defeat the Hoven-Thalar only to lose against the Matholych.”
“I am afraid I do not understand, my lord.”
Carachel sighed. “The Matholych draws life and magic out of the land it passes over, and leaves behind a barren waste. Life can return to the land, in time, but to replenish magic takes far longer. The last time the Matholych came north—”
“The last time? This has happened before?”
“Several times. Each time it returns, it is stronger, and it moves deeper into the Seven Kingdoms. The last time was several centuries ago, and it came nearly to the northern border of Sevairn. That is why Sevairn and the two southern kingdoms have so little use for magic; magic has less power where the Matholych has passed.”
“I thought you said no one knew about this thing, but if it has come north before . . .”
“Do not your histories speak of an invasion of the Hoven-Thalar, one that destroyed Gramwood, Mournwal, and much of Sevairn? The Matholych was more to blame than the nomads for that destruction.”
Jermain nodded. He recognized the tale of the invasion; it was one that had come forcibly to mind when he first learned that the Hoven-Thalar planned to move north soon. The story made no mention of anything like the Matholych, however. “How did you learn of it, my lord?”
“Of the Matholych?” Carachel hesitated. “Some I learned before the Guild cast me out, but most of what I know has come from the library of Tar-Alem. There were a few wizards at the time of the last invasion who kept their records there, rather than at the Guild.”
“With your permission, my lord, I would like to examine those records; they may contain information I will need.”
This time Carachel’s hesitation was even more marked. “I have only a few of them with me,” he said at last, “and it will take me some time to sort them out of this confusion. I will send them to you tomorrow.”
Jermain nodded again, wondering a little at Carachel’s obvious reluctance. The conversation turned back to determining an acceptable strategy for facing the Hoven-Thalar, and soon after Jermain left. No progress had been made, and Jermain found himself wondering whether any could be. Whatever his reasons, Carachel was obviously determined to allow his army to kill as few of the nomads as possible.
The scrolls were delivered the next day, four stained and ancient documents describing in obscure language the coming of the Matholych. Jermain studied them with interest. Apparently the Matholych grew weaker as it came farther north; the records noted it repeatedly, but gave no clue as to why. The scrolls contained no phys
ical description of the monster, but they were eloquent indeed on the subject of its power. Jermain began to wonder how big the Matholych was, and how far its power extended. Something that could suck three kingdoms nearly dry of magic for hundreds of years . . .
Abruptly, Jermain set down the scroll he was reading and spread out one of his maps. He looked at it for a long moment, then began carefully going through the scroll, noting the places it mentioned as having been destroyed by the Matholych, along with the dates of their destruction. When he finished, he did the same for the other records Carachel had given him. He sat back and looked at the map.
He saw the pattern at once, a giant wedge forced into the middle of the Seven Kingdoms. There were a series of circles in northern Mournwal and another series in Gramwood, slanting upward through Sevairn almost to the Morlonian Hills. The northern most point of the pattern of destruction was directly north of the site Carachel had chosen for the battle. Jermain traced the line absently, noting with a twinge of apprehension that Leshiya lay almost exactly halfway between the battleground and the edge of the Matholych’s destruction.
Shaking his head, he turned back to his study of the scrolls. The Matholych, after all, was Carachel’s to deal with; a human army could do nothing, unless it were an army of wizards. He put the thought out of his mind, and began searching for references to the Hoven-Thalar.
When Jermain finally finished with the four scrolls, he thought he understood Carachel’s insistence on the location of the battlefield, and he was more than a little apprehensive. In the last invasion, the path of the Hoven-Thalar followed a straight line north from the wasteland, but the path of the Matholych moved forward more like a wave, surging up on either side of the nomads’ trail. The Matholych, if it was a single being, must be enormous; villages in western Mournwal and northern Gramwood had been destroyed at virtually the same time. Or perhaps it was not impossibly large, but simply was not limited by distance. Jermain remembered Carachel’s spell of traveling, and shivered.
The Seven Towers Page 10
