The smoldering red sliver of sun sank below the western hills as he dismounted at the picket line, where he recognized tall, pale-eyed Fish leaning against a supply wagon, one heel propped on a wheel spoke. As runners took charge of Quill’s horse, Fish straightened up, his face entirely in shadow. “He’s waiting.”
Quill knew that word would have gone ahead, but he’d expected to be shunted off somewhere until Connar had time for him. He hefted his gear bag over his shoulder and followed Fish through an orderly tent city. The clammy late-autumn air carried the cadenced clash of blades and shouted orders from somewhere out of sight as they approached a clearing surrounded by tents, in which a circle of men sat around a fire talking as they shared a meal.
Connar sat cross-legged among them, eating from one of the shallow wooden bowls Marlovans had carried for generations while in the field. Runners came and went, bringing more food and drink.
At Quill’s approach, Connar looked up, and the rest fell quiet. Quill was peripherally aware of sharp, eager glances, as if they were all waiting. Connar took in Quill’s thin, even gaunt figure, not without a spurt of contempt. This was what he’d once found attractive? Done in after wandering around a mountain, then a ride across the plain?
“Quill, here at last,” Connar said, on a suppressed laugh.
It always surprised Quill how warm, even musical Connar’s voice was, though he could not recollect ever hearing him sing. “You must be thirsty.” Connar flicked a glance at Fish, who walked away into the fast-gathering darkness. “Your report?”
Quill took up a recitation stance before him, feet planted, hands clasped behind his back. Remembering his near blunder with Braids Senelaec, he had thought out how to begin his report. “The Adranis were so watchful that I figured it was better to get over the pass by trails and start down it from the east end.” Sure enough, no one evinced any interest in how he got to the eastern end of the pass. Connar waited, his expression intent as firelight beat over his face.
Quill went on to what they wanted to hear. “I discovered that the Adranis search every person coming up from the west. Anyone the least suspicious gets clapped into prison. Elsarion is understood to interview them personally.”
Someone spat, and Connar gave a soft laugh. “Exactly what we do with anyone coming down from the east at our end. Henad Tlennen and Braids Senelaec have been sorting through them, and sending the suspicious ones to the lockup at Ku Halir.”
“I was swept up by one of Braids’ patrols on my return.” Quill resettled his stance, aware that he still hadn’t completely recovered; he wished he could sit down. “I had to spend the entire winter hiding in a cave at the top Mt. Skytalon. Nothing living survives caught out in those storms. But once winter abated I was able to map the two higher outposts—towers, really, built on platforms—from which the Adranis can see the entirety of the pass in either direction. Eventually I got down to the fortress at our end. I was able to get an approximate head count of the guards. I also scouted most of the defenses, except I could not get past the outer wall facing the western plains.”
“Never mind the outer wall.” Connar waved a hand. “We’ve had steady reports from Braids and Henad on what’s there. What I want is what lies beyond that wall.”
“The first thing you’ll encounter,” Quill said, “are horse killers that can be winched up in an instant.”
He paused at mutters and curses around them. Connar said, “Go on.”
Quill did. At length, starting with the fortified castle at the eastern end of the Pass leading into Anaeran-Adrani, to the daunting height of the platform-towers at either end of Mt. Skytalon. He enumerated the traps and troops that guarded the narrow access roads, also under view from the towers, then moved to the western outpost castle and its formidable defenses aimed westward.
The men listened in silence, until he finished up, “I’ve written out a report, as ordered.” He moved at last, to slip his bag off his shoulder. “I made a map, marking all the traps and defenses that I found. I mapped everything, in fact. I cannot promise I got all the traps—and they might be building more as we speak.” He paused, sweeping his gaze around the firelit faces. “In summary, they expect to be attacked from the west.”
“Of course they do,” Connar sat, sitting back on his mat, hands on his knees, elbows out. His teeth showed in a broad smile. “We won’t disappoint them.”
Quill stared back, clenching his jaw against exclaiming Didn’t you hear what I just said?
But even years of training couldn’t suppress the flash of incredulity widening his eyes. Not everyone saw it, but most of them were not watching him as closely as was Connar, whose eyes narrowed.
Quill wasn’t sure how, but he knew he’d blundered. His expression smoothed into royal runner neutrality. He passed his hand over his face, and then tried again, from a different angle. “I’m not trained to think in terms of military strategy, but I have been taught to evaluate cost. I believe it would cost us least, and be most practical, to stiffen our defense of the west end of that pass. There is no chance Thias Elsarion can ever bring an army down either pass to surprise us again. The cost, right now, is entirely on the Adranis. Building, and maintaining, and supplying those castles in the southern pass would drain even a king’s treasury. He has four castles to maintain, in terrain impossible to cultivate for growing food. We can defeat them just by waiting.”
He stopped before uttering the words Whereas there is nothing to be gained by riding over the pass into Adrani territory—unless you plan to hold it. That might be construed as strategic advice, and while the king might, no, would, ask about that, as had been his habit according to Camerend, there was no indication in Connar’s ready posture or his bright, cold, anticipatory gaze, that he desired to hear advice.
As if reading Quill’s mind—or rather his unhidden dismay—Connar said, mildly enough, “I swore before the jarls at Convocation that I’d get justice for Tlen and Halivayir, and Yvanavayir, all the way to Elsarion. They hailed it, to a man.”
Quill opened his hands, and tried a third angle. “If we take the southern pass, we can’t even hold that. And then the cost becomes ours. Elsarion can’t hold it indefinitely, unless he’s richer than kings. Every bite has to be dragged from a distance. Winter, especially at the top, is nearly unendurable, and the summers at least at the western end have no water.”
Connar said gently, “But you endured it, am I right?”
Their gazes met, Connar’s bland, but there was nothing bland in the tightness through his shoulders, the fists resting on his knees. His smile.
The pause lengthened into a silence. He expected an answer.
“Yes. I did,” Quill said.
Connar replied, in that warm, light voice, “If you can, so can we.” He glanced around at the waiting faces as he said more strongly, “We don’t have to hold it.” His voice rose, challenging, compelling. “We just take the battle right back to Elsarion, until he’s dead at my feet. Problem solved.”
“Yip-yip-yip!” a man shrieked, joined by everyone there, an eerie sound rising to the sky.
Quill’s thoughts stuttered to a standstill before a profound sense of failure. A quiet step at his side. Fish silently held out a flask filled with spring water.
Quill drank it down, then Connar said, “Come. Let’s see that report. There’s a map, you said?”
“Yes.” Quill’s voice was barely above a whisper. Again he passed a hand over his face. He was too tired. He should have taken Braids’ advice and holed up another week. After more than a year, what was another week? But he’d felt the pressure to....
A mental shake. All right, he’d failed here. But Connar was not the king. As Quill handed the map and report to the prince, he reflected that once Connar had read it, it was right and proper to ride to the royal city and report to the king—who had backed down from dealing with the pass some ten years ago, when it wasn’t nearly as reinforced, for much the same practical reasons, once Camerend had laid the
m out. The queen would be also there. She, more than anyone, understood costs. Together, the royal couple would be as prudent as they’d been since Quill was a boy.
“Fish is bringing you something to eat,” Connar said. “Help yourself, while I read this.” A lift of his hand, releasing Quill.
Fish appeared at Quill’s shoulder with a plate of rice balls with grilled trout and snap peas. Quill took it with a word of thanks, sank down onto a boulder outside the circle, and began to eat mechanically as Connar’s gaze rapidly took in the report, shifted to the map, then back to the report.
Quill had finished the meal and surrendered the plate to Fish again when Connar finally glanced up. “This is far better than what we’d had previously. Far better than I’d hoped. Talk to me about these traps.”
Was he changing his mind? “Most of them are shored up rock fall that can be loosed with the release of a chain or a rope. There are covered holes, sharpened sticks, and the like. These two outposts here don’t need such defenses as they are both built on high cliffs, with complete views of the pass in both directions.”
“Yet they must have an approach.”
“Yes. Both have a narrow approach, well-guarded, infested with traps, and completely under the sight of the towers.”
“And yet you got around them in order to make these maps.”
“Yes. There are what might be called goat trails up there, possibly what the morvende used, or use, as the histories insist there are morvende geliaths in those mountains.”
“Geliaths?” Connar repeated.
“It’s what they call their cavern cities. I found a grotto, which is how I survived the winter. It gives out onto a trail higher up the mountain than either of these towers.”
“Ahhhhh.” Connar’s smile widened.
This was not changing his mind. Quill wiped his hand over his face, schooling his voice. “You can’t imagine how cold it is up there. How perilous. Even in summer there are snowstorms. Two could rarely walk abreast. Horses would never survive up there. The mountain ponies don’t go above the tree line.”
“But you walked it.”
“I—yes. To prove to myself that there is no access for an army.”
“Armies,” Connar said, still with that little smile of anticipation, “move one man at a time. We learned that up north, when Elsarion first began slipping that army over here. So there is a way into the mountains besides the pass. And access to the two highest outposts. Now, about this big one here at the western end—our end—of the pass.”
“Guarded with at least a thousand trained warriors, not counting staff. Who can all be coopted to fight,” Quill stated. “Judging by complaining I overheard, they have to drill on top of their regular work.”
“If,” Connar said, “the eastern side were to be blocked at the top of the pass—those two high outposts taken—West Outpost could be besieged, right? As you just pointed out, those castles have to be maintained and supplied. If we cut off the supplies from the east end, the west end would starve, correct?”
“Well, they do have magic transport Destinations,” Quill said. “So some stuff could be brought in. But not enough for a thousand.”
“That’s right.” Connar sat back, arms crossed. “You’re one of the ones who goes around putting the magic on our bridges and barrels and baths. But we don’t have these, what do you call them, Destinations?”
“No. Those of us taught the renewal spells are taught about the concept,” Quill said picking each word carefully. He was on dangerous ground here—and already he had blundered. “But historically Marlovan kings never trusted magic, or mages, which is why they didn’t want a mage school for more advanced magic.”
“I remember being told that,” Connar said. “Go on.”
“Magic transfer is painful, dangerous, and you can only go one at a time. Two doubles the pain and danger. You can’t transfer a horse, for example. The larger the object, living or non, the more the air, or whatever it is that exists between the two transfer Destinations...oh, say it burns up, for lack of a better expression. There are very few places in the world, we are taught, where it is safe to send goods, especially a string of them. These are well known, well-guarded, and none of them are anywhere near the mountain passes here. These outpost transfer Destinations will burn up if overused. So, to get back to your question, a siege is possible if you cut off supplies from the east.”
Connar leaned forward. “You didn’t mention what other magic they teach you. Can you use it for war?”
Quill flattened his hand, palm down, in negation. “Purifying magic buckets and barrels has never been effective for fighting.”
Connar’s smile flashed to a grin, then he said, “I need to read this report again, more closely. Fish, find somewhere for Quill to rest.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather get started on my journey back to the royal city. I’ve been gone a year. I’d as soon not keep the king waiting any longer.”
“I’ll send your report along with mine,” Connar said. “You can ride with us, in case there are further questions.”
Quill tried to find words to insist, to object, as his gaze shifted away—but not before catching on the three gold chevrons glinting on Connar’s sleeve below his shoulder pauldrons. Reminders that, next to the king, he held absolute command. And though his words had been spoken in that mild voice, with a semblance of suggestion, they were, in fact an order.
Another brief pause that began to lengthen as Connar watched Quill process that, then Quill rose and followed Fish’s long back.
Connar watched that gaunt, hollow-cheeked face turn away, his thin form shuffling in those shabby boots. Pity, measured with scorn, washed through him: the royal runners were good at what they did, but they obviously had not been tempered the way warriors were.
He summoned another runner with a glance. “Summon Braids Senelaec, and Henad Tlennen. Yes, and Gannan up at Stalgoreth. They’re to meet me at Ku Halir...no. Somewhere we can control every person in and out. We’ll meet at Tlen by New Year’s Firstday.”
The runner saluted and ran off, as Connar beckoned to Stick Tyavayir. “Send someone fast to fetch Ghost from Ku Halir. He’ll want to be in on the fun,” he said.
Stick laughed with anticipation.
Quill woke to the clash of steel. Alarm shot through him for a few frantic heartbeats until he registered that the clangs and clashes were too cadenced for battle.
He lay back and closed his eyes...and when he woke next, Fish thrust aside the tent flap, letting in humid air as he said, “Breakfast by the command tent. We’re riding out directly after.”
Quill jerked upright. “My report.” His voice was hoarse. He coughed, and said, “I need to take it to the royal city.”
Fish’s expression didn’t change. “Cheese Fath rode out with it at sunrise.” He let the flap fall and his footsteps crunched away before Quill could speak.
Not that he needed to. Relief breathed through Quill. He remembered Cheese Fath as a military runner. They prided themselves on their speed. They and the royal runners were always comparing grass run times with one another. Surely commander in chief to king would be another grass run, and the royal city was not that far off. Any orders from the king to Connar would rate another grass run, and winter was coming on. Nothing would happen over winter. There was still plenty of time to halt a useless war before it began.
Though physically Quill still felt as if his body were encased in rock, his spirits lifted as he perched on a rock, a single figure in blue amid a sea of busy gray coats as the camp began breaking up, horses saddled, gear loaded. Weapons strapped on.
The crimson and gold eagle banner rose, limp in the still-humid air, and they began the southward ride. Quill found himself in the center of the formation; with a faint gleam of bleak humor he wondered why Fish rode behind instead of beside him, perhaps in case he fell off his horse.
Up in front, Connar—having sat up nearly until dawn writing—blinked as the sun glanced shards
of light off rain pools before shattering into thousands of glints as the outriders’ horses splashed through. He had to have a plan within a month, and to put it into effect before spring. It was clear from Quill’s report that Elsarion was definitely coming, and the longer they gave him to prepare, the harder it would be to defeat him in rough territory like mountains.
Elation sang in his blood.
Two brief storms swept overhead as they skirted the lake, the sky and the water mirror images of gray, with shifting sheets of rain obscuring the hills above Ku Halir. Quill was nodding in the saddle by the end of that first day’s ride. He slept as soon as he ate. They rode at the first lift of dawn’s light, establishing a pattern.
Connar never spoke to Quill on that ride. He was an occasionally glimpsed figure, riding at the front before the banners, or surrounded by his captains at the campfire, or at the center of the fighting drills that they stopped for at noon so that the runners could fix a meal and water the animals. The knife drills, Quill noted with that weird detachment, were the old Marlovan single knife drills, mainly there to work the arm not carrying a sword. But the double-stick drills were Great-father Fox’s improvements.
By the time they reached Tlen, after riding through a series of spectacular late-autumn storms as winter began to conquer the last currents of warm air out of the west, Quill’s mind was shifting in and out of that feverish borderland of reverie and dream.
When they reached Tlen, Quill went to the lazaretto, chose a bunk, and slept straight through a night and a day, rousing long enough to drink water from the jug he found by his bedside.
He woke to noise in the courtyard below. He sat up, coughing; there was a faint but persistent stink of burned wood in the ambient air, though when he looked around he perceived the other simple beds were all new wood. Smoke must have permeated the stone when Yenvir’s rabble put the place to the torch.
Quill pulled on his grimy travel clothes, shoved his stockinged feet into his ruined boots, and got up, sitting down again as his head spun. That, he knew, would vanish as soon as he ate.
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