So I contemplate my anomalous position, not quite a prisoner. Of course I could escape any time I want to. I also carry a transfer token, but wouldn’t need to put myself through that. I’ve consoled myself by spotting fields of retreat, brief as they are. But what would be the consequences? I’ve been shortsighted once. Twice would be inexcusable, especially as—
“—I sense Connar watching me.” Quill hesitated over writing that for such a long time the drop of ink on his pen had begun to dry out, and he heard footsteps in the hall beyond. In haste he folded the note, sent it, and chucked his writing supplies back into his bag.
The subject of Connar was still a sea of silence between him and Lineas, experiential instead of emotional. We parted. It was horrible. Horrible how? What were the consequences? Quill waited for her to choose when to break that silence, as far away in the royal city, she kept herself so busy she wouldn’t have to think about her wretched parting with Connar, or about what Quill said about how eager the prince was for this war.
A rapid series of sleet storms and one snow flurry crossed the kingdom, east to west.
In Tlen, when it abated, the cessation of bad weather brought the captains Connar had summoned. Each only arrived with a riding, their escorts left to ride the outer perimeter and arrest any random people poking around, no matter what their excuses.
“Quill!” Braids Senelaec hallooed across the busy courtyard, still sun-browned though the sun had been playing hide-and-seek for weeks. “You’re back up here again?”
“I never left—”
Quill’s voice was drowned by the clatter of new arrivals pushing in, this one bearing a huge crimson and gold eagle banner with pairs of silver chevrons in each corner: the First Lancers. And riding beneath it, Cabbage Gannan.
Quill looked away from those helms with the hair-trophy horsetails.
At the other side of the court, Connar watched with gut-churning disgust. He’d given specific orders not to be flying company banners as he didn’t want any Adrani spies putting the signs together of a captains’ war council. Of course they knew he was going to come for them, but let ‘em sweat wondering when, and how.
Cabbage Gannan had just finished a year of success in Stalgoreth, bolstered by Noddy’s enthusiasm. Not surprising, he very much liked being a jarl, even an interim one. In spite of that success, he found himself scanning the busy courtyard until he found Connar, standing there with Jethren.
Connar stood there with arms crossed and curled lip.
Cabbage’s confidence faltered into the old, gnawing doubt, which sparked the old resentment. At least Jethren would speak up for him, he reasoned—he and his three ridings from Olavayir had ridden with Cabbage’s First Lancers until late summer, in order to catch up with how the academy trained captains to do things. Keth Jethren was a hard rider, hard everything, but Cabbage had been justifiably confident about his own people. Ever since Lefty Poseid lost his brother to Yenvir the Skunk’s rabble, he’d made certain their training was tough.
So why would Connar give him that stink-eye? Oh. The banner. He’d forgotten to have it rolled up after he’d met up with Braids’ company, a reminder who was senior.
As Cabbage dismounted, he hurried into speech, “We rode down Stalgoreth, and people like seeing the banner. Knowing that it’s us and not Adranis, and we can’t just leave it lying about, right?”
Too loud, too exculpatory, followed by the guffaw that had grated on Connar since they were teens. But Cabbage Gannan was Noddy’s pet commander, and anyway, Connar reminded himself as the runners began efficiently dividing everyone off and showing them to quarters, Cabbage had a place in his plans.
“Come inside,” was all he said.
They were all there, looking at him expectantly.
Connar had hammered out his plan with Stick and Ghost. It was an old plan—based on his first academy success, though he hadn’t told anyone that, even Stick and Ghost. If they’d remembered, fine; that they hadn’t mentioned it underscored the fact that Connar had, unlike the two of them, had so few wins during his academy years that he still recollected every detail of both. No, make that three, really. Despite those stupid rules that no longer mattered, just as he’d foreseen.
But one thing he’d learned in countless wargames since was that there were actually very few actual plans that differed from the basics: you wanted to flank your enemy, and surprise him if you could. From there you just got infinite variations depending on terrain, numbers, skills, the limitations of captains, and so on, right down to the weather.
So it was with confidence that Connar waited until the two runners he’d appointed to handle the maps unrolled the big one. Then he said, “When the last snowstorm clears out, I want the Adranis to look off the walls of West Outpost....” He tapped the castle drawing at the Marlovan side of the southern pass. “And see our First Lancers lined up across the horizon.”
Cabbage exclaimed doubtfully, “What good can lances do against gates?”
“None,” Stick said, easily enough, and Connar tightened his jaw against the sarcastic rejoinder he’d wanted to speak. It wouldn’t do to sound like they were back in the academy digs. He’d let Stick handle Gannan.
Stick described the formidable castle and its defenses, accurately repeating everything Quill and Braids had observed, then said, “Gannan, you ran this ruse back in the academy. You and your lancers can charge any Adranis who try coming out the gates, otherwise ride back and forth making as much noise as possible. Threats. Taunts. Try a couple feints. Send fire arrows over, and the like. We want all their attention on you, thinking that you are our big attack.”
Gannan’s big mouth will be perfect for that, Connar had said to Stick and Ghost in private, and Ghost had wondered why that old grudge still lingered. In his experience, Gannan hadn’t been what he considered mouthy for years.
Stick flashed a mirthless grin. “Let the Adranis get a good look at those helmet trophies, so they know what’s coming. Lots of night noise. Don’t let them sleep.”
Connar then spoke. “Braids, Henad,” he addressed the skirmisher commanders standing against the side wall. “Hold the east until I return. Any strays wandering around, lock ‘em up until I come back. Any. Just last month we scooped up a Bar Regren cobbler. While I don’t think those Bar Regren are in the pay of the Adranis, I don’t trust them not to be. Let’s kill the question entirely by grabbing anyone even slightly suspicious. If my plan works, we’ll have the pass cleared, and Elsarion dead, by summer’s end.”
Cabbage Gannan—of course it would be he—said, “Where will you be?”
“Flanking ‘em. Once we hit them from the east side, you’ll actually come at the gate, so figure out a way to do that.”
Cabbage rubbed his big hand over his blond brows and up his high forehead as he said, “How are you getting there? Braids said on the ride in, that castle blocks this end of the pass from cliff to cliff. You can’t get up those cliffs unless you can fly. And even if you could, wouldn’t they pick you off with their arrows?”
“This is not to be shared beyond this room,” Connar said in a flat voice. “We’re going up over the mountains and coming down the back way.”
The effect on Cabbage, Braids, and Henad, was almost funny. Going over snow-covered mountains? Was that even possible?
Then Cabbage said, “How will we know when you’re there, if that castle is as large as you say? Will whirtler arrows even be heard above the noise?”
Stick laughed. “Oh, you’ll know.”
Connar smiled grimly. “I’m using Inda-Harskialdna’s first strike against the Venn: we’ll bring down the towers from the top of Skytalon. The old records claim that Inda-Harskialdna’s avalanche was felt halfway up the pass, and the dust visible in the air cloud-high. We figure, what’s possible in Andahi, which is much longer than the eastern pass, will be possible here.”
At the back of the room with the rest of the runners, Quill listened, appalled. That avalanche, started by the Marlov
an defenders desperate to block the Andahi Pass from the Venn invasion, had taken place while Inda-Harskialdna was far to the south. He’d known nothing about it at the time.
Quill wondered where Connar had managed to cull that piece of mis-information. Of course he hadn’t read the Fox record, and ever since Lorgi Idego had broken away from Marlovan Iasca, a lot of the old ballads in praise of those on the north shore were no longer sung, which argued that parts of century-old history were being forgotten, or elided into other events. But then, as Quill took in the reactions, he understood that it didn’t matter what the truth really was. The name Inda-Harskialdna had a powerful effect.
“Isn’t that impossible?” Braids asked doubtfully. “I mean, the whole reason why the pass is the only way over is because the mountains are impassable, right?”
“Impassable in winter. Difficult in spring. But not impossible. Our own royal runner scout did it, alone.” Connar opened his hand toward Quill, standing against the wall at the back. “Carrying his own supplies. If he can do it, we certainly can,” Connar said as the entirety of the room gazed at Quill and then back. “And Quill will be leading the way.”
Quill stared back, heart and mind flash-frozen to ice.
Connar went on to explain how he had shifted up reinforcements from East and Hesea Garrisons to stiffen Lindeth and Larkadhe against trouble from Idego, the Nob, or the mountains in between while the main of the Marlovan army was known to be in the east. Nobody had forgotten the Chalk Hills attack.
“So like I said, patrol the east.” Connar gestured to Braids and Henad, then swept his hand down the map from Stalgoreth to Nelkereth. “My cousin Tanrid will cover the west, with Lindeth and Larkadhe. I’ve sent a runner to assign Rat Noth to protect Ku Halir and the middle ground. Everyone’s orders are the same: any trouble, contain it. I’ll deal with them all when I get back.”
To Cabbage, “It’s up to you to figure out how to break past the horse killers and the rest of their outer defense. You have half the winter to work up some tactics. I’ll also have Ventdor ready his lancers to reinforce you; they can bring the battering ram.”
“So that’s why you saved it,” Cabbage exclaimed.
“I knew I’d find a use for it,” Connar said in that flat, goading voice Cabbage hated. That’s aimed at me, he thought, imagining Connar breaking down the gate at Stalgoreth.
Connar went on, “Remember. First thaw, I want you there on the horizon.”
Cabbage thought it best not to respond except with a salute.
To his chosen Winter Company, as they called themselves, Connar gave private orders. Ghost was to send parties to secure supplies, including mountain ponies, then get them to the rendezvous point by the beginning of Thirdmonth—mid-month at the latest—whence winter’s end could reasonably be expected. All this without catching the attention of any roaming Adrani spies.
Connar counted on Manther Yvanavayir, who now rode with Ghost, to be familiar with the territory. He’d know where to secure supplies without raising extra interest. Connar left it to Ghost to work that out with Manther, whose dead eyes and grief-tight mouth kept everyone at a respectful distance.
Kethedrend Jethren was put in charge of Winter Company’s weaponry, an order that took Stick and Ghost somewhat by surprise. They’d seen little of this newcomer, who had spent a few weeks at Ku Halir the year previous, where he and his three ridings of lancers had proven to be brutally effective at both defense and attack, but then heavy cavalry was traditionally the realm of Olavayirs, as well as Khanivayir and Gannan.
Connar had then sent Jethren off to train with Cabbage Gannan’s First Lancers for an entire season, not returning until recently.
Jethren was good, in short, but neither Stick nor Ghost understood why Connar chose to include him in what they had thought was an elite company, entrusted with the most dangerous part of the pass campaign. They discussed it in private—then decided what was there to say, except, “I guess we’ll see,” and of course, “It’s orders.”
Afterward Quill only remembered snatches of that day as, in the rising winds of impending winter, he went away to pour out his regrets in a letter to his father, written in Ancient Sartoran.
A restless night gave way to a bleak morning. Quill lay in bed organizing his thoughts. He could not change or avoid Connar’s orders, but he could try to see that everyone in the Winter Company survived them.
Before drill he went to the boot-maker to order a new pair of boots; the pair that had carried him over the mountains had worn so thin in the soles he could feel the smallest stones. They had also conformed to his feet so perfectly that they felt like knitted slippers. But that kind of worn comfort would not get him over the mountains a second time.
Next, as they warmed up for drill, he tried to advise his fellow runners on preparation. “Even though spring will be coming down here, the higher you go, the longer it takes to shake free of winter,” he said. “Heavy as it is, bring your winter gear, including all your socks. But first get rid of any with darning. The smallest knots will become torment.”
The words dried up when one of Jethren’s runners turned an expression of scornful disbelief his way.
Quill hesitated. He meant to be helpful, but perhaps he sounded like he was on the strut. So he finished, “If you have questions, let me know.”
He was barely out of hearing at the end of the session when a young, red-haired runner—no more than eighteen, when of course one knows everything—said loudly, “Knots in socks! What a rabbit! So it’s true, those royal runners really do sit around all day in castles, playing with scribe stuff?”
Quill paused, out of sight, but listening. He would soon have to travel with them, in increasingly dangerous surroundings. Best to understand them.
“Fish?” Stick Tyavayir’s first runner, a connection to the Faths, spoke up. “Everyone says it, but is it true?”
“They kicked me out before I got very far in their training,” came Fish’s flat, laconic voice. “But I say, don’t believe everything you hear.”
Jethren’s second runner spoke to the arrogant youngster in coastal Iascan, “Shut it, limp-biscuit. Not everyone gets our training. As for winter gear, I’m taking my heavy coat. Heard it never stops snowing on those heights.”
“Nobody told him to hand out orders about socks,” the young runner muttered in the same dialect. “He’s not the king’s runner.”
“Shut it.”
Quill walked away noiselessly. He’d never claimed to be one of Arrow’s runners, but he probably should have known how these runners, with their own hierarchy, would treat unasked-for advice from an outsider. It was stupid of him to try.
He made his way to the medic, a spare man of forty or so with graying hair. He listened closely to everything Quill had to say, then jerked his chin down as he grunted. “You might have told me before.”
“I didn’t know about the plan until we heard it yesterday,” Quill stated.
The medic grunted, eyes narrowing. “The commander didn’t discuss it with you?”
“Questions about specifics, yes. Nothing else. Yesterday was the first I heard of anyone going up Skytalon.”
Another grunt, in a different tone. But whatever the medic was thinking, he said only, “I’ll have to ride into Ku Halir.” The medic walked off.
A few days later, when his new boots were finished, Quill walked up and down the stairs ten times to break them in. The next day, twenty times.
By the time Ghost and Manther rode out, he was running up and down the stairs fifty times a day, after he found a secluded place to work through all the Fox drills, then do handstands with head-taps, lowering his head to touch the ground ten times then straightening his arms with a sword balanced on his feet in the air.
The only problem with regaining his strength was waking up in the mornings with saddle-wood, and an acute longing for Lineas. He worked the harder, but as he did, he let his mind range back through memories in an effort to bring her by his side:
when he did handstands, there she was as she’d been as a skinny teen learning handstands, making the other fledglings laugh as she rambled on about how she was pretending her feet pressed the sky, and all the world around her hung from invisible strings.
Traveling at night during the latter part of a wet, messy winter resulted in the Winter Company arriving at their rendezvous without having been seen by anyone on either side. It was a slow, nasty toil through slush and mud, bringing them a month after the rendezvous date.
Quill was assigned to Stick and Ghost, to be sent into small towns for news and fresh supplies, as nobody questioned the presence of itinerant royal runners. They were the last to arrive at the rendezvous, with their collection of laden horses and carts, sent away again once unloaded. They found the rest of the Winter Company in the valley adjacent a thundering waterfall full of snowmelt, drilling under Connar’s watchful eye, a string of mountain ponies peacefully cropping new grass.
At the sight of Stick and Ghost’s company riding up, Connar raised his fist and the combatants stepped back, weapon-hands dropping.
“You’re here. Excellent. Get the supplies distributed and loaded. Food and extra supplies on the ponies. We’ve been warned about overloading them. Each man carries his own personal gear. We have a target, to reach Skytalon and destroy the towers before the first resupply can get down the pass from the east. I’m certain their spring thaw began in their lowlands at the same time as ours. Stick, Ghost, over here.”
Stick and Ghost sloshed through the mud to report as Quill made his way to the runners, who absorbed him into unloading the carts and distributing the packs among the sturdy ponies.
A sense of urgency gripped them, radiating from their commander. Very soon the Winter Company started up the trail, Connar at the front setting a brisk pace and the runners leading the ponies.
Time of Daughters II Page 40