The Wound of the World

by Edward W. Robertson

  It was another pleasant, sunny day, but Boggs looked ready to punch someone. "Our envoys are back."

  Dante grabbed a seat next to Blays. "Both of them?"

  "Don't take it for a good omen. Parth and the Strip are both spinnin' the same story: can't help us."

  Blays blinked. "Neither one has any extra food? Was there a series of plagues that everyone forgot to tell us about?"

  "They know this is about Mallon," Boggs said. "They also know that whenever they've helped us in the past, we've gone on to lose the war. And Mallon's gone on to make them pay."

  The Keeper rubbed her bony knuckles. "They are wise to fear. During the Third Scour, when it looked as though we would finally break our chains, Parth sent spearmen to our aid. After Collen fell, Mallish pillagers marched through fifty miles of Parthian towns before they'd had their fill."

  Dante leaned his elbows on the table. "I presume our envoys spoke to their official leadership. What about the black market?"

  "Our people looked into that. Not worth the cost in coin or in political capital. We try to run an end-around on their decrees by stuffing the purses of their criminal element, and they're apt to shun us completely—or even join the other side."

  "Making an enemy is worse than starving to death?"

  "That pits us against Mallish swords, Parthian spears, and Alebolgian bows. We wouldn't live long enough to starve."

  Blays swore. "Why don't we relocate Collen to the middle of Parth? Then they'd have to feed us and protect us."

  "Is there anyone else we can go to?" Dante said.

  Boggs pulled a face. "It's Mallon to the west, mountains to the east, and assholes to the south."

  "That leaves the north!" Cord motioned across the plains. "What about Narashtovik?"

  Dante made a series of calculations. "Wagons wouldn't make it. Both the Riverway and Hollus Pass are in Mallish territory."

  "What about boats?"

  "You want to send boats around the continent during the winter storms? I thought the idea was to get food to Collen, not the bottom of the sea."

  Blays got to his feet, pacing around the balcony. "We can't ship it in from afar. We can't buy it from a-near. We can't grow enough on our own. What else do we do? Send everyone out to dig for beetles? Beseech the gods for a rain of bread?"

  "We could send Naran back to the Plagued Islands. If we could convince a few Harvesters to come help us, it could be enough."

  "There's an idea. Assuming that the Kandeans are willing to send their sorcerers to a distant land for no reason, and that Naran's crew is willing to pretend the seas aren't full of winter typhoons."

  Dante shook his head. "Is that really the best we've got?"

  "We could always go to Mallon for help. Maybe they'll be sporting about it." Blays drew back his head. "Wait, why don't we do that?"

  "Well, first of all, because they'll kill us."

  "That fort you saw in Londren Forest. You said it's huge, but there's hardly anyone there. Suppose they've kept it stocked?"

  "I don't know," Dante said. "But I know how to find out."

  Two days later, the Hand and a small contingent of soldiers and scouts came to a stop in the eastern fringes of the Londren. Technically, they were within Collen's borders, but Dante doubted if Mallon recognized those any longer.

  It was already dusk, which suited Dante's purposes. A Collenese soldier lit a lantern to make camp by, drawing several oversized moths to whirl around the flame. Dante killed two of them with pins of nether, then thought about bats and killed all four. A pulse of shadows reanimated them to his command. He sent them flapping up through the canopy, headed west across the forest.

  Along the way, one of them winked out, eaten by a bat or an owl. The other three made it to the fort. Torches and lanterns burned within it, illuminating the sentries on the walls. The yard within was quiet.

  There, three wooden buildings were elevated on low stilts to discourage the entry of rats, mice, and other vermin. Granaries. They were windowless, but the door frames were warped enough for the moths to slip through the cracks.

  "They're stuffed," Dante said to the camp. "I'm looking at several tons of barley and wheat."

  He withdrew the moths and made a circuit of the fort, relaying its fortifications, troops, and civilian count to Cord and Boggs. Getting a good look from above, he sketched out a map.

  "A garrison of forty men?" the Keeper croaked. "I'm no tactician, but I'd think we could overrun them with what we've brought here."

  Dante made a quick count of their troops. "We could. But we don't have the wagons to get the grain out."

  "Should we summon them?"

  Dante lifted his eyebrows at Cord. "Your call, General."

  "Speaking of wagons," Blays said. "Let's not put them before the horse. Do we know for sure that Mallon is going to make a second attack?"

  "The only thing we know for sure is that we won the last battle and Mallon hates to lose."

  "But it's possible the war's already over and we just don't know it yet."

  "It's possible. And it's also possible that King Charles himself will bake us an apology-cake to make up for his silly little invasion."

  "Let me put it another way." He gave Dante a slap in the face. "There, I've slapped you. What's your natural response?"

  Dante glared. "To punch you back. Twice."

  "Exactly. Mallon might be back either way, but that's no more than a guess. But if we ride into their border fort, slaughter everyone there, and rob all their stuff, we can guarantee their army will be here before the snows are."

  "You have a point."

  The Keeper stood from her seat on a bench. "If we don't do this, and they come for us, we will starve. Mallon hasn't earned the benefit of the doubt. We know their history too well for that. We must secure our survival even if that means guaranteeing war."

  "Cord," Dante said. "You need to think long and hard about whether this is a risk you're willing to take."

  "There's nothing to think about!" Cord drew her sword, pointing it toward the darkening sky. "Mallon has stolen from us for centuries. Taking this from them won't begin to repay their debt—but it will show our honor far and wide."

  "To who?"

  "To those who doubt us! To the gods themselves! Since when did honor need an audience?"

  She'd acquitted herself so well during the fighting that Dante had nearly forgotten about her Collenese mores. Most of which involved dancing in showers of Mallish blood.

  "It doesn't have to be a fight," Dante said. "I could open a tunnel under the walls and up through the granaries."

  "Right," Blays said. "Then all we have to do is pray their front-line soldiers are too stupid to miss the enormous caravan waiting to be loaded up outside."

  "It can be a long tunnel. With a few days, I could make it a mile long."

  "Meaning we have to haul tons of grain out through a mile of cramped tunnel. How many years do you suppose that would take?"

  "I suppose you've got a better idea?"

  "Of course I do," Blays said. "All we need is a little help from Gladdic—and the king of Mallon."

  ~

  They were close enough to Bressel that Dante could smell its river and sewers. A little unnerving to be so near to the center of the enemy's power, but they were currently in a completely unremarkable patch of forest two miles outside the city, and he didn't intend to get any closer.

  A swarm of gray moths and blue butterflies winged toward the city. Some headed for the spires of the king's keep. Others flitted toward the Chenney, the great rectangular tower where Dante and Blays had been imprisoned a few months earlier, or toward Gladdic's personal temple, where they'd encountered their first Andrac. The moths entered through open shutters and landed on the walls.

  Wary for priests, who could detect the nether linking him to his spies, Dante sent the dead insects further into the keep, prison, and temple. By following the best-dressed servants on their errands, he soon found the king's cha
mbers. A butterfly scooted inside in the wake of a man with a serving tray.

  While the king took his meal, the butterfly hastened to the study. It landed on the desk and took a good look around.

  "Got it," Dante said. "Handwriting and the seal."

  He made a careful sketch of the seal, which included a hawk, the symbol of King Charles' Sarlinian family, soaring over a stylized image of waves, plains, and mountains, which represented the vastness of Mallon. Naran started to carve the sketch into the end of a stumpy rod of wood. He claimed to have become an expert whittler to pass the time during long voyages.

  Dante turned his eye to the handwriting. He would have preferred to have it right in front of him, but he imagined his view would be clear enough to suffice. He took down a sample of letters and words.

  Fastidious though he was, by the time he finished, he still hadn't seen hide nor hair of Gladdic. Aware that it could take days to find the priest (if he was in Bressel at all), Dante turned back with the others, striking eastward through the forest. On the off chance of spotting Gladdic, he left his insects behind, but he knew his connection to them would fall apart before they reached the Londren.

  "We really need some proper spies," he muttered to Blays. "I'll lose these in a day or two. Besides, bugs can't ask questions. Or take things."

  "Sounds like what you really need is some undead raccoons." Blays glanced behind them. "Suppose Mallon has spies in Narashtovik?"

  "That's a troubling thought."

  "Because the answer's yes, isn't it?"

  The next day, they entered Londren Forest, rendezvousing with a Collenese caravan half a day's ride from the fort. Seeing the caravan was a jolt to the heart: all of the teamsters and soldiers were dressed in the blue of the Mallish military—in fact, their uniforms had been taken from the dead in Collen.

  Cord lifted her arm. "Were you successful?"

  Blays brushed dust from his shoulder. "I'd hope so. If we have failed, we're being so nonchalant about it that I don't like our chances going forward."

  "I hoped you wouldn't be so we would have no choice but to battle them. Still, I see the wisdom in this." She grinned savagely. "Besides, the Mallish think they're so smart. Tricking them will taste sweet in its own way."

  They joined the caravan and made way for the fort, stopping at sunset to eat and kill a few hours. A half hour before they were ready to move on, Dante climbed inside an empty wagon. He sat in front of a reasonably clear mirror and blew on his torchstone, lighting the interior with a pale glow.

  He made a small cut on his arm, called the nether to his hands, then directed it to his face. He used the shadows to carve new features over his own, long and cadaverous, the skin pale, the eyes deep-set coals. He whitened his hair and extended his height several inches. Last, he donned a long gray robe.

  He emerged from the wagon and turned in a circle for Blays. "What do you think?"

  Blays laughed out loud. "That I hope I die before I ever look that old. It's the spitting image. Unless his mother's manning the wall, this just might work."

  Dante smiled and gathered the others to him. Including the teamsters, they numbered over thirty. "Remember your jobs. Speak as little as possible."

  A man raised his hands. "What if the soldiers ask us questions?"

  "Pretend you hold them in deepest contempt," Blays said. "Hang on, they're Mallish. You won't even have to pretend."

  They struck out along the rutted road toward the fort. The autumn night grew chilly, thick with the scent of dew. Leaves were falling everywhere, mulching under the wagon wheels and crackling underfoot. Dante was glad they hadn't tried to sneak up.

  They took a northern fork of the road. An hour later, lights flickered ahead, outlining the ten-foot stone walls of the fort. When they drew within two hundred yards, silhouettes appeared over the gates, watching them progress. Dante motioned the caravan to a stop twenty feet from the banded wooden doors.

  "Hullo." A guard leaned over the top of the wall. He gave the wagons a long look, then peered down at Dante. "Bit late for a visit, isn't it?"

  "My name is Ordon Gladdic," Dante said in his best imitation of his foe, dredging up a proper Bresselian accent. "I come by order of the king."

  "King Charles?"

  Dante stared up at him in disgust. Too aggrieved to speak, he removed a letter from his robes. It was sealed with blue wax, stamped with the king's hawk.

  The guard frowned and lowered a wicker basket on a string. Dante set the letter inside. The guard drew it upward, thumbed open the wax, and read haltingly, tracing his finger along the words.

  Done, he leaned over the top of the wall. "You need all of it?"

  "An allowance will be made for your men," Dante said. "Nine-tenths will leave with us."

  The guard scrunched his mouth to the side. "I don't have the brains for this, Ordon. Pardon me while I fetch Spalder Nicols, yeah?"

  Dante stood stiffly, doing his best to appear affronted. Three minutes later, the gates creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man in a gray robe. The orange trim marked him as a spalder. Strange to see a man of such rank out in the wilds. Either he was being punished for something, or the fort was more important than its meager garrison implied.

  "Ordon Gladdic." Nicols bowed, bending one knee. "Forgive my surprise. I thought you were to be on your way to Tanar Atain by now."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Oh, I can't remember. Surely you know how well whispers travel within the cloisters."

  "I was recalled."

  "To requisition grain from my outpost?" Nicols smiled archly. "You seem…overqualified for this task, Ordon."

  "Then a man of reason would infer the matter's importance, and help me to achieve it."

  "Of course, lord." The priest stepped aside, gesturing sweepingly. As the carts rattled into the bailey, Nicols remained at Dante's arm. "May we speak in private, lord?"

  Dante made a dismissive gesture. "Now is not the time."

  "It will take a great deal of time to fill your wagons, Ordon. I believe the matter will be to your interest. It involves the rebels."

  Dante glanced at Blays, who was lingering near the gates disguised in soldier's garb. Blays gave him the smallest of nods, watching from the corner of his eye as Dante crossed the bailey with Nicols. They entered a plain stone building that appeared to serve as the fort's temple. Stray leaves gathered in the corners. Nicols brought him upstairs to a cozy room with a lit fireplace, two shelves of books, and a great deal of maps. Nicols offered him a seat, then tea.

  "Galladese?" Dante said.

  "I wasn't aware there was another kind."

  Dante said nothing—he'd forgotten that before Gallador had split from Gask, tea had been unknown in Mallon. "You said you had news from the basin."

  The spalder nodded, rubbing his jaw. His chin was as smooth as the tabletop. Tidy. Kept himself in order. Which meant that the unswept leaves downstairs implied his men disliked him.

  "The Collen Basin," Nicols said, as if savoring the flavor of the words. "They call it the riddle that cannot be solved. You believe otherwise, don't you?"

  "A riddle cannot be a riddle unless it has an answer."

  "At Grayson Fort, we are happy to take in travelers and refugees. It's a way to curry goodwill, but it's also a way to gather news. What I hear from such people makes me believe you've found the solution to the Collenese Riddle. It's like when a blight takes a field, isn't it? The only way to save the field—and the others around it—is to burn it."

  Dante let a moment pass. "If a house is built on a rotten foundation, it is doomed to collapse."

  "The second campaign—they brought you back to lead it, didn't they?"

  "Second campaign?"

  Nicols smirked. "The king's already called in new levies. The training grounds are filled from dawn to dusk. Our lord saw how close you came, and he believes you can be the one to finally prise the arrow from Mallon's side."

  "You said you had news."

&n
bsp; Though it was beyond obvious they had the room to themselves, the spalder glanced left and right, as if afraid of being overheard. He leaned closer. He opened his mouth to speak, then clicked it shut.

  A tendril of ether slipped from his hand to probe the nether surrounding Dante. The nether rippled, set aswirl, opening holes in his disguise.

  Nicols jerked backward. "Who are you?"

  Shadows filled the room.

  5

  Nether swarmed to Dante's hands. His fury came with it. Before he knew what he was doing, he thrust a blade of shadows straight for the man's heart. Nicols yelled out, voice echoing from the brick walls. Adeptly, he shaped the ether he'd used to probe Dante's disguise into a shining shield. The two forces met with a flash of light, and then a counter-flash of darkness. White sparks twinkled to the floor.

  "Galand," Nicols sneered. "You couldn't kill Gladdic. And you won't kill—"

  Dante fired another bolt at the man's heart. As before, the spalder blocked it, but Dante had already followed it up with another strike. This one was as thin as a knitting needle. And it was aimed at Nicols' forehead.

  The priest was still smirking as he collapsed to the stone floor. His limbs jerked like some awful dance, and then he went still, pooling like spilled oil.

  A fist beat against the door. "Spalder? Is everything all right?"

  "Indeed."

  "I need to come in, sir."

  "One moment."

  Heart thundering, Dante drew Nicols' features across his own, using a polished silver bowl for his mirror. He thrust a hand at two of the candelabras, snuffing the flames and reducing the room to a soft glow. He flung a blanket over the body.

  He moved to the door and flung it open. Outside, a novice in dark gray robes straightened his spine. "Excuse my interruption, Spalder. I heard a shout."

  "The ordon and I discuss grave matters. Leave me be before you give me reason to shout more."