“How will he rescue her, then?” Arun asked.
Corbin tossed up his hands. “It was a message passed between sages, not a book. I only know so much. The baron’s troops will join you in the south. He believes your combined forces will be enough to take the stronghold.”
“Perhaps they would be.” Wardin rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “If we took it quickly, before Bramwell’s reinforcements got there.”
“He means to openly rebel against the Lancets.” Pate shook his head. “This is brazen, even for Heathbire.”
“I know him,” Corbin said. “He won’t see a choice. The only way he comes out of this a baron is if there are no Lancets left. Or perhaps if Heathbire is a barony of Eyrdon rather than Harth.”
“Secede from Harth?” Erietta pursed her lips. “Even he wouldn’t go that far.”
Corbin shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. He’d burn a thousand kingdoms down if he saw advancement in it, for either him or his own. Which brings me to the last thing.” He looked back at Wardin with cold, resentful eyes. “He would like it passed on to you that Rora is a lovely young woman. Quite beautiful, and spirited as well. He wishes you to know that she would make a marvelous queen.”
Wardin couldn’t help but laugh, as much at the other man’s face as at the preposterous idea of a betrothal. Apparently Corbin didn’t consider the future King of Eyrdon a worthy match for his cousin. “I can’t marry the Baron of Heathbire’s daughter.”
“Certainly not,” Pate agreed. “There will be a more advantageous alliance for you, once this war is won. But that doesn’t mean we can’t appear open to the idea until it’s won. It would likely help keep Heathbire’s army on our side.”
“Assuming they’re on our side in the first place.” Arun looked at Wardin. “Are you really believing all of this?”
“I don’t know,” Wardin said honestly. “Dain is slippery, but he’s also proved himself our ally. Pendralyn might well have been lost if not for him.”
“But that was before Bramwell had something to use against him,” said Arun.
“All right,” Wardin said with a sigh. “You’re all supposed to be my advisors, so I suppose this would be a good time for you to advise me. Arun, I take it you’re against agreeing to this proposal?”
“I am. I think we should stay where we are, for the present, until we have a plan that doesn’t involve depending on Heathbire.”
Wardin nodded. “Quinn? I don’t believe you’ve said a word since you sat down, apart from offering the mead pitcher.”
“That’s because I don’t know the baron,” Quinn said. “And without knowing him, I can’t say what would be best. We could use his troops to take Corghest, and I doubt we can take it without some help. But that only works if you believe him. So I’m going to leave it to your judgment, Highness.”
“Corbin, you’ve already said you trust Dain. Pate?”
Pate was silent for a few moments, rubbing his chin and staring at the floor, before he answered. “I’ll say this for Dain: he will take great risks for his own. He loves Rora. But he also loves Corbin like a son. I don’t think he’d betray one to help the other. He’d want to take care of them both, if he can, and this is the best way to do that.” He gave Wardin one firm nod. “I trust him in this.”
Wardin looked last at the person whose opinion he wanted most to hear. Erietta, like Quinn, had been quiet. “Etta?”
“I would always advise caution where the Baron of Heathbire is concerned.” She offered Wardin a wry smile. “But as you might have noticed, I’ve been nagging you to march on Corghest for days.”
“I had spotted that, yes.”
“You don’t want to rely on the Dords, and you don’t want to rely on Heathbire. So don’t rely on either—entirely. But perhaps rely on both of them halfway. If one doesn’t come through, the other might.”
“And if neither does?” Arun asked.
Erietta raised her chin. “War likes to say he’s not a strategist, but you didn’t see him at Bering Pass. We may be more capable on our own than anyone gives us credit for.”
Wardin rubbed the back of his neck, considering her words. Everyone’s words. Including the Baron of Heathbire’s.
He considered, too, his alternatives. There were only two courses that he could see: attack the Harths, or wait at Pendralyn for the Harths to attack them. Thus far, he’d refused Pate’s advice to do the former.
Perhaps it was time to reconsider. The only victory he’d had in this war was when he was fighting to keep it from reaching Pendralyn. And that was, after all, the reason he’d gone to war in the first place.
He liked Erietta’s advice the best, he decided. He could wager on both Dordrin and Heathbire, by wagering on neither.
“You can give it the evening, and a good sleep, before you decide,” Quinn offered.
Erietta chuckled. “Lengthy, considered deliberations are not a strength of our prince’s.”
“No,” Wardin agreed. “I don’t need time. Make our preparations. And Corbin, have Joan try to contact Hodge. I’ll want to get as detailed a plan together as sage communication will allow for.” He tapped his palm against the table. “We’re marching for Corghest.”
21
Wardin
The commander of the garrison at Corghest was soft. His face, his potbelly, his wispy hair. Even his voice was soft. The only hard thing about him was the look in his eyes. He was an Aldar, and as Wardin understood it, they loathed both magic and magicians with a passion not even Cadric Lancet could have matched. It was clear the man considered himself sullied by the mere presence of Wardin, Erietta, and Pate. (Perhaps doubly so in Erietta’s case, as the Aldars also preferred their women meek and silent.)
The three of them had ridden under a white flag to treat with the soft man and two of his senior officers outside the gates of the stronghold, just out of arrow range.
“Commander, I’ve no doubt you’ve been informed of the size of our army,” Wardin said solemnly, as though he were concerned for the other man’s welfare. “The King of Harth’s own numbers were greatly reduced when we defeated him at Bering Pass. You cannot expect the same sort of relief you might have a month ago.”
“I have been informed about your encampment,” the commander agreed, in a drawling accent that grated on Wardin’s ears. “Not only the number of men there, but that those men are not building siege equipment. Presumably because you know you don’t have the time. You’re hoping I’ll surrender before you get trapped between these walls and an army approaching from the north.” He inclined his head, sneering. “I’m afraid you’re to be disappointed.”
Wardin pointed at the stronghold. “I can assure you that by the time any army of Bramwell’s gets here, we will be inside those walls. And you and your men will be dead. Do you really want to see Aldars die needlessly, so far from home, for a cause that is not even your own?”
It was the wrong thing to say. While his officers bristled and muttered, the commander raised his chin in a show of defiance—an effect that was diminished by how much it wobbled. “The destruction of magic is our cause.”
“Magical destruction.” Pate smiled at the man, his own mood relaxed, almost cheerful. “That should indeed be your concern.”
Wardin fingered the hilt of Dragon’s Edge, conspicuously enough to draw the Aldar’s eye. He refused to lie to any of his own people about the sword, but he had no such scruples when it came to encouraging its legend among his enemies. If the man despised and feared magic so much, let him concern himself with what power the famous Rath sword might have.
“You heard what happened at Bering Pass,” Wardin said. “Do you honestly believe we need siege engines to destroy your gates? I hardly need bother with such clumsy methods when my sages can have them down within the hour.”
This was almost certainly false. The destruction the sages had wrought at Bering Pass had been of a different sort; collapses and rockslides were much easier to cause when one had the natural
momentum of a steep drop on one’s side. Magic made things faster and easier, but much of what they’d sent down the mountain that day could have been done with thrice the men and not a single spell cast. A sturdy gate, braced between equally sturdy walls, on flat land was an entirely different matter.
Still, Wardin had learned the offensive potential of elemental magic before he ever thought of commanding an army, before he even came back to Pendralyn, when Arun’s tiny cyclone had saved them from the feral blackhounds in the moorlands.
That lesson stayed with him, and Bering Pass only reinforced that the traditional strategy of keeping all or most of the sages behind the lines for healing was a mistake. Since then he’d ordered anyone with the potential to cause tremors, winds, or fire to focus their practice on that instead. Some were quite good at it.
But Odger had taught Wardin a lesson, too. Elemental magic was difficult to control, and could easily make victims of allies as well as foes. It was often impractical, and always dangerous.
All things considered, the Aldar was right. Wardin would much rather avoid a fight.
And as promised, he was to be disappointed in that regard. He and the commander spoke for only a few more minutes, saying nothing of substance, until they agreed that there was no peace to be made and parted ways.
Mindful of watchful eyes on the stronghold walls, Wardin and his companions rode at an unhurried, unconcerned walk back to the encampment, where they immediately sought out Quinn.
Arun and Magister Conrad had both stayed behind at Pendralyn this time, along with more than the usual number of soldiers and magicians. There was a chance the Harths would once again move on the magistery instead of coming to relieve Corghest, and Wardin wanted to be certain Pendralyn was well protected.
They found Quinn outside one of the supply tents, discussing rations with two of the officers. “Well,” Erietta said after they drew him away, “that went about as expected. I’m afraid it will come to a fight.”
Quinn nodded, first at her, then at Wardin. “We can manage.”
“Perhaps we can.” Wardin wasn’t just putting on a show of optimism. Dain’s army had joined them on the road to Corghest, as agreed, though the baron himself had gone instead to Narinore to oversee his daughter’s rescue. And thanks to the fact that they’d done no actual fighting thus far, the Heathbire force was fully intact and as large as it had been from the start. It was a small fraction of the seven thousand Dords they’d been hoping for, but it was an advantage nonetheless.
They had other advantages as well. Thinking ahead to how they would sustain themselves when they took the stronghold, Wardin had brought three sages skilled in replication, in anticipation of the locals burning their crops and tainting the water. But the fields around Corghest remained unblemished. Two farmers had even brought them several bushels of leeks and turnips, in the dead of night when they’d first arrived. It seemed the rebels had the support of the southern Eyrds, even those who weren’t prepared to join the fight themselves.
“But we must take the stronghold quickly,” Pate said. “Before Bramwell gets here, assuming he’s coming.”
“He’s coming. The baron arrived while you were away.” Quinn gestured for them to follow him. “Come and hear his news for yourself. He’s in the green tent on the north side, conferring with his own.”
Dain looked too large for the crowded tent, his big voice filling the space as he spoke to several of his men. He dismissed most of them to make way for the newcomers, though his commander, a hulking, flinty man by the name of Sadon, remained.
Corbin joined them moments later, flushed and out of breath. “I heard you’d arrived. Is Rora safe, then?”
“She is.” Dain was a bit flushed himself, and there were deep shadows around his eyes. He looked wilted, almost haunted, and Wardin thought this was the longest he’d gone in their brief acquaintance without hearing the man laugh.
“Thank the deities.” Corbin, on the other hand, looked uncharacteristically close to laughter, or at least a grin. It had been obvious since her capture that he was deeply fond of his cousin.
“Her rescue came off without a catch. That’s the good news.” Dain looked at Wardin. “The bad news, of course, is that Bramwell is marching south to relieve the siege you haven’t started yet. Even a man as slow and fat as I am can travel faster than an army, particularly if he’s got fresh horses waiting along his route, but not as much faster as you might think. I’d guess you’ve got two days, at most.”
Wardin nodded. This news was no surprise, and did nothing to weigh down the lightness of relief in his chest. For days, he’d been gnawed by worry that trusting Dain was a mistake. He’d set extra watches, in case the Heathbire men should turn on them. But there’d been no suspicious behavior, no cause for concern. And Dain had done all he’d promised now.
“As of today, I am no longer Bramwell Lancet’s subject,” Dain said. “If we think we can hold Heathbire against the rest of Harth, we’ll return there when this battle is over. If not, I’ll be counting on your hospitality until Harth has a new king.”
“You will have it,” Wardin said. “I’m glad your daughter is safe.”
“Where is she?” Corbin asked.
Dain frowned at him. “The less people in on that secret, the better.”
“All right.” Wardin clapped his hands together. “We’d best prepare. Quinn, you and Commander Sadon will lead the non-magical attacks. Coordinate your positions together.”
He waited until both men nodded, then turned to Erietta. “You have charge of the magicians. Have the contrivers cast the strongest illusions and cloaks they can, to throw off the archers while the rest get as close as possible. We’ll use conduction and battlemagic to take down the defenders on the walls. The sages will cause tremors and cyclones, and we’ll hope between that and some plain, mundane battering, we can take the gates down.”
“I think you’ll be pleased with what the magicians can do,” Erietta said. “None of them have cast a spell since just after we got here, to conserve their power and protect their balance.”
Pate clapped her on the shoulder. “Who knows, perhaps your elusive Dords will even show up in time to do some good.”
Erietta narrowed her eyes at him. “Perhaps they will.”
“Enough,” Wardin said. “We’ve no time to waste on bickering. We attack at first light.”
* * *
Erietta discovered their crisis first, shortly before the contrivers were to launch the rebel attack. She came rushing at Wardin, wild-eyed and so breathless that it was a few moments before she could speak.
“I can’t … we can’t … none of us can.”
Wardin shook his head. “Can’t what?”
“Cast,” Erietta heaved. “Anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Try to cast a spell.”
“Etta, what …”
“Just try! Any spell.”
Blinking at her, wondering if she’d gone mad even as dread began to prick the back of his neck, Wardin called for a candle. No need for a sage’s fire for something so small. Lighting a candle was general magic, simple, taught to children before they even chose their affinities. It would take little energy, and disturb his balance the least of any spell he could think of.
When one of his soldiers handed him one, Wardin held it up and closed his eyes. Gathering the power should be the work of a single second.
He felt nothing.
It wasn’t the same sort of hollowness he’d felt at the Well of Songs. Even in its emptiness, that had been magical. This was the opposite: a complete absence of any magic at all. There was simply none to gather.
Wardin frowned and concentrated harder. Still nothing.
Next he tried a shield, basic battlemagic he’d learned as a boy. He got the same results.
For the next half hour, every magician of every affinity tried to cast spells from the simple to the complex, the generally known to those they’d created per
sonally.
Not a single one of them could do the slightest bit of magic.
“How?” Wardin roared.
Nobody had an answer, or even a clear guess, as to how the Harths had done it. Or perhaps it was the Aldars.
Quinn calmly and politely suggested that the best time for solving riddles might not be when they had an army assembled before an enemy stronghold. The more urgent question was whether they adjusted their strategy and attacked without magic, or withdrew.
They were still debating that question when there was a rumble and the cry of many voices, and the gates of the stronghold opened.
Wardin watched in horror as an army emerged. Many more than he would have expected, even for the large garrison he knew to be here at Corghest.
And then in greater horror still, when he looked up and saw who was standing on the wall. Wardin was a fair distance away, out of longbow range, but it didn’t matter. If the fact that the man stood head and shoulders taller than the men around him wasn’t enough, the sunlight punctuating the red hair on his unhelmeted head identified him beyond doubt.
Bramwell.
If the king was here …
Time seemed to stop. All sound went away, but for a high, wailing ringing in Wardin’s ears. It reminded him of the mournful howl of a blackhound.
Odger said this would happen. Treachery. And blood.
A trap. Just as Wardin had known it might be. And yet he’d led his people into it just the same.
Enough!
There was no time to be ill; he hadn’t the right to indulge his turning stomach or the crushing pain in his chest. It made no difference that all the air seemed to have left his body. He must find enough breath to shout orders.
As time lurched forward again, Wardin whirled around, calling for Quinn and Pate to pull the Eyrds back and into formations. To get away from the Baron of Heathbire’s men.
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