by Julian May
Count Norval Swanwick climbed to his feet. Vanguard’s son and heir was an experienced battle-leader who had often fought at the side of the earl marshal, defending both Great Pass and the Wold Road to Tarn. “May I speak, my prince?”
“Please do, my Lord Swanwick. All of us know that you and your valiant brothers have fought many a skirmish against Didionite robber-barons and Green Men. I have great respect for your opinion.”
“Here’s what I’m afraid will happen if we invade Didion by land: At the first hint that we’re on the move, their arcane talents as well as their best fighters will rush to meet us at Castlemont beyond Great Pass. Even if we’re aided by the magical flummery of Mossland’s Conjure-King, we can’t hope for any element of surprise. The country in that region is so open, they’ll see us coming from leagues away. And there are no strongpoints between the frontier and their Castlemont fortress where our forces might safely encamp to besiege the place.”
Many spoke up in agreement.
“Furthermore,” Swanwick went on, “the earliest we could launch an invasion is in spring—late next Wind Moon, when the mountain snows will have melted and the mud dried. But by then our granaries will be sore depleted after winter.
I’m sure Your Grace realizes that there will be no chance of foraging in the faminelands of Didion as we march eastward toward Holt Mallburn. Even if we’re victorious at Castlemont, enemy forces could easily sever our supply line over the mountains while we engage the main host of Achardus.“
There were gloomy comments from the others. But the prince cut them off with a ringing voice. “We can take them by surprise!”
“How?” asked Swanwick.
“I would not lead a large army but a smaller, swift-moving force of some five hundred picked warriors. We would penetrate Holt Mallburn in a lightning raid and seize Achardus, his entire family, the court officials, and the merchant-lords who control the nation’s commerce. And we would not invade Didion in spring… but within five weeks, when they have no reason to expect us. My plan is not to march through Great Pass and then battle our way two hundred and sixty leagues through the enemy heartland. I plan to invade through Breakneck Pass, above this very Castle Vanguard, along a route less than one-third of the distance to the Didionite capital. The road is admittedly more rugged, but also more meagerly defended.”
“Over Breakneck?” the earl marshal exclaimed in disbelief. “There is no road—only a poor track that is often little more than a goat-path! And in late Boreal Moon we would risk fierce rains and washouts, snowstorms driven by hurricane winds, or—God help us—those sudden ice-mists that freeze a man and beast to glazed statues before they realize their mortal peril.”
The pass in the eastern reaches of the Dextral Range was indeed a shortcut to Holt Mallburn, but so steep and hazardous that only couriers, smugglers, and the bravest of legitimate traders made use of it. Almost all land commerce between Cathra and and its northern neighbors was through Great Pass, north of Beorbrook Hold.
The prince said, “The Wolf’s Breath has upset the seasons of our island in many ways, significantly delaying the onset of winter in the high country. Favorable weather will prevail over Breakneck Pass at least until Leap Day of the Boreal Moon. I have been assured of it.”
“By the Conjure-King of Moss?” Lady Zeandrise inquired softly.
Conrig continued without responding to her. “Our fighting force will consist only of mounted warriors, lightly armored for the sake of speedy travel. We’ll have no foot soldiers. Strong mules and ponies will carry supplies in the rear. We’ll move very quickly once we cross the frontier and strike without warning. There is only one small mountain outpost between Breakneck Pass and Castle Redfern, and the fortress itself is poorly sited, vulnerable to a surprise attack during fog.”
“Fog!” Beorbrook’s eyes narrowed. “And we can count upon fog?”
“Oh, yes,” the prince reassured him. “And not the dreaded freezing mists, but a warm concealing shroud, through which our army will ride on muffled hooves, led by friendly guides. We’ll seize Castle Redfern and use it as a staging area for the main assault upon Holt Mallburn, after we have briefly rested.”
“What of Redfern’s windvoices?” asked Baron Bogshaw. He was a hulking presence whose face was disfigured by a livid diagonal scar from a swordcut that had blinded his left eye. His lands, like those of Ramscrest and Cloudfell, lay along the mountainous frontier between Cathra and Didion. “And the foe may have talented ones posted at their outpost as well. Once they spot us, they’re sure to windspeak the alarm, even if our covert crossing of the pass is successful.”
“Any Didionite windvoices along our line of march to Redfern will be silenced before our arrival,” said Prince Conrig. “And so will those at the castle.”
“Ah…” A soft sound from many throats.
“However, it will be up to us to make certain that no ordinary foemen escape and give warning in a commonplace manner. When we leave Redfern, we’ll move like ghosts through the mist, down from the mountains to the Coast Highway leading to the capital. We’ll cross over the great Mallmouth Bridge—its gate will be opened for us by our magical ally—and when we reach the inner city we’ll set selected parts of it afire as a distraction, using tarnblaze bombshells that each one of us will carry. A portion of our force under Lords Skellhaven and Holmrangel will press toward the quay, where they’ll use their nautical expertise to seize or destroy whatever ships are tied up there or moored in the harbor. The rest of us will take the palace, capture King Achardus, his two sons, and the other royal officials, and force Didion to surrender to the Sovereignty.”
“Great God!” said old Toborgil Silverside. His sunken eyes were shining. “What a glorious feat that would be!”
“We’re to accomplish all this under cover of fog?” Munlow Ramscrest was dubious. “In a strange city notorious for its twisted maze of streets?”
Conrig inclined his head. “As I’ve said, we will have guides. From the summit of Breakneck Pass to the raised portcullises and open barbican gates of Holt Mallburn itself.”
Ramscrest persisted. “What manner of guides? Creeping Mosslander wizards bearing magic lanterns?”
“Nay,” said the prince. “I may not speak of the guides to you yet, but I’m assured of their assistance. They are to meet us at the top of Breakneck Pass, and if their aspect provokes mistrust among you, then I pledge to abandon this enterprise forthwith.”
“It’s magic, true enough,” said Lady Zeandrise, her mouth quirked by a roguish smile, “but not so outlandish as to put off our knights and thanes, eh, brothers? Fog, eldritch pathfinders and gate-openers, cold steel, and hot tarnblaze! A lightning thrust into Didion, and Holt Mallburn waiting like a sleeping babe… Can we be sure King Achardus will be in residence?”
“Oh, yes,” said Conrig dryly. “He’s there now, and he has little incentive to leave his stronghold. At least it’s well stocked with food and drink.” There was scattered laughter among the council, for the gigantic Didionite king was an infamous trencherman. “As we prepare to sally forth from Castle Redfern, I’ll be kept informed by windspeech of the king’s precise whereabouts, as well as that of the merchant-lords and our other special targets. My brother Vra-Stergos will accompany the expedition, as will Duke Tanaby’s trusted alchymist, Vra-Doman Carmorton.” He said nothing of Snudge.
“And will these good Brethren also use windspeech to transmit reports of our daily progress to the Conjure-King?” Skellhaven inquired archly.
Conrig paused, then spoke with reluctance. “King Linndal of Moss has nothing to do with this plan. Most of the time he is raving mad and confined to his rooms. He spends his lucid days voicing Salka sorcerers in the Dawntide Isles, trading arcane secrets. Our Mossland collaborator is another.”
“Who?” Beorbrook demanded.
“His daughter, Princess Ullanoth.” The prince took up his cup and sipped from it, but his eyes did not waver from the skeptical face of the earl marshal.
“And what does this benevolent lady ask in exchange for her good offices?”
“That Moss receive First Vassal status in the Sovereignty, with a reasonable guerdon paid annually, and that we support her claim to the throne of Moss above that of her younger brother, Beynor.”
“It seems a modest enough boon,” Lady Zeandrise remarked. She frowned, then added, “Perhaps too modest.”
Beorbrook addressed Vanguard. “Did you know of this, Tanaby? Your royal godson consorting with a Mosslander witch?”
“I knew,” the duke replied stolidly. “An unlikely ally, perhaps, but the Lady Ullanoth is a powerful sorceress, and there seems no good reason for her to contemplate using us treacherously.”
Munlow Ramscrest exploded in a coarse guffaw. “Why should we give a mule’s fart who rules that godforsaken corner of our island? Fens and frogs and peddlers of hocus-pocus and gimcrack amulets! Let the Conjure-Princess have the poxy place and welcome. As for her bribe, we can wring it out of vanquished Didion.”
Baron Sorril Conistone, a middle-aged peer who was famed for his scholarly bent, had remained quiet as the prince set forth his plan and the others made comments, seated on a stool at the far left of the blazing hearth where he was almost lost in shadow. Now his deep voice rode over the laughter that had greeted Count Ramscrest’s remarks.
“Your Grace, are you certain that this Ullanoth will require nothing more of us?”
“She has asked for no other thing, Lord Conistone,” Conrig said. “I swear it on my honor as Prince Heritor of Cathra.”
Zeandrise Marley remarked, “Without the lady’s help, we’re flat skinned, my lords, having not a hope in hell. Do any of you know a better plan?”
“If we’re to venture an invasion at all,” said Baron Tinnis Catclaw, “then it must be in the manner described by His Grace. The scheme is a goodly one, to my mind, although I would wish it not so dependent upon the whims of an alien sorceress.”
Someone sighed.
“And how are we to pay for this grand enterprise?” Viscount Skellhaven asked, not bothering to hide his ill will. “Certain lords and their knights will loot Mallburn Palace of its treasures, while my fighting sailormen and I merely torch the Diddly waterfront. Are we supposed to be content with the spoils of empty warehouses, worm-eaten scows, and burnt-out hulks?”
“Our mission is not to pillage the city,” Conrig declared. “It is to seize it and to force the capitulation of Achardus, his state officials, and the powerful Guild of Merchants. This I vow to do. This I will do with the aid of you stalwart northerners, who are familiar with mountain terrain and the battle tactics needed for a swift and stealthy assault against an unsuspecting foe. As for your material reward, it will be more than generous. I’ll not forget those whose bravery helped cement the Sovereignty of High Blenholme. This I also vow, on the head of Emperor Bazekoy the Great.”
Skellhaven’s thin lips stretched in a disagreeable smile. “A very impressive oath, Your Grace. Please don’t take me wrong. I’m a poor man, only concerned for the welfare of my followers. All too often the Crown has made fine promises to us and then…” He shrugged.
“I am not King Olmigon,” Conrig said. A few of them drew breath at his lack of respect, but he turned away from Hartrig Skellhaven and let his gaze sweep them all. “The time has come, my friends, for you to decide. Please say—beginning with you, dear Godfather—whether you will join me in an invasion of Didion.”
“I will come,” said Tanaby Vanguard, “along with one hundred of my knights and thanes.”
“And I with forty,” said Norval Swanwick. “Plus farriers, cooks, and leeches well able to fight.”
“Ramscrest pledges sixty mounted warriors and twenty sumpter-mules well provisioned.”
“The Virago of Marley will follow you with a force of eighty mounted men,” Zeandrise declared, “plus thirty stout pack-ponies and their armed drivers.”
“My festering leg precludes my personal participation,” said Conistone, “but I will send my four sons, ten knights of my household, twenty fighting thanes, and five farriers.”
The others chimed in their assent one by one, some charged with eagerness and others, like Skellhaven and Holmrangel, with an air of having been coerced, until the number of warriors pledged reached well over four hundred, with a wholly adequate supply train and remounts. The last to speak was Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook.
“Your Grace,” said he, “I am a cautious man, but not an ignorant one. I’ve read the Chronicle from beginning to end, the histories of more than a hundred Cathran rulers. But none of them, I think, will be the match of you if you can pull off this mad stunt. I pledge thirty knights, the same number of fighters mounted on sturdy coursers, and fifty mules loaded with goodly fodder for man and beast… and I pray I’ll live to hail you Sovereign of High Blenholme.”
The council of war surged up from their seats and cheered.
Conrig nodded in ironic acknowledgment of the backhanded compliment. “Your agreement to my proposal gladdens my heart, Earl Marshal.” He opened the ornate black velvet purse that hung from his belt. “I have here wafers of the most exquisitely flavored pyligosh, which I will share with you all as a token of our new fellowship.”
Almost solemnly, he handed out the rare small sweetmeats, each of which was wrapped in a green cloth square and tied with golden cord. “Please eat them now to symbolize our unified resolve—and then let’s see what manner of liquid cheer Duke Tanaby has set out for us. I, for one, am now in need of refreshment stronger than wine.”
The nobles sprang up from their stools and crowded toward the laden sideboard, leaving only Zeandrise Marley to stand before Conrig, holding her wrapped tidbit. She spoke in a voice that was almost inaudible.
“My prince, do you know why I am called the Virago?”
He smiled. “I was told that when your wealthy young husband died, and you were left childless, a certain uncouth mountain lord came a-wooing. You spurned him, and he returned with an army to press his suit. Whereupon—”
“I rallied the knights and thanes of my barony and whipped the britches off the whoreson. And I defeated another force led by my late husband’s saucy cousin, who tried to lay claim to my fiefdom through some trivial point of law. After that, Vanguard gave me the warrior’s belt with his own hand, and I’ve held Marley against all comers for the past twenty-two years. I’m a hard woman, Prince Heritor.”
Conrig bowed his head in acknowledgment, still smiling.
“And I think you’re a hard man.” She held up the green-wrapped sweetmeat. “What would have happened to those who opposed your invasion scheme? Would they have been given wafers wrapped in a different color of cloth—or with cord tied in a special knot?”
He stepped closer to her, and for an instant something flickered in his handsome face. She stood her ground and his ambiguous expression was transformed into a broad grin. He unwrapped his own wafer and bit into it with evident enjoyment. “Absolutely delicious. And much more efficacious against noxious substances than drinking-cups with amethyst talismans. That’s just a silly superstition, as any alchymist can tell you. You may ask my brother Stergos, if you doubt me.”
Her eyes widened. “So it was the wine.”
“Which I partook of, along with the rest of you. The effects of the subtle poison would not be obvious for at least two days, when the unfortunate nay-sayers were well on their journey home. Thus no suspicion would fall upon me or Tanaby Vanguard—who, by the way, knew nothing about my precautionary measures. Earlier, I pressed him to take prisoner anyone who opposed my plan, but he wouldn’t agree to it. My godfather is too trusting and chivalrous. But then, he doesn’t aspire to be the Sovereign of High Blenholme.”
“And such a one must be ruthless?”
“Very.” He rested both hands on her shoulders in a gesture that might have passed for affection. “Are you going to tell the others what I did?”
Her worn face remained calm. “No… I won�
�t tell them. But I think it would bode well for our future comradeship—and the Sovereignty—if you did.”
They stared at each other without speaking. Then he took her arm and led her gently toward the waiting table of drinks where the others were gathered. “I’ll think about it, my lady. And you won’t forget to eat your wafer, will you?”
Chapter Three
Snudge had sensed the mysterious overseeing presence, too, while carving the joint of roast beef that had been sent to the repository tower for the evening meal of the Heart Companions. Unlike his royal master and the Doctor Arcanorum, he knew he’d probably be able to trace and perhaps even identify the watcher if he could just get to the tower roof and do his search under the open sky.
The apartment where the prince’s party had been secreted took up the third and fourth floors of the tower. The third floor, holding the castle’s extensive library, was the most attractive, having tall windows and a wide hearth with wood blazing cheerfully, and numbers of cushioned chairs and benches in an open area surrounded by rows of stacks. Conrig and his three closest friends among the Heart Companions—Feribor Blackhorse, Tayman Owlstane, and Sividian Langford—had turned it into their common room during the two days preceding the council of war, while they kept their presence secret from most of the other castle inhabitants. The prince had the chief scribe’s office for a bedchamber, and the three young counts slept on cots laid out between the shelves. They used the big central table for eating and drinking and playing at board-games and dice.
The fourth storey of the tower, just beneath the now-untenanted guardroom that had a door opening onto the roof, was normally used by the duke’s controller of accounts, and for document storage. It was low-ceilinged and crowded with coffers of parchment and racks of tax-rolls. Vra-Stergos elected to spend most of his time in a partitioned nook up there, where he had privacy for his arcane studies.