by David Weber
"From all accounts, the spring thaw's just now getting started atop the Wind Plain," Gurlahn said. "The most of the routes up and down the Escarpment are after being pretty well neck-deep in run-off the now, and should be for some weeks to come."
"Um," Bahnak grunted again. He sensed the speculation his question had stirred, but he ignored it. Whatever his officers might think, he had absolutely no interest in climbing the Escarpment to attack the Sothōii. There hadn't been a large-scale Horse Stealer attack on the Wind Plain in the better part of twenty years, and he had disallowed even small raids by his own Iron Axes for the past ten. Unfortunately, he'd been less successful at convincing his fellow Horse Stealer clan lords to share his restraint. Bahnak himself wanted only peaceful relations with the Sothōii, for he had worries enough amongst his own people, but he couldn't be positive the Sothōii realized that. Still, as long as the Escarpment remained impassable, he could feel fairly confident about the security of his own rear while he dealt with Churnazh. He hoped.
But that consideration added still more point to his urge to move quickly, and Gurlahn's report on the state of the roads promised him at least a short term advantage if he could seize it. Unlike Horse Stealers, Bloody Swords were close enough to human-sized to make decent heavy cavalry, and they tried to use their mounted men to offset the larger stature and greater strength of the Horse Stealer infantry. But Horse Stealers on foot would be more mobile in mud conditions than cavalry mounts.
"All right, then," he said, and drew a deep breath as he turned to look at Barodahn and Tharak Morchanson, his two senior field commanders. "Barodahn, I'll want you and your lads on the road to Gorchcan by dawn. You know what needs doing from there."
"Aye, Da," Barodahn agreed gravely, and Bahnak turned to Hurthang's father.
"I've another job for you, Tharak. One without so much glory-to be starting out, maybe-but just as important. I'll want your lads to start wading through the mud straight for Navahk. From all reports-" he waved at the pins stuck into the map "-old Churnazh has his main force massed against a direct attack, likely enough because that's what we were after doing to him last time. He's a flank guard out against Sondur, but he looks to be expecting the main attack from here, and it's your job to keep him thinking that. Hit him hard, and drive him if you've the chance, but so long as you're keeping him looking your way and not peeping over his right shoulder at Barry, you've done your part."
"Aye, Milord." Tharak nodded, and Bahnak smiled with sudden warmth, for there was no resentment in Tharak's level reply. Like the other officers in this room-even the ones from clans other than Iron Axe-Tharak knew victory was what truly mattered. He would play his role and play it well, even if the glory was going to go to someone else's flanking movement, and how many hradani princes could expect that of their captains?
"It's long enough we've been waiting on this, lads," he said simply, his eyes sweeping over all of his officers. "My father-aye, and most of your fathers, too, come to that-worked their whole lives for this day. Now it's come 'round at last, and I know there's not a one of you as isn't feeling it. But remember this, all of you. Bloody Swords or no, it's our own kind we're fighting, and I'll have no massacres." He gave Uralahk Gahrnason a particularly stern look, for the Plains Bear Clan general from Gorchcan had something of a reputation for transforming bothersome prisoners into good enemies, but Uralahk only nodded without reservation.
"Churnazh I want alive, if we can be taking him so, though I'll settle for his head at need," Bahnak went on, "and his surviving sons, as well. The same is after holding for any of the other princes, too, and I'll have the head myself of any man who's not after letting Lord Brandark of Navahk or any of his kin surrender, should it happen they so choose. And I'll be expecting you to take prisoners amongst Churnazh's regulars, as well, for it's not by their own choice the most of 'em are fighting us in the first place. But see to it that all your men are after knowing the colors and emblems of his personal guard. They're every one of 'em where they chose to be, and you'll know as well as I what he and they have been after doing to their own folk all these years. We'll give quarter where it's asked for by any decent fighting man, but for those as served that dung-eating, black-hearted bastard of their own will-"
He held out one hand, palm down before him, and slowly clenched it into a fist. It was the same gesture a judge used in a hradani court to pronounce sentence of death, and a soft, hungry snarl rippled around the room as he smiled coldly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"Are you certain of your information?"
Sir Mathian Redhelm, Lord Warden of Glanharrow, leaned forward in his chair, and his hazel eyes were hard as he gazed at his "guest." Mathian was of only moderate height for his people, with shoulders whose narrowness his tailors tried manfully, if not with great success, to hide. He was young for a man in his position, having inherited the lordship of Glanharrow only seven years before after his father's unexpected death. He looked a great deal like the late Sir Gardian, and, like his sire, he had quickly established a reputation as a lord of great energy. But, also like his father, he was given to impulse and improvisation.
Most Sothōii were at least a little on the impulsive side, if the truth be known, but Sir Gardian had been more so than most. He'd been known for generosity and frequent acts of kindness, but also for having Fiendark's own temper. The punishments he levied on those brought before his judgment on his bad days had been legendary, and his tendency to make snap decisions would have brought anyone with less vigor quickly to ruin. But Gardian had always thrown himself body and soul into all he did, and his fierce energy and enthusiasm had allowed him to recover from most of his mistakes relatively unscathed. He'd wasted a tremendous amount of effort battering through problems a little forethought might have avoided along the way, but that had been his style.
And it had also been what killed him when he went galloping off after a party of hradani raiders with only six knights in attendance. In his defense, the hradani in question had made off with five of his prized studs and a dozen brood mares, and among the Sothōii horse lords thefts of that severity were not only a heavy economic loss but insults which could be washed out only by blood. Yet for all that, Gardian had been a seasoned warrior who should have known better than to let fury lure him into such a fatal mistake.
The fact that he hadn't had made Sir Mathian Lord Warden of Glanharrow at only nineteen years of age. That, unfortunately, was just old enough for him to assume his titles in his own name, without a regent to hold him in check, and he was his father all over again… but with far less experience. Worse, Sir Gardian's death had left him with a towering hatred for all hradani. Even he knew it was temper and lack of forethought which had led his father to his death, but if the accursed hradani hadn't raided Glanharrow's herds, none of that would have mattered. Sothōii distrust and hatred for hradani ran deep after centuries of mutual raiding and bursts of bitter, merciless war, but Mathian's burned hotter and much, much deeper than most. Things had been remarkably peaceful along the Escarpment for the past five or six years, but he didn't care, and he had quietly gathered quite a following among some of the other young knights.
All of which made his "guest" even more remarkable, for he was a hradani.
"And when have I been other than certain of anything before I was bringing it to you?" the hradani demanded, speaking Sothōii with a strong Hurgrumese accent. Had Mathian been more familiar with the differences between hradani clans he might have reflected that his guest was on the short side for a Horse Stealer. Not that it would have mattered to him. As far as he was concerned, all hradani were the same, and the world would be a far better place with none of them in it.
"No doubt," an older knight put in. "But I'm sure you can see why the accuracy-"
"Peace, Festian!" Mathian turned to glare impatiently at the older man, who clamped his jaw tight. Sir Festian Wrathson commanded Glanharrow's mounted scouts and skirmishers. He was also twice Mathian's age and more, a
nd he'd seen more battlefields than Mathian had formal dinners. And unlike the unblooded young whelp who held Glanharrow in fief from Baron Tellian, Festian did know the difference between the hradani clans, and he felt quite sure that the fellow in front of them was no more a Horse Stealer than he was, whatever accent he might ape.
Mathian glared at him a moment longer, until he was certain Festian wouldn't interrupt again, and then turned back to the hradani.
"You were saying?"
"I was saying as how Bahnak will be after marching on Churnazh within the week," the hradani replied. "And he'll be taking all of his men with him, too, for whoever wins this one will end up lording it over all the clans."
Sir Festian didn't care at all for the glitter in the spy's eyes, but Mathian didn't seem to notice it. Perhaps that was because of the sudden fire blazing in his own eyes.
"I don't suppose you've brought any proof of this, have you?" he made himself ask, and the hradani hooted with derisive laughter.
"Oh, aye! I thought as how I'd just be bringing along a copy of Bahnak's secret dispatches so as to have something to lend his guardsmen for light reading when they caught me!"
Mathian's jowls flushed, but he only nodded. He gazed at the hradani for a moment longer, then raised one hand and flicked it at the door.
"My steward will pay you," he said curtly, and turned to stare into the fire hissing on the hearth.
The hradani grinned sardonically at his back, swept a mocking bow to Sir Festian and Sir Haladhan, and left. Silence lingered in his wake for several minutes, and then Mathian turned back from the fire and looked at Haladhan.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I think the same as you," Haladhan replied. "This may be the last opportunity we'll have before it's too late!"
Haladhan's deep voice was even lower than usual, throbbing with passionate enthusiasm, and Festian hid a mental grimace. He had no doubt of the accuracy of Haladhan's first sentence. The young knight was Mathian's first cousin, but if he ever had two kormaks to rub together it would be the first time he did. He was far more handsome than his wealthy cousin, and much more muscular, but if Mathian had declared the sun would rise in the west tomorrow, Haladhan would have said the same thing… only louder. Which made it all the more unfortunate that Mathian had promoted Haladhan to the rank of Marshal of Glanharrow, his senior field commander.
"True. True… perhaps," Mathian murmured. He raised his right hand to rub his jaw, and the ruby signet of the Lord Wardens of Glanharrow flashed like blood in the candlelight. "But if it is an opportunity, it will have to be acted upon quickly," he mused.
"Milord," Festian began, "before we do anything, wouldn't it be wise to-"
"I'm thinking, Festian!" Mathian said, and the older knight clamped his jaw once more, wishing-not for the first time-that Sir Gardian hadn't gotten himself killed so idiotically. No one had ever accused Gardian of thinking things through, but at least he'd occasionally been known to listen to advice if someone shouted it loudly enough!
"How many men could we assemble?" Mathian went on after a moment, directing the question at Haladhan.
"I'm not certain," his cousin said. He scratched the tip of his nose. "I suppose it would depend on the condition of the roads. It's still a mess out there, especially-" he darted a sharp glance at Mathian "-north of Glanharrow."
"True enough," Mathian grunted. "We'll just have to see how many of the minor lords we can get messengers to."
"I think-" Haladhan began, but Festian interrupted him.
"Forgive me, Milord," he said very firmly, "but should I understand that you actually contemplate moving against the hradani on the basis of this spy's information?"
"And why should I not?" Mathian demanded, looking down his nose at the older knight.
Because we've had peace with them for over five years and you're about to change that, you young idiot! Festian thought. And just because you've been fortunate enough never to fight a real war against them doesn't mean that those of us who have fought them are looking forward to it! But he couldn't say that, of course.
"Milord, you are Lord Warden of Glanharrow," he said instead, "and I am your sworn man, as I was your father's. But this is a very serious step you contemplate. At the very least, you should discuss it with Sir Kelthys. And Baron Tellian must be informed."
"Of course I shall inform Baron Tellian!" Mathian said sharply. "But as you yourself say, I am Lord Warden here. As such, I have every right in the absence of direct orders from Baron Tellian to call up the levies of Glanharrow on my own authority in time of emergency, do I not?"
He glared at Festian, obviously waiting for an answer, and the older knight sighed.
"You are, and you do, Milord," he said. Of course, "emergency" is supposed to mean that someone else has launched an unprovoked attack upon you, you fool. But you do have the right… and I don't have the authority to forbid it.
"Good!" Mathian snorted, but then he went on in a slightly less sharp tone. "As for Sir Kelthys, however, you're quite right. Please dispatch a messenger to ask him to join us here as quickly as possible."
He nodded dismissal, and Festian rose, fighting another surge of anger. He was no page to be sent scurrying about on errands, and he suspected that one reason he was being dispatched was to let Mathian and Haladhan put their heads together unhampered by his presence. Yet there was no courteous way to avoid obeying, and so he only bowed sharply and left.
He stalked down the castle hall, and those he met took one look at his face and stepped quickly aside. He knew they were doing it, but he didn't really care-not when those two young idiots were bent on what could only lead to disaster. Mathian had spent his life paying far too much attention to ballads and not enough to serious history. His mind was full of banners and gallant charges, and he'd managed to forget that Horse Stealers under the current Prince of Hurgrum's grandfather had sacked Glanharrow Castle itself and burned it to the ground. But at least he'd agreed to talk it over with Kelthys first. Festian tried to cling to that, for it was the sole positive aspect of the evening so far.
Sir Kelthys Lancebearer was a second cousin of Baron Tellian. Born a third son, he'd been a landless man, but one whose skill at arms-both in personal combat and as a strategist-had won great renown. He'd spent fifteen years commanding Sothōii cavalry forces attached to the Royal and Imperial Army, and he'd returned to the Kingdom a wealthy man. When Baron Tellian "suggested" Mathian bestow the manor of Deep Water upon Kelthys, the Lord Warden of Glanharrow had had little choice but to agree. And in fairness to the Baron, the transaction had worked out quite well.
Deep Water wasn't the largest of Glanharrow's holdings, and the manor had fallen into decay under its previous master. Under Sir Kelthys' careful husbandry, however, it had once again become a prosperous and productive steading whose rents enriched Mathian's coffers, and few lords of Mathian's rank had ever been blessed with a vassal with Kelthys' experience and skill. Indeed, Festian rather suspected Tellian had pushed the arrangement expressly to insure that Mathian had an older and wiser head to ride herd upon him. Yet Festian was also positive a certain rancor lurked under the surface pleasantries of Mathian's relations with Kelthys. Part of it was understandable enough. Given Mathian's comparative youth and lack of military experience, the younger man was bound to feel uncomfortable under the eye of a subordinate who was a proven veteran. But there was more to it than that, more even than Kelthys' relationship to Baron Tellian, for Kelthys was also a wind rider… and Mathian was not.
Festian knew how that rankled the younger man. The gods knew he had always longed to be a wind rider, but the coursers chose whom they would, and no power on earth could make them accept any rider against their will. Mathian knew that as well as anyone, yet that didn't keep him from resenting his vassal's good fortune.
But at least he'd agreed to summon Kelthys. Whatever his other feelings, he had to know how valuable Kelthys' advice and opinions could be, and Festian prayed silently to a
ny god who might be listening that Mathian would have the wit to listen to them.
Marglyth Bahnaksdaughter tied the sash on her robe and tried to ignore the big, empty bed behind her as she dragged a brush ruthlessly through her hair. Her husband Jarthûhl was away with the army, commanding a battalion under her brother Barodahn in the flank attack curling up from Sondur to close on Navahk like a steel trap. The southern Bloody Swords had been driven back and held there by one wing of Prince Bahnak's army, commanded by Uralahk of Gorchcan, but Churnazh had managed to concentrate almost two thirds of his total fighting power to face the decisive thrust. He and his senior officers were battling desperately, only too well aware of what awaited them if they lost, and this time they had avoided their worst mistakes of the last war. Rather than charge out to fling themselves headlong upon their foes as they had then, they'd chosen to mount stubborn defensive actions, fighting for every ridge line and runoff-swollen stream. They were still losing ground steadily, but they'd slowed their attackers' progress to a crawl. Bahnak's advance was at least two weeks behind his original timetable, and his casualties had been higher than he'd hoped. Lower than he had feared, perhaps, but heavy enough to bring pain and loss to all too many Horse Stealer families.
But just this moment, her fear was not for Jarthûhl's safety, or her father's, or any of her brothers'. It was for their absence, and it cut deep into her. Jarthûhl had always taken a quiet pride in the way she stood second in authority only to her father in Hurgrum. Over the years, she'd grown accustomed to using him as a sounding board-much as her father often used her-when decisions had to be made, and he had always been there, quiet but supportive, when she needed him. Now he wasn't, and she felt his absence like a wound. For the first time in many years, she felt frail and alone in the face of responsibility, and she longed for the comforting embrace of his arms.