And each time he went through such a terrible experience, he felt as if another part of him had died. How could any man in his right mind love such an awful thing as war?
Perhaps, in some way, despite the horror of the reality, his father had somehow retained that part of boyhood that thought war was something grand. Or perhaps he had simply seen so much of it that its awful cost did not affect him anymore. Was that what he had to look forward to?
The first time they came back from a campaign, his “baptism of fire,” as his father had proudly referred to it, Derwyn had been so shattered by the
experience that he fled to his room at the earliest opportunity, bolted the door, and fell down and wept. It was not himself he wept for, but those who had been killed or crippled, and he wept for their mothers, wives, and children, whose torment had struck him to the quick. But over the years, each time it became a little easier, affected him a little less.
And that scared him more than anything else He saw himself gradually turning into his father, who saw only the prize at the end of the journey, and not the toll one paid along the way. Perhaps that was why his mother had died brokenhearted. When the capacity to feel the pain of others had been burned out of a man, the capacity to love was gone as well.
Why did it have to be this way? Why was it not enough to be Archduke of Boeruine, one of the most powerful and respected nobles in the empire?
Why did his father have to have it all? The people were sick of war.
Derwyn saw it in their faces when the army was on the march.
He had seen it in Boeruine, in Taeghas, in Brosengae and Avanil, in western Alamie; everywhere they went, he saw the faces of the common people watching from along the roadway, or in the fields where they worked as the army passed, or in the towns and villages they went through. It was their toil that supported the conflict, their crops taken, their livestock butchered, their fields trampled. And they probably didn’t care who won. They just wanted it to end. As did he.
“I grow weary of this waiting,” said his father in a surly tone. He picked up his goblet and drained it, setting it back down on the table so hard that Derwyn thought it would break. “If Gorvanak had done his part, we could have ended this cursed stalemate by now. He promised he would take Dhoesone, then cross its borders and attack Tuarhievel, striking from the west while the goblins of Markazor attacked the elven kingdom from the east. Trapped between the goblin forces, the elves could never have prevailed.
Once Tuarhievel and Dhoesone had fallen, we could take Cariele and the goblins could march through Markazor on Elinie. Then the Pretender’s holdings would be encircled by lands that we control.
“It seemed a foolproof plan, but now Gorvanak complains that Zomak of Markazor refuses to cooperate. He fears to march in force upon Tuarhievel for fear that troops from Mhoried will move against his holdings while his forces are away. He will do it when Mhoried has been secured by us, but not before. And how in bloody blazes can I march on Mhoried when I have no idea where the Army of Anuire is? If I take Mhoried and they attack the garrisons at Brosengae again, or strike into our lands, we will be cut off.”
“We should have seized western Alamie when we had the chance and held it instead of marching on into Avanil,” said Derwyn. Then we would not have needed Zornak, and Avanil would have been flanked by territories we controlled.”
“Oh, so you’re a general now, are you, you young pup?” Arwyn said derisively. “If we had held western Alamie, it is we who would have been flanked, you fool. If we were cut off from the forest trails back into our lands, our forces would have been trapped between Duke Alam’s troops and the Army of Anuire. We would have had to fight every inch of our way back home, with nothing to be gained. No, Avanil is the key to victory. Take Avanil, and we ass have Ghieste. Then press south and push the Army of Anuire right into the Straits.”
“Only we cannot attack Avanil without marching through western Alamie once again,” Derwyn replied. “And each time we try, Michael counters by strikin at the garrisons in Brosengae, preventing our forces there from crossing into Avanil to support our attack from the south. And the distance we must cover through western Alamie leaves him plenty of time to break off his assault upon the garrisons and march north to counter our advance while Avan holds his southern borders. It is a no-win situation.
The Seamist Mountains, which secure Taeghas from attack by Avanil, also work against us by forcing us to march around them every time. If we could only find a way to march across them-“
“And lose half our forces to the ogres before we even meet the Army of Anuire? You tell me how we can avoid the ogres and get our supply train across those bloody mountains and maybe I will try it.
Until then, leave the strategy to me.”
“I did not mean-“
“Who cares what you meant?” Arwyn drained another goblet. “That bastard Gorvanak won’t move against Tuarhievel unless I support him with troops from Talinie, but I need those troops to keep the Army of Anuire at bay.
Especially when I don’t know where in blazes they are!”
“Perhaps if we used the Shadow World for transit, the way Michael does-“
“And risk having him outflank us while we are in there? No, we cannot afford to take that chance, and he knows it, damn his eyes. He has the advantage of mobility while we have the advantage of position.
And neither of us can give up those advantages. He has proven himself an able commander, though of course, he has Korven to help him.
Besides, each time he travels through the Shadow World, he sustains losses that cost us nothing. He cannot keep that up indefinitely.”
He’s kept it up for eight years, Derwyn thought, but said nothing out loud. What kind of fanatical loyalty does a man inspire who can keep leading men into the Shadow World? At least one major campaign each year, with sporadic fighting here and there throughout the winters, when the weather was too severe to mount campaigns. During the rainy season in the spring, the roads all turned to mud, the plains were soft and damp, and the bogs became more treacherous than ever. It was impossible to march in force with supply trains and siege engines.
The catapults and rams sank into the ground up their axles. Summer and autumn were the times for war. So during the past eight years, how many times had Michael led troops through the Shadow World?
A dozen? More? And how many of his fighters had he lost in there?
Intelligence about such things was not all that difficult to come by.
When soldiers returned from a campaign, they always talked about it in the taverns. But they always exaggerated, too. Numbers could not be trusted. However, one could get a general sense of the campaign by comparing stories.
Their spies reported that the Army of Anuire had fought undead within the Shadow World, monsters like albino spiders, only even larger, big enough in some cases to drag off a cow, if the stories were to be believed. They had encountered deadly vines that lay dormant and withered-looking on the ground till stepped on, then suddenly snaked around a man’s legs, rapidly climbing up his torso and sending root tendrils deep into the flesh to suck out the vital fluids.
Cut the vine and the tendrils keep on growing underneath the skin, sending shockingly rapid new growth out through bodily orifices.
Death came within hours, filled with excruciating agony. Derwyn shuddered at the thought. What would make men risk such things time and again?
His father could not command such loyalty. He seemed to know it, too.
Arwyn ruled by fear.
Michael ruled by inspiration. Perhaps his reasons for not taking troops into the Shadow World were strategic, as he claimed. Or perhaps he was secretly afraid his troops might mutiny if he attempted it.
Indeed, thought Derwyn, it was a crazy thing to do.
Maybe that was it. Even when they were boys, Derwyn had seen traces of that craziness in Michael, but at the same time, it was an infectious craziness. He could always get the other boys to do th
e most amazing things, things they never would have considered doing on their own. He was a natural-born leader, with a very special and powerful charisma.
Doubtless, it ran within his bloodline, as it did within Derwyn’s own, but Derwyn had never manifested it. His father had it to a degree, but Michael possessed in abundance the blood power known as divine aura.
His troops would follow him anywhere. And if a man were to fall in battle, Michael would see to it that his family was provided for. It had to be a ruinous expense considering the losses his army had sustained over the years. If we tried it, Derwyn thought, it would quickly bankrupt our assets.
THE IBON THBONE
treasury, but Michael had the advantage there, as well. The Imperial Treasury had built up a considerable surplus over the many years of the empire’s history, and the Roeles had never been profligate spenders.
Until now, of course, but the entire empire knew Michael dipped into his treasury to support his people, and so they contributed all the more willingly. Surely they were as tired of the war as the people in Boeruine or Brosengae or Taeghas, but they loved their emperor because he never forgot them. Still, there had to be a limit. If this war continued for much longer, it would break them both.
If it weren’t for the considerable resources of the guilds in Brosengae or the merchant shippers in Taeghas, thought Derwyn, our own war effort would have stalled at least five years ago, and the interest on those debts was mounting steadily. The only way they would ever be able to repay the debt would be to conquer Anuire, seize the empire, and then bleed the country dry. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities of what might happen if the guilds called in the loans. His father had the troops, of course, but the guilds had powerful alliances with other guilds throughout Cerilia. They could easily raise a mercenary army or else freeze Boeruine out altogether, isolating them and cutting off all trade.
They could not afford to lose this ill-considered and seemingly interminable war. But then, Derwyn knew, as did his father, that if they did lose, they would undoubtedly be put to death, so there was little point in worrying about the debt. If they won, it would be paid off by taxing the people of the empire, who would certainly not love them for it.
Even his father was growing tired of the war. A man who had always lived for the thrill of leading troops into the field on campaigns, Arwyn was showing the strain of the long fighting.
He brooded about it obsessively, spent long hours with his advisors and field commanders, planning his campaigns, constantly sending observers out to report on the conditions of the border garrisons, which he expanded and refortified each spring. He so often complained about the goblins’ failing to hold up their end of the alliance that Derwyn could recite most of his litanies by heart. How long could it possibly continue?
Given the continued support of the guilds, or some significant victories such as the seizure and garrisoning of western Alamie, the war could go on for years. It had taken over all their lives, and Derwyn was weary unto death of it.
Once, and only once, he had broached the subject of a negotiated peace.
His father had flown into such a rage that Derwyn never brought it up again. Still, it seemed the only sane alternative. Assuming Michael would negotiate. And knowing Michael …
well, he didn’t really know him anymore, did he?
Michael seemed to truly care about his people. Perhaps he would be willing to negotiate a treaty wherein Boeruine, Taeghas, Talinie, and Brosengae could form their separate empire, but the Michael he remembered would not give up on anything. And so it went on. And on, and on, and on …
“Milord,” said Arwyn’s chamberlain, entering the hall, “the wizard waits without and craves an audience.”
“Send him in,” Arwyn said in a sullen tone, gesturing for the servants to clear away the plates. “Perhaps he has some good news to report. I could use some for a change.”
A moment later, Callador came in, walking slowly and supporting himself with his staff. Derwyn had no idea how old Callador was, but he looked ancient. As a child, Derwyn had been afraid of him because whenever he had misbehaved, his governess had threatened to have the wizard turn him into a newt or strike him dumb or make him “feel the fires.” He had never been entirely clear on what it meant to “feel the fires,” but it had certainly sounded unpleasant. Such impressions, gained at an early age, died hard, and Derwyn still felt uneasy in the wizard’s presence.
He shifted in his chair uncomfortably as Callador approached.
He was as bald as an egg and extremely thin, so slender that it looked as if a stiff breeze would blow him over. He had no hair at all, neither beard nor eyebrows, the result of some illness he had contracted many years ago, which had also left his voice hoarse and gravelly.
Perhaps he could have cured these conditions with magic or gone to a healer, but he didn’t seem to care. He was not very much concerned with his personal appearance, as evidenced by the threadbare robes he always wore, which were a faded brown wool, coarsely woven.
Derwyn grimaced, hoping he would stop before he got too close. He smelled perpetually of garlic, and his body odor would have stunned an ox. His father, apparently sharing his olfactory sensitivities, spoke before the wizard got within a dozen yards of them.
“What news, Callador?” he said curtly.
The wizard stopped and stood, leaning on his long staff as he gazed up at the dais where they sat a6i at the long table. “I bring word from our special friend at the Imperial Cairn,” he said.
Derwyn raised his eyebrows and glanced from the wizard to his father.
“We have an informant at the palace of Anuire?” he asked with surprise.
Arwyn smiled. “It has been a fairly recent development,” he replied.
“One that has taken some time and considerable trouble to arrange.”
“And you never told me?”
His father shrugged. “There was no pressing need for you to know.”
Then, as if abruptly realizing he had indirectly spoken deprecatingly of his own son, he added, “Besides, I was not certain how reliable this source would be. Considering . . .” He let it hang. “Well, what is the report?”
“I was not given the report, milord,” Callador replied. “As usual, our friend desires to speak with you directly.” He glanced at Derwyn.
“Perhaps I should leave,” said Derwyn stiffly. He pushed back his chair and started to get up. “With your permission, Father. .
“No, stay,” said Arwyn, waving him back down.
He turned to Callador. “Proceed. I have no secrets from my son.”
You have secrets even from yourself, thought Derwyn, but he said nothing as he resumed his seat. He was highly curious as to who this source might be.
The wizard shrugged, then extended his staff and slowly outlined a circle on the floor with it, about nine feet in diameter, Derwyn guessed. It was difficult to tell, because the staff did not leave any mark upon the stone floor. However, even though the circle he’d just laboriously drawn was invisible, Callador seemed to know exactly where its boundaries
?6a
were. Having drawn it with his staff, mumbling some sort of incantation all the while, he next proceeded to remove a vial of some clear liquid, perhaps water, perhaps something more esoteric for all Derwyn knew, which he proceeded to sprinkle around the edges of the circle, again mumbling all the while. He stoppered the vial, though it was now empty, and put it away within the folds of his robes.
Then he removed a small, well-worn leather pouch tied with drawstrings.
From the pouch, he took pinches of herbs, rosemary-Derwyn recognized the bright green needles-mixed with something else. Once again, he went around the outside of the circle, sprinkling the herbs upon the floor.
Now, at least, with a faint dusting of herbs outlining the circle, its boundaries were clearly visible.
Callador took his time carefully pulling the drawstrings of the pouch closed and tying them, then put
it away, reached into another hidden pocket of his robe, and took out several thick candle stubs. He placed four white candle stubs on the floor on the outside of the circle-north, east, south, and west, muttering under his breath as he did so. Finally, he reached into his robe once again and pulled out a piece of chalk.
This time, he went inside the circle and outlined it with the chalk, then drew an arcane rune inside it.
Arwyn sighed and rolled his eyes with impatience. It seemed to be taking an inordinately long time. Finally, however, the wizard finished with his preparations, and he stepped outside the circle, surveying his handiwork and nodding to himself.
“Come on, come on, get on with it,” said Arwyn irritably.
“These matters cannot be rushed, milord,” Callador replied somewhat petulantly. “If the circle is not cast properly and precisely, there is no telling what manner of visitation may occur. These things do not always work out as planned, you know. In case some other entity should force its way into the circle, for safety’s sake, we do want to make sure it is contained.”
“Yes, yes, by all means,” grumbled Arwyn, making little circles with his hand, indicating that the wizard should continue.
Callador grunted and nodded, then made a pass with his hand, and the four white candles stubs ignited. Callador called the quarters, invoking the spirits of fire, water, air, and earth to preside over the circle. That done, he made a brief invocation to the gods, then began to cast the spell. Derwyn couldn’t understand a word of it. He’d seen adepts at work before but increased exposure to magic did not make him any more comfortable with it. There were entirely too many stories about wizards conjuring up some entity and then being slain by their own handiwork. Callador was a master mage, the finest in Boeruine, but even he admitted that magic could be unpredictable. No wizard fully understood the forces he dealt with. Those who claimed they did usually had life expectancies that were very brief.
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