by Steven Poore
Cassia nodded. “It is Caenthell’s way. In all of the stories, the High Kings did the same. They looked for weaknesses, and they seized upon the smallest of fissures and hammered wedges into them until they divided even the most resolute of alliances.”
And such was her father’s way too, she recognised now. He had always looked for a way to tip a balanced scale, to upset equilibrium to further his own ends. He might have worked on a much smaller scale – almost petty in his ambitions, but there was that trace of the High Kings within him. Was that trace within her too, Cassia wondered, or did she really take more after Aliciana?
Havinal straightened and looked around the circle of men inside the closed tent. “Then we will not be weak,” he said. “We will not make it easy for this bastard god of the North to divide us.”
There was silence for a moment. Cassia looked at the blank spaces of the map.
“That is all very well, Havinal, but you say only what we will not do.” Tarves was still the quartermaster’s most vocal critic in the legion’s council, despite the disgrace his family’s name had fallen into. “This evil has posed a question that we must answer.”
“We will not answer it by firing our own towns one by one,” Havinal replied. “That only plays into Caenthell’s hands. What good will it do us to save the North if we must destroy it first? The Emperor will not thank us for such annihilation, and nor will the refugees from those towns.”
“But the rest of this world might have cause to be thankful in that case,” Rais pointed out quietly. The council of officers turned its attention upon him again, and he shrugged languidly with one shoulder. “Your North is one province of an Empire and matters even less than that to, for instance, the great Hordes. Think of it as, perhaps, an infected cut on the back of a man’s hand.”
Several of the officers shifted angrily at the simile, and Cassia felt her own ire rising at the prince’s dismissive attitude. Rais lifted a finger to forestall any argument. “But an infected cut, if not treated immediately, will fester and the infection will spread. You have seen this as often as I have. First the hand, then the whole arm. The soldier denies his own plight until it is too late. The limb withers and must be cut away to save the rest of the man. And even then,” he added sombrely, “it may be too late for him.”
“You are suggesting that the North must be cut away to save the rest of the world,” Cassia said. In some respects that was what Malessar had done to begin with. He had removed the entire kingdom of Caenthell from the world, sealed it away behind curse wards for centuries as a punishment for the betrayals he had suffered, and ironically that had proved the birth of this evil that now looked to consume everything under the sun. Caenthell had festered for centuries, perhaps leaking into the world like pus through a bandage – how else to explain the way that Pyraete had sustained Baum’s hatred for so many years – until those patched defences were breached at last.
“Does the hand have any say in this matter?” Hetch asked sourly.
Rais shrugged again. “I merely suggest a perspective.”
“Infections rarely attack the surgeon who treats them,” another officer said.
“Did I say it was an accurate perspective?”
Cassia suppressed a smile. “You might if you say that Devrilinum has been cauterised.”
“Which brings us back to the original point,” Rais said, leaning forward with an intent frown. “This is no infection, true – it is far more intelligent than that – but it can be resisted and driven back. Devrilinum is ours.”
“For all the good acres of scorched earth and tumbled stone will do us,” Hetch muttered.
“Devrilinum is ours,” Rais repeated, “and the mists have retreated. All of the reports from Teon’s men suggest Caenthell has been forced back into the deeper valleys to the north and the east. Where the ground has been burned by dragonfire, Caenthell’s hold has been severed.”
He picked up one of the stubs of charcoal that sat in a small bowl to one side of the map, sketching three sides of a square around the symbol that marked Devrilinum’s place in the North.
“Like so. As though the beasts have made boundaries. This far, and no further.”
That idea troubled Cassia, and she could see how much it worried some of the other officers, but she knew she could not afford to be distracted. Not if Rais had truly discovered some way to limit the High King’s advance. She met the prince’s gaze and found him grim-faced, more serious than ever before. He was not comfortable with the fact that Craw had chosen to throw its lot in with Hellea. The dragon’s price would always have to be paid.
“I rode out earlier with some of Teon’s men,” Rais explained. “I saw the burned ground for myself, and I can only liken it to the way a healer may burn flesh to avoid infection. If not for those boundaries, Caenthell would surely have rolled over us during the night. Instead it has reeled backwards. It will not approach that ground, like man cannot walk on water.”
For a moment Cassia thought of Pelicos, who had walked upon water, if the stories were not completely untrue.
Be as Pelicos. The trickster, the hero. He would not have sat in endless debate over what to do next. This whole affair was like one of his stories, or one of the tales of the Age of Talons, and Cassia was beginning to think the only way to keep her sanity in the face of overwhelming pressure was to treat it as such. And in that case . . .
She traced a route from Devrilinum, past Keskor, to where she thought the ancient road into Caenthell must begin. She remembered looking down from the side of the mountain on Caenthell’s borders, just before the fort of Karakhel, wondering then whether her father still lived in the lands below. She had not recognised the contours of the landscape from that height, but surely it would be easy enough to reach Karakhel with a small force if the High King’s attention was distracted elsewhere.
“Craw,” she said aloud.
Rais frowned at her. “The dragon, yes. What of it?”
The bitter tang was sharp on her tongue, though Cassia had not noticed the tent flap move to admit any newcomer. Without looking up she took another charcoal stub and marked a place to the east of the March, between Keskor and Devrilinum.
“You know that place,” she said.
“Of course. Gethista.” The dragon moved silently to the table and stood close to her. “No army could have any interest in a site slighted by the gods generations before the High Kings fell.”
If any amongst the legion’s council had wanted to escape, then the very weight of Craw’s presence in the tent prevented them from moving at all. Across the table Rais stood with his fists clenched so tight his knuckles gleamed white. Both Havinal and Tarves appeared as children next to the dragon, their authority eclipsed absolutely.
Craw touched the map with one long index finger. A talon, Cassia thought.
“A dead place. Only the stones remain.”
“Not only the stones,” Cassia disagreed. Why else would Baum have travelled there, if the journey did not benefit Caenthell in some way? She was careful not to ask that question aloud however, noting too that Craw avoided any word that could be construed as a question. He would not fall foul of that trap again.
“Perhaps,” Craw said. “Yet Gethista lies outside the borders of Caenthell itself.”
“It does,” Cassia said. She waited, letting the silence within the tent drag uncomfortably, but it seemed Craw would not be drawn further. “And that is why we want it.”
Rais blinked. “We do?”
She nodded firmly. “Trust me.”
Rais shared an opaque look with Havinal. Somewhere in the darkness at the edge of the tent, Cassia heard Arca’s rasping cough.
“Gethista,” Attis murmured. “Another legend of the North. What will you do with it? Is it defensible? Is Gethista the key to our victory?”
Cassia marked another cross on the map, this one further to the west. “In the Age of Talons there was a tale of a hero who explored the Dragontail Pass. You must kno
w it.”
“Yes,” said Craw, though it was not clear if the dragon meant the story, or the pass itself.
“I will need that land cleared too.”
She felt Craw’s gaze burrowing into her, the dragon’s intelligence attempting to penetrate her own defences. She let the rhythm of the war drums rise up to disguise her intentions, just as she had done before.
“Perhaps you intend that I should save the entire North for you,” Craw said.
“No,” she replied. “Just three paths.”
“I see only two.”
Cassia marked a straight line from Devrilinum towards where she felt Karakhel should be. “Here is the third. The obvious route into Caenthell.”
The dragon stared at her as though awaiting a fuller explanation, while her other officers looked down at the map in confusion. For a moment Craw’s presence was forgotten while they puzzled over her strategy.
“This makes no sense,” Attis complained. “Two paths from legend, and a third I have never heard of at all. What do you intend, Cassia?”
“We do not have so many men that we can afford to divide into three separate forces,” Havinal said. Cassia saw him flick a quick, nervous glance at Craw. “Even if we are reinforced by . . .”
Rais smiled without humour when the old quartermaster’s words tailed off. “Even if we are reinforced by a dragon.”
“She’s trying to kill us,” Hetch said suddenly. “She’ll take us up against that bloody fog and then abandon us. She takes after her father.”
Cassia stared at him, incredulous, all attempts at calm dropped to focus on his accusation. The terror she could hear in Hetch’s voice had the potential to infect everybody else within the tent, even without Craw’s presence. She thought she had explained matters to him well enough after he had told her of his encounter in Escalia with Norrow – that her father must have succumbed to the torment of the drums inside his head, but that Cassia herself was far stronger than he could ever be and she would not allow her mistake to go uncorrected. But now she saw in him the same fear that Vescar had shown before he tried to kill her. Fear for himself, more than for anyone else.
Just like an Almoul, she thought sourly.
“Would you prefer that we simply run away?” she asked, taking a step closer to him. She took an angry pleasure in the way Hetch flinched from her. “If it was up to me, if it was merely some story that my father told in his cups, then we should confront this evil with flaming swords and drive it back into the ground with the gods at our backs. Do you see any gods, Hetch? Do you have a blade that shines with fire? Because unless you have any better ideas – unless any among you have a better plan than mine – then we will all have to march North into Caenthell and face death. And though I grow sick of saying this again and again, I will repeat myself just once more. If we do not stand together, then we will fall.”
She paused and looked around at them all. Every man amongst them wore an expression that mixed fear, horror and determination in varying amounts. From Havinal and Tarves, whose blunt, unimaginative understanding of the world around them reduced everything to quantities and values, to the men who had accompanied her from Hellea, and whose eyes had been opened years ago by brief encounters with one or other of the two warlocks who had created this infernal mess. They all stared back at her and, for once, not one of them tried to argue with her.
“I certainly do not intend to lead this army into the mountains in order to kill it,” she said after a moment, forcing some of the anger from her voice. She remembered what Meredith had said one night, so long ago. “My flesh and blood is of the North. I will save every man, woman and child I possibly can.”
“And the North will rise again,” Craw finished, with a twisted smile that Cassia did not like.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” This was not about controlling the future. It was about healing the past. Craw’s perspective would be different to her own.
“So long as you remember that this is no story,” Attis said quietly.
Cassia looked at him. “I know that,” she said. “I know that all too well.”
She turned back to the map, resting her index finger on the cross that represented Gethista. “The bulk of the infantry and the train should head for Gethista and look to fortify it. As though you would intend to dominate the surrounding area, or to raid Keskor, and so that if Jedrell’s force was to move southwards it would leave one flank open, and vulnerable to attack.”
Havinal frowned. “A conventional approach? But we do not face a conventional foe. And if you will split our own forces, who will lead this part of the march?”
Cassia had already thought of this. She was certain the High King would be able to see their approach, to infiltrate their camp at will even if only to observe. She was not concerned about this conference – there was a dragon present, after all, and surely Jedrell would not dare interfere here after Craw had destroyed Devrilinum. The Gethista-bound column had to draw the High King’s attention from her true intentions. At least for a while. So . . .
“You will, sir,” she told the quartermaster. “And you, Tarves.”
“Lead an army to a place that doesn’t exist?” Tarves said. “How in the hells do you expect us to do that?”
“You will have a guide,” Cassia promised.
“And the other two routes?” Rais prompted. “It’s plain this first march is a distraction. A feint.”
Tarves looked surprised. “Is it?”
The prince ignored him, his attention fixed on Cassia. She felt uncomfortable, but forced herself to meet his gaze. “Of course.”
“So which route are we to take in our invasion of Caenthell?”
Cassia moved her finger across the map to where she believed the Dragontail Pass to be. “Your cavalry will continue west, burning their way around the foothills and forcing the High King to divide his attention between you and the main camp at Gethista.”
Rais lifted his chin, unimpressed by that. Clearly he expected to be at her side every step of the way. “And will I, too, have a guide to show me the way? I would hate to get lost in some obscure thicket.”
Cassia smiled at him. “I think I can provide a suitable guide for a prince.”
He frowned, momentarily allowing uncertainty to bleed through his practiced arrogance. “What do you expect a small force to achieve by that route?”
“Raise every shade of hell you can,” she replied bluntly. “The more you can do there, and the more Havinal can achieve at Gethista, the more chance I will have of penetrating Caenthell itself.”
“I,” Rais repeated. “You mean to go alone? That would be suicide!”
Cassia lifted a hand to calm his protest. “Not alone. I’ll take the shieldmen.”
Rais shook his head. “Not good enough, Cassia. You will need more than simple stone to protect you on that road.”
“Aye,” Attis agreed firmly.
She hoped none of them heard the tremors of fear behind her confidence. “I’m certain Craw will be equal to anything that Jedrell might attempt.”
The dragon smiled. “I have not said that I will accompany you.”
“You have not said that you will not,” Cassia pointed out. “I’m certain you will wish to protect your interests.”
The tent was silent for a long moment. Cassia forced herself to look into the dragon’s eyes, to stare him down. If she was right, then Craw’s own agenda, whatever it might be, would require him to go with her into the mountains, back to Karakhel. If not . . . well, all the stories she knew told of heroes that died swift and merciful deaths. She could hope for that much.
The dragon’s smile widened. “Hail, Cassia Cat’s-Paw, Heir to the North.”
22
Another bleak, miserable morning. At least, Cassia’s body told her it was morning: her muscles felt tight and thoroughly tired, and she could not shift the hot pain that sat behind her eyes. It had been impossible to summon the strength or the concentration to run through Meredith’s
forms one last time, and that meant she faced this final stage of the journey into Caenthell feeling distinctly unprepared.
Even the fact that she rode at the head of a column of shieldmen, with more torch-bearing stone warriors further ahead and out on the flanks to beat back any attempt by the High King to bring extra pressure upon them, no longer filled her with confidence. And the sinuous, dark weight of Craw’s presence, occasionally visible in the mists overhead, only served to unsettle her further. It was a constant reminder that the dragon’s support was conditional.
It was only natural that she should be experiencing doubts. The closer she came to Caenthell, the more demanding the war drums in her head became. Join us. Fear us. Join us. The relentless beating wore her down, preventing her from resting. Staving off exhaustion was as much a battle as anything else she had to do before her army took up its final positions in the field. The foul concoction Attis had drugged her with after her fight with – her murder of – Vescar Almoul helped her to sleep, but she never felt rested on waking afterwards. There was simply too much to worry about; too many ways in which everything could still go wrong. Too many moments where she would have to rely on others rather than upon herself. And if she mistrusted other people, then she trusted her own judgement only a little more.
It was fissures such as this one that the war drums sought to lever open. On top of that there was the fear – no, the knowledge – that whatever she tried, she was condemning men to their deaths. No matter how she sought to minimise the risks to those who had accompanied her into the North, the High King was too powerful for her to confront on her own. Cassia needed Havinal, Attis, Tarves and Rais to offer themselves as distractions so she could strike against Caenthell with a counter-punch, but as they did, so she knew that she would most likely never see them again.