“It should not, Warlord,” said Valdrammis. The kyralf wizard stood at Agravhask’s left. Many of the kyralves opted for careers in the Seven Temples as Ordinariates. Valdrammis had a talent for both violence and the magic of element flame, which had led him to take a role in the armies of the Heptarchy. He was now the commander in charge of all the battle wizards, and a formidable wielder of battle magic himself. Given how scholarly, almost austere, Valdrammis appeared, one would not think he enjoyed violence so very much.
But the surface of things was often deceptive.
Was not Agravhask himself proof of that?
“Good,” said Agravhask. “You have done well.” He saw them swell up with pride at his words. Not much – they knew better than to show it – but to it his eye, it was obvious. But the hearts of others had always been obvious to him, even as a boy before the destruction of Mazulrast.
Which, in a way, had opened his eyes to the truth of the cosmos.
He stood on the stern deck of his flagship, the chief commanders of the host gathered around him. Mayascora, Taztaloria, and a few High Priestesses from the other Seven Temples stood a little apart, watching the gathering with stern disapproval. When they had set out from the Heptarchy, Mayascora had frequently interjected herself into these discussions. But soon her ignorance of military matters had become obvious to all present, and Mayascora had kept silent more often than not.
Even the High Priestess of the Crimson knew the proverb about remaining silent and letting others think you a fool rather than opening your mouth and removing all doubt.
It was, Agravhask thought, almost regrettable. Mayascora was a woman of keen intelligence, able to grasp some of the highest spells of dark magic. Yet as formidable as her intellect was, it was no match for the towering fortress of her pride. She could have mastered strategy, tactics, and logistics as she had mastered dark magic and the internal politics of the Temple of the Crimson. But her pride prevented her, seeing such things as beneath her.
A foolish attitude. Pride was ever the enemy of clear thought. So was humility. Both prevented the mind from seeing the cosmos as it was.
The Warden had nodded with approval when Agravhask had said that.
“The status of the fire drakes?” asked Agravhask.
Milchikai, the commander of the Azrikai engineers, cleared his throat. The blue-tattooed halfling looked diminutive next to the arachar soldiers, but none of the orcs would dare harass him. For one, it would draw Agravhask’s swift wrath, sure and deadly as a lightning stroke. For another, the Azrikai halflings were too valuable. Some of the nations that lived under the yoke of the Heptarchy believed it ill fortune to kill a blacksmith, and something of that attitude had spread through the soldiers. Without the Azrikai, they would have to repair their own armor and weapons and build their own siege engines.
Nor would they have access to the marvelous weapons the madness of the Visionary had produced.
“We set out from the Heptarchy with thirty fire drakes, Warlord,” said Milchikai. “Of that number, I am pleased to say that twenty-two have survived the crossing, and seventeen are healthy enough to use in battle. Two more may recover in time.”
“That is more than we expected,” said Agravhask.
Milchikai bowed. “Thank you, Warlord. We were greatly aided by the fact that the fire drakes were able to hunt fish in the middle of the ocean. Since there are no fishermen in the middle of the sea, the fish are therefore more abundant.” He shrugged. “The soldiers themselves were able to dine on fish quite frequently.”
“And the bombards?” said Agravhask.
Milchikai hesitated. Masters of siege engines though they were, even the Azrikai were intimidated by the bombards. “All ten are ready. I wish to counsel caution in their use, Warlord. The devices are very unstable, and we do not have much ammunition for them.”
“Fear not,” said Agravhask. “We shall use them on the first day of the attack, or not at all.” He turned to Tuldrask. “Tomorrow, we will be only one day from the coast of Andomhaim. The fleet will split into thirds. Tuldrask, you shall take the eastern third, and land within a day’s march east of Cintarra. Valdrammis, you shall command the western third, and land within a day’s march west of the city. I will command the central third myself, and we shall sail for the harbor of Cintarra itself. Our raiders have mapped out the coast thoroughly, and you will land at…”
He fell silent, a stray thought intruding on his mind.
His mind was never quiet, never relaxed. Always it worked, noting details around him, reasoning and deducing and concluding. And when he concentrated, when he worked, few secrets could be hidden from him for long. That had been both his great blessing and his great curse. Agravhask had enjoyed few restful moments in his life…but through wit and cunning, he had risen high in the service of the Seven Temples.
Then Mazulrast had been destroyed, and he had sought a new purpose.
The Warden had given him one.
When he had been a young man, Agravhask had tried various things to dull his mind for a time, to give himself a few moments of peace. Lovemaking had worked at first, as had strong drink, but as he grew older, his interest in the pleasures of the flesh had waned. Violence always worked to clear his thoughts, and he relished the opportunities for battle.
Then after the destruction of his home, he had sought for answers...and he had found them in Urd Morlemoch, the key to remaking the pointless chaos of the cosmos. Now Agravhask always preferred his mind to remain keen in the pursuit of the Warden’s great vision, though he did still enjoy violence a great deal when the opportunity presented itself.
But now his mind noted something amiss with the fleet.
“Come,” commanded Agravhask, and he strode forward. The commanders of the host shared a puzzled look, and then followed him. He felt a flicker of amusement at Mayascora’s loud, exasperated sigh – her emotions were tediously predictable – and the knot of High Priestesses followed him while trying to make it look like that wasn’t what they were doing.
He stopped at the bow of the warship and looked north.
“Warlord?” said Tuldrask.
“Milchikai, a spyglass,” said Agravhask, holding out his hand. Milchikai drew out a collapsible bronze spyglass and passed it up to the Warlord. Agravhask opened it and looked to the north, noting the passage of the longship, the regular lashing of its oars at the waves. It was outpacing the rest of the fleet by a good distance.
“Have we sighted the enemy, Warlord?” said Valdrammis.
“Where is that raider going?” said Agravhask.
The commanders looked to the north and spotted the dark shape of the longship.
“It’s too far ahead of the main fleet,” said Valdrammis.
“I did not order any vessels ahead,” said Tuldrask.
The other commanders demurred as well. By then, the High Priestesses had caught up to them.
“High Priestess,” said Agravhask.
“Warlord,” said Mayascora, her mouth a thin line. Her hatred for him was obvious. It amused Agravhask to no end. She thought he was a loyal servant of the Seven Temples, and she still hated him. If she knew his true allegiance, he wasn’t sure if she would be horrified or validated.
He looked forward to finding out before he killed her.
“Did you dispatch any raiders from the main fleet?” said Agravhask.
Mayascora blinked. She hadn’t expected the question. “Certainly not. We are close to Andomhaim. Sending raiders now might alert the enemy of our presence.”
Of course, the first attack on Cintarra, the attack she had insisted upon, had done that already. Though to hear Mayascora speak now, one would think that no one had ordered the doomed attack, that it had just sort of happened on its own.
Another idea came to his mind.
“Did you send any messages from the flagship today?” said Agravhask.
Mayascora drew herself up with indignation. “The internal business of the Seven Temple
s is the concern of the sisters of the priesthood, Warlord, not the soldiers.”
“Unquestionable,” said Agravhask. The pieces clicked together in his mind, following the chains of logic. “However, I believe we have a spy in our midst.”
Mayascora’s disdain turned into surprise. “A spy?”
“Who could possibly spy upon us?” said Taztaloria. “A human from Andomhaim would be obvious.”
“Andomhaim is not the only nation on the nearby continent,” said Agravhask. “You will recall from your studies, honored priestesses, that the last city of the high elves is located north of Andomhaim. We know that the high elves gave the humans of Andomhaim the ability to use magic and powerful weapons. The survivors of the first attack confirmed that. For some time, I have suspected that a spy was hidden among the ranks of the priestesses.”
He wondered if Mayascora would choose to respond with blame or anger.
“You thought there was a spy among us, and you chose not to inform the priesthood?” said Mayascora haughtily, settling for blame.
“Would you prefer I make unfounded accusations against the servants of the goddesses, High Priestess?” said Agravhask. “That might inspire an unacceptable lack of respect for the priestesses among the common soldiers.” Mayascora scowled as he cut off her argument. “I had hoped to capture this elven spy alive. Unfortunately, she seems to have realized the danger and chose to escape first.”
“How would one spy commandeer a longship?” said Tuldrask. “Unless the crew was in league with her.”
“The spy was most likely disguised either as a lesser priestess or an Ordinariate,” said Agravhask.
Mayascora frowned, comprehension going over her face. “I sent a message to the High Priestess of the Famine today. I dispatched it with Masrivia, one of the priestesses of the Crimson. I ought to have heard back from her by now.”
“I see,” said Agravhask. He had started to speak with the priestesses and Ordinariates aboard the flagship, intending to discover which of them was the spy. But the demands of command had pulled Agravhask away before he could finish, and the Guardian had taken the opportunity to flee.
It was ill luck. Simple random chance and chaos.
The Warden’s new cosmos would be free of such defects.
“You see what?” said Mayascora with annoyance.
“I’m afraid that the priestess Masrivia never existed,” said Agravhask. “Or that the spy killed her and took her identity. Doubtless, she fled north to warn the men of Andomhaim of their peril.”
Mayascora turned to Taztaloria. “Send a messenger to the High Priestess of the Famine immediately! Find out if Masrivia arrived with my letter.”
It was a waste of effort, Agravhask made no effort to interrupt. It would keep Mayascora busy and out of trouble for a few valuable moments.
“Tuldrask,” said Agravhask, and the commander straightened up. “Dispatch four raider ships immediately. Send them after the raider immediately, with instructions to kill the false priestess. Emphasize that she is dangerous and is to be killed as swiftly as possible.” He thought about sending priestesses or battle wizards but decided against it. They would be too valuable in the fighting ahead.
“Warlord,” said Tuldrask, and he ran off to deliver the commands.
“And if the spy escapes?” said Mayascora. “Our entire strategy will be thrown into disarray! The humans will know we are coming and will have time to prepare their defenses.”
“Indeed,” said Agravhask. “But strategies must change once battle commences. Such is the nature of war.” Perhaps it was the reason he enjoyed violence so much, how the chaos of battle could lead to new order. “Circumstances have changed. So too must our strategy.”
“And how shall our strategy change, Warlord?” said Mayascora.
“Our previous strategy rested on the assumption the enemy did not know we were coming,” said Agravhask. “Now, they do. This is how we shall destroy them.”
By the time he finished giving new commands, not even Mayascora had anything to say.
***
Chapter 12: Omens & Portents
Ridmark awoke in the middle of the night.
Calliande lay curled on her side and wrapped in her blanket, her eyes closed, her mouth open a little. Ridmark eased away from her, got to his feet, and stepped into the night. It was a bit chilly, and only three of the thirteen moons were out, providing dim illumination. He walked to the privy trench, where a few other men were dealing with nature’s business, and emptied his bladder.
Once he finished, he looked around, but nothing was amiss. Ridmark could just make out the dim shapes of the sentries standing guard, but otherwise, the camp was silent. Nothing appeared to be wrong. Well, there was a great deal wrong in Andomhaim, but nothing seemed to be wrong just now.
Then why did he have such a feeling of impending doom?
Maybe that was one of the consequences of growing older. The older Ridmark got, the more potential disasters he saw around the corner.
Or perhaps Ridmark had forgotten a dream. That had happened to him several times. Before Morigna had been reborn, she had appeared in his dreams several times to warn him, though he had been unable to retain the memory of her appearances, save as a subconscious impulse.
Perhaps that had happened again.
Disturbing thought, really.
Ridmark walked back to the tent and slipped inside, taking care to remain silent so he didn’t awaken Calliande. Fortunately, his efforts were wasted. Calliande lay in precisely the same position as before, still asleep. A flicker of amusement went through Ridmark. His five years spent traveling the Wilderland had given a considerable amount of skill at stealth…and now he could use that ability to keep from waking his exhausted wife.
She always did push herself too hard.
Ridmark lay down next to her. Another few hours of sleep, he thought. Then another day of moving the army across the river.
He fell asleep.
And in his sleep, Ridmark dreamed.
He stood outside the walls of Rhudlan. The town had burned, and smoke drifted from the charred shells of the houses. No, that wasn’t right. Rhudlan hadn’t burned. If it had, Calliande would have awakened him.
“Father,” said a voice, low and confident.
A woman stood a few paces away, wearing a leather jerkin, trousers, and boots. She had thick black hair and deep blue eyes, eyes that looked familiar…
The recognition came, and the memories. She had appeared in his dreams before.
“Rhoanna?” said Ridmark.
“Father,” said Rhoanna.
“I don’t understand,” said Ridmark. “How is this possible? You’re two years old. I know you have the Sight, more powerfully than Calliande has ever seen it, but…”
She smiled. “I’m not actually Rhoanna, Father. She’s a little girl. But she does have the Sight to such an extent that she can almost grasp the essentially non-linear nature of time.”
Ridmark thought about that.
“Morigna told me the same thing when she was still dead,” said Ridmark. “Because she was no longer flesh, she could see time without the constraints of mortality.”
“I can almost do the same thing,” said Rhoanna. She gestured at herself. “This is the shadow of my future self, of who I might become. Everyone casts potential shadows into the flow of time. That is why those with the Sight can sometimes see the future or a version of it. But I have the Sight so powerfully that the shadow of my potential future self can speak to you.”
“I see,” said Ridmark. He thought about that. “I’ve had versions of this conversation with you before, haven’t I? I have led a very strange life.”
She grinned. “You really have, Father.” Her smile faded. “But I’ve come to warn you about what I can.”
“About Merovech and Aeliana?” said Ridmark.
“No.” Rhoanna shook her head. “You already know about them. They’re dangerous, but not as dangerous as what’s comi
ng. The Guardian is going to ask for your help very soon.”
“The Guardian?” said Ridmark. “Rhodruthain? No. Morigna. She disappeared before you were born, but she has sent visions. She warned me of the dragons, and she warned Accolon that the Heptarchy was about to attack.”
“She’s in trouble,” said Rhoanna. “She foresaw the coming danger and went to stop it, but it was too strong for her to face alone. Now she is just ahead of the storm.”
“Why didn’t you warn her?” said Ridmark.
Rhoanna raised an eyebrow. “Because I hadn’t been born yet when she left.”
That was an excellent reason, Ridmark supposed.
“You need to save her, Father,” said Rhoanna. “She’s the only one who can warn you about what’s happening…and she’s the only one who can show you how to stop the Warden. When she calls, you will have to come for her.”
“I will,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “Third and Selene. Do you know…”
“They’re safe,” said Rhoanna. “Well. As safe as anyone is at the moment. They’re helping the Frankish Empire.” She frowned and looked at the sky. “I think you’re going to have to wake up now. You won’t be able to remember this…but be ready, and I love you.”
Ridmark blinked awake.
He sat up, the light of dawn leaking through the tent flap and into his eyes. Calliande was gone, but her blankets were still warm. She must have just gotten up. For a moment, urgency filled Ridmark.
Something was wrong. He needed to do something.
Ridmark’s hand closed around Oathshield’s hilt, and he stopped himself.
It was quiet, or at least mostly quiet. Outside Ridmark heard the neighing of horses and the stamping of hooves, and the low voices of men in conversation. There was no sign that anything was wrong, or that the camp was under attack.
Why did he feel like something was wrong?
Ridmark shook his head, pulled on his tunic, and stepped outside.
It was a cool morning, the eastern sky brightening behind the towers of Rhudlan. Calliande stood a few paces away, eating a piece of bread. She was wearing trousers and a loose tunic and had a distracted look on her face as she chewed. His first thought was that the cloth of the tunic draped her chest in a very compelling way. Under other circumstances, he might have drawn her into the tent to do something about that, but he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss.
Dragontiarna Page 19