King's Shield (44 page)

“The docks will all have to be rebuilt,” he said.

“The Idayagans can do it,” Dag Erkric replied, and then turned to the prince.

The way he did it burned warning through Durasnir. He’d turned too soon, not with the manner of seeing if the prince had anything to say, but as if giving him a prompt.

Sure enough. Prince Rajnir said, “Oneli Commander Talkar sent a dispatch just before you came, Hyarl my Commander.” He flickered his fingers, indicating a dispatch box. “He says they still do not have the castle gates down, even though he’s been there since yesterday! If Talkar’s men can’t get the gates down, I desire the Yaga Krona to help them. Since you are going to inspect there next, you may carry my will to Talkar.”

Behind the prince, Dag Erkric smiled.

“As you wish, my prince.” Durasnir made his obeisance.

Erkric said smoothly, “I would be glad to send you directly to the
Cormorant
by transfer magic.”

Prince Rajnir smiled. “It is a good idea. It will be so much faster.”

The dag might have meant it for a courtesy, though he rarely did anything for a single reason.

“I thank you both, my prince, Dag Erkric. But I wish to finish inspecting the harbor so that we may begin rebuilding the sooner. We will need it.”

Prince Rajnir exclaimed, “Yes. Yes! You always know what is right, Hyarl my Commander.”

Durasnir saluted in peace mode, wondering if the prince really understood why “Hyarl my Commander” was insisting on traditional travel: because despite all the talk about expedience, and quick-thinking aid, and adaptation being equivalent of the bending Tree against harsh winds,
magic is not used in war.

A direct order from the prince must be obeyed. And the method of delivery made Durasnir a messenger-ensign. He must take the order to Talkar, which would signal to everyone that Durasnir was part of this shift away from tradition to using magic in war.

Therefore, Durasnir refused the offering of magic transfer. He took his time in finishing his inspection of Trad Varadhe’s harbor, and then had himself rowed back to the
Cormorant,
his flagship. He signaled for his raiders to assume fleet battle stations as they sailed west from Trad Varadhe to Sala Varadhe, or Castle Andahi.

The Marlovans were there, defending it with life and blood, so he may as well adapt to their name for it.

The trip itself was all too short a distance, the shore winds having shifted to speed them along.

They reached the bay on the morning tide. He signaled for the fleet to anchor outside in the roads, as the bay itself was filled with the advance force’s ships. As his crew went about their duty, he raised his glass to scan the horizon, where the bulk of the fleet tacked and tacked again, polishing the coast as they waited for orders to land the army. They were a fine sight, on strict station all across the horizon.

By the time Durasnir had finished breakfast and inspected his ship, no messengers awaited him with the hoped-for news. The gates to Castle Andahi remained closed.

So Commander Durasnir set out to deliberately waste time.

He summoned his personal ensigns to get him into his heavy formal battle tunic again, and to have himself clasped back into his armor.

He brushed his hair out, rebraided it, and settled his winged helm on his head to his satisfaction.

He toured his ship on inspection again, pretending not to see covert looks of annoyance from his men interrupted in their duty rhythm.

He ate a biscuit while reading the newest dispatches—all three of them. He read them twice.

Finally he sent a polite message to Falk Ulaffa, the dag in charge of the prince’s Yaga Krona, sequestered in study down in the dags’ cabins, in case he wanted a ride instead of using transfer magic like the dags usually did. He issued orders for the boats, adding that the Drenga must find some mounts so that he could proceed by horse up the newly-secured road to the castle, after an inspection of the aftermath of the landings.

That ought to take up plenty of time, he reasoned, since the local tides did not cooperate, being mild. Maybe by then Talkar would have those gates opened.

He was surprised when Dag Ulaffa accepted his invitation. Getting the old dag over the side and into the boat on a brisk sea wasted more time.

He climbed down, taking care that the frisky breeze just kicking up did not disturb the wings on his helm. He settled himself, asked the dag if he was comfortable. Ulaffa gave him an absent smile, and responded in the affirmative.

The men picked up the oars and pulled for shore.

Durasnir remained in the longboat until the marines had beached it, their usual smooth, swift competence more speedy than ever, directly under the eye of their commander. When you’re at war, there’s no way to tell your men to slack off, he thought wryly.

He stepped out of the command longboat. Ulaffa fumbled his way out of the boat with the painstaking care of the elderly who seldom are put to physical exertion.

Ulaffa bunched his robe up, extending a sandaled foot and setting it cautiously in the water. Then he trod with uncertain steps on the tide-washed beach shingle. He was so slow and deliberate one would almost think he was in secret sympathy with Durasnir and the army. But reading one’s own emotions into others, especially the prince’s own dags, was at best dangerous, at worst deliberately blinding to true motives. The Oneli and Hilda were forbidden to interact with the Erama Krona, the royal bodyguards. Durasnir did not know the strict wording of rules governing the mixing of the Yaga Krona and the Sea Dags, but he assumed they had a similar custom.

His efficient Drenga had somehow managed to secure a mount from the Hilda.

Durasnir turned away, scanning the shoreline road marked by darkened bloodstains. Here the last of the Marlovan jarl’s defenders trying to reach the castle had been cut off and stood their ground to the end.

It had been a tough fight, the silent party discovered as they proceeded, weapons and mail jingling, at a stately pace. Bloodstains splashed all the way up the shingle to the rising land below the castle, stains soon to be diminished by rain, wind, and hooves and boots when the army landed to march up the pass.

Shortly before noon they arrived at the outer walls of Castle Andahi. The sweep of the great road to the mountains had been bisected by a massive landslide—not for the first time in history—which meant the only access to the road was directly through the castle. It was a crude defense, but it had been successful many centuries before.

Not against the Venn.

He paused a way from the outer curtain wall, studying the castle, an impressive structure nearly a thousand years old, much reinforced since then by ring within ring of massive walls and iron-reinforced gates made of the whole trunks of trees. What had been the cost of
that?
Or had the ancestors of these Idayagans ignored the wood guilds and mage councils, so far away on the other side of the continent . . . and was their decline a direct result of that?

Perhaps only Ulaffa could answer such a question. The old dag was studying the mountain heights under a shading hand, his blue robe blowing about his sandaled feet.

Time to get to business, distasteful as it was.

Approaching hoofbeats caused another halt as three riders traversed the scrubby land. The neat rows of tents belonging to the advance force lined the lower slope a short distance behind them.

The two snapping banners behind the riders sharpened into detail: one, the Owl-in-Hunt of Talkar’s House, the other, the Great Tree Ydrasal. Talkar’s jowly face resolved out of the dust as he and his banner-bearers drew near, the three golden rings of the Hilda Stalna, the army commander, embroidered on the upper right arm of his battle tunic gleaming softly: no one wore torcs into battle. Durasnir wore his torcs as a subtle reminder that he was here not to interfere with command but as courier only.

Talkar’s gaze flicked from Durasnir’s arm to his face. His expression was grimmer than usual under his gleaming winged helm.

He can’t get the gates down,
Durasnir thought, as Talkar slowed and saluted, hands together then opened out.
Damnation.
“Your report?”

Talkar stated, “The gate is stronger than we had estimated.”

“It is the prince’s will that we use the aid of the dags,” Durasnir said.

The man’s face tightened as he saluted, palms together.

Durasnir turned Ulaffa’s way.

The dag said, “It will take until sundown to prepare. If you will pardon me, Commanders, I will summon the mages appointed by Dag Erkric, and we will begin the preparations.”

So Talkar has until sundown,
Durasnir thought.
And now I would take any oath that Ulaffa is also dragging a sail.

Ulaffa climbed with difficulty from his mount. His sandals crunched on the sandy gravel as he paced slowly away, the soft breeze carrying whispered fragments of his magic spells.

Talkar raised his gauntleted hand, and the banner-bearers halted. He and Durasnir rode down a short, rocky slope toward the long beach of shingle, ostensibly to give the dag plenty of room for his spell casting, but in truth well out of earshot.

“This order was spoken directly to you?” Talkar asked finally, after another tight-lipped, nostril-flaring silence.

The great siege engines the army had counted on taking from the other two northern castles had been so thoroughly destroyed there was no patching them together. And on Dag Erkric’s orders, they had not brought over the implements for making their own, full as the ships had been with men, horses, and their own supplies.
We will use their own weapons against the two or three castles they have on this coast,
Erkric had said to the prince, who agreed with enthusiasm.
Next year, when we must penetrate to the formidable Marlovan castles inland, that is the time to fill holds with the big siege weapons, if we cannot build our own out of materials we find in Idayago.

Dag Erkric’s reasoning sounded sensible, and it certainly solved the immediate problem: use the dags to loosen the bindings in the gates to bring them down. It wasn’t fighting, it was merely the opposite of repair.

But they were using it. And if it was successful now, what would the next step be? Mages riding at their shoulders, perhaps whispering spells to ensorcel their brains, make their arms swing the sword harder and their feet march faster, without any thought on the part of the warrior?

“It is Prince Rajnir’s will,” Durasnir said finally. “Spoken in my presence.”

Talkar touched his fingers in acceptance, but turned his head to hide his loathing. He suspected that Erkric wasn’t sending these orders over the prince’s name, he was getting the prince to issue them himself. And forcing Durasnir to do it before the men’s eyes made it look like the Oneli felt the Hilda could not carry out their orders on their own. It was yet another tactic meant to cause ill will between Oneli and Hilda.

Talkar faced eastward, away from the castle where his men strained with chains and horses, and brooded.

At least he’d personally overseen the dispatch of the Jarl of Arveas. A clean death, Talkar had made certain of that, despite Erkric’s hints he would like a Marlovan commander or two to experiment with, if any were captured. Since the prince had said nothing about the disposition of enemies, Talkar and his Battle Chiefs had agreed that an honorable enemy—especially one who’d put up such a brave fight—did not deserve mind-torture by magic, the way Erkric had done with that Wafri fellow, before he went mad and hurled himself directly off a castle wall to smash on the rocks below. The very idea of taking prisoners was dishonorable in the eyes of the Venn warriors, because they were asking their enemy to dishonor himself by throwing down his weapon. Talkar suspected the Marlovans felt the same.

Durasnir broke into these degrading thoughts with a question marching uncomfortably parallel. “Any sign of the Jarl’s heir?”

“No.” Talkar removed his helm, careful not to poke himself with one of the stiff upswept white wings, the lacquered white feathers wired into place. He wiped his damp forehead, then resettled the helm carefully over his meager knot of hair. “He might be in the castle.” He glanced back at where Ulaffa was carefully tramping out a square—probably a transfer square. Talkar hated the way the old man mumbled under his breath, like whispering secrets under your very ears. He hated the way magic made his arm hairs bristle in a kind of warning, like lightning about to strike. “What surprises me more is that there has been no recent message from the mage scout Erkric had promised was stationed on the highest pinnacle, overlooking the narrowest portion of the pass. I was given a scroll case into which she was to send me reports of anyone she saw and killed.”

“Dag Erkric has dags killing people?” Durasnir asked sharply.

Talkar turned his fingers skyward in assent, his expression grim. “And I did get a report, right after we landed. She spotted and killed two messengers sent up the pass. But since then no word.”

Durasnir did not ask why Talkar had sent no query. To do so would indicate a want, or a need, for dag interference in military matters. So the Hilda Commander would keep silent.

Talkar blew out his cheeks, then added, “Any news since our landing?” A wave of his hand indicated the northern shore of Idayago.

“Yes. You remember the murder of our observers here.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a context. Talkar touched his fingers together.

“Dag Erkric was in the process of replacing our military scouts with dags to be used as scouts. Like your dag on the pinnacle.”

“Right, I understand.”

“You apparently did not know that they all vanished overnight?”

“No, I did not.” Talkar glanced at the mountain heights above the pass. Maybe that explained the sudden lack of reports from Dag Mekki. “Vanished, or dead?”