War Maid's Choice-ARC (63 page)

“Well, it’s always possible he’s actually been inclining in that direction gradually for quite a while,” Brayahs pointed out. “He’s not the sort to give radically different advice without having spent the time to consider it carefully first.”

“No, he isn’t...even if that does seem to be exactly what he’s done.”

Myacha set her cup down very precisely on its saucer, folded her hands on the edge of the table, and leaned over them towards Brayahs.

“It’s not just the change in his position that concerns me,” she said very, very quietly. “It’s that...it’s that when I look at him, there’s something...
wrong
.” Her expression was frustrated, and she gave her shoulders an impatient shake. “It’s like...like he’s casting two shadows, Brayahs. I know that doesn’t make any sense, and it doesn’t really describe what I feel like I’m seeing, but it’s the closest I can come. It’s just...wrong,” she repeated.

Brayahs sat very still, his own expression blank, as only a master mage’s expression could be, yet a sudden, cold tingle went through him.

The magi of Norfressa, the Order of Semkirk, knew far more about the art of wizardry than anyone outside the Order probably even imagined. Among other things, the Axe Hallow Academy was the keeper of the entire library Wencit of Rūm had managed to save out of the wreck of Kontovar. No mage could use wizardry, of course. Indeed, the mage talents and wizardry were mutually exclusive, and that was one thing which had made the Axe Hallow Academy and the Council of Semkirk the logical keepers and protectors of Wencit’s manuscripts and notes.

As long as the object was to keep them out of than hands of other
wizards
, at least.

Brayahs had wondered, on occasion, why Wencit had never attempted to reconstitute the White Council of Ottovar here in Norfressa. Oh, immediately after the Fall, in the face of the refugees’ hatred and distrust of anything smacking of wizardry—aside from Wencit himself, perhaps—the decision against training a new generation of wizards had undoubtedly made sense. But that had been twelve hundred years ago, and Brayahs knew of his own personal knowledge that the “art” was far from extinct among the descendents of those long-ago refugees. Surely Wencit had to have at least considered the possibility of rebuilding the White Council, training wizards to support him against the threat of Kontovar and the Council of Carnadosa!

Yet he’d never made a single move in that direction. Instead, he’d devoted himself to building and training the Council of Semkirk, as if he, too, had concluded that wizardry was simply too dangerous. That if the Empire of Ottovar, with all its power and all the legacy of Ottavar the Great and Gwynytha the Wise, had been unable to prevent its abuse in Kontovar, then
no one
could. He didn’t want to create a new generation of wizards; he wanted to exterminate the art of wizardry entirely, and in the magi he’d found a counterweight, possibly even the weapon which ultimately, in the fullness of time, would accomplish that extermination.

Whatever his thinking, he’d seen to it that the Council of Semkirk had all the information he could give it about wizards and wizardry, and Brayahs Daggeraxe was a wizard sniffer. He probably knew more about the art of wizardry than any other nonwizard ever born, and that was why Baroness Myacha’s words had sent that chill through him.

Myacha was no mage. He was certain of that, and, for that matter, no mage would have perceived what she seemed to be describing the way that she’d just described it. But someone with the Gift, someone who with the proper training, the proper awareness, could have become a wizard herself, might well have the True Sight. And someone who had the True Sight might describe a glamour, or an enchantment, or even—if they were sensitive enough—simply the residue of an arcane working, in exactly that way.

Chapter Thirty

“It’s amazing how much easier the tunnel made this,” Trianal Bowmaster said, shaking his head bemusedly. He sat at a plainly made table of unvarnished planks with Bahzell, Vaijon, Prince Arsham, Yurgazh Charkson, and Tharanalalknarthas zoi’Harkanath, who’d accompanied him on the last leg of his journey from Hurgrum, while unseasonal rain pattered noisily on the roof and distant thunder grumbled somewhere to the south. Sir Yarran was absent, occupied with settling in the troops Trianal had just brought in from the West Riding...which included at least one wind rider Trianal would have much preferred to leave behind.

“The weather was miserable all the way down,” he continued, “but getting troops down the Escarpment in some sort of order is a whole lot simpler this way.”

“So long as you’ve got permission to use it, at any rate,” Arsham said dryly, and Trianal chuckled.

“Works both ways, Your Highness. With all due respect, I doubt if even hradani could fight their way through the tunnel with an entire Sothōii army waiting at the other end for them,” he pointed out, and it was Arsham’s turn to laugh.

“And speaking of weather,” Trianal said, glancing at Tharanalalknarthas, “I have to say that this”—he waved at the rough but sturdily constructed walls of the building in which they sat and the coal-fired iron stove in one corner—“is a lot more pleasant than sleeping in another wet bivouac.”

“I wish we had walls and a solid roof for everyone, Milord,” Tharanal replied. “We never planned on a force this large last winter, when we were allocating construction materials and crews for the expedition.”

“Believe me, no apologies are necessary,” Trianal assured him. “We may not have a
solid
roof for everyone, but at least we’ve got everyone under canvas. Trust me,” he grimaced wryly, “Sothōii armsmen will take that as a major improvement over what we usually get in the field.”

Laughter rumbled around the table, but Trianal had a point, Bahzell reflected. Tharanal had traveled along with Trianal for the express purpose of coordinating the supply of their suddenly larger field force, and while sheltering in tents and under tarpaulins was hardly pleasant in this sort of weather, it really was better than most Sothōii armies could have anticipated. Or hradani ones, for that matter. His father had made huge improvements in the Northern Confederation’s quartermaster’s corps (in fact, he’d
created
the quartermaster’s corps and hired dwarvish advisors to help establish its duties and training), yet it was still decidedly on the bare-bones side. Not even Bahnak of Hurgrum could have reorganized all of his supply arrangements for an army which had suddenly more than tripled its anticipated size.

“As to that,” Arsham said after a moment, “I’m in agreement with Sir Trianal, Tharanal. I am a little nervous about how long we can keep the force provisioned now that’s it’s concentrated, though.”

“
That
part shouldn’t be a problem.” Tharanal shrugged. “I’m not saying it won’t cost a pretty penny, but most of the actual food’s coming directly from the Confederation, not over the rails from the canal head. It’s just a matter of getting it onto enough barges and the barges down the river, and Prince Bahnak’s building even more hulls in Hurgrum. To be honest, it’s likely to be a bigger problem once you break camp and begin your campaign. As long as you stay close enough to the river, we’ll be able to supply you easily enough, but we don’t have the draft animals or the wagons to haul provisions any great distance overland, especially in this kind of weather.”

There was no laughter in response to
that
remark, Bahzell noticed. Ghouls didn’t bother with things like roads, and the Ghoul Moor had been so thoroughly soaked over the last few weeks that the wheels of even Dwarvenhame wagons would sink to hubs in trackless mud in very short order. Transporting the necessary quantities of food and fodder for the Sothōii’s horses would quickly overwhelm the limited number of pack animals they had, as well, and no army could support itself by foraging on the Ghoul Moor. Small foraging parties would be all too likely to be swarmed under by ghouls, and there wasn’t all that much to forage
for
, anyway.

“Hopefully, that won’t be an issue,” Vaijon said, glancing across the table again at Yurgazh, who’d actually carried out most of planning while he awaited the reinforcements’ arrival. “We’re not planning on getting more than a day or two’s march from the river. We’ll issue each man five days’ rations before we head inland; with what the mule train can carry, that should give us at least eight days before food becomes a problem. Fodder’s going to be more of an issue, actually, but we’re late enough into the summer that we can graze the horses for at least some of what we’re going to need.”

“As to that,” Bahzell rumbled with the sort of wry resignation, “it’s in my mind as how feeding all our people’s likely the least of our worries.”

“Oh?” Arsham cocked his ears at him.

Theoretically, the Bloody Sword prince had come down by barge solely to attend this conference. He was supposed to be returning to Hurgrum the next day, although Bahzell entertained a few doubts about just how rigorously Arsham intended to hew to his official schedule. The same thing was true of another prince the Horse Stealer could think of, for that matter.

“Is that simply a prediction based on experience, or do you have a specific reason for thinking that?” Arsham continued. “The sort of specific reason that, oh, a champion of Tomanāk might have, for instance?”

“I’ll not be saying as how it’s anywhere near to ‘specific’ as I might be wishing,” Bahzell replied. “Mind, we’ve every one of us more experience than we’d like as to how what can go wrong does, yet it’s something nasty Walsharno and I have been smelling this last two weeks.”

“And me,” Vaijon put in grimly. Bahzell cocked an ear at him, and the younger man shrugged. “It’s stronger down here on the Ghoul Moor, Bahzell, but I’ve been feeling it all the way from Hurgrum. I don’t know what it is, but I do know we’re not going to like it very much when we meet it.”

“And this is supposed to be a surprise?” Trianal asked, looking back and forth between the two champions with a raised eyebrow. In that moment, despite the difference in their coloration and ages, he looked very like his uncle, Bahzell thought.

“I’m sure there have been other summers as rainy as this one,” Trianal continued dryly. “The only problem is that no one I’ve been able to ask about it can remember when those other summers might have been. That includes your father and anyone else in Hurgrum, Bahzell, so some of those memories go back the better part of two centuries.” He snorted. “Anyone—or anything—who can arrange to dump this much rain on our heads is pretty likely to come under the heading of ‘something nasty,’ don’t you think?”

“Aye, you’ve a point there,” Bahzell acknowledged.

“What worries me more,” Yurgazh said frankly, “is why somebody or something that can actually control the weather has waited this long to do anything except rain on us.” The Bloody Sword general shook his head, ears half flattened. “I guess it’s possible rain is
all
it can produce, but I’m not very inclined to base our planning on that. And if it can do more than rain, why wait until we’ve reinforced before it starts doing it? Why not take us earlier, when we had less than a third this much strength?”

“I’d like to think it was because the presence of two champions of Tomanāk gave it pause,” Vaijon said frankly, grinning tightly at Bahzell. “And I don’t know
what
whoever or whatever it is might be capable of, Yurgazh, but I take your point. You’re wondering if it’s just been waiting until we offered it a bigger, juicier mouthful, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” Yurgazh said, and shrugged. “Mind you, I know it sounds a bit foolish, given that we’re talking about ghouls, but this entire campaign’s been...wrong for an expedition against ghouls.” His expression was grim. “I’m no champion, and the gods know I’m no wizard, but I’ve got a hradani’s nose, and it smells the stink of wizardry.”

Eyes met around the table. All of them—including Trianal, now—knew what dark wizardry had done to the hradani in Kontovar during the Fall. Knew how the Council of Carnadosa had enslaved every hradani who fell into its grasp. Knew how the Carnadosans had driven them against the forces of the Empire of Ottovar, using them as unwilling, ravening sword fodder to overwhelm the last defenders of the White Council...and leaving them with the curse of the Rage.

“I’m thinking you’ve the right of that, Yurgazh,” Bahzell said after a moment. “But wizardry’s not the only stink
my
nose is after smelling. There’s more—and worse, I’m thinking—behind that stink.”

“Wonderful!” Trianal shook his head. “I don’t suppose you’ve managed to get hold of Wencit to ask
him
about it, have you?”

“Now that I haven’t,” Bahzell replied. “Mind, he’s not in easy fellow for a letter to be catching up with. And he’s a way of coming and going as suits himself best, but I’ll not deny it’s easier I’d be in my own mind if he and those eyes of his were to be walking in that door”—he twitched his head in the direction of the blockhouse’s door—“this very moment.”

“Not even Wencit of Rūm can be everywhere,” Vaijon pointed out. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t be just as happy to see him as you are, Bahzell, but he’s usually got enough on his plate to keep at least a dozen white wizards busy, and there’s only one of him. Besides, unless I’m mistaken, you and Walsharno and I are the champions around here, aren’t we?”

“That we are.” Bahzell nodded with a slow smile. “And while I’d not want any of our lads to be getting their heads swelled, it’s not so very bad a little army we have here. Betwixt Trianal’s cavalry, Yurgazh’s infantry, and the Order, I’m thinking whatever might be minded to make us that ‘juicier mouthful’ of yours is like to find itself just a bit of a bellyache before all’s said and done.”

“Good,” Trianal said and looked at Yurgazh and Prince Arsham. “I’d like to give my lot a day or two to rest the horses before we move out. The day after tomorrow, you think?”

“Yes,” Yurgazh said without even glancing at Arsham, and the Navahkan prince smiled slightly. His general had been hinting—loudly—that a prince with no heir of his own body had no business wandering about the Ghoul Moor, especially under circumstances like this. He had a point, too, and Arsham knew it. Nor was the prince in question about to overrule his own hand-picked general’s orders or dispositions. In fact, he fully intended to climb into a barge headed back up the Hangnysti sometime soon. Like within the next two or three days.