Wings of Wrath (50 page)

Salvator watched as the witch backed her way out of the chamber, offering repeated obeisance as she went. Not until she was gone, and the door was shut solidly behind her, did the High King open the letter and read it again.

Salvator shut his eyes and counted slowly to ten, drawing in a deep breath as he did so, reciting such meditations in his mind as would help to settle his spirit. Anger was a bestial emotion the priests of the Creator taught, frustration a bestial response. A man who understood that could master his emotions, if he wanted to. A man who served the two-faced god had a responsibility to do so.

When he felt that his spirit was finally calm enough for him to think clearly he offered up a prayer to his god, but not as Creator. It was his god's Destroyer aspect that would oversee this affair, deciding whether a given battle would be won or lost and how many men would die. The Souleaters were one tool of the Destroyer, but not his only one. Suspicion, doubt, greed, and fear were all part of his arsenal as well. Even the so-called ‘northern gods' could serve his purpose, in tempting men away from their proper path. What were those idols after all but illusions of power, seductive legends of greed and violence that encouraged men to accept their baser instincts rather than struggle against them?

When he had finished with his prayer he opened his eyes and looked to his mother's letter again. In his momentary lapse of spirit he had crushed it in his hand, and now he smoothed it open again and read it slowly, carefully, testing each word in his mind for all the hidden meanings that it might contain. The Magisters were conspicuous for not being mentioned in her strategy. Did Gwynofar think that he would believe they played no part in this? What other purpose could possibly be served by making sure that every last soldier believed a lie “with all his heart and soul,” if not to trick those who could peer into the hearts of men?

It was said that in the ancient days, before the coming of the Magisters, wars had been fought with blood and steel and courage. Nothing more. Strength pitted against strength, strategy against strategy, with the kind of brutal directness that had marked the First Age of Kings. Life had been simpler then. Easier for a king to manage. All was changed now.

I am my father's son as well as my mother's,
he thought darkly.

What did they expect of him now? That he would perform the role his mother had scripted for him, crafting his strategy to suit the games of Magisters? That for fear of sorcery, he would keep his generals ignorant of their true purpose, and let his men be herded like sheep to a battle they did not comprehend, against an enemy whose name they did not even know?

What was it that his god would expect him to do? Since the day he had sworn an oath to serve the Creator, he had prayed that the final war would never come. He had served in the monastery to help make that possible, humbling himself to his Creator on behalf of all mankind, offering up his personal sacrifices to weigh against the sins of others. Yet clearly it had not been enough. All the prayers of all the priests, all the sacrifices of monks and acolytes, even the offerings of common worshipers—who might cast away a bit of bread in sacrifice, refrain from wine, or quiet a moment's song—had not been enough.

Judgment had been rendered. Redemption denied. The Destroyer's face was turned toward them at last. And he was a king now, not a monk any longer, and must accept a king's duties.

His heart heavy, Salvator took up a fresh quill, uncapped a bottle of ink, and began to write out his orders.

T
HE STONE tower was narrow and tall, with parallel furrows running vertically down its surface. Some were shallow and clean and looked as if a monstrous clawed hand had gouged them out with a single swipe; others were carved more deeply into the stone, perhaps giving access to whatever interior space existed; still others had been eroded by wind and ice into twisted, pitted channels whose depths were lost in shadow. The side of the monument that faced the Citadel was uneven and broken, with stairlike formations in several places, albeit sized for a giant's stride. The outer face was much more forbidding, with no possibility of interior access on its lower half, and little hope after that.

“You have everything you need?” Lazaroth asked.

The archivist scratched a few more hurried lines onto his drawing, added a few notes, and then nodded.

The image of the tower faded from their sight, leaving the table in the map room empty but for Rommel's notes. Twenty men and women now filled it to capacity and a subtle current of shifting flesh coursed through the room periodically, as the casual movement of one required that all the others reposition themselves to keep an acceptable space between them.

“These have been prepared for the climb,” Lazaroth said. He put two heavy burlap bags on the table, then conjured a small boulder into place beside them. Removing an iron spike from the bag, he thrust it into the rock. Sparks flew and chips of stone went flying across the room as the spike sank deeply into the stone surface. After a moment it appeared to be held fast, and when Lazaroth lifted up the spike to demonstrate his art, the rock came with it. When he knew that everyone had seen it he nodded, and it vanished once more.

“The sorcery is intrinsic to the spikes and will be triggered when you strike the point against your target. Whether that will work or not once you get close to the Wrath I cannot begin to guess, but hopefully it will come under the heading of ‘spells cast elsewhere' and function properly. As the witch Kamala suggests it may.” His lips curled in subtle distaste as he spoke her name. Was it because he disdained all witches, Kamala wondered, or just her in particular? “Do not bank your lives on these until that theory has been tested.”

He handed one of the sacks to Favias and one to Ullar. The lord constable hefted his briefly, as if testing its weight, then handed it off gruffly to one of the men crowding behind him. As commander of Kierdwyn's armies he would have to remain behind to orchestrate the military phase of the campaign and that clearly did not please him. Was it because he wanted to see to Gwynofar's safety personally, as he claimed, or was there something more subtle going on, some sort of rivalry between Kierdwyn's common soldiers and the Guardians? Trying to catch all the subtle signs of it made Kamala's head hurt.

Four Guardians would be accompanying Gwynofar, and four soldiers, with two more to watch over the horses once they were left behind. It was the best they had been able to agree on, with each faction fighting for control of the expedition. Both sides would have been happier sending a hundred men to guard Gwynofar, but the larger the expedition was, the harder it would be to hide it from the enemy's surveillance. In the end the Magisters had advised no more than a dozen participants, and the Lord Protector had backed their call.

That night's discussion had ended in a fierce argument between Favias and the lord constable over exactly who was going, who would not be going, why some particular combination of soldiers and Guardians would be better than another until at last Kamala had abandoned the field of battle to get some sleep. When she was given an update in the morning, she was told they had reached a compromise, but it seemed clear that both were less than happy with it.

Four Guardians would ride with Gwynofar, to master-mind the assault on the monument, and hopefully to get her safely to the top. Four soldiers would guard her rear from assault during their climb and later prepare the way back down. More than that would only be counterproductive, Ullar had argued, given the physical parameters of the situation. For once, Favias had agreed. It was clear they were both unhappy about that situation and wished that Gwynofar would pass the torch on to someone . . . well, to someone more expendable.

And then there were the Souleaters to worry about.

We don't know how many of the creatures exist on this side of the Wrath,
the Lord Protector said,
or where they are located right now. The best we can do is try to draw their attention to another battlefront while you make your approach and hope they respond.

No one talked about what would happen to Kierdwyn's armies if that plan worked. They all understood the sacrifice that might be necessary.

Colivar was coming from the south to help, along with Sulah, a student of his; that much had been confirmed by Lazaroth, with an ill-guarded smirk of triumph as he watched his rival's reaction. But Ramirus was not taken by surprise this time and simply nodded his acknowledgment of the arrangement. His eternally impassive expression offered little insight into his true feelings, but Kamala sensed that he was far from pleased by that part of the plan. It seemed odd to her, given that she'd seen Ramirus and Colivar standing side by side when Rhys fought the Souleater, and she stored the observation away in the back of her mind for when she might make use of it. The Magisters would move Kierdwyn's troops into position along a vulnerable flank of the Alkali Protectorate, hopefully with enough speed that true invasion appeared imminent. Ullar had seen to it that rumors of a coming campaign had been leaked to the right spies and Lazaroth had backed up the rumors with enough sorcerous obfuscation that any Magister who tried to confirm Kierdwyn's plans would learn only what the Lord Protector wanted him to. So dense and powerful were the deceptive spells being cast in the castle that at times it was hard for Kamala herself to remember what the master plan really was. Magister Lazaroth's skills were formidable.