Blood in the Water (52 page)

Lord Rousharn strode into the bedchamber, a black frown knotting his brows. “Why are you hiding up here?”

“I’m not hiding.” Aremil stood up as straight as he could.

Lord Rousharn glared at him. “After these storms, we’ve no hope of victory this side of Solstice. We must cut our losses and reach a settlement like rational men. I have letters ready for Duke Orlin and Duke Secaris. You must sign them with your proper title and acknowledge the responsibilities of your rank.”

“There’s no rank I wish to claim,” Aremil said tightly, “and how dare you usurp my authority?”

“Duke Orlin and Duke Secaris will see reason.” Lord Rousharn continued as if Aremil hadn’t even spoken. “Duke Ferdain’s borders are secure, even if his whore’s run wild. Our first task is to put down this mercenary rabble that you fools have loosed on the land.” He shook his noble head, revolted. “We can offer reparations, for the sack of Wyril at the very least. I have friends at court in Tormalin. Emperor Tadriol will send envoys to ensure everyone negotiates in good faith.”

“Emperor Tadriol can mind his own mutton. As can you!”

Aremil’s shout finally silenced Rousharn.

“What did you just say to me?” His surprise turned to wrath.

Aremil gripped his crutches. “You will send no letters to Orlin or Secaris or to any other noble between Caladhria and Toremal.” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak calmly and clearly. “If you send any orders to our army, I’ll have Dagaran lock you in a cellar. You have no authority in this endeavour. You will not undermine Captain-General Evord when we are within a hair’s breadth of victory.”

“You’re as weak in the head as you are in the legs.” Lord Rousharn turned to go.

“Don’t you dare—”

The door’s slam cut through Aremil’s furious shout.

Failla looked anxiously at him. “He’ll send those letters with or without your signature.”

“Run and find Dagaran,” Aremil said grimly. “Tell him to lock the gates, to the castle and the town. No riders are to leave without a sealed docket from me.”

He’d disliked Lord Rousharn before. Now he hated the man, for making him act like some tyrant duke just to stop the fool wreaking havoc.

Failla disappeared. He heard her running down the stair. Laboriously crossing the room to the door in the panelling, he found Branca had locked it against him.

“You must have heard all that. I have to talk to Welgren and to Dagaran.” He rattled the handle in frustration. “Please, open this door. I can’t bear to leave you like this.”

There was no sound from the hidden room, not even Branca’s weeping. With fury at Rousharn still ringing round his head, he’d no hope of summoning Artifice to reach her.

Aremil fought an urge to smash the panelling with his crutch. The last thing Branca needed was his anger. The last thing he needed was to fall and be injured, leaving Rousharn to cause more uproar.

“My love, I have to go. I will be back as soon as this nonsense is settled.”

He forced himself away, every step agony of mind and body. Reaching the stairs, he teetered on the verge of returning, to beg her to open to the door, to let Lord Rousharn do whatever he pleased. How could he let Branca think he’d abandoned her?

Then he recalled Tathrin’s pain at leaving Failla. He felt all his friend’s fears for his family, his guilt at leaving them to face whatever perils this war brought down the highway. All that anguish still hadn’t stopped Tathrin. He’d never doubted what he must do.

Aremil was so used to being one of those left behind. He’d never fully understood Tathrin’s torment. Not till now. Gripping his crutches, he carefully headed downstairs. They had one final chance to win this war. They must bring Parnilesse and Triolle to battle. He could not let Lord Rousharn’s folly make a mockery of all the countless deaths it had cost to get this far.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Tathrin

Pannal,

in the Lescari Dukedom of Triolle,

1st of For-Winter

Another dawn. Another looming battle. The grass crackled with frost, the ruts in the road hard as stone. Every russet leaf was rimed with white. In the fields and copses, men were rising with groans and curses, their breath like smoke. Steam rose from the flanks of horses being roughly brushed to warm their blood.

Tathrin supposed he should be thankful he could see just how cold it was. For the past two days they’d trudged through fog as thick as fleece. Every standard-bearer had struggled to see the rearguard of the company ahead.

There was no true smoke to be seen. Overnight fires had burned down to grey embers and breakfast would be cold ale and whatever bread and meat the men carried. They’d outstripped all the quartermasters and their wagons. Only the farriers and surgeons kept pace with the army now.

Tathrin saw Captain-General Evord talking with his lieutenants. The Soluran nodded, before taking a bite of something. Whatever he ate, it betrayed no wisp of warmth. The captain-general never enjoyed anything he denied his army.

Was that wise? Could any general, even one of Evord’s talent, win such a crucial battle on barely half a night’s sleep and no hot food? When every company in his regiments had just marched countless leagues in this vile weather? When nearly two swordsmen in every three had already fought battles in Sharlac, Losand, Carluse and Tyrle? Only Ridianne of Marlier’s three thousand men were wholly fresh.

Tathrin wanted to believe Captain-General Evord when he said their numbers now equalled those of Parnilesse, that it was the quality of the troops that would prove decisive. He still couldn’t shake off the doubts that plagued him. Lord Geferin led six thousand unblooded militiamen as well as the motley regiments Duke Iruvain had salvaged from Triolle and Draximal’s scattered armies.

“We should have stopped sooner,” he muttered.

Aremil had been appalled to find them on the road so late the night before, when he’d reached through the aether to ask for the latest news.

“Marching keeps the blood flowing.” At his side, Gren was huddled into a blanket slung across one shoulder and belted around his hauberk. “If we’d stopped any sooner, some of us wouldn’t have woken this morning.”

“I suppose so.”

The temperature had dropped like a stone when the skies had finally cleared, showing the last miserly quarter of the Greater Moon and the inadequate swell of the Lesser.

Tathrin shivered. He wasn’t just cold. Every stitch of his clothing was damp, right through to his skin. Even oiled-leather cloaks hadn’t been proof against the downpours. He’d welcome even a candle to warm his hands.

Though he wasn’t about to reach for the one Sorgrad had just kindled. Shielded from curious eyes by himself and Gren, the Mountain mage was looking intently into the image reflected on the back of his silver bowl.

“You’re certain the skies will stay clear?”

If they didn’t, Tathrin didn’t know what they would do. Relieved, he saw Mellitha, the prosperous magewoman from Relshaz, nodding.

“I’ve bespoken Velindre. You’ll have blue skies today and tomorrow and then more rain will come up from the Southern Sea. Now, you follow the roll of the runes, Sorgrad,” Mellitha continued sternly. “Captain-General Evord will win a fair fight, or he won’t. Magic must not tip the scales, do you hear me?”

“I do,” Sorgrad assured her.

“I’m a mother of four, Sorgrad. I know full well that hearing’s one thing and obeying’s quite another.” Mellitha leaned into the spell. “You’ve had all the leniency you can expect from Hadrumal, by way of thanks for ridding us of Minelas. Don’t try the Archmage’s patience again, you or that blacksmith.”

Reher? So that secret was out. Perhaps it was as well the blacksmith had insisted on staying with the farriers. Though he hadn’t exactly refused to use his magic. He’d just told Tathrin he’d stick to what he knew best, his face unreadable behind his beard. Later Tathrin had seen him among the supply wagons, laying a broad hand on each of the barrels filled with bundles of arrows. Was he doing something to improve the quality of their steel heads?

“We’ll just be carrying messages like the rest of the gallopers. Trust me.” Sorgrad smiled as he snuffed the candle and Mellitha’s face disappeared.

Tathrin relished the silence. Long might it continue. Carrying messages through the battle would be perilous enough without Aremil distracting him and sympathetic though he was, he didn’t want to endure his friend’s anguish over Branca today. He really hoped he wouldn’t hear Aremil’s voice until the battle was wholly over.

“Who’s Velindre?” He was so cold his jaw was stiff.

“A wizard woman with an affinity for clouds.” Sorgrad looked thoughtful. “If she says that’s how the weather will play out, we can believe it.”

“We only need one clear day.” Tathrin recalled the final dispatch that Evord had sent to every company as they made their hasty camp the night before. “If we don’t bring them down before nightfall, they’ll be over the bridge to Parnilesse.”

“Not if there’s no bridge left to cross.” Gren grinned at his brother. “You could see to that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Sorgrad pointed to a puddle glazed with ice.

Startled, Tathrin shuddered. “Jilseth?”

The misty image of the black-clad magewoman’s face slid away leaving only emptiness.

Gren scowled at the rising rim of the sun. “Can she still snoop if all the puddles melt? Or if we stamp on them?”

“I wouldn’t take that wager,” Sorgrad said frankly. “Velindre could see to it the ice lingers where they want it and she and Mellitha are very close friends.”

“So the Archmage doesn’t forbid their spells?” Gren challenged. “That’s hardly fair.”

“Fairness doesn’t concern Planir,” Sorgrad reminded him.

“Will you—” Tathrin couldn’t bring himself to ask if Sorgrad intended using the sly magics that had tripped Duke Garnot’s army.

The Mountain mage understood him regardless. “It depends how desperate the day becomes.”

Horn calls were ringing through the crisp air as men and women began moving with swift purpose.

“Time to mount up.” Sorgrad clapped a gloved hand on Tathrin’s shoulder and exclaimed, “Lad, you’re chilled to the bone!”

Tathrin could already feel dry warmth spreading outwards from the Mountain Man’s touch. “Thank you.”

He knew he sounded grudging. He couldn’t help it. Was Sorgrad going to help every other cold swordsman? Hardly. Even if he wanted to, such comfort would doubtless fall foul of the Archmage’s edict.

Sorgrad was paying no heed to Tathrin’s gracelessness. Gren had already trotted off to meet the groom leading three horses towards them.

“Can we really do this?” Tathrin climbed into his saddle. “Can the captain-general win the day?”

“If he can’t, no one can.” Sorgrad looked grim.

“Do you know where the enemy’s drawn up?”

If Tathrin had barely slept, he didn’t think Sorgrad or Gren had even closed an eye. As scouts returned throughout the night, the Mountain Men had been at Evord’s side. Like the youthful lieutenants, they’d promptly carried the captain-general’s observations and instructions the length and breadth of the army.

“Our advance regiments were snapping at their heels last night, so they had to find somewhere defensible to stop.” Gren looked far more cheerful than his brother. “There’s a stretch of low ground ahead.” He nodded as they all urged their horses to a trot. “The main road follows on down the westerly bank of this river and crosses a couple of streams coming down the valley side. Lord Geferin and Duke Iruvain took a byway heading to a ford. They all camped on the eastern bank last night, on a coppiced hillside with thicker woods behind.”

“So they had shelter and probably rabbits to eat? While we’ve got streams and a river to cross before we have to fight uphill?” Tathrin couldn’t see the least cause for optimism. Even if the streams were a trivial obstacle, this tributary running into the Anock was swollen with the recent rain.

Gren chuckled. “They had to stop and camp before the Parnilesse militia got a sniff of Pannal and the bridge. They’re as cold and wet and hungry as any of us and they’re far less used to such hardships. If just one company had broken for hearth and home, the rest would have followed like panicking lambs.”

“Perhaps, but they didn’t.” Sorgrad’s horse’s hooves rang on the frozen road. “And Lord Geferin has found ground that’ll hamper our Dalasorians.”

“Maybe, but they’ve had no time to dig pits or plant stakes, and he’ll have no more luck than us bringing his own horsemen into play.” Gren wasn’t going to be downcast. “And Captain-General Evord will make best use of our archers and crossbowmen, you’ll see.”

Ahead, the captain-general’s retinue broke into a canter. On either side of the road, their mounted forces advanced in measured fashion, stirrup to stirrup. The foot regiments were marching at double pace. They must be as eager as anyone to see this campaign over. Would that be enough to outweigh their wounds and weariness? Despite his faith in the Soluran, Tathrin felt hollow inside.

All too soon he saw the fork in the road. The exiles’ cream and gold banner led them away from the byway to the ford, heading across the fields of stubble along this side of the shallow valley.