Blood in the Water (6 page)

Dagaran opened the door. “Good day, Master Aremil.”

“Good day to you.” It occurred to Aremil that the Soluran lieutenant had never once wished him fair festival. Belatedly, he realised he knew nothing of Soluran customs, not even which gods they worshipped.

“I have no more news from the forest.” He tried to straighten in his chair. “Not since that skirmish with Duke Garnot’s scouts.”

He knew there were wizards in distant Solura, but did they know anything of Artifice? Aremil had no idea. Perhaps they did. Dagaran took their enchanted communications in his stride. Then again, Aremil hadn’t seen anything perturb the saturnine man. He went about raising the militias to defend Losand and Sharlac as placidly as a merchant totalling his ledgers.

“I’m more interested in events at Ashgil.” Dagaran came to adjust Aremil’s cushions with impersonal efficiency. “If you could contact Jettin?”

“Of course.” Aremil felt embarrassment colour his cheekbones. He should have thought of that himself. He drew a steadying breath. It was getting easier to work this enchantment. Branca had been quite correct, saying practice would help.

“
Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin as feorel.”

Though he had only met Jettin a few times, the other scholar was a far more experienced adept. That made the task easier.

“
Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin as feorel.”

He wondered how soon he’d be able to contact anyone unschooled in Artifice by focusing his thoughts alone on the enchantments. At present he could only reach close friends like Tathrin and he still had to speak the ancient charms aloud.

“
Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin—”
Stumbling over the words, he rebuked himself. “—
sast elarmin as feorel.”

He must focus his thoughts on Jettin. Youthful and lightly built, olive-skinned with curly black hair. Hot-tempered, always ready to argue with any Vanamese dismissing the Lescari as beggars and fools.

“
Al daera sa Jettin sast elarmin as feorel.”

Jettin was no fool. He wore an advocate’s ring, not easily won. Nor was he a beggar. Since fleeing Triolle in his own youth, his father had traded in spices to become one of Vanam’s wealthiest men.

“
Aremil!”

Jettin’s exultation made his head swim.

“
We did it!”

Aremil felt as if he was being swept clean out of the room. His eyes and ears told him he stood in a crowded marketplace. Aremil understood Tathrin’s ambivalence over Artifice far more clearly these days. It took a distinct effort of will to feel the chair beneath his thighs, his hands resting on the desk.

“You’ve taken Ashgil?”

Aremil heard the scrape of Dagaran’s boots. He couldn’t see the Soluran. His mind’s eye was filled with Jettin’s jubilant memories of the morning’s adventure.

That didn’t outweigh Aremil’s exasperation. Jettin had been told to stay well clear of danger. He’d still decided to ride with the lancers. Left to his own devices, he’d have been in the front rank; Aremil could see that clearly in his thoughts.

But the Dalasorian clan lords were among the few admitted into the secret of Artifice. Like Captain-General Evord, they had only agreed to join this army once they saw how such hidden advantage could tip the scales in their favour. Evord had told them how few adepts served the exiles, so Sia Kersain had sent Jettin to ride in the rear. Tall, lean and hatchet-faced, the Dalasorians’ highest clan lord wasn’t a man to be argued with.

Aremil felt the jolting of the trotting horse beneath him and the sharpness of Jettin’s irritation. The young adept hadn’t stayed ill-tempered for long, though. It was a bright, clear morning and the Vale of Ashgil lay open ahead. The fields were empty, a chequerboard of stubble and ploughed black earth after the harvest.

They saw the coloured tiles of Ashgil’s shrine roof first. Aremil recognised Ostrin’s loyal hound, russet against the black, and the god of hospitality’s bunch of grapes in red as bright as blood.

Rega Taszar led his forces away over the fields to the east. Hedges dividing the vassal lord’s fields from his tenants’ gave Dalasorian horses scant pause. Pata Mezian’s regiment stayed on the high road, nine troops each of four-score riders. Two of his troops were armed with the recurved bow of the grasslands, cunningly wrought from bone and sinew for the lack of trees. Rega Taszar had four such troops of archers under his command and eight of lancers.

Sia Kersain rode with only a few score shy of a thousand horses. Now they quit the high road for the westerly flank. Aremil’s stomach lurched as Jettin’s horse leaped. Dust rose as their hooves pounded the hard, dry ground.

Ahead, the market town came clearly into view. He saw tiled roofs above the ragged battlements. He couldn’t see much of the town’s walls. Well inside Carluse, not threatened by war within a generation, the guildmasters of Ashgil had permitted all manner of building beyond their gates. Houses with grey shingled roofs stretched along the high road.

At some signal that Jettin missed, every horse shifted from the trot to a canter, pennants streaming from the riders’ lances.

He could see people now, where the fields met vegetable gardens. There must surely be shouts of alarm but he couldn’t hear them. The thunder of hooves, the rattle of harness filled his ears as the canter became a gallop. He gripped the saddle with his thighs, the reins digging into his gloved hands. The morning chill was a distant memory amid the heat rising from the horses.

How by all that was holy could the Dalasorians ride one-handed, managing lances at such a breakneck pace? Aremil realised Jettin was shamefully relieved that he wouldn’t be called on to fight. He needn’t risk making a fool of himself, or worse, injuring his own mount as he fumbled his sword

The Dalasorian riders swept on. He glimpsed women fleeing towards the town’s walls, their aprons fluttering white. Men threw aside hoes and ran. Some fool opened a sty, desperate to save his pig. The beast disappeared into an orchard.

None of Sia Kersain’s archers wasted their arrows on such targets. They were heading for the town’s western gate. The reports from Evord’s scouts had been clear. Duke Garnot’s militia were guarding the roads. They were going to fight them for control of the western gate, for the road leading to Thymir and Carluse Town beyond. Rega Taszar’s forces were circling to capture the gate on the Tyrle Road heading south. Pata Mezian’s regiment would smash through the north gate, coming straight down the high road from Sharlac.

He didn’t have time to think about that. There was the Thymir Gate still standing proud of the crumbling wall. Duke Garnot’s white flag with its black boar’s head flew from the topmost coign. Down on the ground, the militiamen on guard were being overwhelmed by panicking people desperate to force their way through.

Incredibly, the horses drew still closer together. Dalasorian boots jostled his own as they rode stirrup to stirrup. He was seized with sudden terror lest a spur dig into his ankle. But there was no time to be afraid. They were wheeling around, charging up the road. Would the militia drop the portcullis and deny them at the last gasp?

His mount snorted, the bit clamped between its teeth. If he’d wanted to stay clear of the fray, he had no chance now. This horse was going to charge with its herd mates and there was no way he could hold it back.

He had no idea where the archers were but he saw militiamen fall from the battlement, pierced by arrows. The first horses were charging through the gate’s arch, bodies disappearing beneath their hooves. Lancers broke away on either side, pursuing anyone in ducal colours still outside the walls.

A few militiamen swung their swords. One frantic blade cut a lancer’s hand clean off at the wrist. The rider stuffed his reins in his teeth. Snatching a thrown lance from the air, he ran the Carlusian through.

Aremil lost sight of the maimed man in the mêlée. His own horse finally slowed, along with the riders around him. Once they could see daylight through the arch of the gate they entered the town. Their horses picked a careful path through liveried bodies, snorting at blood trickling in the gutters. A dog howled when a dismounted Dalasorian used the flat of her blade to beat it away from a corpse it was sniffing.

We did it. We took Ashgil, and so easily. The dukes won’t know what’s befallen them; we’ll win this war so quickly.

Jettin’s exultation rang through memories so vivid they could be Aremil’s own. He was acutely aware of the contrast with Tathrin’s recollections of Sharlac’s fall. He looked around to reassure himself all the dead men wore militia colours. To his relief, the townsfolk were clustered in alleys and doorways. Ashgil had fallen and there had been no massacre, not this time.

“
Count what’s left before what’s lost, once the storm’s passed by.”

Behind the old proverb, he could feel Jettin’s irritation at his anxiety. Why couldn’t he just celebrate their success? If innocents had died, such tragic accidents were unavoidable. Didn’t he want to see Lescar free?

“Master Aremil?” It was Dagaran.

Aremil gritted his teeth. He concentrated on feeling every crease and scuff in the leather-topped desk with his fingertips. He even welcomed the cramps in his wasted legs as he wrenched sensation and emotion free of the younger man’s Artifice.

“Is the town secure?” he demanded.

“
Tied up tighter than a miser’s purse!
”

Now Aremil saw the marketplace again, as clearly as if he stood next to Jettin. Cowering Carlusians were approaching the mounted clan lords, their hands spread wide to show they carried no weapon. He could see the numb shock on their faces.

Militiamen faced mounted mercenaries from time to time. But if Lescari rode into battle, such companies would dismount after the initial clash, to fight hand to hand with sword and mace and shield. That was how such encounters went, as far as these Ashgil men knew. They had never faced mounted lancers, mounted archers, with horses as skilled in battle as their riders.

Aremil fervently hoped all Captain-General Evord’s innovations were going to prove so successful in this campaign.

Then he saw Dalasorians in their brightly embroidered tunics going in and out of houses, carrying sacks and barrels.

“The town isn’t to be plundered,” he said sharply. “Remember the captain-general’s orders!”

“
They’re only replenishing supplies used on their journey.
”

Was Jettin telling the truth? Aremil had no hope of reading his innermost thoughts now his exultant recollections of the battle were over.

“Very well, as long as that’s all they do.”

Aremil heard a rattle of parchment as Dagaran sorted through the maps piled up on the desk.

“Please ask him to find Rega Taszar. Ask how many troops he will need to keep with him to hold the town until I can organise a militia.”

Aremil dutifully relayed the Soluran lieutenant’s request. Now he was more fully in control of his own Artifice, he could see Jettin clearly. The youth was filthy with sweat and dust, still flushed with the thrill of the charge.

Aremil’s own hands were still trembling. He’d never imagined he’d enjoy galloping on a horse. When he hadn’t known how it felt, his inability to ride was merely one mild regret among many. Now he struggled to curb his frustration with the infirmities that denied him such delight. Artifice proved a double-edged blessing once again.

“
I see you need a moment to gather yourself. I’ll tell you what Rega Taszar says at the next chime.”

With the faintest echo of distaste, Jettin swiftly withdrew his enchantment. As the weaker adept, Aremil had no hope of holding him. The vision of distant Ashgil faded. Dizzy, Aremil screwed his eyes shut. When he opened them, Dagaran was leaning on the far side of the desk, looking intently at him.

“Master Aremil, are you all right?”

“I will be.” Aremil hadn’t anticipated the shock of breaking such an intense aetheric link. Tremors wracked him and he blinked. He so disliked seeing the world through his own inadequate eyes after enjoying Jettin’s crystal-clear vision.

Dagaran stood upright, still looking concerned. “If we’re to hold Ashgil there are things I must set in motion, but I shall call back as soon as I can manage it. Can I send anyone to you in the meantime?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” Aremil cast around for something else for Dagaran to focus on. “May I know what the rest of the Dalasorians will be doing, while Rega Taszar holds Ashgil?”

It was an even roll of the runes whether Dagaran would tell him or not. Captain-General Evord prized discretion above almost all other virtues.

The Soluran hesitated and then drew a finger across the map he had spread out on the desk. “They will ride west, as soon as their horses are rested.”

“To Thymir?” Aremil was confused. That was one of Duke Garnot’s personal manors, but it commanded no more than a large village.

Dagaran allowed himself a brief smile. “To take control of the road running north from Carluse Town into the forest.”

“But Duke Garnot and his army have already reached the forest.” Aremil knew that from Tathrin’s reports.

Dagaran nodded. “And the Dalasorians will be ready, whatever the outcome of tomorrow’s battle. If the captain-general routs the Carluse forces, or if they manage to retreat in good order, the Dalasorians must cut them down. Victory means little if your enemy can rally and come back to fight another day.” He looked graver. “If the day goes against us, as is always possible, we’ll need the lancers to strike at Duke Garnot’s men from behind, so Captain-General Evord can withdraw without losing too many men.”