she snapped silently to Gayrfressa, and the mare tossed her head.
she agreed.
Leeana told her flatly. The courser’s single ear pricked in astonishment, and Leeana reminded herself not to look up at her.
The notion clearly distressed Gayrfressa, and Leeana leaned her shoulders comfortingly back against the mare.
she admitted,
“I agree His Majesty’s safety has to be our paramount concern,” Tellian said. His tone was still neutral, but the chipped-flint anger under the neutrality was painfully evident to his daughter. “However, Chergor was never intended as a place to be seriously defended. Its wall’s unlikely to do more than inconvenience a determined assailant, and even if it weren’t, we have too few men to man it adequately.”
“But if there’s a wizard involved, and if he’s using his accursed sorcery to spy upon us,” another of the King’s gentlemen-in-waiting said, “he’ll be able to steer any attackers directly to us, wherever we might be. This is the only place Lord Trisu knows to find us, on the other hand. If we leave, he may never make contact with us—in time, at any rate.”
“Exactly.” Golden Hill looked earnestly at King Markhos. “Your Majesty, Lord Trisu did precisely what he ought to have done. He sent his message to you here by his swiftest courier, so that your personal Guard might be forewarned. But according to his letter, he also sent couriers to Balthar and Sothōfalas. The instant those couriers reach their destinations, scores of additional armsmen will be sent directly here. In the meantime, Lord Trisu will arrive to reinforce us. Surely the wisest course is to wait until he does and then determine where—if anywhere—it would be wiser for Your Majesty to go.”
Leeana Hanathafressa was no mage, but as she looked around the faces of the men gathered about her father and her King, she needed no mage talent to realize what the decision was going to be.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Fiendark fly away with them!”
Varnaythus looked up from his gramerhain quickly, eyes narrowing. Sahrdohr was glaring into his own stone, and his earlier smile had turned into a snarl of fury.
“What?” the senior wizard asked sharply, and Sahrdohr raised his head to look at him, gray eyes fiery.
“I don’t think your trap spell killed that bastard Brayahs after all,” he grated.
“What?” Varnaythus’ eyes narrowed further, into mere slits. “Why not?”
“Because that bitch daughter of Tellian’s just arrived at Chergor on her damned courser, that’s why!” Sahrdohr snarled.
“What?!”
Varnaythus wasn’t normally the sort who repeated himself, but he did this time. And then he snatched himself up out of his chair and took two explosive strides to look over Sahrdohr’s shoulder. The images in someone else’s gramerhain were never as clear for any wizard as the ones in his own, but Varnaythus could make out enough to see the huge chestnut mare standing in the hunting lodge’s courtyard and the tall, slim young woman who’d arrived upon her back. He leaned closer, craning his neck as if listening, then scowled darkly.
“What the hell is causing that racket?” he demanded harshly. “Can you hear what they’re saying?”
“Not very well,” Sahrdohr replied in a distinctly unhappy tone. “Something’s affecting the scrying. It’s almost like a counter glamour, but not quite.” His expression was as disgusted as it was angry. “If I had to guess—and that’s all the hell I can do at this point—it’s that damned wedding bracelet of hers. Carnadosa only knows what sort of effect an artifact like that’s going to have on fine control spells like this! But whatever it is, it’s not fully effective. Vision isn’t too bad, and at least a little sound is getting through. I can read their lips if they turn their heads the right way, and even with all that background noise, I can actually catch at least a little of what they’re saying. That’s how I heard one of them mention Brayahs by name...which leads me to suspect he’s nowhere near as dead as we’d prefer.”
“Damn.” Varnaythus spoke almost mildly, but his eyes were ugly. “How in all of Krahana’s hells did he manage to survive?”
“If it’s any consolation, I’d guess he didn’t survive by much,” Sahrdohr replied, waving one hand at the gramerhain. “A courser can carry double farther and faster than any regular horse. If he hadn’t been banged up pretty badly, he’d damned well have come along with her, if only to make sure they believed her when she got there. As it is, I think it least some of the King’s companions—like Golden Hill, for example—are feeling just a little suspicious of friend Tellian at the moment.” He produced something much more like a smile. “The fact that his disgraced and degenerate daughter ‘just happened’ to end up as the messenger seems to be putting their backs up. Looks like a lot of them are thinking about all the ways they could have arranged for something like this to work to their benefit.”
“Thank Carnadosa for ambition,” Varnaythus replied with sour fervor, his brow furrowed while he thought hard. Then he crossed back to his own chair, waved his hand over his gramerhain, and muttered a word of command.
The images of Bahzell, Vaijon, Trianal, and their marching army vanished, replaced by Arthnar Fire Oar’s mercenaries. They were riding hard, if not so hard as he might have wished, given Sahrdohr’s news, and his lips tightened.
“Did the war maids send her all by herself, or are they following her with reinforcements?”
“I can’t say for certain,” Sahrdohr replied. “From the bits and pieces I’ve been able to actually hear, I think they probably have. I’m backtracking along the shortest route from Kalatha to Chergor, though, and I haven’t found anyone yet. I think—”
He broke off, leaning more intently over his gramerhain, then grunted unhappily.
“They did send more,” he said sourly. “I’ve got what looks like seventy-five or a hundred horses, most of them carrying double, and they’re making good time despite the weight.”
“How good?” Varnaythus demanded.
“They’re probably four hours out. More probably five.” Sahrdohr shook his head. “To be that close behind her, they must have gotten themselves assembled right on her heels.”
“Horses?” Varnaythus looked up again. “Where the hell did they find that many mounted war maids?”
“They aren’t all war maids.” Sahrdohr grimaced. “It looks like a third of them are Trisu of Lorham’s armsmen. And another third are in the colors of the Quaysar Temple Guard. In fact, one of them looks an awful lot like that busybody Shahana.”
“Wonderful.” Varnaythus suppressed a strong desire to spit on the floor and looked back at his own gramerhain.
“Well,” he said flatly after a moment, “Arthnar’s cutthroats aren’t more than a couple of hours from Chergor right this minute, and Cassan isn’t more than another two hours behind them. So they should both reach their target before Trisu and Shahana can interfere.”
“Phrobus, what a mess!” Sahrdohr muttered.
“It should still work,” Varnaythus countered. “As long as Tellian doesn’t manage to convince the King’s armsmen to pull out in the next hour and a half, at least. ‘Captain’ Trâram has enough men to overwhelm Markhos’ party even without Cassan, and Cassan has more than twice as many men as he does. They should be finished and done by the time Trisu and Shahana get there.”
The wizard knew he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself of his own argument, because that was precisely what he was doing. Still, that didn’t make it untrue. Erkân Trâram, the commander of Arthnar’s assassins, had the next best thing to two hundred and fifty men under his command, better than four times the strength of the King’s bodyguards. Courtiers, gentlemen in waiting, and their servantss added perhaps another twenty swords to the defenders’ strength, but none of the King’s guests had brought armor with them. So it was entirely possible Trâram would sweep over them in his initial rush, despite the rudimentary wall around the hunting lodge. And if he failed, Cassan would be arriving on his heels with better than five hundred armsmen. Finding himself forced to dispatch the King himself would be a less than optimal solution from Cassan’s viewpoint, but it would work just fine from Varnaythus’. In fact, having Trisu and Shahana arrive while Cassan was still in the process of completing the assassination would be even better. Outnumbered though Trisu’s force was, at least some of them would escape with their own version of what had happened, and the probability of a Sothōii civil war would rise sharply if that happened.
“And if they do convince them to run for it before Trâram gets there?”
It was technically a question, though Sardohr’s tone made it a statement, and Varnyathus bared his teeth at him.
“As soon as they start to ride out of that lodge, I trigger the kairsalhain,” he confirmed grimly. “It won’t be as clean as we wanted, and I know it’ll warn them someone was willing to use the art, but it looks like Brayahs has already done that, curse him! And at least it’ll also be final, by Carnadosa’s ebon eyes!”
* * *
Cassan Axehammer looked up at the cloudless blue sky, squinting at the sun. Summer might be trending into autumn, but he had at least another ten, possibly even eleven hours of daylight, he reflected. That was good—in fact, it was almost perfect.
Ahead of him, Sir Garman Stoneblade, his senior armsman, raised his hand to signal another halt. Cassan started to override the command, but stopped himself. They’d been in the saddle for almot two weeks now, pursuing the “unknown horsemen” who’d chosen to make their way across his riding without permission. The journey had been a long, hard ride, even for Sothōii cavalry troopers, but they’d been making up ground steadily. He’d taken that into consideration when he timed his “discovery” of Arthnar’s mercenaries—it would never have done to actually catch them short of their objective—yet timing was even more critical now. They had to catch the killers in the act, or at least run them to earth before they could escape. Yet even so, Stoneblade was right to rest the horses periodically; they had at least two more hours of hard riding ahead of them, and the last thing they needed was to arrive with their mounts too exhausted to accomplish their mission.
Which wouldn’t be a problem if I had a few damned wind riders I could actually trust, the baron thought bitterly.
There were far fewer wind riders among his vassals and armsmen than most of the other barons—and especially that bastard Tellian!—could claim. That had always been a sore point, one more coal in the fire of his resentment and ambition. Yet there were times it could be an advantage, as well, he reminded himself, and the truth was that this was one of those times, whether he liked it or not. No courser was any man’s vassal. They might bond to someone who was, and share their rider’s fealty at secondhand, as it were, but they themselves owed obedience only to their herd stallions...and the herd stallions owed obedience only to the Crown. He couldn’t have brought a wind rider on this mission even if he’d had one to bring.
Speaking of which...
He shared a quick, meaningful glance with Tarmahk Dirkson, his personal armsman, then trotted over to Stoneblade before he dismounted and gestured for Sir Kalanndros Horsemaster to join them. Both of his captains were typical Sothōii: tall for humans, with fair hair and blue eyes. Stoneblade was twelve years Horsemaster’s senior, and his beard was going gray, although it was hard to see against that blond background. Horsemaster was a bit rangier than Stoneblade and perhaps a bit more ruthless. Both were highly competent, or they wouldn’t have held their positions, but Stoneblade had the better eye when it came to suiting tactics to terrain.
“Yes, Milord?” Horsemaster said as he drew rein beside Cassan and Stoneblade and swung down from the saddle himself.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Cassan growled.
“Milord?” It was Stoneblade this time, and his eyes were hooded but thoughtful as he gazed at his baron.
“All we had to go on when we first realized an organized band of horsemen was crossing the Riding was the messenger from Nachfalas,” Cassan replied. He saw no reason to confuse the issue by mentioning that the messenger who’d brought word of the “unknown mercenary company” which had filtered through Nachfalas had been sent on his own orders. “I’d have been a lot happier if we’d had enough warning to actually intercept them south of Toramos, but there’s no point crying over spilt milk, and at least our scouts cut their trail while it was still reasonably fresh. Still, all we’ve had since then were tracks—tracks where there shouldn’t have been any, from people who sure as hell hadn’t asked permission to trespass on our lands. But now—” He shrugged. “Do you realize where these people—whoever they are—seem to be headed?”
“Into the West Riding, Milord,” Horsemaster said a bit delicately, and it was obvious from their expressions that neither Horsemaster nor Stoneblade had been especially enthusiastic about the notion of crossing the border into the riding of their baron’s most bitter enemy.
Which they’d done late that morning...with no more permission than the mysterious riders they were pursuing. Neither man was familiar with the lay of the land in Tellian Bowmaster’s riding, but the border markers had been clear to see even before they crossed the high road midway between Magdalas and the Spear River, and they felt far from home and dangerously exposed. The only good news, as far as they were concerned, was that whoever they were following had made a point of avoiding villages and towns, picking a route across the vast, empty Wind Plain where no human eye would note their passing. It was one more sign they were up to no good, but Cassan’s captains were clearly happy to be avoiding those watchful eyes in their wake.
“West Riding!” Cassan spat on the ground. “If it was only the West Riding, I’d be overjoyed to let that bastard Tellian worry about it! He’d probably try to lay responsibility for whatever they’re up to on me, of course, but I could live with that. Unfortunately, I think I know where in the West Riding they’re headed.” Both men looked at him, and he coughed out a harsh laugh. “Chergor,” he told them. “They’re headed for Tellian’s hunting lodge at Chergor...and the King.”
The armsmen stiffened abruptly, eyes wide. They stared at him for a moment, then, in unison, shared a quick glance before they turned back to their liege.
“Are you certain, Milord?” Stoneblade asked urgently.
“Certain? How could any man be certain about something like this?” Cassan shot back. “But I’ve been to Chergor. I recognize the terrain, and these bastards we’re following are headed directly towards it, allowin
g for staying out of sight of the locals. What else could pull a force this size together from out-Kingdom and then send it almost five hundred leagues from Nachfalas? It’s awfully small for an invasion force, now isn’t it? But King Markhos won’t have more than two or three score armsmen with him, and these bastards have to have at least twice that many men!”
“Milord, if you’re right—and I’m afraid you are,” Stoneblade said, “we must send a courier ahead immediately! And another to Sothōfalas and”—the senior captain braced himself visibly—“to Hill Guard.”
“Do you know the shortest route to Chergor from here?” Cassan challenged. “I don’t, and I’ve been there before!” He shook his head. “No, you’re right about sending a messenger to the capital, but even if our horses were fresh enough to send a courier around them, I couldn’t give him the directions he’d need to even find the lodge, far less beat them to it. Our only real hope is to push the pace as hard as we can, make up as much distance as possible. We may be able to catch them short of Chergor, and if we can’t, they’ll be our surest guide to it. Even if we don’t catch them before they reach it, we can hope to arrive close on their heels.”
Stoneblade’s expression was as unhappy as it was worried, but there was no disputing Cassan’s logic. Not about Chergor, at any rate. The older armsman opened his mouth, but before he could find the proper way to frame the suggestion, Cassan cut him off, harshly.
“As for sending word to Hill Guard, it couldn’t possibly get there in time to do any good. We’re far closer to Chergor than Balthar. Besides,” his voice turned even harsher, “I have an ugly suspicion about just how the King comes to be spending his vacation in such a conveniently isolated spot—in the West Riding—when a band of assassins ‘just happens’ to have set out to attack him.”