“The hell you say!” Beorbrook exclaimed. “Does this scheme of yours depend on vile Mossback enchantments, then?”
The prince fixed the earl marshal with a level look, saying nothing, until the veteran general looked away, his jaw clenched and his brow like thunder.
“Hear His Grace out, Parli,” urged Vanguard. “It’s true there are arcane elements in his plan, but no invoking of the Beaconfolk or anything else an honest warrior could scruple at. Carry on, Godson.”
“Very well,” said the prince. “As you know, the three Wolf’s Breath years have by no means left our own land of Cathra untouched. Our fields have produced significantly less grain. Our exports to Tarn, our favored—and wealthy—trading partner, left almost nothing for Didion. That nation has been forced to import foodstuffs from the Continent.”
“And the required coin of payment,” said Count Norval Swanwick impatiently, “is Didionite warships. Yes, yes, and all of us know what use Foraile and Stippen might make of them. Your Grace isn’t the only prince harking back to Bazekoy’s days of glorious conquest. The emperor was, after all, a Forailian by birth.”
“It was to squelch such harkings,” Conrig said, “that I pressed for the Edict of Sovereignty.” And he quoted from memory. “ ‘For the benefit and security of all Blenholme, and to thwart those Continental opportunists who might think to take advantage of the current natural disaster afflicting our island, the Kingdom of Blencathra extends its merciful hand to the suffering people of its neighbor, Blendidion, and vouchsafes it prompt paternal succor and relief, as Blendidion acknowledges vassalage in the new, benevolent Sovereignty of High Blenholme, and accepts Olmigon Wincantor as its Liege Lord.’”
“But they didn’t, did they?” Viscount Skellhaven pointed out, with sour satisfaction. “Not without a Cathran army and a train of grain wagons coming at them over Great Pass along with your precious Edict.”
Even though he had ridden into Castle Vanguard on horseback like all the others, he wore salt-stained seaboots, the wide pantaloons favored by sailors, and a silk scarf tying back his long hair. His attire was of good quality but shabby, as if to reinforce his perennial pose of being illused and unappreciated by the Crown.
Beorbrook said, “We all know how the King of Didion responded to Cathra’s declaration of Sovereignty. He killed our people and stuck their heads on pikes above Mallmouth Bridge for the crows and seagulls to eat, and fed their poor bodies to the crabs.” The earl marshal tossed off the remainder of his wine, and his son Olvan hastened to bring more, then served the few others who lifted their cups with all that was left in the last bottle.
“It was six months ago that my sons and the others died,” Beorbrook went on. “The Crown’s blockade of Didion isn’t working—no offense, Skellhaven!— because there’s too much water to cover and the bastards are better sailors than we are. Now that Achardus knows for sure we’re out to topple him, you can be sure that he’ll be on the lookout for a land invasion as well. I can assure Your Grace that the Didionite mountain fortresses beyond Great Pass are manned and alert, in spite of the terrible conditions prevailing in their lowlands. If need be, King Achardus will rally the timberlords from Firedrake Water. Their thanes and stump-jumpers fill their bellies with venison and wildfowl rather than dearly priced bread, and they’re in fighting trim despite the Wolf’s Breath. It’s only in the valley of the River Malle and in the large coastal cities that folk are starving. Now, it seems to me that we’ve already missed our best opportunity to strike at Didion. We should have been poised to come at them from both sea and land if they refused to accept the Edict of Sovereignty.”
“The King’s Grace deemed such a course too expensive,” Conrig said, smiling without humor.
“Of course he did,” Skellhaven said bitterly. “Same reason Ingo and me never get the brass we need to do a proper job patrolling the northern sealanes! The king won’t raise taxes on the rich merchants and trader-lords who curry his favor.”
Count Norval Swanwick climbed to his feet. Vanguard’s son and heir was an experienced battle-leader who had often fought at the side of the earl marshal, defending both Great Pass and the Wold Road to Tarn. “May I speak, my prince?”
“Please do, my Lord Swanwick. All of us know that you and your valiant brothers have fought many a skirmish against Didionite robber-barons and Green Men. I have great respect for your opinion.”
“Here’s what I’m afraid will happen if we invade Didion by land: At the first hint that we’re on the move, their arcane talents as well as their best fighters will rush to meet us at Castlemont beyond Great Pass. Even if we’re aided by the magical flummery of Mossland’s Conjure-King, we can’t hope for any element of surprise. The country in that region is so open, they’ll see us coming from leagues away. And there are no strongpoints between the frontier and their Castlemont fortress where our forces might safely encamp to besiege the place.”
Many spoke up in agreement.
“Furthermore,” Swanwick went on, “the earliest we could launch an invasion is in spring—late next Wind Moon, when the mountain snows will have melted and the mud dried. But by then our granaries will be sore depleted after winter.
I’m sure Your Grace realizes that there will be no chance of foraging in the faminelands of Didion as we march eastward toward Holt Mallburn. Even if we’re victorious at Castlemont, enemy forces could easily sever our supply line over the mountains while we engage the main host of Achardus.“
There were gloomy comments from the others. But the prince cut them off with a ringing voice. “We can take them by surprise!”
“How?” asked Swanwick.
“I would not lead a large army but a smaller, swift-moving force of some five hundred picked warriors. We would penetrate Holt Mallburn in a lightning raid and seize Achardus, his entire family, the court officials, and the merchant-lords who control the nation’s commerce. And we would not invade Didion in spring… but within five weeks, when they have no reason to expect us. My plan is not to march through Great Pass and then battle our way two hundred and sixty leagues through the enemy heartland. I plan to invade through Breakneck Pass, above this very Castle Vanguard, along a route less than one-third of the distance to the Didionite capital. The road is admittedly more rugged, but also more meagerly defended.”
“Over Breakneck?” the earl marshal exclaimed in disbelief. “There is no road—only a poor track that is often little more than a goat-path! And in late Boreal Moon we would risk fierce rains and washouts, snowstorms driven by hurricane winds, or—God help us—those sudden ice-mists that freeze a man and beast to glazed statues before they realize their mortal peril.”
The pass in the eastern reaches of the Dextral Range was indeed a shortcut to Holt Mallburn, but so steep and hazardous that only couriers, smugglers, and the bravest of legitimate traders made use of it. Almost all land commerce between Cathra and and its northern neighbors was through Great Pass, north of Beorbrook Hold.
The prince said, “The Wolf’s Breath has upset the seasons of our island in many ways, significantly delaying the onset of winter in the high country. Favorable weather will prevail over Breakneck Pass at least until Leap Day of the Boreal Moon. I have been assured of it.”
“By the Conjure-King of Moss?” Lady Zeandrise inquired softly.
Conrig continued without responding to her. “Our fighting force will consist only of mounted warriors, lightly armored for the sake of speedy travel. We’ll have no foot soldiers. Strong mules and ponies will carry supplies in the rear. We’ll move very quickly once we cross the frontier and strike without warning. There is only one small mountain outpost between Breakneck Pass and Castle Redfern, and the fortress itself is poorly sited, vulnerable to a surprise attack during fog.”
“Fog!” Beorbrook’s eyes narrowed. “And we can count upon fog?”
“Oh, yes,” the prince reassured him. “And not the dreaded freezing mists, but a warm concealing shroud, through which our army will ride on muffled hooves, led by friendly guides. We’ll seize Castle Redfern and use it as a staging area for the main assault upon Holt Mallburn, after we have briefly rested.”
“What of Redfern’s windvoices?” asked Baron Bogshaw. He was a hulking presence whose face was disfigured by a livid diagonal scar from a swordcut that had blinded his left eye. His lands, like those of Ramscrest and Cloudfell, lay along the mountainous frontier between Cathra and Didion. “And the foe may have talented ones posted at their outpost as well. Once they spot us, they’re sure to windspeak the alarm, even if our covert crossing of the pass is successful.”
“Any Didionite windvoices along our line of march to Redfern will be silenced before our arrival,” said Prince Conrig. “And so will those at the castle.”
“Ah…” A soft sound from many throats.
“However, it will be up to us to make certain that no ordinary foemen escape and give warning in a commonplace manner. When we leave Redfern, we’ll move like ghosts through the mist, down from the mountains to the Coast Highway leading to the capital. We’ll cross over the great Mallmouth Bridge—its gate will be opened for us by our magical ally—and when we reach the inner city we’ll set selected parts of it afire as a distraction, using tarnblaze bombshells that each one of us will carry. A portion of our force under Lords Skellhaven and Holmrangel will press toward the quay, where they’ll use their nautical expertise to seize or destroy whatever ships are tied up there or moored in the harbor. The rest of us will take the palace, capture King Achardus, his two sons, and the other royal officials, and force Didion to surrender to the Sovereignty.”
“Great God!” said old Toborgil Silverside. His sunken eyes were shining. “What a glorious feat that would be!”
“We’re to accomplish all this under cover of fog?” Munlow Ramscrest was dubious. “In a strange city notorious for its twisted maze of streets?”
Conrig inclined his head. “As I’ve said, we will have guides. From the summit of Breakneck Pass to the raised portcullises and open barbican gates of Holt Mallburn itself.”
Ramscrest persisted. “What manner of guides? Creeping Mosslander wizards bearing magic lanterns?”
“Nay,” said the prince. “I may not speak of the guides to you yet, but I’m assured of their assistance. They are to meet us at the top of Breakneck Pass, and if their aspect provokes mistrust among you, then I pledge to abandon this enterprise forthwith.”
“It’s magic, true enough,” said Lady Zeandrise, her mouth quirked by a roguish smile, “but not so outlandish as to put off our knights and thanes, eh, brothers? Fog, eldritch pathfinders and gate-openers, cold steel, and hot tarnblaze! A lightning thrust into Didion, and Holt Mallburn waiting like a sleeping babe… Can we be sure King Achardus will be in residence?”
“Oh, yes,” said Conrig dryly. “He’s there now, and he has little incentive to leave his stronghold. At least it’s well stocked with food and drink.” There was scattered laughter among the council, for the gigantic Didionite king was an infamous trencherman. “As we prepare to sally forth from Castle Redfern, I’ll be kept informed by windspeech of the king’s precise whereabouts, as well as that of the merchant-lords and our other special targets. My brother Vra-Stergos will accompany the expedition, as will Duke Tanaby’s trusted alchymist, Vra-Doman Carmorton.” He said nothing of Snudge.
“And will these good Brethren also use windspeech to transmit reports of our daily progress to the Conjure-King?” Skellhaven inquired archly.
Conrig paused, then spoke with reluctance. “King Linndal of Moss has nothing to do with this plan. Most of the time he is raving mad and confined to his rooms. He spends his lucid days voicing Salka sorcerers in the Dawntide Isles, trading arcane secrets. Our Mossland collaborator is another.”
“Who?” Beorbrook demanded.
“His daughter, Princess Ullanoth.” The prince took up his cup and sipped from it, but his eyes did not waver from the skeptical face of the earl marshal.
“And what does this benevolent lady ask in exchange for her good offices?”
“That Moss receive First Vassal status in the Sovereignty, with a reasonable guerdon paid annually, and that we support her claim to the throne of Moss above that of her younger brother, Beynor.”
“It seems a modest enough boon,” Lady Zeandrise remarked. She frowned, then added, “Perhaps too modest.”
Beorbrook addressed Vanguard. “Did you know of this, Tanaby? Your royal godson consorting with a Mosslander witch?”
“I knew,” the duke replied stolidly. “An unlikely ally, perhaps, but the Lady Ullanoth is a powerful sorceress, and there seems no good reason for her to contemplate using us treacherously.”
Munlow Ramscrest exploded in a coarse guffaw. “Why should we give a mule’s fart who rules that godforsaken corner of our island? Fens and frogs and peddlers of hocus-pocus and gimcrack amulets! Let the Conjure-Princess have the poxy place and welcome. As for her bribe, we can wring it out of vanquished Didion.”
Baron Sorril Conistone, a middle-aged peer who was famed for his scholarly bent, had remained quiet as the prince set forth his plan and the others made comments, seated on a stool at the far left of the blazing hearth where he was almost lost in shadow. Now his deep voice rode over the laughter that had greeted Count Ramscrest’s remarks.
“Your Grace, are you certain that this Ullanoth will require nothing more of us?”
“She has asked for no other thing, Lord Conistone,” Conrig said. “I swear it on my honor as Prince Heritor of Cathra.”
Zeandrise Marley remarked, “Without the lady’s help, we’re flat skinned, my lords, having not a hope in hell. Do any of you know a better plan?”
“If we’re to venture an invasion at all,” said Baron Tinnis Catclaw, “then it must be in the manner described by His Grace. The scheme is a goodly one, to my mind, although I would wish it not so dependent upon the whims of an alien sorceress.”
Someone sighed.
“And how are we to pay for this grand enterprise?” Viscount Skellhaven asked, not bothering to hide his ill will. “Certain lords and their knights will loot Mallburn Palace of its treasures, while my fighting sailormen and I merely torch the Diddly waterfront. Are we supposed to be content with the spoils of empty warehouses, worm-eaten scows, and burnt-out hulks?”