Fire and Sword (19 page)

The two men led their horses out of the defile and stopped. Before them spread the Oceans of Grass, and with a great sense of relief they realized they had completed their mission. The younger of the two wanted to go farther.

“Rendle will be twice as pleased if we find a river or sooq nearby. The company will use most of its water getting through the mountains.”

“If there’s a river or sooq nearby, so are the Chetts,” his older companion said shortly, wiping snow off his fur-lined jerkin and helmet. “We’ve done our job. Let’s clean the horses’ shoes and head back. We won’t reach our camp for another week as it is.”

“It’s still winter, Sergeant,” scoffed the other. “All the Chetts are away at the High Sooq.”

The sergeant lifted one of his mount’s legs and used a knife to dig out stones from the worn shoe. “Suit yourself, but I’m not hanging around. You’ll have to catch up.”

The young man cursed the sergeant under his breath. He did not fancy riding out into the Oceans of Grass by himself despite their apparent emptiness and his bravado, but did not want to seem a coward or fool.

“I won’t go far,” he said, and spurred his horse.

The sergeant said nothing, but shook his head. When he had finished with the horse, he found a rock bare of snow and sat on it, letting the stone warm his backside, and chewed on a long strip of beef jerky. The last four nights he had dreamed of nothing but hot stew and fresh brewed beer. His horse nibbled on yellow grass nearby. He looked up into the sky. The pale sun was still an hour from noon. He would wait until then ...

A terrifying wail pierced the air, and the sergeant’s heart froze. He scrambled to stand on the rock and anxiously searched the grass before him, but saw nothing. Then he heard another sound, the long victory howl of a grass wolf. A moment later his companion’s horse galloped into sight, empty stirrups slapping against the stallion’s flank.

“That’s it,” the sergeant hissed, as he jumped onto his own horse. He whipped the reins and dug his spurs in, sending the startled horse back up the defile, ignoring the danger of loose stones and a steep climb. His mount was reluctant to keep going until the riderless horse skittered past, then needed no urging from his rider.

The terrified mercenary could hardly breathe. The wild-looking Chett had one knee on his chest and a short knife pricking his throat. The Chett seemed to be listening for something, and after a while grinned and stood up.

“Don’t k-k-kill me!” the mercenary begged.

The Chett looked down at him with disdain. “No. Not yet anyway.” Then he grinned again. “Not yet.” He lifted his head back and howled a second time.

The mercenary pissed himself, but he was too afraid to be ashamed.

Four hundred leagues away Gudon was working on the docks at Daavis. He knew from his time as a pilot on the Barda River how busy the capital of Hume could be in winter, but it was nothing like this. Huge baskets of grain, barrels of wine, and crates of dried meat were being shipped in from Sparro in Chandra. As well, there were more soldiers than usual, all looking grim. He learned from other workers about the rumors of a coming war with Haxus, rumors that were substantively the same from whatever source; on the other hand, the rumors about what exactly Queen Areava was doing about the situation were as varied and wild and almost certainly unreliable.

Another barge slid up to the dock, and with a handful of other workers he hurried up to help unload it before the dock foreman gave him a tongue lashing. Then with a jolt he recognized the man with the scarred face and crooked nose standing impatiently at the bow and quickly ducked his head. He hid behind a particularly large stevedore with a rope brace around his shoulders; Gudon helped him lift a bale of horse feed over his head and into the brace, then slid behind crates of cabbages and corn to work from the stern of the barge. He glanced up quickly and saw Jes Prado bark orders to the foreman and then disappear among the harbor throng.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief, and the shock he felt at seeing Prado gradually melted away.

“You! Chalat! Get a move on there! I don’t pay you to stare at your feet!” Gudon bowed quickly to the foreman and joined the queue of workers at the stern waiting to unload goods. In a few minutes the barge was empty. It was pushed away from the dock, and another barge quickly took its place. This one was filled with mercenaries, tired and worn, and about six mounts that looked as ill as their owners. A wider plank was hitched over its gunwales and the mercenaries and their mounts started to disembark.

From this part of the dock Gudon could see all the way downriver, and all he saw was a line of barges loaded with troops and horses.

“What is happening?” he asked the worker behind him.

The worker shrugged. “More reinforcements for the coming war. Queen Charion will be angry. She wants regulars, not these hired mongrels.” The worker spat. “At least it means less cargo for us to take off.”

There may have been less cargo, but the number of barges more than made up for it. Gudon could not remember working so hard in his life. His thighs and shoulders ached with exhaustion, and the palms of his hands were beginning to blister.

Toward evening the barges stopped coming in, but instead of slacking off, the activity in the harbor actually increased. Empty barges were tied together from the end of the dock, two across, until they connected with a ferry quay on the other side of the river. Then huge planks were laid down on the barges and tethered in place with rope almost as thick as hawsers. When finished, the pontoon was twenty paces wide and two hundred long; the current tugged at the whole structure, bowing its middle. Gudon and the other workers helped construct the pontoon, then busied themselves tying ropes to iron loops in stone anchors and throwing two off the side of each barge. As soon as they were finished, the workers were hurried off, and a column of men leading horses appeared at the ferry quay on the opposite bank.

Although the workers were dismissed around midnight, several of them, including Gudon, stayed behind to watch the procession make its way across the Barda and into the city. Gudon scratched a mark in a crate for every ten men. After a hundred marks he whistled in wonder; there was still no end to the column. He had never seen so many mercenaries under one command before.

Are they for the war?
he kept wondering.
Or is Prado going after Lynan again?

Gudon saw the foreman by the pontoon bridge where it met the dock and went to him. “How long are we keeping the pontoon?” he asked. “We don’t get no barges in while it’s up.”

The foreman grunted noncommittally. “Don’t know. Don’t care. As long as we’re paid for the time off, you shouldn’t care either.”

“Guess they’re coming for the war.”

“Guess so, although why we need more cavalry on the border is beyond me. It’s infantry we need, infantry to garrison Daavis. Cavalry isn’t worth spit in a siege.”

“Yah,” Gudon agreed sympathetically. “But the rumors been goin‘ for weeks now, so how come Kendra ain’t sending infantry?”

The foreman gave Gudon a look of mild disgust. “Weeks? Don’t know who you’ve been talkin‘ to, but the first I heard about it was less than five days ago.”

Gudon slipped away. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. Prado could not have put together a company this size in less than a month. The mercenaries were not here for the war.

He walked quickly to the small room he rented in a rundown riverside inn. He went in the back way and quickly gathered together his few belongings, including the sword he had hidden under a loose floorboard. From there, he made his way to a stable, woke the irate owner and paid the difference he owed for the keep of his two horses, then rode north out of Daavis at a fast trot. By dawn, he was well clear of the city and the river. He switched horses and kept up a good pace, but he could not help wishing he had wings on his feet. Even at the best speed he would not reach the High Sooq before the start of spring, and by then it might be too late.

Normally Prado lost his temper when he was forced to kick his heels, but he made a special effort on this occasion; so far into his plan, he was not going to allow anything to stop his progress. Officials in Queen Charion’s court bustled by him, paying him scant attention; at first he had pestered each of them to find out when the queen would see him, but they would shrug helplessly and maneuver out of his way, so eventually he gave up.

He had heard from the court sergeant-at-arms the news that Areava was mobilizing for a war against Haxus, and he was afraid she had sent orders for his company to be conscripted into the defense of Daavis. The news certainly did away with any intention he had of asking Charion for a troop or two of her regular cavalry to help him in his mission.

It doesn’t matter,
he told himself.
I can do it with the twenty-five hundred I have, as long as no one gets in my way.

About mid-morning he was joined by Freyma and Sal.

“Have you heard—” Freyma started excitedly.

“About the war?” Prado spat. “Of course I’ve heard.”

“And the other rumor?” Sal asked.

Prado’s eyes narrowed. “What other rumor?”

“That Lynan is leading the armies of Haxus.”

Prado could not hide his surprise. If true, it would almost certainly mean Areava had ordered Charion to join his forces with her own. He thought furiously, pacing up and down the ornate tiled atrium and glancing nervously at the bronze doors that led to the queen’s throne room. He was not so sure he wanted that audience with her now.

If the rumor was true, then Rendle had returned to the Oceans of Grass and captured Lynan. But how? Prado had been with Rendle when his first attempt to capture the prince had failed—presumably foiled by the Chetts; if that was the case, the Chetts would have made sure Lynan was safe, which in turn meant Rendle was riding deep into the plains in late autumn—or worse, in winter—to capture Lynan.

He shook his head. No, it was not possible. It must be nothing but a rumor.

“Lynan’s still with the Chetts,” he said aloud, but to no one in particular.

“How can you be so sure?” Sal asked.

He looked at her sternly. “I just
know
.”

Over the last two months, Sal had learned what that expression meant. She did not argue the point.

The bronze doors opened and a harried-looking official scurried to Prado. “The queen will see you now.” The official glanced disapprovingly at the mercenaries’ dress. “Be brief.”

He led the three into the throne room. The space seemed small after Areava’s throne room in Kendra, but it was richly decorated. Courtiers, soldiers, and secretaries were everywhere, yapping with each other, poring over documents on makeshift tables, looking strained. Charion herself was on the throne surrounded by an anxious throng of attendants, and among them all she seemed like an oasis of tranquillity.

She was short and finely built, like a figurine. Her face was round and pale, and black hair tumbled loose over her shoulders. Brown eyes coolly regarded the mercenaries as they approached her.

“Your Highness—” Prado began, bowing low.

“I have received messages from Queen Areava concerning your mission,” Charion interrupted. Her voice seemed unnaturally low for such a small woman. “It is an annoyance.”

“I am sorry, ma‘ am, that we have come at such an inconven—”

“The messages also stressed I was not to interfere,” she continued. “By which I gather she means I cannot second your company.”

“It is mainly cavalry, your Highness. No good in a siege.”

“A siege? Who said anything about a siege?” Her voice was as hard as steel.

“Everyone is talking about it, ma’am,” Prado said hurriedly. “And the supplies we have seen—”

“Farben?” she said.

The official who had showed in the mercenaries scampered by them and kneeled before Charion. “Your Highness?”

“I thought I ordered the supplies to be stored as soon as they arrived? I don’t want Salokan’s spies knowing what we’re about.”

Farben shrugged apologetically. “We’re storing them as quickly as we can, but work was disrupted last night by ...” he glanced at Prado, “... by the arrival of the general and his company.”

Charion looked sourly at Prado. “Another reason to be unhappy with you.”

“We had no idea, your Highness,” Prado pleaded. “If we did—”

“You would still have made your grand entrance. I know your type, General. And I know Areava.”

Prado did not know what to say, and anyway she would only interrupt him, so he bowed again. Freyma and Sal stood well back, studiously staring at their feet.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

“To gather supplies,” Prado told her.

“Not possible,” she said. “You can see we need all the supplies for ourselves. Salokan will march on us when the thaw starts.” She looked at Farben again. “When do my magickers say that will be?”

“Four, maybe five, weeks, your Highness,” Farben answered.

“So you see, General, supplies are out of the question.”

Prado licked his lips. “Your Highness, I understand your predicament, but my mission is vital.”

Charion leaned forward. “What exactly
is
your mission?”

Prado blinked. He had not expected this. “Your Highness?”

“Oh, God’s teeth, General, don’t play the fool. The question was straightforward enough.”

“I assumed Queen Areava would have informed you of it.”

Charion sat back again, and her pale face flushed with anger. “Obviously an oversight on her part. These are busy times for us all, and something as simple as that might be overlooked. So, what is your mission?”

“Far be it from me to withhold information, your Highness, but I am under instruction from the queen not to discuss it.” He hoped he was lying convincingly. If Areava had not told Charion, she had her reasons. Or rather, Orkid had his reasons. Was the chancellor afraid Charion would interfere? Or take on the mission herself? Yes, that was it. In her struggle with Chandra, she would do anything to curry favor with Areava.

“I see,” Charion said icily. “Then you had better get on with it.”