War Maid's choice

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’ Traram 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. Erkan Traram, 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 Traram 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 Sothoii civil war would rise sharply if that happened.

“And if they do convince them to run for it before Traram 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 Sothoii 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 Sothoii: 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, allowing 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 Sothofalas 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.”

Both captains’ eyes widened. It was clear both of them thought their baron’s bitter enmity toward Baron Tellian was behind his suspicions, but neither was prepared to argue the point. Especially since it would take at least three times as long for any courier just to reach Balthar-or Sothofalas, for that matter-as it would take them to reach Chergor.

“Of course, Milord,” Stoneblade said after a moment.

“I know the horses all need this rest,” Cassan continued, “but we’re going to have to push on harder as soon as it’s over. I think it would be wise for you to go have a word with all of our troop leaders, Garman. Tell them what I think is happening here so they understand how vital it is that we move as quickly as possible from here on out.”

“Of course, Milord!”

Stoneblade slapped his breastplate in salute and headed off purposefully, his expression grim. Horsemaster started to follow him, but Cassan gripped the younger armsman’s elbow before he could.

“Milord?”

“A word more, Kalanndros,” the baron said quietly. The captain cocked his head slightly, eyebrows rising, and Cassan smiled grimly. “There’s another reason I didn’t want to send a courier to Balthar,” he said in that same quiet tone. “My agents in Nachfalas actually gave me a little more information than I was willing to share with you and Garman…until I realized where they’re headed, at least. Now I think you need to know it.”

He paused, waiting.

“What sort of…information, Milord?” Horsemaster asked finally.

“Information suggesting these people were met by one of Baron Tellian’s spies,” Cassan said flatly. “To be honest, that’s the reason I pulled this many men together before I went looking for them in the first place. I was afraid they were up to some mischief in the South Riding, something Tellian could deny responsibility for because the men who carried it out it had obviously come from out-kingdom. But now that I’ve realized where they’re really headed, I have to wonder if there wasn’t a much darker reason than I’d suspected for why they met with one of his agents before setting out.”

Horsemaster’s expression was suddenly intensely wary, and Cassan smiled without a trace of humor.

“If this is an assassination attempt and Tellian’s behind it, there’s only one reason he would have recruited them from outside the Kingdom and had them enter the Wind Plain at Nachfalas and come at Chergor across my lands. He’s not just setting up a way to hide his hand-he’s obviously hoping to saddle me with responsibility for whatever they’re about to do. And if he’s been as clever about it as he usually is, they probably truly believe I’m the one who hired them!”

Horsemaster nodded slowly, his eyes narrow, and Cassan shrugged.

“Obviously, I don’t have any sort of proof he’s the one who set this all up. For that matter, I might even be wrong to think he is.” The concession was perfunctory at best, Horsemaster noted. “The gods know this canal business offers enough of a threat to the interests of the Spearmen and the Purple Lords for them to want to wreck it even more badly than I do! But the point is that if it is Tellian, and if whoever he used as his agent hired them in my name, the consequences could be…serious.”

Horsemaster’s nod was far more emphatic this time.

“So I think it would be best, when we overtake them, that there be no survivors,” Cassan said flatly, and gave another shrug. “Men who hire their swords for assassinations are scum, anyway. If we’re fortunate, we’ll catch them short of Chergor and finish the business then.”

“And if we don’t, Milord?” Horsemaster asked softly.

“Well, that will depend on whether or not they’ve had any opportunity to talk to anyone on the other side, won’t it? Someone who might actually believe their lies and think I’m the one who hired them.”

Cassan’s tone was completely neutral, but understanding flickered in Horsemaster’s blue eyes. Understanding of what his baron had just said and perhaps- perhaps — just a trace of what he hadn’t said.

“That would be…unfortunate, Milord,” he said.

“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” Cassan replied.

“I’ll see to it, Milord,” Horsemaster said, and if he was unhappy about the possibilities, there was no sign of it in his level gaze.

“Good.”

Cassan released the other man’s elbow and watched him walk across to his own company. Someone’s armor and weapons harness creaked behind him, and he looked over his shoulder.

“All well, Milord?” Dirkson asked softly, and the baron nodded.

Dirkson was younger than Darnas Warshoe, but they were very much cut from the same cloth, and the armsman nodded back to his patron. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the six handpicked armsmen of his personal squad. Aside from Cassan and Dirkson himself, they were the only ones who knew the baron’s full plan, and if the thought of regicide bothered any of them, there was no sign of it.

“Won’t hurt a thing for Sir Kalanndros’ lads to be busy cutting inconvenient throats, Milord,” Dirkson said, touching the hilt of his own saber, and his eyes were cold. “Lots of confusion and people running and shouting.”

“Best of all if we get there just too late,” Cassan told him in an even softer tone. “But if we don’t, remember to make sure the dagger’s in Tellian’s hand. Or the hand of one of his allies, at least.”

“Oh, aye, I’ll do that little thing, Milord,” Dirkson promised with an icy smile. “A cold, dead hand…and I’ll make sure it’s dead myself.”

Erkan Traram drank deeply from his canteen, then looked around the small circle of intent faces gathered about him.

“All right, lads,” he said. “It’s time we were about it.”

That circle of faces tightened, but no one argued. It was far too late for second thoughts, even if they’d been inclined to entertain them, and they weren’t. All of them recognized the risk inherent in their task, especially if anyone escaped to set wind riders on their trail. Their horses were good, even by Sothoii standards, but no one’s horses were that good. Still, if things went according to plan, there’d be no survivors to escape, which ought to give them at least several hours-possibly even a day or two-of head start on any pursuit. Besides, they weren’t going to escape overland; river barges were waiting just below the point at which the Ice Sisters’ outflow reached the Spear to bear them back to Nachfalas more swiftly than even a wind rider could cover the distance. If they reached the barges, the only real concern would be one of those blasted magi who could throw their thoughts over vast distances, or one of the “wind-walkers.” Nothing else would be able to get word to Nachfalas in time to prevent them from escaping back down the escarpment and disappearing into the Kingdom of the River Brigands and the Empire of the Spear once more.

Or that was the plan, anyway.

“Somar,” Traram looked at his senior lieutenant, Somar Larark. Like Traram himself, Larark was a veteran of the Spearman Army, although it had been some years since either of them had been that reputably employed.

“Yes, Sir?” Larark responded with the discipline Traram had carried over from his army days.

“Go ahead and circle around to the other side. Take Guran with you and send him back once you’re in place. I know it doesn’t look like much,” he twitched his head in the direction of the hunting lodge hidden by the half-mile or so of woodland between them and it, “but the Sothoii don’t pick Royal Guardsmen out of a helmet at random. We’re going to lose some of the lads no matter what else happens, so let’s take time to do this right.”

“Yes, Sir,” Larark said again, and nodded to Sergeant Guran Selmar, the company’s senior noncom. The two of them moved off towards Larark’s command, and Traram looked at his other subordinates.

“Go,” he said flatly.

They nodded and filtered off through the trees, leaving Traram with his bugler and his small command group. He stood there, listening to bird song and the scolding chatter of an outraged squirrel. The light was dim and green as it filtered through that dense leaf canopy, like being at the bottom of a lake, and it was cool under the trees. He drew a deep breath, smelling the leaf mold, the moss, the deep scent of earth and growing things. Of life.

There were times when even a man like Erkan Traram had qualms about the choices he’d made in his own life. When he felt himself at the center of a leaf-whispering, breezy pool of living energy and thought about all the lives he’d ended. All the blood he’d spilled for more paymasters than he could any longer count. But those times were few and far between, and he’d long since learned how to banish them when they insisted upon intruding.

Bards and poets could rhapsodize about noble conflict, about honor and the warrior’s call to duty under his liege lord’s banner in time of war. But the skills of a warrior weren’t worth a copper kormak in time of peace, and there wasn’t always a war when he needed one. A man had to make his way in the world with the talents he had, and Erkan Traram’s talent was for killing.

And with what you’re earning for this one, you may finally be able to retire, after all, he told himself.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Markhos Silveraxe was his king, now was it?