'A good army is disciplined. Everything they do indicates how well they are led. A lazy general will be lax, the camp disorganized. You understand?'
'Yes, General. Of course. How stupid of me!'
'Not stupid at all,' she assured him. 'A sensible man asks questions - that is how he learns.' A huge hound padded over to him, resting his head in Avil's lap. 'He likes you,' said Karis.
'I know him. This is Stealer. He hangs around the barracks and steals scraps.'
Karis had laughed. She was not a great beauty, he thought, but there was about her an earthy quality that made a man think of nakedness and a warm bed. In that moment he understood one of her nicknames: some of the men called her 'The Whore of War'. Avil found his eyes wandering to her breasts; she was wearing a thin, woollen shirt and he could see their outline. 'You have heard, of course, about our magician?' she asked, dropping her voice.
'Everyone is talking about the slaughter of the Daroth,' he said, dragging his gaze from her body and trying to look into her eyes.
'We have three sorcerers,' she told him.
'Three?'
'Their powers are astonishing. One can bring fire from the sky. They were trained by the Eldarin.
Naturally this must not be spoken of. You understand?'
'Yes, General. .. well, no. Would it not ease the fears of the people to know we have such power?'
'Indeed it would. But if the Daroth were to find out just how strong we are, then they might not come within the range of our spells.'
'Oh, I see. But surely they already know about the slaughter, and the magical forest?'
'I don't doubt that they do. That was unfortunate - but we had to protect our refugees. However, the Daroth know of only one sorcerer and one great spell. They probably believe they can overcome us despite his abilities. That is when the other two will wreak their terrible spells.'
She had offered him a second goblet of wine then. It was heady stuff. He told her of his plans and ambitions, and of his life back on the farm. She seemed fascinated by everything he said. No-one had ever been fascinated before. He told her this, and that his comrades called him dull. Karis assured him that he was far from dull. In fact, she had enjoyed his company immensely, and when he returned from his scouting mission they must meet again.
Avil was smitten. Her last words came back to haunt him now, as he sat at the feet of the Daroth general.
'Be very careful, Avil. If the mission goes wrong, do not allow yourself to be taken alive. They must not find out about our plans.'
'You can trust me, General. I will say nothing. I will cut my own throat before I betray you.'
Luck had deserted him yet again - for the last time. He had crept close to the Daroth camp, sure that he was unobserved; but then this terrible pain had struck his head and he had passed out. When he awoke he was in the centre of a circle of Daroth warriors. Their faces were blank, alien and unreadable, but Avil knew of their foul practices and his fear weakened his bladder. He felt the warm urine soaking his leggings and, for a moment at least, shame outweighed his terror.
'Give us your name.' said a deep voice. Avil jerked and gazed around, trying to identify the speaker.
'I am Avil,' he said, his voice trembling.
'You are frightened, Avil.'
'Yes. Yes, I am.'
'Would you like to be released to return to your city?'
'Yes. Very much.'
'Then tell me of the forces gathered there.'
'The forces? The Duke's army, you mean? I don't know how many there are. Thousands, I expect. Soldiers.'
A Daroth rose and, taking hold of Avil's hair, dragged him to his feet. The creature took hold of the young man's arm - and suddenly snapped it. Avil screamed. The Daroth released him and he fell to the ground, staring stupidly at the twisted arm. At first there was little pain, but it grew into a terrible burning that made Avil feel nauseous.
'Concentrate, Avil,' said the Daroth. Pain flared in his head again, then subsided. 'Tell me about the wizards.'
In all his life Avil had known no friends, and many nicknames - none of them a source of pride. But Karis had trusted him, and - merely with her conversation - had given him one of the finest evenings of his life.
Frightened of pain, terrified of death, Avil was determined not to betray her. 'I know nothing of . . .'
'Beware, Avil,' warned the Daroth. 'I can inflict great pain on you. The broken wing will be as nothing to what you will face if you lie to me.'
Tears flowed from Avil's eyes and his lip trembled. He began to weep. Around him there sounded a strange clicking noise. He took a deep breath, and tried to control his fear as the Daroth spoke again. 'The wizards.
Tell me of the wizards.'
'There are no wizards!' shouted Avil. I will die like a man, he thought, though I wish to all the gods that I could live to see the fire blast down on these devils!
'How will this happen?' asked the Daroth softly. 'How will the fire come?'
Avil blinked. Had he said it aloud? No, he wouldn't be that stupid. What was happening? 'Tell me of the wizard who makes fire from the sky,' the Daroth repeated.
Avil dropped his head, trying not to look at the Daroth. Then he saw his knife, still in its sheath; they had not bothered to disarm him! Grabbing the hilt, he dragged the weapon clear and plunged it deep into his chest. He fell back to the grass, and found himself staring up at the night sky and the bright stars.
I did not betray you, Karis. The bastards learned nothing from me. The clicking noise sounded again.
Hands pawed at the dying man, tearing away his clothes. Then he was lifted and carried towards a pit of burning charcoal.
Chapter Thirteen
'You realize the impossibility of what we are planning, don't you?' said Ozhobar, as he and Karis sat beside the forge, enjoying the last of its dying heat. 'You can't hide secrets from a telepathic race. Every weapon we have tested has been seen by our men. The Daroth will not be surprised.'
'That entirely depends on the manner in which their mental powers operate,' she said. 'Can they read all thoughts, or only those we are thinking as they view us?'
'We have no way of knowing,' said Ozhobar, stroking his sandy beard.
'Exactly. Therefore I will waste no energy in trying to second-guess their talents,' said Karis. 'Did you study Tarantio's swords?'
'Yes. Remarkable. It seems the spell has - among other things - significantly reduced the friction on the blades. But that is not what makes them so deadly.'
'Can you duplicate them?'
'Sadly, no. I am not a sorcerer, Karis. I am a scientist. The blades seem to shimmer in and out of existence.
It is not possible, for example, to hold the metal. I tried to put a clamp on one of the blades, but it just slid clear. They will cut clean through stone, wood, and leather. Even iron, though less cleanly.'
'I would give ten years of my life to have a hundred such blades,' said Karis. 'Why did Sirano have to allow himself to be killed?'
Ozhobar lifted a small linen sack and opened it, offering a biscuit to Karis. 'I do feel honoured,' she said. He chuckled.
'They were a gift from the Duke's chef. They are rather good - though not as fine as my own oatcakes.'
'This is why you are willing to share them?'
Ignoring the remark, Ozhobar reached down a second sack, considerably heavier than the first. From this he took a handful of what appeared to be small black pebbles. 'What do you think?' he asked, passing them to Karis.
'Better than stones,' she said. 'Iron?'
'Yes. Each ballista will loose around two hundred of these. The trick is to cause a spread that is not too wide. I think I have achieved it. Come and see.'