‘Curse all of you to Hood’s darkest pits!’ Lady Warin hissed, then gasped.
Heboric stood, panting, and examined his leg – the bolt had passed straight through the meat of his thigh.
‘This one’s still alive,’ a new voice observed from nearby. Heboric looked up, blinking. More of the so-called bandits now surrounded the wagon, crossbows resting in their arms. Boots squelched in the mud as the bandit woman leapt down from the wagon. She’d thrown off her old cloak and was using a piece of torn rich cloth to clean her blade. Her armour was plain and functional; ex-military, Heboric thought.
She looked him up and down. ‘Sorry, priest. But there are to be no witnesses to this bandit attack.’
He did not bother pointing out the obvious truth that this was no bandit attack. Instead, he drew a snarling breath and grated through his pain, ‘Do not make me call the Boar.’
The woman raised a brow, nodding. ‘I’ve heard the stories, of course. The Boar-wildness. Never seen it myself. I think of it as apocryphal.’
Through clenched teeth, Heboric ground out, ‘Do not force me. It is very painful.’
Brow still raised, the officer asked, ‘For you?’
‘For everyone involved.’
Sighing, she turned to her troop. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Reload.’
Damning the woman for forcing this on him, Heboric called inwardly upon the Great Boar, the roaring god of war’s wildness, petitioning: Ride my flesh! And charged.
When Heboric awoke, it was night, and he lay half in a small creek. Groaning, he turned over to wash the thick sticky layer of drying blood and gore from himself in the icy cold water. He spat out something that might have been a piece of human flesh and washed his mouth, gagging. Then he passed out once more.
With the warmth of the sun, he rose and staggered about until he saw the raised bed of the road and returned to it once more, heading north. Of the Lady Warin’s wagon or party, he found nothing. He must have run or wandered far from that location. At the first farmer’s thatched hut he limped over and banged on the door until it opened and hands took him to heave him on to a straw pallet. Here he sank into a deep sleep of near death, as the Boar cares not for the demands he places upon the flesh he rides.
Chapter 9
A full-command gathering was slated for the very night the Insufferable docked in Malaz City harbour. Surly, Cartheron, Tayschrenn and Dassem all called for the meeting to be held in Mock’s Hold, but Kellanved would not budge: his office was to be the place.
Luckily, Smiley’s was now unoccupied, as Surly’s burgeoning agency had long since outgrown its limited quarters and had moved its operations to an undisclosed location among the warehouses along the waterfront, so Dancer had to unlock the doors to the bar and light the lamps along the walls in the abandoned common room. Kellanved walked up the stairs as if nothing had changed. Sighing, Dancer picked up a lamp and followed.
He found the mage slumped behind his desk, chin in both fists, staring at nothing. The fellow had barely said two words since leaving the field of flints, and Dancer was becoming rather worried. ‘So it didn’t pan out,’ he offered as he lit three more lamps. ‘Not everything’s going to work out. Look at Heng.’
‘Yes,’ the mage murmured, his eyes slit. ‘I haven’t finished with Heng.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? What’s the plan?’
‘The plan?’ Kellanved echoed, distracted. ‘Plan for what?’
‘The plan for Nap,’ Dancer answered, rather tersely. ‘The topic of the night.’
‘Ah.’ The mage shrugged dismissively. ‘As before, I suppose. It doesn’t matter.’
Dancer studied him for a time: chin in fists and elbows on the desk, he looked like a sulking child. Yet Dancer knew this was much worse – the mood was one of those black pools of melancholia that could swallow a man. It was strange; the fellow could be so driven at times, yet one setback and he was utterly dejected. Bickering, however, would only make things worse, so he clenched his teeth and nodded. ‘Very well. As before then. You haven’t eaten in ages – are you hungry?’
Kellanved shook his head and let go a deep sigh.
Dancer pushed from the wall. ‘Well I am. I’m going to see if Surly’s left us anything here.’
The mage merely waved him off.
The kitchens, unfortunately, had been emptied. Dancer emerged to find the Dal Hon swordsman in the common room. ‘Dassem!’
The swordsman opened his mouth to answer, but paused, frowning his uncertainty. ‘Just what,’ he asked, ‘do I call you?’
‘Dancer will do.’
‘No title?’
‘Gods no.’ Dancer invited him up the stairs. ‘And what have you been busy with?’
‘Training the troops. Your marines.’
‘Marines?’
The lad pushed open the door to the offices. ‘Yes. They all fight at sea, and can double as sailors, and vice versa. Therefore, marines.’ He bowed to Kellanved. ‘Magister.’
The mage did not answer; he was playing with something on his desk.
‘Training in what style?’ Dancer asked.
‘Shortsword, shield and spear.’
Dancer was surprised. ‘Like the old legion?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But cavalry dominates the field from Quon to Gris. Infantry is an afterthought.’
‘These days, yes. But that’s not how it used to be. A well organized and disciplined infantry can repulse a horse charge. Cavalry used to have a very minor role in war.’
‘War,’ Dancer echoed, with some distaste. And yet, he supposed, that was what this was about, after all.
Tayschrenn entered, then peered about looking rather perplexed. Dancer realized that the only chair in the room was the one under Kellanved’s bum.
Well, perhaps it would help shorten the meeting.
Surly and Cartheron entered, with nods all round. The Napans, the Kartoolian mage and Dassem all looked to Kellanved, but the wizened mock-old mage didn’t raise his head from the object he was turning on the desk.
After a few uncomfortable moments Dancer cleared his throat and addressed Surly. ‘We are secure here?’ She nodded. He looked at Tayschrenn. ‘Any active Warren magics?’ The mage shook his head. ‘Very well. Cartheron, when can we move against Nap?’
The fellow looked to the ceiling and scratched his unshaven jaw. ‘Dawn of the third day from now.’
‘How many ships?’ Dassem asked.
Their High Fist blew out a breath. ‘Some forty. All we can scrape together.’
The swordsman eyed Surly. ‘And is that a credible threat?’
Her habitual stern expression soured even more. ‘Not really. It’s not enough.’
Arms crossed, his back against a wall, Tayschrenn leaned forward. ‘Are you saying they will see through it?’
‘They will wonder why we would be so … hasty, and foolish …’
Dancer looked at Kellanved. Ah. I see. He cleared his throat once more. ‘So, Kellanved …’
The mage rubbed his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Yes, yes. They will see a foolish inexperienced ruler throwing away his forces in an ill-considered attack. Very well.’ He waved his hands as if to shoo them from the room. ‘Go on – go ahead.’
Surly crossed her arms. ‘There is still the matter of who goes.’
Kellanved’s beady eyes slit almost closed. ‘Meaning …?’
She pointed a finger. ‘You’re going.’
He slumped back in his chair, appalled. ‘Really? I’ll have you know I have important matters to pursue. Research into forbidden secrets. Lost artefacts. Mysterious … things.’
‘If you have him you do not need me,’ Tayschrenn told Surly.
Kellanved had returned to toying with something on his desk. ‘You’ll keep all those Ruse mages off my back,’ he said.