It could have been me, Jureem thought. He'd confided his fears about leaving Longmont undermanned to one of his lovers, a horseman who bred fine stallions. But had he mentioned that the forcibles would be there? No. He had not spoken of them.
Jureem looked to his side. Feykaald had been with Raj Ahten for many years. Jureem trusted the man. As for the flameweavers, they cared nothing for Raj Ahten. They served the elemental fires, and would follow Raj Ahten only so long as he promised them war, promised to feed their master.
So Jureem did not worry that these men were spies. True, it could be that one of the captains was a spy. But how? How could even a spy have notified Orden of the opportunity at Longmont on such short notice?
No, it was the Days, the tall man with graying hair and chiseled, imperious features who most worried Jureem. He could have aided Orden in this battle. Only he.
Jureem dreaded this moment, had long suspected it would come. The Days claimed they were neutral, that they never aided any lord against another. To do so would have been to interfere in the affairs of men, an action that the Days said the Lords of Time would not tolerate. So they merely recorded events—but Jureem had heard too many rumors, too many hints at unscrupulous dealings in the past. For years, Raj Ahten had grown in power until he reached the point where Jureem suspected that the Days would unite against him.
In their own way, Jureem believed the Days were far more of a threat than the irrepressible Knights Equitable.
The Days, of course, knew Raj Ahten's actions. The Days knew well in advance that Raj Ahten planned to attack Longmont, knew he'd left the castle without a sufficient garrison. The Days' twin, the man or woman who shared his mind in the monastery to the north, of course knew what had come to pass. And anything learned by one Days could swiftly be relayed to many.
It was all Jureem could do to keep from whirling now and gutting the Days.
“I think, we are betrayed, my lord,” Jureem said, glancing at the Days. “Though I know not how.” His master was watching, had seen the covert accusation.
Yet what could the master do? If Jureem accused the Days falsely, and slew him, he might make matters worse. All of the Days would then openly fight Raj Ahten, betray his secrets into every ear.
On the other hand, if Jureem did not slay the Days, then a spy would remain in the camp.
Raj Ahten stopped.
“What will we do now?” Feykaald asked, wringing his little hands. They stuck out from his turquoise silk robes like twisted knots from a tree limb.
“What do you think we should do?” Raj Ahten asked. “You are my counselor, Feykaald. So counsel me.”
“We should send a message,” Feykaald whispered, “to General Suh, and divert his armies to us for reinforcement, instead of having him attack Orwynne.”
Feykaald was old, tough, and full of experience. He'd lived long by being careful. But Jureem knew that Raj Ahten often desired less-cautious counsel. The Wolf Lord had grown in power by listening to Jureem.
He leaned his ear to Jureem. “And what would you do?”
Jureem bowed his head. He spoke carefully as he thought aloud. “Forgive me, O Blessed Light, if in this matter, I do not seem so alarmed.” He flashed a distrustful glance at Feykaald. “It may be true that King Orden has captured your forcibles, but who will he use them on? You have already stripped endowments from everyone who was worthy at Longmont. Orden cannot use the local populace. Which means he would have to take endowments only from his warriors—an unfortunate proposition, for with each endowment he took to himself, he would weaken his own army.”
“So you propose?”
“Go to Longmont and take your forcibles back!” It was, of course, the only possible answer. Raj Ahten could ill afford to wait for reinforcements. It would only give Orden time to either slip away with the treasure or draw reinforcements himself.
Raj Ahten smiled at this answer. It was risky, Jureem knew. Perhaps Orden wanted to draw them out of Castle Sylvarresta for an ambush. But all life was a risk. And Raj Ahten could ill afford to do nothing.
The Master had taken six endowments of metabolism. In doing so, he was able to thwart the assassins who came after him time and again.
But taking such endowments carried a great danger, the promise of an early death. Metabolism could serve as a weapon against its owner. Indeed, in one case, according to legend, a Dedicate who gave a great king metabolism was kidnapped by the King's enemies. Then, the enemies gave hundreds of endowments of metabolism to the Dedicate, making him a vector, so that the King died of old age in a matter of weeks. For this reason, Raj Ahten had vectored all his metabolism through a single Dedicate, a man he always kept near to his side, in case he needed to slay the man and break his own link.
Few kings ever dared take more than one or two endowments of metabolism. With six, Raj Ahten could run six times the speed of another man.
But he also aged six times faster. And though Jureem's master had many thousands of endowments of stamina, and would grow old with incredible grace, Jureem knew that the human body was meant to wear out over time. His master had lived for thirty-two years now, but because of his many endowments of metabolism, he had aged far more than that. Physically, he was in mid-eighties.
Raj Ahten could not hope to live much beyond the biological age of a hundred and ten, nor could he survive without his endowments.
Only a few years back, Raj Ahten had made the unfortunate mistake of slaying some of his Dedicates, so that he could slow his own aging. But within a week, a Northern assassin had nearly slain the Wolf Lord. Since then, Raj Ahten had been forced to bear this lonely burden of high metabolism.
Three years. He needed to unite the world, to become the Sum of All Men within three years, or he'd die. One year to consolidate the North. Two to take the South. If Jureem's master died, it might well be that the hope of all mankind would die with him. The reavers were that powerful.
“So we go to Longmont,” Raj Ahten said. “What of Orden's army in the Dunnwood?”
“What army?” Jureem asked, certain from many small cues that there was no great threat. “Have you seen an army? I heard war horns blowing in the wood, but did I hear a thousand horses neighing? No! Orden's mists were there only to hide his weakness.”
Jureem squinted up at his master. Jureem's obesity, his bald head, made him look like an oaf, but Raj Ahten had long known that Jureem was every bit as dangerous as a cobra. Jureem found himself saying, “You have twenty legions approaching Longmont—an army Orden cannot withstand, not if you fight at our head. We must go and take Longmont.”
Raj Ahten nodded solemnly. Those forty thousand forcibles represented the labor of thousands of miners and craftsmen over the past three years. A large pocket of blood ore—now tapped dry. They were irreplaceable.
“Prepare the men to march,” Raj Ahten said. “We will empty Sylvarresta's treasury, take what food we need from villages we pass. We leave in an hour.”
“My lord, what of the horses?” Feykaald asked. “We will need mounts.”
“Our soldiers have enough endowments; most need no mounts,” Raj Ahten said. “And common horses require food and rest, more than a man.
My warriors shall run to Longmont. We will use what horses we can. We'll empty Sylvarresta's stables.”
A hundred and sixty miles by road. Jureem knew that Raj Ahten could walk that distance himself in a few hours, but most of his archers would not bear the burden of more than a single endowment of metabolism. Such soldiers could not run to Longmont in less than a day.
Raj Ahten would have to leave his nomen here. They would only slow the march. The giants and war dogs, though, could take such abuse.
“But,” Feykaald urged, “what of your Dedicates here? You have two thousand in the Dedicates' Keep. We don't have horses to move them, nor do we have enough guards to protect them.” His attention, too, had turned to logistics.