Yet he’d never made a single move in that direction. Instead, he’d devoted himself to building and training the Council of Semkirk, as if he, too, had concluded that wizardry was simply too dangerous. That if the Empire of Ottovar, with all its power and all the legacy of Ottavar the Great and Gwynytha the Wise, had been unable to prevent its abuse in Kontovar, then no one could. He didn’t want to create a new generation of wizards; he wanted to exterminate the art of wizardry entirely, and in the magi he’d found a counterweight, possibly even the weapon which ultimately, in the fullness of time, would accomplish that extermination.
Whatever his thinking, he’d seen to it that the Council of Semkirk had all the information he could give it about wizards and wizardry, and Brayahs Daggeraxe was a wizard sniffer. He probably knew more about the art of wizardry than any other nonwizard ever born, and that was why Baroness Myacha’s words had sent that chill through him.
Myacha was no mage. He was certain of that, and, for that matter, no mage would have perceived what she seemed to be describing the way that she’d just described it. But someone with the Gift, someone who with the proper training, the proper awareness, could have become a wizard herself, might well have the True Sight. And someone who had the True Sight might describe a glamour, or an enchantment, or even-if they were sensitive enough-simply the residue of an arcane working, in exactly that way.
Chapter Thirty
“It’s amazing how much easier the tunnel made this,” Trianal Bowmaster said, shaking his head bemusedly. He sat at a plainly made table of unvarnished planks with Bahzell, Vaijon, Prince Arsham, Yurgazh Charkson, and Tharanalalknarthas zoi’Harkanath, who’d accompanied him on the last leg of his journey from Hurgrum, while unseasonal rain pattered noisily on the roof and distant thunder grumbled somewhere to the south. Sir Yarran was absent, occupied with settling in the troops Trianal had just brought in from the West Riding…which included at least one wind rider Trianal would have much preferred to leave behind.
“The weather was miserable all the way down,” he continued, “but getting troops down the Escarpment in some sort of order is a whole lot simpler this way.”
“So long as you’ve got permission to use it, at any rate,” Arsham said dryly, and Trianal chuckled.
“Works both ways, Your Highness. With all due respect, I doubt if even hradani could fight their way through the tunnel with an entire Sothoii army waiting at the other end for them,” he pointed out, and it was Arsham’s turn to laugh.
“And speaking of weather,” Trianal said, glancing at Tharanalalknarthas, “I have to say that this”-he waved at the rough but sturdily constructed walls of the building in which they sat and the coal-fired iron stove in one corner-“is a lot more pleasant than sleeping in another wet bivouac.”
“I wish we had walls and a solid roof for everyone, Milord,” Tharanal replied. “We never planned on a force this large last winter, when we were allocating construction materials and crews for the expedition.”
“Believe me, no apologies are necessary,” Trianal assured him. “We may not have a solid roof for everyone, but at least we’ve got everyone under canvas. Trust me,” he grimaced wryly, “Sothoii armsmen will take that as a major improvement over what we usually get in the field.”
Laughter rumbled around the table, but Trianal had a point, Bahzell reflected. Tharanal had traveled along with Trianal for the express purpose of coordinating the supply of their suddenly larger field force, and while sheltering in tents and under tarpaulins was hardly pleasant in this sort of weather, it really was better than most Sothoii armies could have anticipated. Or hradani ones, for that matter. His father had made huge improvements in the Northern Confederation’s quartermaster’s corps (in fact, he’d created the quartermaster’s corps and hired dwarvish advisors to help establish its duties and training), yet it was still decidedly on the bare-bones side. Not even Bahnak of Hurgrum could have reorganized all of his supply arrangements for an army which had suddenly more than tripled its anticipated size.
“As to that,” Arsham said after a moment, “I’m in agreement with Sir Trianal, Tharanal. I am a little nervous about how long we can keep the force provisioned now that’s it’s concentrated, though.”
“ That part shouldn’t be a problem.” Tharanal shrugged. “I’m not saying it won’t cost a pretty penny, but most of the actual food’s coming directly from the Confederation, not over the rails from the canal head. It’s just a matter of getting it onto enough barges and the barges down the river, and Prince Bahnak’s building even more hulls in Hurgrum. To be honest, it’s likely to be a bigger problem once you break camp and begin your campaign. As long as you stay close enough to the river, we’ll be able to supply you easily enough, but we don’t have the draft animals or the wagons to haul provisions any great distance overland, especially in this kind of weather.”
There was no laughter in response to that remark, Bahzell noticed. Ghouls didn’t bother with things like roads, and the Ghoul Moor had been so thoroughly soaked over the last few weeks that the wheels of even Dwarvenhame wagons would sink to hubs in trackless mud in very short order. Transporting the necessary quantities of food and fodder for the Sothoii’s horses would quickly overwhelm the limited number of pack animals they had, as well, and no army could support itself by foraging on the Ghoul Moor. Small foraging parties would be all too likely to be swarmed under by ghouls, and there wasn’t all that much to forage for, anyway.
“Hopefully, that won’t be an issue,” Vaijon said, glancing across the table again at Yurgazh, who’d actually carried out most of planning while he awaited the reinforcements’ arrival. “We’re not planning on getting more than a day or two’s march from the river. We’ll issue each man five days’ rations before we head inland; with what the mule train can carry, that should give us at least eight days before food becomes a problem. Fodder’s going to be more of an issue, actually, but we’re late enough into the summer that we can graze the horses for at least some of what we’re going to need.”
“As to that,” Bahzell rumbled with the sort of wry resignation, “it’s in my mind as how feeding all our people’s likely the least of our worries.”
“Oh?” Arsham cocked his ears at him.
Theoretically, the Bloody Sword prince had come down by barge solely to attend this conference. He was supposed to be returning to Hurgrum the next day, although Bahzell entertained a few doubts about just how rigorously Arsham intended to hew to his official schedule. The same thing was true of another prince the Horse Stealer could think of, for that matter.
“Is that simply a prediction based on experience, or do you have a specific reason for thinking that?” Arsham continued. “The sort of specific reason that, oh, a champion of Tomanak might have, for instance?”
“I’ll not be saying as how it’s anywhere near to ‘specific’ as I might be wishing,” Bahzell replied. “Mind, we’ve every one of us more experience than we’d like as to how what can go wrong does, yet it’s something nasty Walsharno and I have been smelling this last two weeks.”
“And me,” Vaijon put in grimly. Bahzell cocked an ear at him, and the younger man shrugged. “It’s stronger down here on the Ghoul Moor, Bahzell, but I’ve been feeling it all the way from Hurgrum. I don’t know what it is, but I do know we’re not going to like it very much when we meet it.”
“And this is supposed to be a surprise?” Trianal asked, looking back and forth between the two champions with a raised eyebrow. In that moment, despite the difference in their coloration and ages, he looked very like his uncle, Bahzell thought.