Blood of War (48 page)

“It's a valid point,” someone shouted from the back.

Jorge felt his control slipping; he spoke quickly.

“If we had fled then what would have happened to the refugees that have made camp outside our walls? What is the latest tally, Garvus?”

Beside him, he heard the shuffle of parchment as Garvus reviewed his notes.

“Eleven thousand four hundred seventy seven. The last count was taken three days ago. More have arrived since.”

“Eleven and a half thousand men, women, and children,” Jorge roared, “all camped outside our doors, all having fled their villages, their
homes
, ahead of the blasted Soldiers of God that will be here in a few days. What would have happened to all those innocents if we had fled?”

He raked the room with his eyes, saw several of his brethren shrink away.

“How would we have explained ourselves to the gods if we had let them all fall under the sword because we were cowards?”

“
They will fall anyway,” countered Brother Pols, his jowls jiggling with his anxiety. “We have barely two thousand soldiers to hold off the entire armed might of the Prelacy. Even with the improvements to our defenses, we cannot hope to survive. I question whether we can even
slow
them.”

Garvus cleared his throat.

“There is something interesting about the refugees,” he said as he rose from his seat. “Something that we should be able to take advantage of. We have set some of our swordmasters to patrolling their camp to keep the peace. So far, eight fights have broken out in the past week. Two of those nearly became full scale riots.”

“Very interesting,” Jorge said wryly. “Yes indeed, very interesting. But I admit, Garvus, that I do not see how this helps us in any way.”

“If you would let me finish, then perhaps something would get through that thick skull of yours.” Garvus said with a sharp glare.

Muffled titters broke out across the hall. Even Goromand on his chair smiled slightly. Swallowing his scathing retort, he smiled tightly, bowed slightly and indicated Garvus should continue.

“As the swordmasters were breaking up each fight, they noticed that those involved had some martial skill. All of them. There's even a report from Sergeant Carmichal that says-” he riffled through more pages, “-ah here it is. That says, 'With the exception of the threadbare quality of the shelters, the encampment does not bear the appearance of a hastily built refuge. On the contrary, it has more the appearance of being deployed with a thought to tactical advantage. It is deployed as I would have instructed my men to deploy our own camp if we had been in the field.'”

Uncertain what it was he was hearing, Jorge frowned. “And that means?”

“It means,” Fagan piped up, his great voice booming like thunder, “that for whatever reason, every man and woman out there is a potential soldier for us.”

Gasps resonated throughout the hall. Staggered, Jorge struggled to process Fagan's words. He had been so enveloped in the task of strengthening the Abbey's defenses that he had not paid much attention to the gathering crowd beyond the walls.

“Eleven thousand soldiers?” he gasped.

“Well, no,” Garvus hedged. “There are several thousand children amongst the refugees. They obviously cannot fight. The number of able adults is somewhere around six thousand to six thousand five hundred.” He glanced at Jorge apologetically. “I'm sorry I cannot be more precise than that.”

Six thousand. Added to their remaining army would give them a fighting force of about eight thousand. The odds were still heavily against them—five, six to one—but they had the Abbey and its defenses. A sudden blaze of hope flared up nearly choking him.

“How?” he croaked.

“Well now, that's the question of the hour, isn't it?” Goromand said, finally rising from his seat. “How is it possible that we suddenly have access to such a huge army when, throughout the centuries, we have never had more than perhaps three thousand fighting men and women.”

He was old, was Goromand. Well into his nineties. Some brothers and sisters had, in the last few years, quietly been questioning whether he still maintained enough of his faculties to lead the Order. He still possessed the penetrating gaze that Jorge remembered from his first days as an acolyte. The one that had made him tremble, certain that Abbott Goromand had seen into the core of his soul and delved everything there was to know about him in mere moments.

Goromand turned that gaze on Jorge now and still, after all these years, Jorge felt the familiar unease.

“When did the refugees begin arriving?”

“A week ago. Maybe a little more.”

Goromand nodded as a small smile creased the corners of his eyes.

“A few weeks ago. Not very long before our young Jurel left his self-imposed exile to save Kurin.”

Feeling like a child all over again, Jorge stared mutely. Kurin had Sent to him informing him that he was safe and on his way home. He also told Jorge that he had some news of import to divulge. Jorge had wanted to ask a million questions but even in the dreamworld in which Sending took place, Kurin had looked worn out as though he had...well as though he had been ill-fed and tortured for weeks. So Jorge had stifled his questions, deciding to wait for Kurin's full accounting upon his arrival. Now Jorge wished he had pressed. Kurin had not mentioned Jurel's return; Jorge fathomed that he knew what his important news was.

The implications were as mind-boggling as they were terrifying. Was Jurel influencing the people to take up arms, instilling them with martial ability that, as farmers and tradesmen, they would otherwise have no reason to have? If he was, was it intentional or accidental? Was he so powerful that his will could reach across the land and touch thousands of people without his even realizing it?

Why not? He was the God of War.

With Mikal's absence, the responsibility of the Abbey's defenses had fallen on his shoulders. Plans began spinning through his mind. With burgeoning excitement, he ignored the din that was swelling once again within the hall, and put aside the question of Jurel's involvement. He began to think of what the addition of six thousand fighters could do for them.

His preliminary calculations were encouraging. At least insofar as instead of seeing naught but annihilation as the inevitable outcome; now he saw a glimmer of hope. They were still heavily outnumbered, but they had better defenses. That was, of course, if any of the gathering refugees beyond the walls were willing to fight.

Somehow, Jorge thought with a tight smile, he knew they would be. And with such a sudden surge in their numbers, maybe they could begin thinking of going on the offensive a little. He would have to speak with Mikal because an idea had begun to form in his mind. A mad, daring, ridiculous idea. His smile broadened and it had just a hint of a predatory quality.

Chapter 41

His men advanced in orderly columns, white capes announcing their intentions, swords flashing a dangerous promise in the sunlight to those who did not cede. His columns, five abreast and over a quarter mile long, rode forth and Thalor felt a thrill.

By now, the peasants who populated the streets of Twin Town had seen the approaching army and the dirty streets teemed with people rushing back and forth.

“Remember, Major. No burnings. King's orders,” he sneered as he watched his army march to victory. Then a malicious grin darkened his countenance. “But you may most certainly prosecute those who do not cooperate as heretics.”

Major Reowynn saluted, spun his horse and rode toward the front while Thalor continued to watch. They marched past the first buildings—hovels really—and down the main streets, bristling steel on either side. At intervals, squads broke off and disappeared into the alleys and side streets. No tactician, Thalor wondered how so few could overcome so many, even if the few bore steel. He did not doubt that they would, he just wondered how the Major had planned it.

When the last men passed by, he fell in with the guards who formed a protective ring around him. The main body of the army was only hours away. They should be here, he was told, long before sunset. He planned on having the Twins secured by then. Maten (that bloody fool) might have words with him about following his orders but what, really, could the old fool say when he saw Twin Town firmly under Thalor's thumb?

As he looked on, he saw his Soldiers rounding up the populace and gathering them in the main square at the center of town. At this rate, he thought they would have total control of the town before the main body could set camp.

* * *

He sat at his appropriated desk in the common room of the best inn his Soldiers could find—which, to be more precise, was to say the best of the bad. Ruddy gold sunlight filtered through the hastily cleaned windows. He flipped through various reports, squinting in the low light, setting aside most for Major Reowynn's perusal since they had much to do with logistics and grievances within the ranks and very little to do with anything he should be bothered with overseeing himself.

The faint odor of smoke tickled his nose; he would have to question the Major on that. His orders from Maten had been clear: no more burnings. If this odor came from cook fires, there would be no issue of course. On the other hand...

But no, Thalor respected Reowynn more than he respected any other Soldier of God. The man was a boor, an oaf, as all those who made their living by the sword were, but he was also a consummate professional and would see to it that his orders were carried out to the letter. Anyone caught disobeying would never get the chance to face Thalor; Reowynn was pleasingly harsh with those who disobeyed him.

The front door creaked open and Thalor glanced up to see another major, one he had never seen before, approach. The woman's green eyes stared dead ahead from her sun speckled face as she snapped a salute. Well built, certainly not ugly, Thalor eyed her appreciatively.

“Your Eminence,” she barked, her voice unusually gravelly for a woman of her age and rank as though she had inhaled too much smoke in her lifetime. Sergeants often had voices like that after years of shouting commands damaged their throats, but majors were expected to be more reserved. Thalor did not approve. “Major Thania d'Anton reporting.”

“What do you have to report, Major,” Thalor said icily.

“The main camp is situated for the night, sir. At your order, we have cordoned off the Eastern Caravan Route to the north and south of Twin Town.”

My order? Ah. Thank you, Major Reowynn.

“Very good, Major. Major Reowynn shall return momentarily. Wait here and present him with your report.”

Though young, she knew a dismissal when she heard one and with another salute, she left for the bar at the other end of the room where Thalor had graciously allowed the innkeeper to continue plying his trade—as long as he, of course, donated his time and effort to provide for Thalor's men.

Once again the door creaked open. His cape streaked with mud and ash, his face sooty, Reowynn banged off his customary sharp salute.

“What's going on, Major?” Thalor snapped.

“My Lord?” His face impassive, still Reowynn managed to seem confused by the terse demand.

“I smell smoke. I thought there was to be no burning.”

Reowynn's eyes tightened. Good. Let him fear. “My Lord, the townsfolk started the fire themselves.”

Thalor pinned Reowynn with a glare, and gently set down his quill.

“And why, pray tell, did they do that?”

“There was a group of folk, twenty or thirty,” Reowynn reported in the calm, emotionless voice a good soldier uses when reporting facts. “They were holed up in a tavern three blocks from here. Anyone who opened the front door was instantly feathered with a crossbow bolt. I lost three men.

“I ordered the place surrounded and called for their surrender. They answered by throwing bottles of burning spirits through the windows. When the bottles struck the ground, they exploded. I lost four more men but the splashing fire caught on the tavern and burned it to the ground, along with everyone inside.”

“I see. And is this the only fire to report?”

After a brief hesitation, Reowynn shook his head. “No. There have been three such events. In each, the building was burned to the ground along with everyone inside.”

Thalor began to have an uneasy feeling, a suspicion that tickled at the back of his thoughts.

“I should like to see one of these...last stands.”

“There's naught left but ashes, My Lord.”

“Nonetheless...”

A short while later, Thalor dismounted and regarded the still smoking ruin. Water dripped from timbers that looked like charred bone, evidence of the bucket brigade that had formed to douse the flames. Three Soldiers of God sifted through the debris searching, presumably for the bones of those who remained inside. Thalor had a suspicion that they would find nothing. He also had the suspicion that he would.

“Tell them to move, Major.”

Thalor stepped to the edge of the wreckage as the Soldiers scrambled past, saluting as they went. He raised his hands, palm to palm in front of him, and opened himself to his source. Then he deliberately spread his arms and as he did, puffs of smoke and ash rising, with a sound of wood scraping and tinkling glass, the debris and charred wreckage parted down the center and moved in concert with his motion.

Soon, what was left of the tavern was swept to either side in two heaping mounds and he stared at a floor of ash streaked flagstones. He bent nearly in half as he stepped onto the now bare foundation, inspecting the stones carefully. Worn smooth by years of footsteps, they were irregularly shaped, fitting together with mud and grout to form a chaotic pattern.

Except one toward the back where, Thalor suspected, the bar would have stretched from one end of the tavern to the other. He halted and studied the stone carefully. Even under the thin layer of soot his arcanum had not swept bare, he could see that this one was a lighter color than the rest and not worn quite as smooth. It was also a near perfect square. It was not large, but...but it might just be large enough to...to...