Sorcerer's Moon (34 page)

‘I know.' Garon glowed with arrogant confidence. 'It won't break my heart. Both bastards despised me because I took time to enjoy life's pleasures, rather than serving Lord Kilian with blind devotion as they did.'

Beynor bit back the contemptuous remark that sprang to mind. An ascetic and sexless man himself, he despised those who were overfond of fleshly indulgence.

I've chosen another unworthy and venal henchman, he thought, even though he's hardly as vicious as the hedge-wizard Gorvik Kitstow. Still, the knave would probably perform his task adequately, especially if his smug self-confidence was rattled a wee bit. What a pity that the restrictions of Bazekoy's pearl were still in place!

'Once you have the treasure,' Beynor said, reaching out and placing his hands lightly on the other man's shoulders, 'you must bring it to me promptly. All of it! I'll know if you attempt any boneheaded trickery - or if you run.' He pinched both sensitive clavicle nerves, using somewhat less pressure than he'd exerted while torturing Kilian.

Garon screamed. But not a sound escaped his clenched lips.

'Do you understand?' Beynor inquired amiably.

'Yes! Yes!' The reply came on the wind.

'The punishment if you betray,my trust will be more horrible than you can imagine. I'll find you, wherever you hide. The worst of it will be that you beg for death, but are unable to die.'

'Please - I won't play you false! I swear it.'

Beynor smiled. 'I think I believe you. You want the reward I've promised, and you shall have it if you carry out your task faithfully and well... Or would you rather just walk away, leaving me to secure the treasure myself?' Beynor's hands dropped from Garon's shoulders and he untied the man's tongue. 'You
can
walk away if you wish. I won't force you to serve me.'

Perspiration bathed Garon's brow and his attractive face had become grey and drawn. The choice was no choice: he either threw in with the terrible Conjure-King or he was doomed. He knew too much now.

'Swear you will never harm me again,' Garon said in a surprisingly steady voice. 'Not with sorcery, nor with physical weapons, nor with your own body's might and main. Swear you'll never command other persons or inhuman creatures or natural elements to harm me. Swear that a tenth of Kilian's treasure shall be mine to keep forever. I'll ask no other reward of you if you swear all these things, Beynor of Moss, on pain of eternal damnation.'

‘I do so swear,' said the Conjure-King. His black eyes gleamed with reluctant respect. Perhaps this one was not so unworthy after all! 'And if I break this oath, may the Beaconfolk cast me into the Hell of Ice that claimed my poor mother.'

Garon let out a pent-up sigh of relief. To Beynor's astonishment, he managed a crooked grin. 'When do we begin the sorcery lessons?'

'Go to your rooms and wait. Gather what you'll need for travel. I want you on your way tonight. I'll come as soon as possible and teach you what you need to know. I hope you're a quick study.'

'When it's to my advantage. But wouldn't it be wiser to get on with this business without delay?'

Beynor glanced in the direction Stergos and his companions had taken. 'Do as I say without arguing! Now get out of here. I need to concentrate if I'm to read lips at long distance.'

'After the brief message of warning was received by the shaman-farspeaker at Fort Ramis,' Stergos said to Conrig, 'nothing else was heard from Sealady Tallu and Ontel. Of course, they may be keeping wind-silence so as not to be overheard by the main body of monsters.'

'Do you really think they might have survived, Gossy?'

'No. I believe those two brave souls and all their crew have perished.'

The High King and the Royal Alchymist stood beneath an open-sided pavilion that served as an officers' mess and place of ease for the battle company commanded by Duke Norval Vanguard of Cathra. The sun was high and it was getting very hot. Flagons of drink, along with platters of meat, bread, and fruit covered with gauze to stave off the abundant clouds of flies and wasps, had been laid out on trestle-tables for the royal inspection party; but few of the battle-leaders were partaking of it. They had gathered in a silent, baffled group on the opposite side of the tent, along with High Sealord Sernin Donorvale and his sons, Prince Heritor Corodon, and Crown Prince Valardus of Didion. All wondered whether the Sovereign intended to share the obviously urgent news just brought by his brother.

Conrig's face betrayed nothing of the turmoil within his brain. A fresh Salka assault aimed at Blenholme's west coast had the potential for total catastrophe. The monsters might come ashore anywhere. Tarn and Didion were equally imperiled. And his army was massed
here,
smack in the middle of the island, hundreds of leagues from any likely point of attack.

From what he'd seen on the morning's tour of the camps, neither the men nor the horses were ready for a lengthy forced march - especially one over mountains - all the way to the Western Ocean. Many of the nonprofessional levies were slack from the long period of inactivity. The conscripted Didionites, especially, had prematurely celebrated their dismissal and return home and were in a sorry state, hungover and insubordinate as they were formed up for inspection.

'Con?' The soft, anxious voice of Stergos broke the train of the king's thoughts. 'What would you have me do now?'

'Invite the High Sealord and Earl Marshal Parlian to attend me. Bid the others eat and drink and take their ease. Tell them we'll all confer together within the hour. Then bespeak Chumick Whitsand, Somarus's archwizard, and command him to bundle His Majesty of Didion onto horseback and whip his fat arse over here speedily, as though his life depended upon it.'

While Stergos went to fetch Donorvale and Beorbrook, the Sovereign collected five fieldstools and set them about a flat-topped military chest. On this he spread the marine chart of the island which the alchymist had brought with him, weighting the corners with stones.

'Plotting new strategy, my liege?' Sernin Donorvale bent down to peer at the map from his great height. He was half a foot taller than Conrig, a giant of a man with a full head of sand-colored hair pulled back in a short pigtail, and pale brows above eyes that were a changeable grey-green, like the Boreal Sea. He was pushing three-score-and-ten, but looked a dozen years younger.

'I have no revised plans yet, High Sealord,' Conrig admitted somberly. 'For that I'll welcome your advice - and that of others. Sit you down. There's fresh disaster brewing.'

'Oh, shite,' Sernin whispered. 'Not the Salka?'

Conrig gave a grim nod of assent. Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook had overheard, and he muttered a curse before taking a stool himself.

'My friends,' the Sovereign said, 'I've summoned Somarus as well, since he must participate in any decisions we make.' Pointing to the relevant spot off the Desolation Coast, he related how the monsters had been sighted by Ontel and Tallu less than an hour ago. 'It's likely that the Salka are planning another invasion in force. The message from the sealady and her husband estimated that there were many thousands of the creatures swimming northward. It doubtless means that they intend to circle around the island and strike somewhere in the west. No other possibility makes sense.'

'But it's too late in the season!' the earl marshal protested.

'Nearly two moons remain before the big winter storms begin,' the High Sealord said. 'It will be yet another moon before our northern ports ice up completely. I fear that the Salka have time enough to invade and establish themselves on land. They hibernate in winter, you know, burrowing deep into the mud of river or lake bottom where no human being can dislodge them.'

'Can they survive under sea-ice, my lord?' Parlian asked.

'I truly don't know,' Sernin replied. 'And I think it makes very little difference to our defensive strategy whether they can or not. What's imperative is that we set up naval patrols off the most obvious coastal targets. Safeguarding the Tarnian capital is feasible, using those of our ships still based at Yelicum. The Firth of Gayle is narrow and readily defended. Donorvale lies upriver and batteries of tarnblaze cannons protect its approaches. But the rich settlements of Shelter and Goodfortune Bays are another matter. The majority of Tarnian warships based in those areas were sent north when the Beacon River invasion was detected. Now they lie off Ice Haven with other vessels of the Joint Fleet.'

'I'll order Lord Admiral Hartrig to have the fleet up anchor and set sail at once,' Conrig declared. He looked down at the chart. 'Do you think the faster ships have a chance of catching up with the Salka horde before it rounds Cape Wolf and becomes an immediate threat to your larger towns?'

'Not a prayer, my liege,' said the High Sealord. 'The winds are fickle in northern waters this time of year, especially in the Icebear Channel between Blenholme and the Barrenlands. Salka are formidable swimmers. They're bound to beat our ships to the the Western Ocean, even if our shamans and the other wizards aboard lend magical propulsion.'

'Then so be it.' The Sovereign's tone was flat. 'But the Joint Fleet must move out anyhow and do what it can. Meanwhile, I can summon those Cathran men o' war still in southern waters to assist in patrolling your vulnerable ports.'

'There's no certainty that the Salka plan to invade Tarn,' the earl marshal pointed out. 'They could as easily continue southward, swarm into the Cathran harbors of Westley, and go up one of our rivers. Imagine the havoc they'd wreak -the panic among our people if the Army of the Sovereignty were not already emplaced to repel invaders.'

'The army!' Sernin Donorvale shook his head in dismay. 'Deciding how to deploy our ships is difficult enough. But who among us can say where the troops should now go?'

The three leaders fell silent, staring glumly at the chart. The truth was, without firm intelligence as to the Salka objective, the Sovereignty ground forces were all but helpless.

Stergos returned and said that Somarus was reluctantly on his way. ‘I had to explain the urgency of the situation to Archwizard Chumick before he'd agree to waken the king. I doubt we can trust the man to keep quiet about this shocking development.'

'Everyone will know soon.' Sernin Donorvale was resigned.

Parlian Beorbrook had not lifted his eyes from the map. He now stabbed his finger down at a point on Blenholme's west coast where Tarn and Didion disputed the border.

'Here!' the old general said, poking the parchment again for emphasis. 'Right here is where I'd establish a beachhead if I were the Salka commander. In Terminal Bay, that stinking lair of pirates. Not even Duke Azarick Cuva, the nominal overlord of the place, can keep the local sea-wolves under control. They do as they please, and devil take the hindmost. With no solidarity amongst the various bands of corsairs, their resistance to a sudden massive Salka invasion might crumble rather quickly'

'I'm not inclined to agree,' the High Sealord said. 'Tarn is the logical target. Our land is rich and the population relatively small.'

Beorbrook persisted. 'But look here: observe Terminal Bay's narrow entrance, all clogged with reefs and rocks, and its broad landlocked waters. If the monsters should ensconce themselves inside there, we'd have a hell of a time winkling them out with seapower. There's also an easy corridor to take them far inland: large rivers, swamps, puny little fortresses except for the one at Dennech-Cuva. Sire, I think we should give very serious consideration to Terminal Bay as a likely point of attack.'

Conrig seemed uncertain. 'You may be right, Parli, although I'm inclined to agree with Sernin. At any rate, we'll have to wait for Somarus before discussing defense of the place . . . Meanwhile, Gossy, relay my command to Lord Admiral Hartrig. I order the Joint Fleet to embark from Ice Haven at once and follow the presumed course of the Salka horde with all possible speed. Then bespeak our admiralty in Cala. The southern fleet is to set sail for Flaming Head and wait there for further orders.'

Sernin Donorvale said, 'Also be so kind, Lord Stergos, as to summon Grand Shaman Zolanfel to attend me here.' He eyed Conrig. 'We Tarnians will organize volunteer reconnaissance squadrons immediately - fast sloops that will range out from ports on the north and west coasts, scouting for signs of the enemy. Zolanfel can advise us on setting up relays of windspeakers, as well as secure means of communication.'

Conrig nodded approval and said to his brother, 'Take care of it all.'

'At once.' Stergos headed for a deserted corner of the pavilion, pulling his hood over his head as he went.

'What about the troops?' the High Sealord asked. 'Do we march them out of here right away to a new staging area? The cavalry and foot-soldiers of Tarn can be ready within a day or two, and I presume that the Cathran forces are also in good shape. But Didion . . .' He shook his head.

Parlian Beorbrok said, 'Sernin's point is well taken. As we visited the Didionite camps earlier, it was plain that the mood amongst their soldiers is touchy, even ugly. The vast bulk of them are yeoman infantry from eastern or central Didion. Few of them save the Elite Mallburn Guards are highly trained. They're eager to go home. Somarus himself must be the one to command his generals and their officers to respond wholeheartedly to this new threat. Otherwise, I fear we might face a mutiny.'

'There'll be no mutiny,' Ironcrown pronounced with merciless certainty. 'Not if Somarus hopes to keep his throne.'

Parlian blinked in astonishment. 'You wouldn't depose him! It would surely set off an insurrection.'

'I'd do it in an eyeblink to defend this island against the Salka,' Conrig said. 'And if the warriors of Didion revolted, they'd do it without their Crown Prince and generals and battle-commanders - who would remain confined right here in Vanguard's camp, under Cathran guard.'

The High Sealord's face wore a thoughtful scowl. 'Who would you put in Somarus's place, my liege - Crown Prince Valardus? He's not much of a warrior.'

'At least he's a political realist,' Conrig said with brutal candor, 'not a fat sot intoxicated by dreams of ancient glory. If the prince affirms fealty to the Sovereignty, I'll not hesitate to crown him.'