Kellanved's Reach

The woman’s eyes grew huge. ‘A mage?’ She studied Haraj. ‘In truth?’

The lad shrugged, embarrassed. ‘In a very narrow sort of way … yes.’

‘Baron Ordren will have to be told,’ she said. ‘He may want to hire you into his household.’

Gregar raised a hand for silence. ‘Please, this is just between us. Haraj here, well, he – he wants to …’ He looked to the bright noon sky. ‘Gods, how do I say this?’

‘I want to join the Crimson Guard,’ Haraj said, rescuing Gregar from his dilemma.

Leah’s mouth opened in stunned amazement and she blew out a long breath. ‘Hunh. Just what I used to imagine doing – long ago. But if you are a mage, then they should take you. They take all mages. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.’

Haraj nodded eagerly. ‘Exactly.’

Gregar looked to the sky again, then squinted across the field. ‘We’re too far away.’

‘Far from who?’ came a loud bark from Sergeant Teigan and Gregar jumped; they had failed to keep a careful watch.

‘Far from victory … as yet,’ Leah offered.

The sergeant gave the first open belly-laugh Gregar had heard from him, cuffing Leah. ‘Soon!’ he guffawed. ‘Soon, lass.’ He eyed Gregar. ‘And as for you! Well done, lad. Well done. There’s a promotion in the offing, I’m sure. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you. There’s a fighter, I’m sure, I said to myself. That’s why I gave you the colours!’

Exhausted and in a sudden cold sweat now, Gregar could only shake his head in disbelief. ‘Of course, sergeant.’

That evening Gris and its allies relinquished the field and the Bloorian League was one step closer to cutting off another allied barony from Gris. The Crimson Guard also decamped, shadowing the movements of the Grisian forces.

As to chasing after the Guard, Gregar realized it was a forlorn hope. Best to wait until the campaign threw them together once again, then he could deliver Haraj. Until such time, he had to admit the soldier’s life was becoming far less bothersome – or he was adapting to it. The Fourth was even enjoying something of a reputation for its repulse of that cavalry charge, and Sergeant Teigan was glad to take full credit for the performance.

*   *   *

On board his flagship, the Insufferable, off the Itko Kanese coast at night, Cartheron Crust sat in Mock’s old quarters and in the light of a swinging lamp read the reports from the captains sent by their fastest and lightest message-boats.

None of the missives, even the slimmest, was encouraging. Shipping had fallen to its lowest point in years. The towns and forts of the coast had shifted to a war footing. Garrisons had been bolstered, harbour defences mended. Suddenly Itko Kan was ready for a build-up in attacks. Meanwhile, the many cities of the Bloor–Grisian coast were already at war, and prepared to repulse any questionable vessel that approached.

He set down the sheaf of pages and reached for his wine. Surly was not going to like this. They were expending too many resources for too little gain. He would have to give the recall. He tossed back the drink and shrugged. Well, it was winter anyway, not the traditional raiding season.

The last page, a larger piece of finer parchment, he kept in hand and read again, shaking his head. Apparently, in his absence, he’d been put in charge of all the military; promoted to some damned fool made-up rank of High Fist.

He toasted the page. I can blame my blasted brother for this, I’m sure.

Shouted alarms from the deck brought him to his feet and he charged for the door, snapping up a hanging sheathed falchion. The night was particularly dark, overcast and threatening a bone-chilling rain. Even as he peered round, searching the surrounding waters, he realized the cause of the panic as strangely contrary and warm gusts of wind blustered about him.

‘Stand back!’ he yelled to the sailors, gesturing them away from the mid-deck.

What looked like shifting tatters of night, or shadows, flitted about the deck, thickening to an obscuring dark. Sailors raised hands in warding signs against evil, while some muttered prayers. Two ran below-decks. Cartheron readied his sword – though he suspected who it was, he couldn’t be certain what might emerge here.

A strong gust of dry gritty air buffeted him, stinging his eyes, and then the darkness faded away to reveal two men, one lean, the other short and apparently aged, and Cartheron stepped up, sheathing his sword. ‘Welcome aboard, m’lords.’

The lean one, Dancer, greeted him, saying, ‘Cartheron.’ The little old fellow walked past him without even an acknowledgement and disappeared into the cabin. Cartheron sent a questioning glance to Dancer, who shook his head. ‘Make for Malaz, captain,’ he said.

‘Aye aye.’ He searched for and found his mate, Algar. ‘Relay the order.’ The mate hurried off.