Kellanved's Reach

‘And?’ she asked, a touch wearily, chin in hand.

‘We need more. More allies, more troops. More of everything, frankly.’

‘And?’

‘Since we have impressed and recruited all we can, I suggest hiring.’

Malle scowled her disapproval. ‘You know what I think of mercenaries.’

‘Skinner and his troop are close by …’

The scowl became a grimace of distaste. ‘Collecting Wickan scalps for Duke Baran. You do know why he’s called Skinner?’

The sorcerer shrugged his indifference. ‘Fear is a potent weapon, Malle.’

Malle looked at the empty throne next to her, and sighed. ‘I know this. But it can fuel hate,’ her narrowed gaze slid over to the mage, ‘which is far

stronger.’

Ap-Athlan daintily cleared his throat and stroked the small grey goatee at his chin. ‘Indeed. Perhaps so.’

She waved him off. ‘That is all for the night.’

Bowing stiffly from the waist, he left, still tossing grapes into his mouth.

Alone but for the servants, Malle sat in thought upon her throne. One by one they finished their tasks and slipped away until one last servitor – a skinny, sleepy-eyed youth – came and sat at her feet.

After peering down at him with something like affection, she asked, ‘You watched and listened as I taught you?’ The lad nodded. ‘And who do you think?’

‘Ranel of Nita,’ the youth said, with a yawn.

‘Really? Not Amtal of Haljhen?’

The youth shook his head. ‘No. You wouldn’t speak openly of negotiation if you were considering betrayal.’

Malle nodded. ‘Very good. Why that brat Ranel?’

The youth closed his bruised eyes, tilted his head in remembrance. ‘He sat sullen all through the meal. Rolled his eyes when anyone spoke – thinks he’s smarter than everyone. That’s the type to try something stupid, thinking it’s smart.’

Malle nodded again. ‘Very good. Keep an eye on him, yes? And if he acts … I give you permission to respond.’

The youth peered up, slyly. ‘Show me your trick.’

Malle waved a hand. ‘Not tonight, little one.’

‘Pleeeease?’

Malle sighed, pushed herself from the throne and walked to the centre of the hall. ‘See the far pillar timber nearest the door?’ The youth nodded. Malle eyed it for a time, then turned her back upon it. She let her arms fall loose at her sides, took one steadying breath. Spinning, she threw one arm up, aiming for the pillar, and a small blade hammered home in the meat of the thick wood.

The youth jumped to his feet, applauding.

Smiling only very slightly, Malle walked over and yanked the slim blade free.

‘It never works for me,’ the lad complained.

‘More practice, as I showed you,’ Malle told him. She tapped the blade to her palm, studying it. ‘One day,’ she murmured, perhaps only to herself, ‘I’ll get close enough to Courian D’Avore to put this in his one remaining eye.’

Chapter 8

What few horses Orjin Samarr’s rag-tag force possessed they gave over to the scouts and messengers. And so Orjin paced alongside everyone else, close to the arrow-point of the wide, cross-country chevron that was his marching order. His soldiers raided and burned as they went. Their orders were to herd the farmers and peasants towards the twin cities of Quon and Tali, where their clamouring and hungry mouths would eventually force the recall of the expeditionary army that now invested Purage in the north.

Orjin’s force ate whatever they could scavenge from the countryside, and as it was winter pickings were slim; his own lads and lasses were feeling the pinch of hard times just as badly as the farmers they were rousting from cottages and hamlets. Yet he insisted no one was to be slain, save where any resistance emerged.

For the first week of raiding he kept relatively close to the coast, despite advice from Prevost Jeral and Terath that they strike straight for the walls of Tali and break through, if possible. Burning Tali would definitely bring Commander Renquill’s prissy arse running – as Terath had phrased it.

But Orjin had something else in mind, a longer game.

However, it would have to wait, as he faced Terath and Prevost Jeral in an emptied and raided cottage to decide what to do about the first firm opposition to take the field against them.

Jeral pointed to the crude vellum map of north Quon Tali province. ‘They will meet us at this crossing,’ she said. ‘Good roads in all directions – roads put in by the Talians specifically to move troops, by the way.’

‘We could go round,’ Terath put in, a hand at her scarred chin.

‘Do you want them to dog us for ever?’ Jeral answered, a touch sharply.

‘Numbers?’ Orjin asked, breaking up the exchange. These two lieutenants, he noted, seemed to get on each other’s nerves. Too much alike, he figured.

‘Some fifteen hundred,’ Jeral supplied. ‘We’re not absolutely certain. They have a strong skirmishing screen.’

‘Damned few to march out to challenge …’ Terath mused.

Jeral nodded, and rubbed a hand through her matted hair – she’d undone her braids to accommodate the helmet. ‘There’s more. Scouts report a core in the force. An infantry square all in black tabards.’