Irons in the Fire (42 page)

"I'm Sorgrad." The Mountain Man was all business. "What did Failla tell you?"

"That you have need of my particular talents." Reher's dark eyes glowered beneath the tumble of black curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. "In some scheme to finally bring peace to Lescar."

"There'll be fighting and dying along the way." Sorgrad looked steadily at him.

Reher shrugged one muscular shoulder. "No different from half my lifetime."

"Come on, then." Gren was gathering up their gear, impatient as a hunting dog seeing his master pull his boots on.

"Suits me." Reher shifted a grubby canvas sack from one shoulder to the other.

Tathrin hurried to gather up his own bag and tightly rolled blanket. Sorgrad and Gren were already moving away and this blacksmith Reher followed close behind. For a big man in heavy boots, he moved remarkably quietly through the dense summer undergrowth.

Had he seen Failla? Tathrin knew she had gone back to Carluse. Was she still safe? Aremil had told him she was, as far as he knew, but Charoleia seemed to share as little with Aremil as Sorgrad did with him. How soon would this woman Branca find someone to travel to Carluse and use aetheric enchantments to make sure Failla stayed safe? So many questions burned under his tongue. Perhaps he'd get a chance to talk to Reher when they next halted.

But they didn't stop. They left the dense woods unscarred by woodsmen's axes to walk cautiously through coppiced stands of hazel and beech. Soon after that, the sky opened up above them and they followed hedgerows bracketing sunken lanes that divided fields of standing grain from land given over to hay. In the distance Tathrin saw farmhouses, all surrounded by solid stone walls, readily defended in this imperilled region. Not so very different from the farmsteads on the far side of Losand, he realised, where Carluse territory ran up against Sharlac lands, only separated by the narrow width of the Great West Road.

They had to move slowly and quietly, with Tathrin and Reher walking bent almost double. Every hay meadow was busy with men wielding scythes, women following after to turn and spread the tangled grass. Children and dogs alike chased the mice fleeing for the refuge of the hedges. Here and there some of the wheat was already being cut, ripened to golden perfection by the hot summer sun.

If Duke Secaris of Draximal sent his personal guard to root out some explanation for whatever mayhem Sorgrad had planned, Tathrin knew these harvesting peasants would find a pair of Mountain Men and a couple of uncommonly tall Lescari unhelpfully memorable. But Sorgrad had reconnoitred a path that took them towards the river unseen.

They left the wheat fields and the land turned to damper, greener pasture. Curious cows watched them, beef cattle fat and placid, milking herds chewing, udders hanging heavy. The hedges around the grazing were quite unlike those Tathrin was used to. He hadn't noticed as he walked along the high road on his earlier journey, but now down among them, he saw that steep-sided banks half as high as a man enclosed each field, dense tangles of hedges growing on top.

Sorgrad signalled a stop just before the next gate. Tathrin took a drink from his travelling flask. His back was aching viciously. He offered Reher some of the water as a haywain rattled along the unseen lane.

Gren caught Tathrin's eye as the noise faded. "These cursed fields are why Parnilesse never gets the upper hand over Draximal," he whispered. "It's a drunkard's nightmare fighting through here, all ambushes and counter-strikes and ten men dead for every plough-length."

Sorgrad signalled with a silent hand and they crossed the next pasture to the shelter of a tangled blackthorn hedge. Sorgrad pointed to a curve of pollarded osiers sprouting grey-green withies. Tathrin nodded ready understanding. The river lay beyond the line of trees.

Reher picked a stray thorn out of the loose weave of his homespun breeches. "Can you swim?"

"Sorry?" Tathrin was remembering how itchy homespun could be. But at least Reher's clothes were neat and new. His own breeches and doublet of fine Vanam broadcloth were sadly worn and faded and his shirt was so stained no laundress could save it. "Yes, I can swim."

"Strongly enough to save a drowning man?" Reher grimaced. "Because I can't."

"I hope so." Tathrin did his best to sound confident.

Thankfully, when Sorgrad waved them forward through the osiers, he saw that the river fell far short of the boisterous torrent they'd ridden in Aft-Spring. It had sunk so far in the centre of its wide bed that shallow islets had broken through the sluggish flow, some sprouting clumps of weeds.

"There's no one on the banks." Tathrin looked up- and downstream.

"No one goes fishing till the harvest's home," grunted Reher.

"Do we have a boat?" Gren looked around.

"Of course," Sorgrad said scornfully. He slid down the crumbling clay bank and hauled a marsh hunter's punt out of a tangle of washed-up branches.

"Aren't we waiting till dark?" Tathrin looked up at the afternoon sky.

"It'll be dusk by the time we reach the bridge." Sorgrad dragged the shallow-sided boat towards the water.

"Do we have oars?" Tathrin tried to sound offhand.

"A paddle." Gren wasn't about to relinquish it.

"Get in, lie low, and we'll let the river do the work." Sorgrad waded into the water.

Gren sprang into the prow and knelt there, alert.

Tathrin shared an eloquent glance with Reher as they climbed cautiously aboard.

"Lie flat," Sorgrad ordered.

The two tall men stretched out as best they could. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and water soon seeped through the planking. Tathrin tensed as Reher shifted his bulk and the punt rocked alarmingly.

"Best to lie still." Sorgrad was crouching in the stern, watching where the current might take them.

The waters whispered on the other side of the planks. The chill of the river soaked the back of Tathrin's shirt and breeches and the marshy odour grew steadily stronger. Add the reek of his own sweat and Reher's and he wondered wryly if the mercenaries holding the bridge or the militias penning them in would need to see the little boat approaching. Surely they would just smell them coming?

He lay still and looked up at the cloudless sky, the blue growing steadily richer as the sun slid towards the horizon. This was at least preferable to the first trip he'd taken on this river.

What did Sorgrad or Gren have planned? Why had they gone to such lengths to bring Reher here? Doubtless Arest and his band of mercenaries could use a blacksmith's skills but why bring Reher to Emirle Bridge to fight in this battle? One man, however strong, surely couldn't make that much difference?

"You've known Arest for years, right, Sorgrad?" he said suddenly. "Why do you need me and Reher along to talk him into your plan?"

"I need you because you're the one Aremil talks to." Sorgrad shifted slightly.

"Can't he talk to you?" He remembered Sorgrad's magebirth. "Or to Gren?"

"That's not a good idea." Sorgrad's tone sent a colder shiver down Tathrin's spine than the river water he was lying in. "If he's caught unawares, Gren tends to lash out."

Tathrin heard a hiss as the paddle bit into the flow and Gren chuckled. "Some
sheltya
bastard tried getting inside my head once. He soon regretted it."

"What are you talking about?" Reher demanded.

"Never mind," Sorgrad said repressively.

Sheltya.
These mysterious adepts who wielded their Artifice in remote mountain valleys. Tathrin had seen no sign of Sorgrad fearing anything but he certainly treated these unknown enchanters with wary respect as well as mistrust. They could pluck thoughts out of a man's head if they wanted to, without him even knowing--that's what Sorgrad had said. Reniack had talked about enchantments that could find out all a man's secrets.

Was that why Sorgrad told him so little of his and Evord's plans? Tathrin suddenly wondered. Because he didn't trust Aremil not to pick things out of his mind? Not so long ago, that notion would have angered him. Now he wasn't inclined to be so affronted. Not when every time Aremil used Artifice to contact him, he seemed to see deeper into his friend's thoughts and feelings, just as Aremil saw further into his. Would bringing more adepts into their conspiracy mean he'd have strangers uncovering his innermost thoughts?

Uncomfortable, Tathrin turned his thoughts instead to the concerns that he knew he and Aremil shared. Where was Captain-General Evord going to get his army from? Just what could they hope to achieve before Aft-Autumn and then For-Winter put an end to all campaigning? The Mountain Men and the Solurans were supposed to be experts in waging war. Weren't they gambling everything on decent weather lasting past the Equinox?

He turned the endless questions over and over in his mind. Was there any way he could phrase a query that might prompt Sorgrad into an unguarded answer? He was tired of the Mountain Man's sarcastic answers that didn't actually tell him anything.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tathrin

Emirle Bridge, in the Lescari Dukedom of Draximal,

37
^th
of Aft-Summer

"There's lit windows in that village." Gren was kneeling in the prow, crouching so low that his chin rested on the rail.

Propping himself cautiously up on his elbows, Tathrin looked over the shallow boat's side. The day was definitely turning to twilight. "Where are we?"

"Nearly there," Sorgrad said.

Reher was snoring. Gren reached back to shake his massive shoulder. "We're coming up on the bridge."

Tathrin saw torches lit on the watchtowers at either end. The illumination threw the water and everything between the defences into deep shadow.

"Don't stare at the lights," Sorgrad chided him. "They're just to keep the militia looking and ruining their night sight."

"Don't move till I say." Gren reached for a coil of rope.

After the drama of his first arrival, Tathrin's second landing on the bridge was blessedly uneventful. A mercenary waiting beneath the arch caught the rope Gren tossed and drew the punt gently against the central pillar's footing.

"All quiet?" Sorgrad stepped lightly onto the stone stairway.

"Cursed boring," the swordsman growled.

"We'll see what we can do about that," Gren promised.

"Shall I take your gear?" With dry stone safely beneath his boots, Tathrin turned to Reher.

"Thank you." The big man answered Tathrin with a wry smile. "I don't like water and it doesn't like me." He handed his canvas sack to Tathrin and clambered awkwardly out of the shallow boat.

"Where's Arest?" Sorgrad asked.

The mercenary jerked his head. "On the east gate."

As they climbed the narrow spiral staircase, Tathrin wondered if the burly captain would insist that Reher strip to his underlinen to prove he had no mercenary tattoos.

"Going to see Arest." Sorgrad passed through the side room of the bridge's central tower with a brief wave. The swordsmen sitting round a game of runes barely looked up.

Outside Tathrin heard the clip of an iron shoe as one of the horses stabled in the archway shifted. The roadway was dark, all the lit torches confined to the outer faces of the gates at each end. Tathrin still listened for the spiteful chirp of arrows coming out of the darkness. How many militiamen were camped on the banks? Could Arest's men break out, as Sorgrad planned?

A solitary watchman stood by the oak door of the eastern gatehouse.

"Zeil? Where's the boss?"

Tathrin wondered how Sorgrad could recognise anyone in the gloom. But it was Zeil.

"Up top."

A narrow stone stair built into the width of the wall ran up to the room above the gate. Arest was leaning against the portcullis mechanism, looking out of a crossbowman's firing slit. Tathrin peered through another one. Campfires beyond the causeway were bright dots in the distant darkness.

Arest reached for a candle lantern hung on a nail and slid its metal shutter up to let out more light. "Don't fret, lad. At least a third of those fires are false lures, just lit to make us think they have more men than they do." He looked at Reher. "Who's this? A new recruit?"

Arest was half a head shorter than Reher but broader in the shoulder and sturdier in the leg. Tathrin wouldn't know who to wager on, if the two men were to wrestle.

"He's a smith with a talent for starting fires." Sorgrad grinned. "Now, Lady Alaric reckons you'll be bored with this game by now."

"I'll say." Arest spat on the floor. "Orlin, pissing Duke of Parnilesse, hasn't sent us a copper penny, for all his promises of gold for every day we hold the bridge. Duke Secaris of Draximal, the horse-kisser, he's not offering anything to get his river crossing back."

"How's the pickings hereabouts?" Gren was still counting campfires.

"We can keep ourselves fed. Send out boats at dawn and dusk and foraging parties give the militiamen the slip easy enough." Arest scowled. "Beyond that, anywhere within reach is picked clean of dainties and there wasn't much to send home to mother to start with. As for entertainment, Halcarion's tits, it's impossible to find a willing whore. Try for a taste of honey and you risk a pitchfork up the arse while your breeches are round your ankles."