Steel and Stone (2 page)

The woman halted her progress and turned back toward the bearded soldier. She spoke quietly. “The head of the last man who questioned the Valdane’s judgment, or that of his mage, lies south of here, at the last mountain pass. Some say it possesses an uncanny resemblance to a toad’s. The Valdane has the wealth to pay his mercenaries well. That’s our only concern, Lloiden.”

The first man set his chin obstinately. He waved one hand, as if to leave the subject behind, and waited until the mage wheeled and stalked back into his tent. Then Lloiden continued his complaint.

“Surely the pay’s one issue, but isn’t strategy another?” he pressed, dew clinging to his beard. “What are we doing attacking after a siege of only two weeks? Why, I was at the siege of Festwild, north of Neraka, years ago. That one lasted eighteen months, and even then at the final surge the enemy held us back for another three days of battle!”

Other soldiers paused in their preparations to cast curious glances at the curly-haired woman and her quarrelsome subordinate.

The woman’s air of command seemed at variance with her years. She could be no older than her early twenties, they guessed. Black leather covered her body from neck to ankle, the accompanying chain mail doing little to spoil the youthful litheness of her form. Snow-marten fur warmed the neck of her woolen cloak and trimmed the tough leather that protected her arms from palm to elbow. The hilt of her sword glittered.

Lloiden’s tentmate edged away. Another man whispered loudly, “Cap’n Kitiara’ll have Lloiden’s ’ead now fer doubtin’ her ladyship’s authority. This’ll be good.” The soldiers poked each other and grinned.

But Kitiara merely shook her head with a resignation that suggested she’d been over the subject too often. “Insane impatience,” she said, agreeing. “Two weeks have barely touched the Meir’s supplies. Even though the Meir has been slain, the time has done little to dishearten the castle’s defenders.”

“Then I repeat, why attack?” demanded Lloiden. “Why not starve them out?”

Kitiara opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again. She swept a hand through her damp, black hair, which flattened and then sprang back into curls. But there was no hint of her customary crooked grin as she glanced up at the mage’s tent. “The Valdane wants a quick end to it.”

Another soldier spoke, his voice just above a whisper. “Some say the Valdane fears his daughter would be able to muster Meiri forces against him.”

“Especially now,” a comrade agreed. “With her husband dead, the Meiri see Dreena as their only hope
against her father.”

Kitiara stopped and spoke again. “At any rate, the generals have gone along with the Valdane’s haste, and they’re not about to listen to the protests of a mere captain.” She paused, her contempt for the commanders clear. “Especially with the mage backing up the Valdane’s every command. Now
leave it
, Lloiden.” There was no brooking her tone; Lloiden shook his head and continued his preparations.

The captain paused at her own tent and raised her voice. “Get up, Mackid! You can’t be that tired. You certainly didn’t keep
me
awake long last night.”

The other mercenaries guffawed in appreciation, and several offered to take Caven Mackid’s place in Kitiara’s tent, but no answer sounded through the canvas.

“Caven?” Kitiara pulled the flap aside. The quick way she let it fall showed the onlookers that Caven Mackid was elsewhere. The half-exasperated, half-admiring glance she cast downhill toward the makeshift corral showed where she suspected Mackid might be. “Blast Maleficent,” she muttered. “Would that the man paid as much attention to practicing his swordplay as he does to tending that stallion.” She resumed exhorting her troops. They were gnawing a cold breakfast of cheese and dried venison as they prepared for battle.

Kitiara reached the western edge of the hillside camp and stopped to gaze toward a bank of mountains to the east. Dawn lightened the sky to gray. Far to the west, the crags of another mountain range still slept in the darkness, tree-shrouded and silent. The two ranges continued in a ragged V to the south, where they cradled the city of Kernen, home of the Valdane—who now crouched like a lynx at the door
of his neighbor.

It was common knowledge that the Valdane had betrothed his only child to the Meir in the hope of persuading the younger man to annex the Meir’s kingdom to the Valdane’s. The marriage had not had the intended effect, and the Valdane had sworn vengeance.

Now Kitiara listened to the muffled clinks and oaths of a mercenary army planning to overrun the thin but loyal Meiri forces. She continued to pick her way over the slanted ground through fog and felled branches, seeking an overview of the intended battlefield. Of course, she’d been over the terrain often during the two weeks they’d camped here, but ground conditions could change quickly and treacherously in winter.

Shouts from the camp drew Kitiara’s attention now. She saw mercenaries turn to face the Meir’s castle, nestled in a treeless hollow below the camp. Kitiara had already noted the figure of a woman on the battlements, but she hadn’t guessed who it was. Now she realized. The woman, blond hair shining nearly white, was dressed brilliantly in royal blue and blood red, the colors of the Meiri.

“Dreena ten Valdane,” Kitiara whispered.

Although mist hid the bottom ten feet of the castle, the woman’s slim figure made a splendid target atop the battlements, several hundred yards from her father’s camp in the trees. Dreena ten Valdane stood some sixty feet above the soldiers. But that was within range of the Valdane’s hired archers.

“Precisely where her husband stood last week when he took the arrow,” Kitiara said softly to herself. “Perhaps she hopes to join him now.” She snorted.

As Kitiara watched, Dreena ten Valdane waved
boldly at the largest tent in Kitiara’s camp, the one that flew the black and purple standard of the Valdane of Kern. Then the young woman stepped back and was gone.

“She’s a fool,” said a black-haired, black-bearded man as he emerged from the mist near Kitiara. “Why antagonize her father like that? Her forces are bound to lose. Dreena ten Valdane will need whatever goodwill she can muster just to keep her head once this is over. The Valdane considers her an enemy as much as her late husband.”

Kitiara squinted into the fog. “It’s no treachery to defend your own country, Mackid.”

“She’s betraying her father.”

“But not her husband.”

Caven Mackid’s tone was amused. “Is Captain Uth Matar going soft? By the gods, Kitiara,
you
defending romance?”

“Hardly. But I can appreciate her courage in standing up for someone she loves.”

Caven grunted.

The sky continued to lighten, but the haze thickened and spread until it lay like a puffy blanket just above the ground. The vapor seemed to cut off Caven’s and Kitiara’s legs at the knees. The colorlessness of the day accentuated a certain resemblance between the man and woman—black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. But a close look at their expressions showed the similarities to be superficial. Whereas Kitiara’s athletic skill made her body wiry and lithe, Caven’s body bloomed with muscle. Even now, Kitiara’s sidelong look showed appreciation.

“It will be difficult for the men to pick their way over uneven ground in this fog,” Caven said, musing. “Perhaps the generals will decide to wait.”

“Are the horses ready?” Kitiara interjected.

Her tone told Caven that bantering and chitchat were at an end. The time of battle was near.

“Maleficent and Obsidian are saddled and loaded,” he said. “Wode is tending them.”

“At least your squire is good for something.”

“Still, he’s my nephew.”

Kitiara cast a brown-eyed glance at him. “Now who’s turning soft?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Tell Wode to give Obsidian an extra measure of oats and to wait with the mare at the head of the western trail.” She hesitated before continuing. “I don’t like the feel of this battle, Caven,” she admitted. “I’m not persuaded the Valdane’s generals can lead us through this. They’ve already botched the siege, as far as I’m concerned.”

Caven Mackid waited until he was sure Kitiara had finished speaking. “You expect a rout?”

Kitiara didn’t answer directly. Instead, she stroked the hilt of her sword. “Go talk to Wode,” she said. “And luck, friend. I fear we’ll need it today.”

It took only seconds for Caven to disappear into the fog and the trees. Dawn grew steadily nearer. “By the gods, why don’t they sound the attack?” Kitiara whispered irritably. “We’ve already lost the best timing. What are they waiting for?” She took a few steps toward camp.

Voices arrested her movement. She paused and looked back downhill into the mist. Voices? Her brow furrowed, and her hand slipped again to her sword. The fog had gathered around the base of the Meir’s granite castle, creeping up the walls more than a man’s height. It made it appear as though the castle were floating—which Kitiara had to admit would be quite a tactical advantage. Was the fog magic-born?
Did the Meir’s widow have some tricks at her disposal? Dreena was well known to be a spell-caster, although of only moderate ability. The Valdane’s mage, Janusz, had taught her himself, from her girlhood on.

Dreena must know she can’t match the mage, Kitiara thought to herself. He knows everything she could attempt.

Voices again. And again they came from the base of the castle. Whispers. Were the castle’s occupants mounting their own attack? Kitiara looked back uphill toward her own camp. There was no time to go back for Caven or other reinforcements, and no sense in sounding an unnecessary alarm. Perhaps she was hearing the whispering of her own soldiers, reflected eerily off the stone castle.

“This infernal mist,” Kitiara whispered. Drawing her sword, she used the fog and shrubbery as a cover and crept toward the sound. She could see almost nothing, could barely see her own feet, but she continued to edge forward.

The voices seemed to be coming from the left now. Suddenly the gray granite of the castle loomed before Kitiara like the huge tombstone of some prehistoric god. Despite herself, a startled sound burst from Kitiara’s throat. She saw the silhouette of a bush growing out of the castle base and threw herself behind it.

“Who’s there?” It was a woman’s voice, an imperious voice accustomed to giving orders. Kitiara drew farther behind the bush and peered through the foliage. A woman appeared out of the vapor, only twenty feet distant but facing away from Kitiara. “Who is it?” the woman repeated into the mist. She waited, then swiveled to face the castle again. “Lida?” Her voice was fraught with sudden fear.

Kitiara caught her breath again, but silently this time, as the woman turned and the mercenary saw her cheek, then the side of her nose, then those unmistakable turquoise eyes. Dreena ten Valdane, outside the castle? Kitiara’s thoughts raced as she tried to decide what to do.

It was clear that Dreena was disoriented by the fog. Why didn’t she use her magic to probe the mist? The answer came to Kit instantly: Because if Dreena did, Janusz would sense where she was.

Dreena no longer sported the red and blue that she’d worn atop the battlements. Instead, her body was covered with shapeless homespun cloth in earth tones. A finger of fog curled around the woman. When the mist dissipated, Dreena was gone.

Kitiara gasped and rose from her half-crouch. She forced herself to be silent, to listen; she caught the sound of slippered feet hurrying down a damp footpath. Then—nothing. Kitiara stood erect, sword still ready. She shook her head. There was no point in remaining. Dreena was gone, and Kitiara had lost the chance to capture her. The woman could be anywhere under cover of this fog.

With an oath, Kitiara sheathed her sword and dashed through the mist toward the mercenary camp. With every step she took away from the castle, the fog lost a handspan in height, until it was again hugging only her knees as her slim figure flashed through the trees, past the tents, and up the incline to the mage’s and Valdane’s quarters. Soldiers gaped as she passed. She could see that Lloiden was again holding forth on the stupidity of the current campaign.

No guard waited at either tent. Pausing to take a deep breath and recover her air of assurance, Kitiara entered the largest tent, the one with the black and
purple pennant dangling above it.

It was as warm within the tent as it was bone-chilling and damp without, and the occupants of the shelter glared at the intruder. The Valdane, a red-haired man of middle age, was hissing something at the mage. Janusz looked decades older than the Valdane but was, according to rumor, actually a year or so younger. Kitiara pointedly ignored the two generals, and they ignored her, busy as they were quailing under a tirade of the Valdane.

“I will
not
attack until we are sure where Dreena is!” the Valdane was saying. “Janusz has tried his magical skills several times since she left the battlements, but he cannot find her. We know only that she’s alive. I
must
know where she waits before we risk an attack.” He pounded the main tent pole for emphasis. The generals swallowed as the pole creaked and the canvas swayed. Janusz barked a single word, and the poplar pole became still. The generals glanced uneasily at each other.

Cowards, Kitiara thought. With a younger brother who was a mage, she was more at ease with spell-casting than were the often superstitious denizens of the region northeast of Neraka.

The men continued to ignore her. Kitiara raised her voice and interrupted. “Dreena ten Valdane has escaped.”

The men pivoted back toward her. Kitiara felt the right corner of her mouth quirk. It was funny, really—frightened little generals swiveling back and forth like puppets jerked by strings. The Valdane squinted at her; she squelched a smile.

“My daughter has left the castle?” he demanded.

Kitiara kept her gaze steady, her voice clear. “Moments ago. I saw her myself.”

“You are sure?” the mage pressed. “I have been scrying …” A look from the Valdane silenced him.

One of the generals, the self-important one, spoke up. “We must be certain,” he said ponderously, narrowing his eyes and rubbing his chin. “It is better if she has fled. If Dreena ten Valdane were to be killed in combat, it could arouse the Meiri peasants to our disadvantage.”