War Maid's choice

Chapter Thirteen

The membership of the council of war no longer struck its participants as bizarre, although there were moments when any one of them was likely to feel as if he’d fallen into some sort of fever dream. On the other hand, those moments were no longer as common as they had been, and they were becoming steadily less frequent.

Not that anyone expected they were ever going to disappear entirely.

“Well, I suppose we should get started,” Sir Vaijon Almerhas said, looking around the spacious wooden table.

That table sat in one of the stout stone buildings which had blossomed along the new, Axeman-style high road between the Escarpment and the equally new Lake Hurgrum over the past few years. They were obviously of dwarvish design and construction, their stones laid without mortar yet cut so precisely it would have required a sledgehammer to drive a knife blade into any single joint. One of the by-products of enjoying the services of Silver Cavern’s strongest sarthnasiks, Vaijon reflected, was that Chanharsa could turn (and had turned) several thousand cubic yards of rock into perfectly uniform, impossibly precisely “cut” stone blocks without so much as turning a hair. Driving the tunnel clear up through the Escarpment had provided them with what was literally a small mountain of building material, and hradani and dwarvish work crews had made good use of it.

These buildings had been constructed specifically to serve as the central military base for the Ghoul Moor campaigns, however, which meant they had very lofty ceilings for any dwarvish designed structure. Sothoii tended to be tall, and Vaijon was taller even than most of them, but even he tended to feel a bit undersized when he looked up at the meeting chamber’s twelve-foot ceilings and nine-foot doorframes. Rooms sized for Horse Stealer hradani had that effect on most people. Of course, heating them could be a tad difficult, especially in a north Norfressan winter, as Vaijon had discovered over the past several years. Fortunately, the dwarves who’d designed these buildings had pronounced opinions on things like comfortable winter temperatures and they’d built heating ducts into the concrete foundations when they poured them. In fact, they’d gone even further and used some of the water power tapped from the lake to drive fans that circulated heated air through ceiling ducts, as well.

Which was one reason he had Sermandahknarthas building the Order of Tomanak its own properly spacious-and comfortably heated-hall back in Hurgrum, as well. With luck, they’d have it finished before first snowfall and he’d finally spend a winter in Hurgrum without icicles hanging from the tip of his nose.

At the moment, however, brilliant sunlight spilled down from a sky like polished lapis lazuli, dancing on the enormous lake’s sapphire water, and the chamber’s windows were open to admit a cooling breeze. Distant shouts drifted in with the breeze as construction crews continued their unending labors, and he could hear a leather-lunged hradani sergeant counting cadence from the drill square beside the nearest block of barracks. Bhanak Karathson’s Hurgrumese had learned the value of discipline, training, and drill and used it well. Now they were teaching it to the rest of the Northern Hradani, and if the new Confederate Army remained short of the smooth, polished perfection of the Royal and Imperial Army’s demonstration drill teams, Vaijon would have been perfectly willing to match its battalions against any regular Axeman field force. They were certainly better than any non — Axeman infantry he’d ever seen, and he found that a very comforting thought just at the moment.

Although he was the second youngest person present, Vaijon was, by common consent, the council’s moderator. In no small part, that was because his background was probably the closest of that of any of its members’ to something approaching true neutrality. An Axeman by birth, he came from outside the millennium-long hatred and mutual bloodletting of Sothoii and hradani, and as a champion of Tomanak by training and choice, he served the Judge of Princes. As such, he and the members of his chapter of the Order of Tomanak were sworn to strict neutrality in any confrontation between princes or kingdoms so long as the God of War’s code was not transgressed.

More than that, he commanded the one force which could tell any of the proposed expedition’s other commanders they had no authority over it. And while the Hurgrum Chapter of the Order was going to provide the smallest single component of the campaign’s field force, it was also the most disciplined and highly trained. For the last couple of campaigns, it had been used as often as not as what Prince Bahnak had referred to as the expeditionary forces’ “fire brigade,” and no one in his right mind would care to get on its bad side. That reflection brought Vaijon a sense of satisfaction he occasionally found a bit difficult to prevent from sliding over into complacent pride, and as he considered the other senior officers gathered about the table, he reminded himself (in a mental voice which sounded remarkably like Bahzell Bahnakson’s) to not get too full of himself. All of those other officers were at least as experienced as he was, at least where campaigns and battlefield maneuvers were concerned, and there were some dauntingly powerful personalities seated around that table. Some fairly prickly ones, for that matter…which was one reason he had no intention of mentioning that another reason Prince Bahnak and Baron Tellian had selected him for this particular assignment was that he’d developed something of a talent for herding cats over the last few years.

Hurthang Marahgson, Bahzell’s fourth cousin and the senior member of the Hurgrum Chapter, sat directly across from Vaijon. Hurthang stood “only” two inches over seven feet, but he was quite possibly even stronger than Bahzell. And while the symbols of Tomanak might be a crossed mace and sword, Hurthang disdained such puny weapons in favor of the great, two-handed daggered axe from which Clan Iron Axe took its name. Of course, he normally wielded it one — handed, which Vaijon found just a bit flamboyant even for a Horse Stealer. At the moment, however, Hurthang looked a little uncomfortable (although only someone who knew him as well as Vaijon did was likely to notice it) in his resplendently embroidered, finely woven green surcoat. By choice, Hurthang preferred attire as practical and plain as his cousin Bahzell’s, but his wife Farmah had spent much of the winter working on that surcoat for this very meeting, and a warrior who could have-and had-glared unawed into the very teeth of death had been powerless to resist the calm insistence of the mother of his child.

General Yurgazh Charkson sat to Hurthang’s right, and his expression and body language were a bit on the stiff side, Vaijon judged. Hopefully, that stiffness was only temporary, and Vaijon suspected it had more to do with the unanticipated nature of his elevation than to anything else. Yurgazh had worked well as one of Prince Barodahn’s subordinate commanders the previous year, and he was a known quantity to everyone else seated around the table. Still, of all those present he was the closest to a “self-made man,” a former free sword mercenary who’d fought his way to his present rank and position through sheer guts, ability, determination, and-even in Churnazh of Navahk’s service-integrity. The remarkable thing, really, wasn’t that he’d won the trust of his former adversaries following Navahk’s surrender, but that he’d survived under Churnazh.

Prince Arsham Churnazhson, seated beside Yurgazh, looked like a man who wasn’t entirely happy to be there. On the other hand, he didn’t look like someone who was un happy to be there, either. There were greater depths to Arsham than Vaijon had anticipated before Navahk’s defeat, and while it seemed evident that defeat still stung, Navahk’s new prince was a practical man. And a prudent one, which was the only reason he’d survived Prince Churnazh’s reign. Certainly his paternity didn’t explain that survival, at any rate!

Arsham was still referred to by his own people as “the Bastard,” but however odd it might have seemed to an Axeman, the appellation had always been a title of respect in Navahk. A title, indeed, which specifically separated him from his father’s reputation for tyranny…and one which could only have made Churnazh even more suspicious of him.

Among hradani, more than any of the other Races of Man, rape was an unforgivable crime. Hradani women, with their immunity to the Rage, had provided most of what little stability and order hradani society had managed to cling to for too many centuries for that particular outrage to be tolerated. Those in a position of power might get away with it-for a time-but no known rapist could ever hope to command the true loyalty of any hradani city-state or clan. Yet also among hradani, unlike too few of the other Races of Man, rape imposed no stigma upon its victim…or upon any child born of it. For that matter, children in general were unspeakably precious to hradani, with their low fertility rates, and they were often too busy rejoicing in any child’s birth to worry over minor details like establishing its precise paternity. So while there was enormous shame in Churnazh’s rape of Arsham’s mother, there was no shame in Arsham’s birth, and the fact that his mother descended in a collateral branch from the previous ruling family of Navahk gave him a claim to the throne in the eyes of his subjects which neither his late, unlamented father nor his fortunately deceased half-brothers could ever have enjoyed.

Of course, that same claim had been one of the reasons Arsham had been very, very careful never to dabble in politics during his father’s lifetime. He’d spent his time with the army, instead, which had posed potential problems of its own, given how Churnazh himself had used the army to slaughter his way to power. That was one reason Arsham had always preferred field commands which kept him well away from Navahk, and his father had been perfectly happy to keep him there. He’d still managed to become dangerously popular with his troops, yet he’d also made it abundantly clear-to his father, at least; his half-brothers had been less inclined to believe it-that he had absolutely no interest in the throne of Navahk. The fact that he’d been Churnazh’s best field commander had probably helped his father’s willingness to let him keep his head, Vaijon thought. And then there’d been the minor fact that his mother and his legitimately born older sister had been comfortably housed in Navahk…where they stood hostage for his good conduct, not to mention dissuading him from seeking vengeance upon his mother’s rapist. That was something Churnazh had carefully never discussed with him openly, but Arsham had never been a fool and it wasn’t as if Churnazh hadn’t made examples of far too many of his enemies’ families in the course of his reign.

Now Arsham found himself upon that throne he’d never sought, after all, with his mother restored to a place of honor in Navahk, and that could never have happened without Navahk’s defeat. More, he sat upon the throne of a Navahk more prosperous than it had ever dreamed of being, as a member of the Council of Princes Bahnak of Hurgrum had created as what was effectively the Royal Council of the Northern Confederation. He was far too intelligent to believe for a moment that he could ever have risen to such a position under other circumstances. Besides, unlike his father, Arsham’s word meant something, and he’d sworn fealty to Bahnak and the great charter Bahnak had drawn up for the Confederation. Whether it rankled or not, that was the end of the matter as far as his loyalty was concerned; if anyone could be confident of that, a champion of Tomanak was that anyone.

Sir Trianal Bowmaster sat to Hurthang’s left. Trianal was the only person at that table younger than Vaijon, yet he sat back comfortably, his expression and his body language equally relaxed among the presence of those who had once been his sworn enemies. He still hadn’t overcome quite all the attitudes his conservative mother had instilled in him as a child, but Tellian had been stretching his heir’s thought processes for the better part of ten years now, and it was starting to show. The thought amused Vaijon, particularly given the way his own thought processes had required a little “stretching” once upon a time. And how much more…vigorously that stretching had been achieved, for that matter.

Sir Yarran Battlecrow sat at Trianal’s elbow. A grizzled, competent warrior who was now well into middle age (or possibly even a little further than that, although Vaijon wasn’t going to be foolish enough to suggest anything of the sort where he might hear of it), Yarran had been “loaned” to the expedition at Trianal’s request by Sir Festian Wrathson, Lord Warden of Glanharrow. The commander of Lord Festian’s scouts, Sir Yarran would perform the same function for Trianal, and the comfortable, confident relationship between him and his youthful overlord was easy to see.

Gorsandahknarthas zoi’Felahkandarnas sat beside Sir Yarran, in a chair which was considerably higher than that of anyone else seated around the table. Gorsan wasn’t there as a member of the war council per se, but as the supervisor of the entire Derm Canal project, his interest in the summer campaign was obvious, and he had a better grasp than anyone else present of how well-and how readily-their troops could be kept in supply. The tall (for an Axeman, at any rate), black-haired human in well-worn mail seated beside Gorsan, on the other hand, was a member of the war council in good standing. Rianthus of Sindor was normally the commander of Kilthandahknarthas’ personal security force, but this summer the ex-major in the Royal and Imperial Mounted Infantry had been detailed to command the relatively small force of Dwarvenhame infantry which would provide close security for the dwarvish combat engineers who’d been attached to the field force.

And then, finally, between Rianthus and Vaijon, there was the fellow who most definitely was not a member of the council of war, although no one was likely to mention that to him. Exactly how Tellian-or, for that matter, King Markhos-expected even a champion of Tomanak to keep Prince Yurokhas out of the inevitable fighting was more than Vaijon was prepared to guess. He intended to do his best, but it wasn’t going to be a simple little task like, oh, slaying a demon or two.

His lips twitched at the thought, and he gave himself a mental shake as all those other eyes looked back at him.

“I thought we might begin,” he said, “by considering our logistics for the summer.”

Yurgazh looked a little wary in the wake of that comment, but he wasn’t entirely alone in that. In fact, his weren’t even the wariest eyes present. Pre-Confederation Bloody Sword concepts of military logistics had been rudimentary, at best, yet Vaijon had come to the conclusion that they’d still been better developed than those of the their neighbors atop the Wind Plain. Sothoii who’d served with Axeman armies, like Sir Kelthys Lancebearer, another of Tellian’s cousins, tended to have a sounder appreciation than their fellows for the importance of forethought and organization when it came to supplying troops in the field, but even they were inclined to leave such matters up to their Axeman allies. For the most part, however, Sothoii armies were far more likely to improvise as they went along, with occasionally disastrous consequences. Fortunately, that was beginning to change-for this lot of Sothoii, at any rate-in the wake of the last couple of years’ campaigns. They’d discovered that keeping their troops well fed, well armed, and well supplied with fodder was a significant force multiplier, but they still had the look of someone expected to converse in a foreign language (and dreading it).

I wonder if they think there’s going to be a quiz after the meeting? Vaijon thought sardonically, reflecting on how Sir Charrow, his own mentor in Belhadan would have done just that to him. Then he scolded himself. Of course Sir Charrow would have! He was, after all, a knight of the Order of Tomanak, and the Order believed in training its members thoroughly, which meant he’d been given the opportunity for a much sounder grounding in such matters than any of these officers-with the possible exception of Rianthus-ever could have gotten in the normal order of things.

And you even paid attention to those lessons, didn’t, you Vaijon? he reflected.

“Gorsan?” he invited out loud, and the engineer shrugged.

“I’m sure Rianthus actually has a better appreciation of the nuts and bolts than I do,” the dwarf said, “but I can say the canal head is almost thirty leagues further east than it was at this point last year. That’s going to shorten how far we’ll have to haul supplies by wagon between Derm and the Hangnysti by ninety miles or so, and Prince Bahnak spent the winter building more barges here at Hurgrum. We’ll have almost twice the cargo capacity we had last year once we do get those supplies to the Hangnysti to barge them down to you. And that other project we discussed a few months ago”-he looked around the table-“is looking a lot more practical than I really thought it would.”

Several of the others stirred slightly, eyebrows rising in expressions which ran the gamut from satisfaction to skepticism. Prince Yurokhas’ expression was firmly at the skeptical end of the spectrum, and Vaijon hid a smile as he saw it. For all the prince’s enthusiasm for the Derm Canal, he continued to cherish strong reservations about the practicality of Bahzell’s latest brainstorm. Not that Vaijon was even tempted to fault Yurokhas for his doubts, for the prince had never visited Dwarvenhame as Bahzell (and Vaijon, for that matter) had. As such, he had no real concept of the sheer tonnage of high-quality steel, not simply iron, Dwarvenhame’s water-powered blast furnaces and “convertors” could produce. Nor had he ever seen heavy wagonloads of ore, coal, limestone, coke, or manufactured goods moving along ribbons of steel rails. Given the far more limited-and vastly more expensive-quantities of iron Baron Yeraghor’s East Riding foundries and smithies produced, it was no wonder Yurokhas continued to consider the notion that anyone could possibly produce enough steel to lay a track of rails literally dozens of miles long across the terrain between the canal head and the Hangnysti more than a little ridiculous. And even assuming that was possible, no one accustomed to the Kingdom’s atrocious roads could be expected to grasp how much more efficient draft animals became when they hauled their loads along smooth steel rails instead of lurching laboriously from one mudhole to the next.

Which is fair enough, Vaijon reflected. The dwarves hadn’t really considered the possibility of using rails anywhere except inside their mountains until Bahzell suggested it to them. He snorted silently in amusement. I guess it took someone who was too ignorant of all the reasons it wouldn’t work to come up with the idea in the first place! And I wonder what kind of effect it’s going to have on the entire Empire by the time Kilthan and the others are done with it?

That was actually, he realized, a very good question. Even Axeman roads often left a bit to be desired, especially in winter weather or heavy rain. Dwarvenhame freight wagons were far better sprung and more efficient than anyone else’s, yet according to Kilthan’s experts, a draft team could pull twice or even as much as three times the load in one of the “rail carts” than the same team could manage in even a dwarven wagon. That was why they used them to move the massive loads their foundries required, after all. So if Dwarvenhame truly did begin extending “rail ways”-or would they end up calling them “rail roads,” instead, Vaijon wondered? — alongside the existing Axeman high roads, what effect was that going to have on the Empire’s internal economy?

“According to my latest messages from Silver Cavern, the first shipments of rails should be arriving at the canal head in a few more days,” Gorsan continued, “We’ve already surveyed the route, and I’ve had work gangs grading the worst stretches for the last couple of weeks.” He grimaced. “I can’t say I’m happy about having to divert work crews from the canal, but Prince Bahnak’s promised us additional manpower to make up for it, and I expect we can have the tracks down by, oh, the end of next month or the middle of the month after. Once we do, and coupled with the extra river barges, we’ll be able to keep your forces supplied a lot more easily, without the bottlenecks we had last year. And”-this time his grimace segued into a grin-“it’ll be a lot less expensive than it was last year, too!”

“Well, Uncle Tellian will certainly be in favor of both of those,” Trianal remarked with an answering smile. Then his expression became more thoughtful. “On the other hand, I can’t help wondering. If this ‘rail way is going to be as efficient as it sounds like it is, are we wasting unnecessary effort building the canal in the first place?”

“Oh, no, Milord!” Gorsan shook his head emphatically. “Draft teams can pull much heavier loads along rails, that’s true, but there’s really no comparison between how much freight we can can haul overland and how much we can manage using barges. A single barge can carry as much as three or four hundred tons of cargo at a time, and that’s a lot more than you could put into any rail cart! This is going to allow us to move larger quantities of supplies much more rapidly for your army, and it may well help a lot-on a smaller scale, at least-in places where even canals simply aren’t practical, but it’s nowhere close to being a substitute for this canal. Not with the amounts of freight we’re talking about moving once everything is finished and running properly.”

“I see.” Trianal nodded.

His voice was both satisfied and courteous, yet Vaijon’s mental ears pricked as something about the younger man’s tone registered. Then, as he glanced at the expressions of the others seated around the table, he felt an ungrudging sense of respect.

He didn’t ask that for himself. He asked it for the others, to make sure no one else was going to start questioning exactly why we’re about to go out and get altogether too many of our people hurt or even killed this summer. I wonder if that was Tellian’s idea or he came up with it on his own? A year ago I’d’ve bet it was Tellian’s, but now…

“And the new arbalests?” he inquired out loud, turning his attention to Rianthus after giving Trianal the very slightest of approving nods.

“They should be arriving along with the first shipment of rails,” Rianthus answered. “And Kilthan tells me they’re considering a version for merely human archers, as well,” he added with a wry smile.

A chorus of chuckles greeted that remark, and they were actually louder from the Sothoii side of the table than from the hradani side, Vaijon noted. That was good, although he rather doubted the Sothoii in general were going to be quite as cheerful about the new weapons as “his” Sothoii were. Given how much of the Sothoii cavalry’s invincibility depended upon the deadly accuracy and speed of their mounted archers, it would have been unreasonable to expect them to happily greet the notion of infantry missile troops whose weapons were not only longer ranged and harder hitting than their own bows but fired far more rapidly than anyone else’s crossbows-even medium crossbows, far less arbalests-possibly could, to boot.

The very idea was going to deeply offend the more hidebound of the Sothoii traditionalists (and right offhand, Vaijon couldn’t think of anyone who could possibly be more hidebound than a Sothoii traditionalist), and the thought that those weapons were going to be in the hands of hradani was only going to make it worse. Of course, if they’d been paying attention for the last, oh, twenty years or so, they would have realized Prince Bahnak’s Horse Stealers were already fielding heavy crossbowmen with preposterous rates of fire. But the new arbalests Silver Cavern had designed expressly for Bahnak (and for which they had charged him a pretty copper, Vaijon knew) had heavier pulls than even a Horse Stealer’s arm could span with a simple goat’s foot. Their built-in, integral cocking levers were geared and cammed to provide their users with a heavy mechanical advantage, which allowed for a pull many times as powerful as any bow’s could possibly be. Not to mention the fact that once spanned, an arbalest could be held that way far longer than any archer could hold a fully drawn bow, which gave the crossbowman time to aim carefully. Indeed, one of Kilthan’s artisans had actually figured out how to fit them with sights for even greater accuracy.

They were big enough (and heavy enough) to constitute two-man weapons for anyone but a hradani, and they still couldn’t match a horse archer’s rate of fire. A trained Sothoii could fire as many as fifteen aimed shafts in a minute, whereas even a Horse Stealer with one of the new arbalests could manage no more than six. But hradani crossbowmen were foot archers, and trained marksmen firing from their own feet were always going to be more accurate than even the most highly skilled mounted archer firing from the back of a moving horse.

On the other hand, human crossbowmen aren’t going to be able to handle the weight of pull our lads can, even with the new design, Vaijon thought cheerfully. There is a limit to how much mechanical advantage you can give any cocking lever if you’re going to span the thing with a single pull! I doubt any of Trianal’s fellows are going to complain about having that kind of fire support against the ghouls, though.

“Actually,” Rianthus continued with a sly smile, “one of Kilthan’s bright young engineers claims to have come up with a still better idea. He thinks he may be able to design an arbalest that can be loaded with more than one quarrel at a time.”

“Of course he can!” Trianal snorted. “No doubt they’ll be able to fire five or six with each shot!”

“Oh, no!” Rianthus looked at him with becoming solemnity. “That would be wasteful, Milord! What they’re talking about is just an arrangement that would automatically put another quarrel onto the string every time the arbalest is spanned without the archer having to individually load it.”

“Ah, that’s much better!”

Trianal rolled his eyes, and Sir Yarran smiled under his mustache and shook his head. Vaijon chuckled as well, although given what he’d seen out of the dwarves, he was less confident than the Sothoii that Rianthus was simply pulling their legs.

“Even without the new, magical, multishot arbalest,” he said dryly, “I think the ghouls are going to be exceedingly unhappy when they run into several hundred quarrels at a time.”

“That they will, Sir Vaijon,” Sir Yarran said with undisguised satisfaction. Unlike the other Sothoii sitting around the table, he’d personally experienced Horse Stealer arbalests from the receiving end, and he hadn’t enjoyed it a bit. The others lacked that particular target’s-eye insight, but he and Trianal had both seen it from the firing side in the previous campaigns into the Ghoul Moor. “And I hope no one will take this wrongly, but it occurs to me that there’s no one in this whole wide world I’d sooner see unhappy.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone’s going to argue with you about that, Sir Yarran,” Yurgazh said. He and Yarran had met for the first time less than a week earlier, yet it was obvious they were kindred spirits in many ways. Now, as he smiled nastily at the Sothoii scout, much of his earlier stiffness vanished. “Myself, I was born and raised in Tralth.” His smile remained, but his eyes turned much grimmer. “We had more experience than I like to remember with ghouls-aye, and trolls, come to that-spilling across our frontier.” He shook his head. “There’s more than a few Bloody Swords who think burning the entire Ghoul Moor to the ground is a wonderful idea, canal routes or no canal routes!”

“I think we can all agree with that, General,” Prince Yurokhas said. Yurgazh looked at him, and the prince shrugged. “We may have the river between us and the Ghoul Moor proper, but we’ve lost more horses and cattle-and children-to them than any of us like to remember, either.” He shook his head, his expression as grim as Yurgazh’s eyes. “I don’t think there’s a single Sothoii, however…ambivalent he may be about your Confederation, who won’t lift a mug in Hurgrum’s direction the day the last ghoul’s head goes up on a pike somewhere.”

“Aye?” Prince Arsham’s deep voice was rough edged, even a little rasping, from too many orders on too many battlefields. He gazed at the brother of the Sothoii king for several thoughtful seconds, then smiled slowly. “Good,” he said. “To speak honestly, Your Highness, there are times I’m less confident than Prince Bahnak about how all of this is likely to work out in the end, but it’s good to know there’s at least one thing we can all agree to.”

“There are those on top of the Wind Plain who undoubtedly cherish even more doubts than you do, Your Highness.” There wasn’t a trace of irony in Yurokhas’ voice as he returned the honorific to Arsham. “And that doesn’t even consider the ones who’re actively opposed to everything your people and Baron Tellian are trying to accomplish here.”

He looked around the council table at the faces which had suddenly smoothed of all expression at the waters they’d unexpectedly drifted into, and he smiled grimly.

“There are limits to what even a king can do in the face of entrenched hatred…and stupidity,” he said. “I’m sure you and Prince Bahnak have discovered the same thing from your side. But that doesn’t keep it from being stupidity, and there comes a time when it must be changed. That’s my view, at any rate. And”-he met Arsham’s gaze levelly-“my brother’s, as well.”

Arsham’s eyes flickered and his ears folded back ever so slightly. That was all he allowed to show, but Vaijon drew a deep, unobtrusive breath and felt others around the table doing the same. However candidly and openly Yurokhas might have discussed the canal project and even the entire future of human-hradani relations with Tellian and Bahzell, he’d been careful to avoid anything which might have been construed as an unconditional statement of support in King Markhos’ name. There’d never been any doubt about where Yurokhas’ own sympathies lay, but everyone had always understood why the King couldn’t be that open…assuming, of course, that he’d ever truly been as supportive as his younger brother. But now I wonder if he was actually authorized to say that? Vaijon wondered. But surely he wouldn’t have said it without Markhos’ approval! I know a lot of people dimiss him as impulsive or even reckless, but I also know that reputation’s a mask, a facade he’s built just as carefully as Bahzell’s built that “country bumpkin” disguise of his. Even so, though…

He looked at Yurokhas, one eyebrow arched, and the prince looked back at him and then nodded, ever so slightly.

Tomanak, that was an official statement. To a very select group, perhaps, but that was Markhos himself speaking to Arsham-and to Bahnak, for that matter! I wonder if delivering that was the real reason the King let him come along as an “observer” in the first place?

“Well,” the champion heard his voice say into the silence which had greeted Yurokhas’ comment, “speaking as someone who’s had a little experience with stupidity of his own, I can say of my own knowledge that it is possible to…reshape it once someone finds the appropriate hammer. Of course, it takes a heavier hammer for some of us than for others.”

Another rumble of amusement-this one more than a little relieved sounding-greeted his wry tone, and he smiled.

“In the meantime, unfortunately,” he continued, “according to both Prince Bahnak’s and Kilthan’s sources, somebody seems to have found a big enough hammer to get through to the River Brigands and the Purple Lords.” He grimaced. “At this point, we don’t know exactly what they’re likely to do about it, but I think we can take it for granted that anything they can do, they will do. In a lot of ways, we probably need to be more concerned about the Brigands than the Purple Lords, simply because they’re so much closer. At the same time, though, however Arthnar may feel about the canal in general, I can’t see him actively trying to interfere with our operations, given the Brigands’ own history with the ghouls.”

Heads nodded, and he shrugged.

“We’ll be keeping an eye on him, of course, and on the Purple Lords, but I don’t expect either of them to have much short term effect on us here. So, having said that, let’s take a look at where we are and where we want to be by the end of the summer. Hurthang?”

The Horse Stealer nodded and rose. He walked around to the large easel set up at the foot of the table and flipped back the cover to show the large-scale map of the Ghoul Moor it had concealed.

“As you can see,” Vaijon said, “we’ve marked last year’s gains in green. We lost a little ground over the winter down in the southwest, farthest from the river, and we need to regain that first.”

Hurthang drew his dagger and used it as a pointer, indicating the area in question, and Vaijon gave everyone a moment to absorb the lines on the map. Then he continued.

“Hopefully, we can clean that up in the next week or two. Prince Bahnak would like to get it taken care of before the new arbalests arrive. After that, we’ll turn to expanding the depth of the corridor along its southern edge, pushing back from the river. As you can see, there are at least half a dozen ghoul villages in the area we’re talking about.” Hurthang’s dagger indicated the crimson symbols of the villages in question. “Two of them in particular are going to be hard to get at because of the terrain, so we’re thinking-”