“General Thewor. A loyal soldier. Many, many years of service—”
“Did he fight in the Slaver War?”
Salokan frowned in thought. “Yes, yes I think so.”
“Then he probably served under one of your mercenary commanders back then. Maybe even me.”
“Possibly.”
“Then, your Majesty, I suggest you remind him of that,” he said in a tone that let Salokan know he was not prepared to suffer Thewor gladly. “If he served under me once, he may have the honor of serving under me a second time.”
“I don’t know that Thewor will accept the logic.”
Rendle breathed heavily and threw the map away. The king jumped a little, and his personal guard stared threateningly, but Rendle sized up the former and ignored the latter. Salokan was a butcher. He had a cunning mind, an acute sense of survival, and—surprisingly to the mercenary— huge reserves of patriotism; the last was something Rendle could never understand.
Salokan had never forgiven Grenda Lear for defeating his father in the Slaver War all those years ago and was determined somehow, someway, to pay them back for that humiliation. Rendle knew he was one of Salokan’s keys for that revenge.
“I will not lead a force that is not completely behind me into enemy territory.”
“You will do what you are ordered to do,” Salokan said coldly.
“No, your Majesty. If you want Lynan, only I can get him.”
“I will kill you,” the king said, his tone suddenly mild. “One of your under-officers will lead your company into the Oceans of Grass under the command of my general.”
“If you really believed that, your Majesty, you would have killed me months ago.”
Salokan tried to feign offense, but could only snigger instead. “We read each other too well. That’s dangerous.”
“For whom?”
“For you, of course. I’m king.”
Salokan said the words without arrogance, and Rendle knew it was true.
“I’ll be gone in a few short weeks. You won’t have to worry about me then.”
“But you’ll be back. At least, I hope you’ll be back, with Prince Lynan as your prisoner. That is what all this is about, after all.”
Rendle shook his head. “No, your Majesty. This is all about your invasion of Grenda Lear. You will invade whether or not you have Lynan. The kingdom is confused and in more turmoil than it has seen for over a quarter century. Lynan’s presence in your army gives the invasion greater legitimacy, but that is only a political thing. You win or lose on your army.”
“And a portion of that is riding with you into the Oceans of Grass; which brings us back to our original point of contention.”
“Indeed. You want my mission to be a success. I can’t have some civilized dignitary in charge of it. I know the Oceans of Grass, I know the Chetts. Your General Thewor wouldn’t know which way was up once he was on the plains, and wouldn’t recognize a Chett if one came up and bit off his prick.”
“I won’t argue the point.”
“But you will argue with your general?”
“I suppose I must.” Salokan looked away. It was a small defeat, and stung his pride mostly, but he resented it more than he should have; he knew that, and kept his temper. His army was strong and ready but lacked experienced commanders; he could not do without Rendle. Not yet, at least. After he had beaten Grenda Lear and won back Hume—and who knows? maybe even conquered Chandra?—Rendle could be dealt with. Or promoted. Salokan had found that a good way to bind men to him, and some women. As long as they weren’t promoted too far; no point in giving them ideas above their station, and certainly not above Salokan’s station.
The king stood to leave. Rendle copied him. “Would you like to come with me to visit the general?”
Rendle smiled tightly. “Oh, I’m sure you can handle it.” Salokan nodded. “Undoubtedly. Still, I thought you would have liked to see Thewor’s face when I tell him the news.”
Rendle shook his head. “I bear him no spite.” Yet, Salokan thought. “As you say. We will meet again tomorrow.”
Rendle wanted to ask why, but thought he had pushed his luck with the king enough for one day. “I look forward to it.”
“There is the border post,” Prado said, pointing to the thin red pole by the side of the road. “We are marching into Hume. Another three weeks and we will be on the border, and the company can rest until the thaw starts.”
Freyma and Sal nodded, less cheered by the fact that they had reached Hume at last than they were depressed by the thought of another three weeks of marching in these conditions. The last two days had seen heavy snowfalls, and the temperature had been low enough to keep the snow on the ground. With over two thousand men and horses tramping over it, the road was still slush, but the margins were more stable. Still, the cold at night was terrible, and it was hard getting the company moving again in the morning.
After this, campaigning will be easy for them, Freyma thought, but at the moment it gave him little consolation.
He looked up into the sky and grimaced at the darkening clouds. It would snow tonight. If it fell after the tents were put up, it would keep them a little warmer, but not by much. Speaking of which, they would have to make camp soon. Winter days were so short, and a good portion of each day was spent getting the company in order for the march.
He looked down the trail, saw that another hour would see the last of the mercenaries pass out of Chandra. Prado would probably call the camp then. His gaze stopped suddenly on the tall thin man sitting on a black stallion on the side of the road not one hundred paces from the border post.
Barys Malayka. I’ll be glad to see the last of that bastard. He’s been following us too close for my comfort, he and his sword. Freyma smiled to himself then. His sword Deadheart. I’d like to give him a dead heart.
For his part, Malayka was as happy to see Prado and his mercenaries leave Chandra. He could ride back to Sparro now and let King Tomar know the plague had left his lands. He was disappointed to see so many of Arran’s archers following Prado, but guessed most were out for adventure and were too young to remember what Prado and his ilk had done to the countryside during the Slaver War; then again, the Arran Valley had been virtually untouched. Prado and other mercenary captains had settled there after the war and brought it some prosperity. Thanks to Ushama’s amnesty, King Tomar could not go after them as he had wished.
But maybe now that war was coming again, an opportunity would present itself. Malayka liked the thought of that. He still wanted to give Tomar the head of Prado; the king would put it on a pike and stick the pike in the middle of a midden. Or maybe preserve it and keep it as a warning to all other mercenaries.
He waited until the last of the company had passed over the border, then turned his horse back to the road and started the long journey back to the Chandran capital. It would be several days’ ride thanks to Prado’s buffoons mucking up the way, and in the spring Tomar would have to pay to have it pounded and flattened again. Worth it, though, to remove any trace of Prado.
Malayka glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing in the growing dark. The company had disappeared as if it had never been, and in that moment felt in his bones that none who marched with Prado would ever return to Chandra alive. He repressed a shudder. Times were grim enough without entertaining flimsy premonitions, and why should he care anyway? Good riddance. Good riddance to all of them.
Chapter 13
The camps around the High Sooq almost seemed deserted. Some of the fires had old men and women and the youngest children around them, but everyone else was training or forging or herding. Lynan hunched down to the ground and cleared away the snow with his hands. Underneath, the grass was brittle and yellow, the ground hard with frozen water. According to Gudon, once the earth became cold, winter was at its peak. From now on it would get warmer.