In the shadows, Glynnie drew in a long, hissing breath. The chancellor’s dark brows knitted.
“If you’re right, the sword was never protecting Rix for himself, but only for what he could do for its master.”
“How are you going to save him?” Glynnie’s face was twisted in anguish.
“Save Rixium?” barked the chancellor. “I’ve already condemned the swine twice. I hope Grandys puts him down like the Herovian dog he is.”
“No, you don’t,” said Tali.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because Rix may be the only one who can save us from Grandys.”
“Right now I’m more concerned about saving us from Lyf. Now get out!”
Tali went.
Given the way the peace conference had ended, Lyf must feel more embittered than ever, and more convinced that Hightspall had planned the breach of the safe conduct to bring Grandys there. What would Lyf do? He must be watching the news of his old enemy’s progress with alarm, perhaps terror.
Was he planning a great new campaign? Or thinking that, before the worst happened, he had better secure his people’s ultimate refuge, Cython? Either way, Lyf must also be giving thought to the Pale, and whether he could allow them to remain at the heart of his empire.
Their doom, she felt sure, was coming ever closer. She had to find out what Lyf was up to, and there was only one way to do that. Despite the risk, she would have to spy on him again.
CHAPTER 76
“It’s impossible,” Rix said quietly, when the sun rose to reveal the mighty fortress that was Castle Rebroff. “It’s got every form of defence known. And what do we have?”
A thousand young, foolish men, most of whom had never picked up a sword until a few days ago. Only a thousand, because Grandys had left most of his recruits behind. None of his men had ever fought in a proper battle, and their opponent was the brilliant Cythonian general, Rochlis, who had won dozens of battles and lost none.
Grandys had marched his force the thirteen miles from Swire to Rebroff in darkness, arriving at their destination an hour before dawn. The castle was half a mile away, over the hill and down. They had to advance across a meadow that provided no cover, then pass a thirty-foot-wide moat before they could attack the walls or the gate. The attack would not happen until the mid-afternoon, for he wanted his men rested and fed. It was his only concession to the rules of warfare.
Once the camp was quiet, Rix went across to Grandys, who was perched on a boulder, his eyes glittering like black opals in the starlight. They were on the flank of a stony hill; knee-high tussocks of a coarse, sharp-bladed grass were scattered all around.
“How are we going to attack?” said Rix. “The wall or the gate? Or both at once?”
“The gate,” Grandys said impatiently, as though that were obvious. “Only divide your forces when you can delegate them to another leader as good as you are.”
“How can we breach the gate? It looks mighty strong, and we don’t have a ram.”
“I’ll think of something when we come to it.”
Had any other man said that, Rix would have known they were insane. And maybe Grandys was. Who knew what might have gone wrong inside him in all those ages he had spent petrified? Yet he exuded such arrogant self-confidence that Rix half believed him.
“What about the moat?” said Rix.
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m beginning to have doubts about you, Ricinus. You obsess about every tiny detail.”
“My instructors taught me that a good leader has to know every detail of his command. And control every aspect of the battle plan.”
Grandys sneered. “Any of them ever won a battle? Or even fought one?”
“Well, no,” Rix admitted. “Until this war started, there hadn’t been one for a thousand years.”
“No wars? None at all?”
“No.”
Grandys looked incredulous. “Why didn’t somebody start one?”
“Start a war just so the men could get battle practice?” cried Rix.
“Of course. Heroism in battle is man’s highest ideal.”
Rix took a while to come to terms with that. Whenever he thought Grandys could sink no lower he revealed an even baser iniquity. “Did you start wars to get battle practice?”
“At least a dozen.”
“A lot of men must have been killed. Good men, maimed and brutalised, dying in agony.”
Grandys yawned. “But the ones who survived were all the better for the practice.”
He lay back on the snowy grass, wearing only his shirt and kilt, and did not seem to be troubled by the cold. Was that a side effect of being turned to stone?
“You can’t know every detail of your command,” said Grandys, harking back to what they had been talking about several minutes ago, “That’s your officers’ job, not yours. Nor can you control every aspect of the battle plan. There are too many imponderables, too many loose cannons, too many fingers of fate.”
“What do you see as the commander’s job?” asked Rix, fascinated despite his reservations, or because of them.
“To have a vision no one else has ever had before,” said Grandys, holding up a thick finger. He raised a second finger. “To lead by example, so forcefully that your men will follow you anywhere.” He studied his ring finger for a minute or so, then raised it as well. “To be a master of improvisation. No matter what the situation, to turn whatever is to hand to your advantage.”
“What if you can’t?”
“There’s always a way.”
“I don’t see it,” said Rix.
“Suppose you were to attack me now, while I’m unarmed. I left Maloch in my tent.”
Grandys reached out lazily, plucked a blade from one of the coarse yellow tussocks of razor grass and drew its edge across his unarmoured palm. A line of blood welled out. “With this I could sever your jugular before you realised I held a weapon.”
He tore a long spine off one of the low thorn bushes scattered around the boulders. Milky sap oozed from the base of the spine. Grandys held it up.
“You wouldn’t even see this in my hand, yet in under a second I could have it through your heart, your kidney, or any other vulnerable place that presented itself.” He reversed the spine. “If I were to dab the white sap into your eye, it would burn it out of your head.
“Weapons lie in the most innocent of objects,” Grandys went on, reflectively. “Any good general can design a battle plan. And once the plan is recognised, any good opponent can make a new plan to defeat the first. But how can they defeat an enemy who has no plan, who’s so trained to improvise that he can turn any object, and any situation, to his advantage? They can’t, and it drives them mad with frustration.”
Grandys chuckled, lay back and closed his eyes.
“Besides,” he said a few minutes later, “I thrive on being the underdog, on taking on foes with far greater armies in impregnable positions — and destroying them.”
“But even so, to attack such a mighty fortress with only a thousand raw recruits — why didn’t you bring the rest?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t be the underdog, would I?”
A minute later he was snoring as though he had not a worry in his opal-armoured head.
Rix eyed the razor grass, then Grandys’ exposed throat. The armour had gaps there, where the muscles flexed. It was tempting, but the command spell still held him and he did not think he could ever break it. Was he bound to Grandys unto death?
Grandys roused at 1 p.m. “Get the men up. We march at one-thirty.”
“You’re attacking in full daylight?” said Rix. “We’ll have no element of surprise.”
“We don’t need it,” said Grandys, impatiently. “Besides, if we don’t go now we won’t be feasting in the Great Hall by dinner time.”
He had to be insane, and there was nothing Rix could do.
He made sure the men were in their ranks, and all had their water bottles, rations, weapons, shields and helmets. You could never tell what unblooded men would leave behind, or forget to do. Grandys might not care about the little details, but Rix tried to think of everything.