Tuorel chewed his tongue. “How long will the river be frozen?”
The sorcerer straightened and pushed the brown hood of his cassock back from his face, revealing his stubbled scalp, hollow features, and bright, feverish eyes. Bannier, court wizard of Mhoried, studied the air, tasting the wind, and then chuckled drily. “Well, that depends on the weather. Once the ice forms, it will melt at whatever pace nature decrees. But it will be four feet or more thick, and it will stand for days even if spring returns this afternoon. I’d predict three days at a minimum, and perhaps as long as a week.” Bannier spared one more glance at the sky, and then carefully inspected the true ice in the center of the ring. “It’s time,” he finally announced.
“Tell your officers to fall back at least fifty paces, or they may be frozen along with the river.”
The Ghoeran nobles and captains didn’t need Tuorel to tell them to move back once they saw the sorcerer was ready to complete his spell. Tuorel, Baehemon, and Kraith retired as well. Bannier didn’t bother to check on the Ghoerans; if any fool was standing too close, that was his own ill fortune. He began a sibilant chant, speaking unintelligible words in an even, measured pace as he circled the stone. The wizard’s words rolled about Tuorel and his officers, a perversion of the very air that carried through the wind with preternatural clarity. “Iagores nu thadazh khet aighur, iagores nu burzha’a tutholan,” he droned. Tuorel suppressed a shiver. Granted, he didn’t know much about magic, but he did know that most wizards used Sidhelien – Elvish – for their enchantments. He remembered enough of his schooling to know that those words were definitely not Elvish.
Tuorel shuddered again and was surprised to note that a fine film of ice had formed on the plates of his armor. As he watched, the rime whitened and spread like hoarfrost. The armor and clothes of the men around him were whitening as well. The chant continued, and now the cold seared Tuorel’s nose and throat, and his fingers and toes ached as if they were on fire. But great white patches of ice dotted the Maesil as far as he could see in either direction, and they were slowly growing together, until only a spiderweb of dark channels separated the floes. At the sight, Tuorel forgot the bone-numbing chill, and forgot the pervasive, insidious words that coiled and slithered in his ears – the wizard’s spell was working.
“Iagores nu thadazh khet aighur, iagores nu ra’aghk kaidur!”
The wizard’s voice was a resonant rumble, echoing in the frozen stillness of the ice-rimed field. One last time he repeated the chant, and then he stepped forward and shattered the stone of true ice with his iron-heeled staff. Asearing white light claimed Tuorel’s vision for twenty heartbeats, even as waves of cold intense enough to bring him to his knees washed over him. By the time his sight cleared, Tuorel found that most of the men within three or four hundred yards had been similarly affected. He spun around, trying to quickly gauge whether his army had suffered any lasting damage – but then the Maesil caught his eye.
From bank to bank, the river was an unbroken sheet of ice.
“He’s done it,” Tuorel breathed. Shaking off the fear and nausea, he surged forward to grab his standard-bearer and shake him like a rag. “Raise the march, boy! We cross now!”
The young herald brought the banner of Ghoere high over his head and swung it back and forth. Held by discipline stronger than their terror, the first ranks staggered forward, but in ten yards they’d found their stride and spirit. The master sergeant of the first company began to call a marching cadence in a rough voice, pitched high to carry. “Come on, you dogs!” he roared. “The way’s clear before us!”
Company by company, the rest of Tuorel’s army caught the mood and marched down to the river’s edge, stepping off onto the ice. There was a sudden flurry of activity as Tuorel’s officers and banner-leaders sorted themselves out and rejoined their units, leading them across. Tuorel left matters in their hands, called for his horse, and rode over to where Bannier stood, leaning heavily on his staff. The wizard was unharmed by the spell he had unleashed, and a grim smile of satisfaction was engraved on his face.
“See, Baron? Your men are crossing, and Mhoried will be caught unawares. Where do you strike first?”
“Riumache. We’ll need the harbor and the roads for our supply trains once the ice melts, and it guards our rear from any intervention.”
Tuorel grinned savagely. “If this ice goes all the way down there, the city’s as good as taken. Her walls are n ’ t made to keep foot soldiers from walking through her harbor. ”
The wizard looked away, examining his work. “That’s for you to decide. The campaign’s yours to win or lose.”
Tuorel rode a couple of steps closer. “I remind you that your part of the bargain is only half complete. You promised to deliver Shieldhaven to my hands, wizard.”
“Are your guardsmen assembled, as I instructed?”
Tuorel grunted. “Aye, five hundred of my best soldiers. They’ll be missed in the campaign ahead. How will they take Shieldhaven, staying behind in Bhalaene?”
“I’ll bring them to Shieldhaven when it’s time.” The wizard Bannier sighed and watched the army crossing the ice. “I must return now, to make sure the Mhor doesn’t escape my net. He’ll want to be on the march within a day. Have your troops ready at midnight tomorrow. I’ll be back for them.”
Tuorel stifled his questions. Bannier had committed himself to Ghoere’s cause. Even if the wizard led his five hundred straight into the Gorgon’s Crown, Tuorel’s lightning invasion would be sufficient to overwhelm Mhoried’s defenses – especially if Kraith’s armies struck where and when the goblin chieftain promised.
The wizard began to gather his baubles and instruments, stuffing them into an old rucksack. Tuorel turned his warhorse to join the army’s advance, but Kraith moved his hellsteed in front of Tuorel, blocking his path. “Wait,” said Kraith.
“Tell me of the bargain again.”
Tuorel frowned, and shot a glance at Bannier. The wizard met his eyes and returned to his work. “Very well,” the baron said. “The Mhor’s kingdom is mine to take, with the exception of the provinces of Marloer’s Gap and Torien’s Watch.
These I cede to you for your part in this war. Your warriors may pillage any lands your forces take before Mhoried is defeated, but if those lands fall in my territory after the war, you shall withdraw.”
“How do I know that you won’t take Marloer’s Gap and the Watch from me once you’ve consolidated your position?” the goblin demanded.
Bannier raised his staff. A wicked green glow sprang up from the head of the staff, and his voice took on a deeper tone.
“I will guarantee the bargain,” he said. “Whoever breaks it first will answer to me. It’s a fair arrangement, Kraith, and you know it.”
The goblin’s eyes blazed like fire. “Aye, it’s fair enough for Tuorel and I. But what do you gain from it, wizard? What’s the price of your treason?”
“My purposes are my own,” Bannier snapped.
“What Bannier means to say, Kraith, is that I have agreed that the Mhor’s family is to be delivered into his hands.”
Tuorel’s face twisted in a cold smile. “I can only guess that he means to slay them in order to seize the power of the Mhoried blood.”
Kraith barked laughter. “That’s it? Bloodtheft? And you humans call us barbaric!”
“The Mhor’s line is one of the oldest and strongest of Anuire,” Bannier replied. “He can trace his lineage all the way back to Deismaar. All the great nobles – such as Baron Tuorel, here – and quite a number of lesser lords and rulers – myself, Lord Baehemon, and you, Kraith – possess divine bloodlines. You may know that the spark of godspower can be wrested from the living descendants who hold it, but you have no idea of what can be done with the ancient strength of the great bloodlines.”