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# Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Are you certain of your information?"

Sir Mathian Redhelm, Lord Warden of Glanharrow, leaned forward in his chair, and his hazel eyes were hard as he gazed at his "guest." Mathian was of only moderate height for his people, with shoulders whose narrowness his tailors tried manfully, if not with great success, to hide. He was young for a man in his position, having inherited the lordship of Glanharrow only seven years before after his father's unexpected death. He looked a great deal like the late Sir Gardian, and, like his sire, he had quickly established a reputation as a lord of great energy. But, also like his father, he was given to impulse and improvisation.

Most Sothōii were at least a little on the impulsive side, if the truth be known, but Sir Gardian had been more so than most. He'd been known for generosity and frequent acts of kindness, but also for having Fiendark's own temper. The punishments he levied on those brought before his judgment on his bad days had been legendary, and his tendency to make snap decisions would have brought anyone with less vigor quickly to ruin. But Gardian had always thrown himself body and soul into all he did, and his fierce energy and enthusiasm had allowed him to recover from most of his mistakes relatively unscathed. He'd wasted a tremendous amount of effort battering through problems a little forethought might have avoided along the way, but that had been his style.

And it had also been what killed him when he went galloping off after a party of hradani raiders with only six knights in attendance. In his defense, the hradani in question had made off with five of his prized studs and a dozen brood mares, and among the Sothōii horse lords thefts of that severity were not only a heavy economic loss but insults which could be washed out only by blood. Yet for all that, Gardian had been a seasoned warrior who should have known better than to let fury lure him into such a fatal mistake.

The fact that he hadn't had made Sir Mathian Lord Warden of Glanharrow at only nineteen years of age. That, unfortunately, was just old enough for him to assume his titles in his own name, without a regent to hold him in check, and he was his father all over again . . . but with far less experience. Worse, Sir Gardian's death had left him with a towering hatred for all hradani. Even he knew it was temper and lack of forethought which had led his father to his death, but if the accursed hradani hadn't raided Glanharrow's herds, none of that would have mattered. Sothōii distrust and hatred for hradani ran deep after centuries of mutual raiding and bursts of bitter, merciless war, but Mathian's burned hotter and much, much deeper than most. Things had been remarkably peaceful along the Escarpment for the past five or six years, but he didn't care, and he had quietly gathered quite a following among some of the other young knights.

All of which made his "guest" even more remarkable, for he was a hradani.

"And when have I been other than certain of anything before I was bringing it to you?" the hradani demanded, speaking Sothōii with a strong Hurgrumese accent. Had Mathian been more familiar with the differences between hradani clans he might have reflected that his guest was on the short side for a Horse Stealer. Not that it would have mattered to him. As far as he was concerned, all hradani were the same, and the world would be a far better place with none of them in it.

"No doubt," an older knight put in. "But I'm sure you can see why the accuracy—"

"Peace, Festian!" Mathian turned to glare impatiently at the older man, who clamped his jaw tight. Sir Festian Wrathson commanded Glanharrow's mounted scouts and skirmishers. He was also twice Mathian's age and more, and he'd seen more battlefields than Mathian had formal dinners. And unlike the unblooded young whelp who held Glanharrow in fief from Baron Tellian, Festian did know the difference between the hradani clans, and he felt quite sure that the fellow in front of them was no more a Horse Stealer than he was, whatever accent he might ape.

Mathian glared at him a moment longer, until he was certain Festian wouldn't interrupt again, and then turned back to the hradani.

"You were saying?"

"I was saying as how Bahnak will be after marching on Churnazh within the week," the hradani replied. "And he'll be taking all of his men with him, too, for whoever wins this one will end up lording it over all the clans."

Sir Festian didn't care at all for the glitter in the spy's eyes, but Mathian didn't seem to notice it. Perhaps that was because of the sudden fire blazing in his own eyes.

"I don't suppose you've brought any proof of this, have you?" he made himself ask, and the hradani hooted with derisive laughter.

"Oh, aye! I thought as how I'd just be bringing along a copy of Bahnak's secret dispatches so as to have something to lend his guardsmen for light reading when they caught me!"

Mathian's jowls flushed, but he only nodded. He gazed at the hradani for a moment longer, then raised one hand and flicked it at the door.

"My steward will pay you," he said curtly, and turned to stare into the fire hissing on the hearth.

The hradani grinned sardonically at his back, swept a mocking bow to Sir Festian and Sir Haladhan, and left. Silence lingered in his wake for several minutes, and then Mathian turned back from the fire and looked at Haladhan.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I think the same as you," Haladhan replied. "This may be the last opportunity we'll have before it's too late!"

Haladhan's deep voice was even lower than usual, throbbing with passionate enthusiasm, and Festian hid a mental grimace. He had no doubt of the accuracy of Haladhan's first sentence. The young knight was Mathian's first cousin, but if he ever had two kormaks to rub together it would be the first time he did. He was far more handsome than his wealthy cousin, and much more muscular, but if Mathian had declared the sun would rise in the west tomorrow, Haladhan would have said the same thing . . . only louder. Which made it all the more unfortunate that Mathian had promoted Haladhan to the rank of Marshal of Glanharrow, his senior field commander.

"True. True . . . perhaps," Mathian murmured. He raised his right hand to rub his jaw, and the ruby signet of the Lord Wardens of Glanharrow flashed like blood in the candlelight. "But if it is an opportunity, it will have to be acted upon quickly," he mused.

"Milord," Festian began, "before we do anything, wouldn't it be wise to—"

"I'm thinking, Festian!" Mathian said, and the older knight clamped his jaw once more, wishing—not for the first time—that Sir Gardian hadn't gotten himself killed so idiotically. No one had ever accused Gardian of thinking things through, but at least he'd occasionally been known to listen to advice if someone shouted it loudly enough!

"How many men could we assemble?" Mathian went on after a moment, directing the question at Haladhan.

"I'm not certain," his cousin said. He scratched the tip of his nose. "I suppose it would depend on the condition of the roads. It's still a mess out there, especially—" he darted a sharp glance at Mathian "—north of Glanharrow."

"True enough," Mathian grunted. "We'll just have to see how many of the minor lords we can get messengers to."

"I think—" Haladhan began, but Festian interrupted him.

"Forgive me, Milord," he said very firmly, "but should I understand that you actually contemplate moving against the hradani on the basis of this spy's information?"

"And why should I not?" Mathian demanded, looking down his nose at the older knight.

Because we've had peace with them for over five years and you're about to change that, you young idiot! Festian thought. And just because you've been fortunate enough never to fight a real war against them doesn't mean that those of us who have fought them are looking forward to it! But he couldn't say that, of course.

"Milord, you are Lord Warden of Glanharrow," he said instead, "and I am your sworn man, as I was your father's. But this is a very serious step you contemplate. At the very least, you should discuss it with Sir Kelthys. And Baron Tellian must be informed."

"Of course I shall inform Baron Tellian!" Mathian said sharply. "But as you yourself say, I am Lord Warden here. As such, I have every right in the absence of direct orders from Baron Tellian to call up the levies of Glanharrow on my own authority in time of emergency, do I not?"

He glared at Festian, obviously waiting for an answer, and the older knight sighed.

"You are, and you do, Milord," he said. Of course, "emergency" is supposed to mean that someone else has launched an unprovoked attack upon you, you fool. But you do have the right . . . and I don't have the authority to forbid it.

"Good!" Mathian snorted, but then he went on in a slightly less sharp tone. "As for Sir Kelthys, however, you're quite right. Please dispatch a messenger to ask him to join us here as quickly as possible."

He nodded dismissal, and Festian rose, fighting another surge of anger. He was no page to be sent scurrying about on errands, and he suspected that one reason he was being dispatched was to let Mathian and Haladhan put their heads together unhampered by his presence. Yet there was no courteous way to avoid obeying, and so he only bowed sharply and left.

He stalked down the castle hall, and those he met took one look at his face and stepped quickly aside. He knew they were doing it, but he didn't really care—not when those two young idiots were bent on what could only lead to disaster. Mathian had spent his life paying far too much attention to ballads and not enough to serious history. His mind was full of banners and gallant charges, and he'd managed to forget that Horse Stealers under the current Prince of Hurgrum's grandfather had sacked Glanharrow Castle itself and burned it to the ground. But at least he'd agreed to talk it over with Kelthys first. Festian tried to cling to that, for it was the sole positive aspect of the evening so far.

Sir Kelthys Lancebearer was a second cousin of Baron Tellian. Born a third son, he'd been a landless man, but one whose skill at arms—both in personal combat and as a strategist—had won great renown. He'd spent fifteen years commanding Sothōii cavalry forces attached to the Royal and Imperial Army, and he'd returned to the Kingdom a wealthy man. When Baron Tellian "suggested" Mathian bestow the manor of Deep Water upon Kelthys, the Lord Warden of Glanharrow had had little choice but to agree. And in fairness to the Baron, the transaction had worked out quite well.

Deep Water wasn't the largest of Glanharrow's holdings, and the manor had fallen into decay under its previous master. Under Sir Kelthys' careful husbandry, however, it had once again become a prosperous and productive steading whose rents enriched Mathian's coffers, and few lords of Mathian's rank had ever been blessed with a vassal with Kelthys' experience and skill. Indeed, Festian rather suspected Tellian had pushed the arrangement expressly to insure that Mathian had an older and wiser head to ride herd upon him. Yet Festian was also positive a certain rancor lurked under the surface pleasantries of Mathian's relations with Kelthys. Part of it was understandable enough. Given Mathian's comparative youth and lack of military experience, the younger man was bound to feel uncomfortable under the eye of a subordinate who was a proven veteran. But there was more to it than that, more even than Kelthys' relationship to Baron Tellian, for Kelthys was also a wind rider . . . and Mathian was not.

Festian knew how that rankled the younger man. The gods knew he had always longed to be a wind rider, but the coursers chose whom they would, and no power on earth could make them accept any rider against their will. Mathian knew that as well as anyone, yet that didn't keep him from resenting his vassal's good fortune.

But at least he'd agreed to summon Kelthys. Whatever his other feelings, he had to know how valuable Kelthys' advice and opinions could be, and Festian prayed silently to any god who might be listening that Mathian would have the wit to listen to them.

Marglyth Bahnaksdaughter tied the sash on her robe and tried to ignore the big, empty bed behind her as she dragged a brush ruthlessly through her hair. Her husband Jarthûhl was away with the army, commanding a battalion under her brother Barodahn in the flank attack curling up from Sondur to close on Navahk like a steel trap. The southern Bloody Swords had been driven back and held there by one wing of Prince Bahnak's army, commanded by Uralahk of Gorchcan, but Churnazh had managed to concentrate almost two thirds of his total fighting power to face the decisive thrust. He and his senior officers were battling desperately, only too well aware of what awaited them if they lost, and this time they had avoided their worst mistakes of the last war. Rather than charge out to fling themselves headlong upon their foes as they had then, they'd chosen to mount stubborn defensive actions, fighting for every ridge line and runoff-swollen stream. They were still losing ground steadily, but they'd slowed their attackers' progress to a crawl. Bahnak's advance was at least two weeks behind his original timetable, and his casualties had been higher than he'd hoped. Lower than he had feared, perhaps, but heavy enough to bring pain and loss to all too many Horse Stealer families.

But just this moment, her fear was not for Jarthûhl's safety, or her father's, or any of her brothers'. It was for their absence, and it cut deep into her. Jarthûhl had always taken a quiet pride in the way she stood second in authority only to her father in Hurgrum. Over the years, she'd grown accustomed to using him as a sounding board—much as her father often used her—when decisions had to be made, and he had always been there, quiet but supportive, when she needed him. Now he wasn't, and she felt his absence like a wound. For the first time in many years, she felt frail and alone in the face of responsibility, and she longed for the comforting embrace of his arms.

She yanked the brush through her hair one last time, then tossed it onto the dressing table with a clatter. That would have to do, she told herself, and rose, then looked at the servant hovering in the doorway.

"It's grateful I'd be if you'd tell the courier I'll see him in the Council Chamber," she said, and no one would have guessed from her voice how frightened she was.

Princess Arthanal was already waiting in the Council Chamber when Marglyth arrived. Arthanal had no official role on the Council, yet Marglyth knew how often her advice had been pivotal to Bahnak's important decisions, and a tiny part of the weight crushing down on her own shoulders seemed to ease under her mother's encouraging smile. She walked around the table to sit in her proper place as First Councilor, then looked up, heart suddenly racing, as the door opened once more. But it wasn't the courier—not yet—and her pulse eased slightly once more as the guards passed Bahzell and Hurthang into the chamber.

"Thank you for coming," she said, softly but from the heart. Bahzell only shrugged, then hugged her and stepped back against the wall behind her chair like an armsman behind his lord, and Hurthang joined him. Technically, the two of them had no more business here than Arthanal did, but Marglyth knew she would need advice, and it would have been impossible for her to summon a regular meeting of the Council in time. Even if it hadn't been the middle of the night, almost all of the Council's male members were at the front with Bahnak, and the other female members were scattered about Hurgrum trying to see to their absent fellows' duties as well as their own. Besides, this was one of the burdens that came with acting as First Councilor. In her father's absence, it was Marglyth's job to govern Hurgrum . . . and until she knew the full message the courier carried, there was no point in trying to assemble a quorum, anyway.

Someone else rapped on the door, and she made herself sit back in her chair as an exhausted, mud-spattered Horse Stealer was ushered in. He went down on one knee between the open ends of the U-shaped table, and she swallowed.

"Don't be crawling around on your knees, man!" she said tartly. "Get yourself up and say your say."

"Aye, Milady." The courier stood and reached into his pouch. The hastiness with which he had been dispatched was obvious, for the grubby piece of paper he produced hadn't been put into a message tube for safekeeping. In fact, it hadn't even been properly sealed, only folded into a screw. He held it out to Marglyth, and she was pleased to see that her hands didn't even quiver as she took it.

"Thank you," she said courteously, and straightened the tightly folded paper. The hand in which it was written was difficult to read, but not difficult enough, and she felt her ears fold tight to her head as she ran her eyes down the scrawled message.

"Would you be knowing what this says?" she asked, raising her eyes to the courier, and he nodded.

"Aye, Milady. Captain Garuth feared it might be lost, seeing as how he'd no time to seal it up proper. He was wishful to be sure I'd be able to be answer any questions should that happen."

"I see." She gazed at him for another long moment. "And your own estimate of the numbers would be?" she asked finally.

"Captain Garuth's the right of it, Milady. There's after being a thousand of them in the vanguard alone if there's one, and likely more following on behind."

"I see," she repeated. Then she drew a deep breath and nodded to him. "You've my thanks once again. It's grateful I'd be if you'd leave us to think on this—" she twitched the written note slightly "—for a bit. Tell the guards I'm wishful to have you wrap yourself around a good, hot meal."

The courier nodded, bowed, and withdrew, and Marglyth turned to her family. Her carefully calm expression wavered for just a moment as the door closed behind the messenger, but she forced it back under control.

"Garuth," Hurthang said softly. "He's after commanding the picket watching the Gullet if I recall aright."

"You do that," Marglyth confirmed grimly. She crushed the note in her fist and looked straight at Bahzell. "The Sothōii are coming," she said simply.

"Tomanāk !" Hurthang muttered, but Bahzell said nothing. He only looked back at his sister, and in the back of his brain he heard Kilthan's voice once more, describing the Sothōii's fear of a unified hradani realm. Well, if they wanted to prevent that, they'd chosen the right moment, he thought grimly. Bahnak had left five hundred men—a single battalion—to garrison Hurgrum itself, backed up by a half-strength City Guard. The other Horse Stealer cities were similarly vulnerable, for every warrior the massed clans had been able to scrape up had been thrown at Churnazh. His father had wanted to smash Churnazh as quickly as possible—partly in the hope that his allies, seeing how utterly he had been crushed, would surrender without further combat, and partly in order to free up the troops to guard his flank against just such an attack. But the Sothōii had managed to assemble their strength more rapidly than Bahnak had thought possible.

"They're coming down the Gullet?" he asked finally, and Marglyth nodded. Well, that made sense, too. Winter hung on late atop the Wind Plain, and the snow in its northern reaches and up near Hope's Bane Glacier was only now melting. The mighty Spear River was in full flood, but so were all the other, smaller streams which tumbled down the Escarpment, which meant most of the traditional routes from the high plateau to the lowlands remained flooded and impassable.

But not the Gullet. That long, narrow, tortuously winding crack stretched clear up the side of the plateau. Little wider than fifty paces in places, most of its length was protected from heavy snow accumulations. Once it had been the bed of the northernmost tributary of the Hangnysti River, but some long ago cataclysm had twisted and buckled the western edge of the Wind Plain, diverting the river further north and heaving up a steep shoulder of tilted rock to form an effective wall across the upper end of the Gullet and divert even the spring floods from it. The Gullet had never been flooded out in living memory, but it was also a difficult path. Most people's cavalry would have found it utterly impassable, and even the Soth?ii's war horses and coursers would require over two days to make the descent. That was the main reason it had been used far more often by hradani raiding parties, and even now he couldn't completely shake off a sense of surprise that the Soth?ii had chosen to attempt it.

Unfortunately, they had . . . and the Gullet's lower end was less than twenty-five leagues from Hurgrum's walls. If a Sothōii column debouched from it, it could sweep right through the heart of Prince Bahnak's realm—and there would be no warriors to stop it. Sothōii armies had penetrated that far before, if not in the last two or three generations, and each time the devastation had been terrible. Even as he smashed Churnazh's army to bits, Bahnak might find his own lands being put to fire and the sword behind him.

"How far into the Gullet have they come?" Arthanal asked in her quiet voice.

"They haven't—not before Garuth was after getting his message off," Marglyth replied. "He'd stationed watchers ten leagues out across the Wind Plain to spy out threats. As of this morning, they'd not started down. In fact, they'd not yet reached within five leagues of his main position."

"And how many men would he be having with him?" Bahzell asked.

"Not enough," Hurthang answered grimly for his sister. "He was never intended for aught but a forward scout. It's surprised I'd be if he's more than forty."

"But the Sothōii can't be after knowing that yet," Marglyth pointed out.

"Aye, and the Gullet's no bad place for a handful to be trying to slow an army, either," Bahzell murmured. He leaned back, rubbing his jaw while his ears moved slowly back and forth in thought. He didn't know Garuth as well as he knew some of his father's other officers, but the man he remembered was a thoughtful, canny commander. He wouldn't need anyone to tell him his job, and he'd know every trick there was to convince the enemy he had more men than he did. But if the Soth?ii had decided to move in strength, he would never be able to stop them, however defensible the Gullet might be.

"—reinforcements?" He shook himself as he realized his mother was speaking and looked at Marglyth.

"We've none to send, Mother," his sister said flatly. "Oh, we've the battalion here in the city, but they'd not stop a serious attack. Slow it, perhaps, but not stop it. No," she shook her head, "we'll be needing them worse where they are when the Sothōii are after getting here."

"Marglyth's the right of it there," Hurthang agreed unhappily. "Not that one battalion's going to be doing us all that much good, even from behind a wall."

"Aye, that's true enough," Bahzell heard himself say. "But it's in my mind there might just be a better answer nor that, when all's said."

"It's hard put I'd be to think of a worse one!" his cousin said with a hard crack of laughter. But then Bahzell's expression registered, and he cocked his head at him. "D'you mean to be saying you've truly thought of something?" he demanded.

"Well, I'll not say it's the best thought the gods were ever giving a man, but it's better than naught," Bahzell told him. Then he turned back to his sister. "You'd best be getting a courier of your own off, Marglyth. Tell Garhuth he's to do all that ever he can to slow the Sothōii, but I want no pitched battles. He's to feel free to skirmish if he must, but he's not to be doing anything as would prove how weak he is. Tell him I'm wanting him no further down the Gullet than Charhan's Despair before noon tomorrow."

"And why would we be telling him that?" Hurthang asked.

"Because betwixt now and then, you and Gharnal and I are going to be after force marching the entire Order to Charhan's Despair," Bahzell told him flatly.

"But Himself was saying—" Hurthang began.

"Himself was after saying we were to take no part in the fighting between Horse Stealer and Bloody Sword," Bahzell interrupted, "and no more will we. But he said naught at all, at all, about our fighting Sothōii, my lad!"

"But we've no more than six score blades, even counting all the novices," Hurthang pointed out. "You'll not stop four or five thousand Sothōii with such as that, Gullet or no. And that's even assuming as you can be getting them there that quick!"

"Oh, I'll get 'em there all right and tight," Bahzell agreed in a grim, hammered-iron voice. "And whether we can be stopping the bastards or not, we've no option but to try. We've done naught to be provoking a Sothōii attack—we've not even raided their herds in the better part of five years, now—and I'm thinking himself might not feel so kindly towards those as make undeclared war against folk as haven't been hurting them in the least. That being so, we've little choice but to take the Order out to argue the point and show them the error of their ways, like."

"And they'll still be riding us into the mud, come what may," Hurthang argued.

"Maybe they will, and maybe they won't," Bahzell replied. "But they'll not do it without getting hurt themselves, and they'll not do it all in a minute, either. It's surprised indeed I'd be if we couldn't be buying at least two or three more days' time, and it's possible whoever's in command on the other side will take it into his head to be taking his horsemen home if we can. He'll not know how the battle is going against Churnazh, so he'll have no idea how soon Father can be shifting troops around to be hitting him. And it's mortal early in the year, Hurthang. I've no notion of just what conditions may be up atop the Wind Plain, but I'll lay odds as how they're worse up yonder than they are down here. Aye, and come to that, I'm thinking Garuth may have been overestimating the odds just a bit, as well. I've no doubt at all, at all, he was after seeing the numbers he reported, but like as not there's not nearly so many behind them as he was thinking."

"And just how might you be figuring that out?" Hurthang asked skeptically.

"These lads will all be out of the West Riding, and most likely from the local garrisons, at that," Bahzell said positively, remembering what Kilthan had told him about the Soth?ii kingdom's divisions over how to react to the hradani "threat."

"There's not been time for more to be mobilized—or to've been reaching the Gullet if they had—with the roads being what they must up yonder," he went on. "So whoever the fellow in command may be, he'll know as well as we do as how he's operating on a boot lace. He'll not want to be meeting four or five thousand Iron Axes and as many more warriors from each of the other clans in the open. No," Bahzell shook his head. "His whole notion is to be getting in and out quick, and maybe to be holding the bottom of the Gullet until reinforcements can be reaching him."

"Mph." It was Hurthang's turn to rub his chin. He considered Bahzell's argument carefully, but then, reluctantly, shook his head.

"I'll not fault your logic about mobilizations and what t'other side's after thinking, Bahzell, but that's mostly because it's damned I'll be if I can see a single reason why his notion shouldn't be working. I'll grant you we can like as not hold 'em for a day or two, but three?" He shook his head again. "Hard enough for two, lad; three would be taking miracle workers, not warriors! And even if we're after managing three—aye, or even four—it won't be enough. They'll ride right over us, throw out scouts to be certain sure there aren't any of our armies anywhere near 'em, then fan out, and they'll take their torches with 'em, curse it!"

"I'm thinking Hurthang is right, Bahzell," Marglyth said with quiet hopelessness. "All you'd be doing would be to throw your own men away alongside Garuth's."

"Maybe so," Bahzell said stubbornly, "but there's one point you and Hurthang are both after missing—one thing about our lads as is different from Garuth and his picket."

His cousin and his sister looked at him blankly, but he saw his mother nodding slowly. Arthanal's expression was still worried, but there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes, and he nodded back to her.

"Garuth is after fighting under the colors of Hurgrum," he said quietly. "Our lads will be under a different banner, Hurthang. Now, it may be the man commanding those horsemen won't be minded to see it so, but there's a whole world's difference between riding down bloodthirsty hradani raiders and slaughtering a chapter of the Order of Toman?k as only wants to protect women and children and old folk. I've no doubt they picked a man as won't shed any tears at all for the killing of hradani, but angering the entire Order of Toman?k—now that's a horse of another color, Hurthang!"

"Assuming as how they're minded to believe we're a chapter of the Order, it may be you've a point," his cousin admitted. "But what if they're not?"

"Then we'll be no deader in the Gullet than we would be in the ruins of Hurgrum," Bahzell told him grimly.

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