Part 9: Beat the Drum Again
But the business of the Keep and the business of the war couldn't wait for her to get her thoughts in order. She pushed herself off the wall into a walk, and prepared herself to get on with all that needed to be done.
Luckily, Kana was back in the main hall. Her black hair was soaking, and rain droplets were trickling down her leather jerkin till they fell into the puddle at her feet. Despite her watery state, she somehow looked sharp and composed as she listened to a string of complaints from the cook about the latest deliveries of onions and spinach.
Lila smiled at her tightly over the cook's head. The seneschal had far too much self-discipline to show her relief, but she came to attention with a crispness that made the cook jump.
"Knight Captain! I was told you were resting in your chamber today."
"I'm well enough for light duties. Has the storm done any damage?"
"Nothing serious, Captain. A few rooftiles are missing from the temple, and one of the lower cellars has flooded. Fortunately it was a wine cellar, and all the casks were stowed on shelves. No provisions were lost."
"We could have done with losing have a ton of those onions," the cook remarked, sticking tenaciously to her theme. She had to feed the whole garrison three times a day, every day; the Knight Captain and seneschal were minor figures of doubtful significance in her vast logistics empire.
"Could you give me a few minutes with Kana...sergeant?" Lila said, recalling the cook's official rank just in time. "War business."
The cook huffed, and trotted off in the direction of the kitchens, muttering under her breath about not being able to wait around all day.
"Thank you," said Kana in a heartfelt manner when the cook had departed.
"You're welcome. But I'm afraid I am here on a serious matter." She stopped to cough. If felt as if the order was literally sticking in her throat. "I need you to prepare a company of Greycloaks to march to Fort Locke. Sir Casavir will be in command.
Kana's nostrils flared. Her lips narrowed. "Sir Nevalle insisted?"
"Yes," said Lila. "I tried to dissuade him, but he is determined to see Lord Nasher's orders carried out." Should she send a courier north to the court? Nasher might be persuaded where his representative hadn't been. That wasn't guaranteed though. He was just as likely to accuse her of insubordination, and put Nevalle in charge of the Keep. Perhaps she should let him.
"It will take some hours to ready supplies and transport. Three wagons should suffice...they will need enough food to last them two weeks, so they don't eat into General Callum's stores."
"The wagons will have to be unpacked, and returned to us afterwards," said Lila. She moved her weight onto her other foot. "There isn't space in the palisade for one wagon, let alone three."
"In that case, it could be wise to send thirty Greycloaks. Twenty with Sir Casavir, and ten to escort the wagons north."
"Agreed. Callum and his men are supposed to be withdrawing to Neverwinter, but he isn't going to leave without a proper handover. Besides -" Lila smiled at the thought "-I know Callum. If he marches away with our wagons, we'll never get them back."
"It will be morning before the company are ready to leave. I will ask Sergeant Katriona to -" Kana paused, and closed her eyes " – no. I'll ask Sergeant Bevil to select the men."
"Not the survivors from the East Road. It's too soon." It felt deeply wrong to send any of the garrison.
"Yes, Knight Captain. Sir Casavir was in the temple when I last saw him."
"Thank you." The seneschal knew her too well.
"And Captain?"
"Yes?"
"Once you've seen Sir Casavir, you should go back to bed. I assure you, everything is under control here."
Lila grinned, and drew herself up to an approximation of attention. "At your command, Seneschal."
The worst of the storm was over. Stepping out through the main doors, she found herself beneath a pale grey sky. Everything in the bailey that could drip, dripped. A pigeon having a bath in a muddy puddle was the only life on display. Horses had been taken into their stables, geese closed inside their huts, and to judge by the sound of singing and the lights in the windows of the Phoenix Tail, everyone else had gone to the pub. Khelgar's voice was discernible amongst the many singing the chorus to Tall Ships of Blackstrand.
Getting across the bailey was a challenge; it involved hopping from one island of sopping straw to another. The mud in some places was so deep it looked as if it had flowed there from the Merdelain. When Nasher had first given her the Keep, she hadn't imagined running it would involve getting exhausted and dirty, changing into clean clothes, then getting covered in yet more filth.
After reaching the temple, she kicked off her moccasins and left them on the steps. Her bandages were still mostly white; she padded across the marble floor without leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind her.
At the rails before the entrance to the inner sanctum, she stopped and placed a hand over her heart in the customary manner. Her position in the Neverwinter hierarchy came with certain expectations of orthopraxy. For her part, she had no wish to get on the wrong side of powerful deities, much in the way that she'd failed to stand up to Nevalle and Nasher, afraid of the consequences of their anger.
She frowned at herself, and turned away from the sanctum. Casavir was kneeling at a small side-altar. Candles burned in front of an oil painting of a young woman dressed in gold. Based on her visits to various temples and chapels in Neverwinter, the Tyrrans lagged considerably behind most in the sophistication of their religious artworks. Ivarr had probably explained the significance of the image when the temple at the Keep was reopened, but she couldn't recall what he'd said.
There were benches in this part of the temple. No cushions, of course, but at least they were high enough to accommodate her long legs comfortably. She sat, switching her gaze from the painting to the candles to the back of Casavir's head, and back again.
She was on her fifth cycle when Casavir murmured something, and bent to touch his forehead against the marble tiles of the altar steps. Without comment, he rose and joined her on the bench. Wrapping his arms around himself, he sat bent almost double. Apart from them, the main floor was deserted.
They had never been close. When they first worked together, it had seemed incredible to her that a man could be loved, talented, and handsome, and yet so deeply, obviously unhappy. She'd never discovered the source of that unhappiness. As far as she could tell, it was as if he was carrying a splinter of it in his heart, like the silver shard in her chest.
"I had not expected to see you here, in the temple," said Casavir. His deep voice was as thoughtful as usual, not disapproving.
"Kana said I could find you here," she replied.
"Does Sir Nevalle still wish me to lead the Greycloaks south?" The question was meant for her, but Casavir addressed it to the golden girl on the altar.
"Yes. I'm sorry." The quietness of the temple seemed to press in on her. Casavir's quietness too. The words she had assembled to explain her failure seemed suddenly too trivial to bother with.
"It's no matter. I have been expecting such an order for a long time...I will be...glad...to see Callum again." He wasn't overflowing with enthusiasm at the prospect. It sounded more as if he'd left out the tag 'once more before I die'.
Her concern intensified. She could tell him that if he wanted to refuse the assignment, she would support him to the hilt. But that would be placing the responsibility for the decision on him. Mutiny, in effect. He'd been a deserter, but never a mutineer as far as she knew from the little he'd said about his past. And what would happen in the war after that if Nasher didn't back down?
"Casavir," she said, and chose her words very carefully, "are you suggesting that someone may have put you in charge of this mission in order to – remove you? Permanently?"
He bowed his head further. "I do not think so. But...if I did not return, I think that could...simplify matters in some quarters. I may be imagining too much. In all probability, I was simply chosen because I have led Greycloaks in battle before."
His pale skin looked waxen in candlelight. Even his lips had a greyish tinge. She strongly suspected that Casavir's history of suicidal daring had weighed more heavily in the scales than his military credentials when Nasher was forming his plans.
"Can you tell me what happened?" They both knew she wasn't asking for a list of his campaigns. He closed his eyes and shook his head, slowly but with a decisiveness that let her know she wouldn't be able to pry the story out of him. She sighed.
"Keep yourself as safe as you can, please," she said, trying to sound like Kana and not like his mother. "No mad risks. You're badly needed here."
"I give you my word that I will keep myself and the soldiers you're entrusting to me as safe as I can. As long as it is in my power to do so." He spoke without inflection or colour, and gave his vow to the oil painting.
That was the most she could expect or ask from him. She hoped that the golden girl in the painting, whoever she might be, was charged with reminding paladins of their promises when battle called. At least he didn't seem to be anticipating his departure with pleasure. More than anything else, that would have worried her: for his sake, and for Elanee's...and for Katriona's.
"Bevil is choosing the soldiers who'll go with you. But if you want to request anyone in particular, I'm sure he'll include them."
Casavir made an odd sound that fell half-way between a laugh and a cough. "I am very grateful to Sergeant Bevil for assuming that particular duty."
The temple was normally cool, even in the hottest weather. The fall in temperature after the storm made it feel distinctly draughty. She hugged herself, rubbing her hands over the arms of her silk tunic. It was time to raise the other subject.
"Kana was going to ask Katriona to choose the men...of course, then she remembered that she's gone..."
"Yes." If he'd said no, he could hardly have been more final. If wasn't a tell-me-more kind of yes. One day ago, she'd made her own promise, telling a dead woman that she'd report to Casavir of her bravery in the dales. How she'd kept them going with her determination and knowledge of the landscape. How staunchly she'd carried Elanee away from the ambush.
Now Lila wondered if that was really the kindest thing to do. Would Katriona want to remind him why she'd died? He must know already, on some level. Casavir could well be excruciatingly conscious of Katriona's reason for joining the mission to Arvahn. If the golden girl enforced oaths, Lila was at risk of a thunderbolt strike.
"I suppose Elanee has already told you something of what happened," said Lila cautiously.
"No – I've had no opportunity to speak to her today. She should have peace and rest to recover from her injury."
Looking straight ahead so that Casavir wouldn't see her expression, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She felt a bit better after that. Why did Tyr choose such stupid servants? "Do you want to know any more?"
Casavir pressed his lips together. He unfolded his arms, but only in order to refold them again with the left arm uppermost. "Katriona – was it quick?"
"Very. She was taken by surprise." A human-shaped shadow had hacked her head off with a billhook, starting with the spinal chord. No, she wasn't going to say that.
"That is all I wish to know."
Lila nodded in assent. She wasn't going to force details on him that would only torment him. It might be cowardice or kindness or a mixture of both. Perhaps later, should there be a later for Casavir, he would approach Elanee for more information about the disaster-strewn journey.
"I'd like to make contact with her family, if I can. Talk to them about her, and arrange the return of her things." And ask them for permission to keep the steel torque, since it was going to be much too useful to give back. "She said there was a family farm somewhere in the eastern dales."
"She often told people that. Perhaps in only that respect was she a poor Tyrran." Casavir attempted a thin smile. She wished he hadn't; he wasn't as practised in false smiles as she was. The grimace in the waxy face made him look like a death's head. "There was a farm in the eastern dales. It was burned down by the Bonegnasher Clan a long time ago. The family that lived there were all killed, except for her – she was away, visiting friends further down the valley, and so survived unscathed."
"She never said. She told me the farm was doing well – that her sisters were looking after it." Katriona had said that on the ride out when Lila had been trying to chat to her. Already it felt like ancient history.
"Her sisters died in the attack. The lie was...not badly meant. She explained to me once that it was the only way she had of keeping her family alive in some sense...by letting them live in the minds of other people. For her, I think the lie meant defying the power of the orcs, undermining their control over her family's fate."
She thought of how it would feel to go around talking about her mother, Amie and Shandra as if they were still living, still thriving. It was difficult to imagine a lie that could hurt her more as she related it. But when she'd conjured up her memory of Amie as she trudged down the valley of the Dardeel, had that been similar to the comfort Katriona's lie had brought her? The dead have been seen alive; their laughter a mist in my ears...
"And there was an elf she was friendly with? From Waterdeep?"
"Alcuin. Yes, I believe they were close until they quarrelled – not long before Katriona came to the Keep. I do not know where he is now. There may be some clue to his address amongst her possessions, but I doubt it. She had little patience for letter-writing."
"I'll see if I can track him down." Kana might know more. If nothing else, she was very good at making sure everyone kept their wills up-to-date.
She eyed Casavir as he sat slumped on the bench. Leaving him as he was would make her feel intensely guilty; at the same time, she could see no means of helping him. It was like looking down at a man trapped at the bottom of a mountain canyon, whose walls were so sheer that they contained no footholds, and down which no rope was long enough to reach.
"Elanee looked better when I saw her." On the litter that morning, when Casavir was ignoring her. "I'm sure she could cope with a visit from you. I'll look in on her myself before the end of the day." She wanted to sound encouraging. The paladin did not look encouraged.
"I will say goodbye before I leave."
"Good," she lied, standing up after a short struggle; benches had no convenient armrests to use for lift. She told herself that she wasn't running away. Someone else would be able to support Casavir much better than her. Ivarr, for example. They could talk about Tyr together and pray.
"Before you go – a thought has been troubling me." Her heart sank a little. She'd been a few minutes away from raiding the kitchens for a sack full of bread and cheese. And raspberry cordial. She wanted to bathe in raspberry cordial.
"Yes?"
"On the way back to the Keep, Nevalle told me he thought the attack was targeted – that it was an outlier, specifically intended to kill you. I believe his judgement has erred with regard to Fort Locke, but it may be sound about the ambush."
Lila blinked. She'd been expecting something spiritual, or some kind of confession, not this. Practicalities she could deal with. "Well, yes. I suppose it was very focused. There were plenty of shadows in the dales too, and they attacked us there, though not in the same numbers."
Casavir looked up at her. She found the blueness of his eyes unnerving sometimes. Often. "My concern is this: how did the shadows know you would be there?"
Her skin prickled. Part of her wanted to retreat back to her bed and draw the quilt and counterpane over her. "You think there's a spy in the Keep? Hardly anyone knew the details of what we were planning...unless they were listening at the door of the library. And we only decided to go ahead with it the day before we set off. That wouldn't give a spy much time to arrange an ambush."
Her mind was racing. Who might it be? Torio? Too obvious. She was kept under observation, and had been condemned to death in Luskan in her absence. Harcourt? Too nice, surely. And too sane. Sand? No. She couldn't believe it of Sand. The problem was, Grobnar had known about the plan, and that meant that anyone with an unusual piece of metalwork, a book about golems, or the ability to feign interest in the Wendersnaven for several hours could find out where her little troop had been going.
"Forgive me if I am speaking too hastily, Lila, but there was someone who left the Keep on the same day you decided to ride to Arvahn."
"Bishop." Of course. He would be willing to do such a thing without scruple. As to why he'd do it...that was harder to understand. His interest in coin was minimal, despite his protests to the contrary, and the wild lands that were poised to fall into shadow counted among the few things he had any appreciation for. "I haven't seen him since I got back."
"It is only speculation," said Casavir. "Nevertheless..."
"I'll watch him if he does come back. And I'll ask a few of the others to do the same. Elanee, Kana, Ammon, Zhjaeve. Maybe Neeshka too, if she'll agree not to tell Khelgar at once."
"Thank you. It gives me some peace to think that you will be on your guard. If something happened in the Keep in my absence, it would be – difficult to bear."
"We will be cautious," she assured him. His head bent down again; he unfolded his arms, and clasped his hands together. The conversation was over.
When she stepped out of the temple, the bailey was returning to life. The stable hands and a few Greycloaks were spreading sawdust and fresh straw over the muddiest sections. Geese waddled indignantly out of their huts. As she passed the door of the Phoenix Tail, people were filtering out in small groups then dispersing to continue with their various tasks. Kipp and Orlen nodded to her before one crossed to the stable block, and the other pulled his cap down over his forehead, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out through the gates in long strides.
She paused at the curtain wall to look at the sky. It was still grey and calm. She took a few deep breaths. Right – off to get some food. Then to make more progress on her list of tasks. Two were complete, but three more had been added at the same time.
The rest of the day passed unhurriedly. She limped around the Keep and courtyard, speaking to various people who needed to be spoken to, including Brockle, and avoiding the disapproving looks of Kana and Ivarr. As a concession to the seneschal, she went to bed early when the sunlight was only just starting to fade in the west. Kana was to have her woken before Casavir and his company departed.
Roly was fast asleep on top of her counterpane. He must have snuck into her chamber when she'd returned to check the list and change her shoes. He was a long, lean dog, quite capable of taking up a majority of the bed without even appearing to do it deliberately. If she was honest with herself, she was happy to see him there. The smell of dog might put off whatever nightmares were being held in store for her.
After nudging him to the side, she pulled off her hose, and crawled under the covers. Sleep took her quickly. No nightmares of descents into nothingness troubled her, though she did dream that she was feeding the Keep's entire store of food to Roly bite-by-bite. She was aware enough that she was dreaming to realise that she was getting off lightly.
When she woke, the sky visible through her narrow window was still more dark than light. Dawn was just starting to break. Even so, there was plenty of noise coming from the bailey: horses' hooves, whinnying, and voices shouting instructions.
Hopping out of bed, she paused, marvelling that she'd hopped out of anything. A few squats and stretches later proved that her muscles really were better than yesterday. She could raise her arms above her head without hissing and swearing. Roly watched her in bafflement for a while before slipping off the bed to scratch at the door.
The sentry stood to attention as she poked her head into the corridor. She squinted at him. One of the newer recruits. They tended to get lumbered with watching the door of the Knight Captain's bedchamber. She supposed that the rationale for this was that if a threat became manifest, the recruit could just scream really loudly until help arrived. No fighting ability required. That the first help on the scene of an assassination attempt might well be Aldanon didn't always make it easier to fall asleep.
Along the hall, lights were still burning in the library. "They're still up?"
"The elf wizard and the secretary, Captain. The others were leaving when I took up my post."
She looked over her shoulder at the narrow window. A bar of greyish sky was visible now. "I'm expecting a messenger from Kana. Let me know as soon as one arrives," she told the sentry, and closed the door.
It wasn't often that she could take her time getting ready. Yesterday hadn't counted – she'd been too numb to appreciate it. This morning, she washed slowly, dressed in thicker clothes than she'd needed over the heatwave, then sat back on the bed with her back propped up against the pillows. The minutes of idleness felt outstandingly luxurious; Kana and Casavir could manage everything in the courtyard. There was no need to feel guilty. Should she start reading a book for pleasure? Practise a cantrip Sand had taught her? Write a letter to her uncle? Time to herself. She'd had a lot of that until about three years ago.
Of course, it couldn't last. Booted feet pelted along the hall. Now that was strange. Kana's runners could move like the wind. Quickly, she reached for her knife, and buckled its harness around her thigh. No sabre was hanging at her bedside. That was both a regret and a worry.
From what she could hear, the sentry didn't even ask for a name before flinging the door open. When she saw who it was, she understood why.
"Bevil! What is it?" Her stomach turned over violently. Kana wouldn't send a sergeant to perform a minor errand. Was the Keep being attacked?
Bevil pushed a restless hand through his auburn hair. He was gripping the hilt of his longsword with the other.
"Bishop's back," he said. There was more. He didn't want to say it, and she definitely didn't want to hear it, but there could be no escape from what was coming. "He brought a messenger with him that he found half-dead a few miles south. The messenger says that he was sent out by General Callum yesterday morning."
Bevil stopped, took a deep breath, continued, "Fort Locke has fallen. Callum and his men have dug themselves in on the southern bank of the Withe. It may be too late for them already. The southern militia are all dead or fled, and Callum has just two companies of the eastern army left with him."
Her poor friend was shaking. She went to her desk, and poured him some water.
"Drink," she said.
"White brandy?" Bevil asked with a weak smile. They'd once got very, very drunk on white brandy, the three of them. It tasted foul, and the hangover had lasted for the rest of the following day.
"When I think of that stuff, I'm glad to be strictly on water rations," she said, trying to grin. The news wasn't as bad as she'd feared; her fears had been very dark indeed. "Are they down at the gate?"
"Yes. A healer should be with the messenger by now. It took awhile to bring him round, and awhile longer for him to understand he was safe." The glass Bevil held was still shaking, but there was a look of anger in his eyes too, and his jaw was set. If he said his prayers to Chauntea a bit more regularly, she might end up with another paladin on her hands. She wanted more for her friend than him turning into Casavir.
"I'm going to speak to Kana. While I do that, would you wake – let's see – Khelgar and Neeshka. Sand's in the library. Better leave him there if he's been awake all night." She hesitated. "If you see Ammon, tell him I need him. But don't wake him on purpose. Not yet."
"Good. I was going to get one of the sentries to do that for me," Bevil said with a smile that looked much steadier than his last.
"He's not that bad."
"Have you ever tried to wake him?"
"Yes," said Lila, "and look – I still have all my fingers." She waved them at him as proof.
Bevil shook his head indulgently in a big brotherly manner. When had that happened? He had always been the little brother, despite being a year older and four inches taller than her.
Back to business. She grabbed a pair of riding boots from a cupboard, and hopped into first one, then the other. "I've got to go."
"You're riding out, aren't you?" Bevil's eyes tended to bulge when he was worried. They were doing that now. She nodded.
"As soon as possible." The Withe was less than five miles away. Travelling light on horseback, a force from Crossroad Keep should reach Callum long before noon.
"Take care." One of Bevil's hands was unconsciously pulling at the edge of his mail-shirt.
"Oh, I will." She ran down the corridor, skidding on the polished tiles as she rounded the corner into the main hall. Onwards, and past the heavy doors.
It was a cool, sharp-edged morning in the bailey, though many of its gables, barrels and obscure corners still looked sodden from the storm. Beyond the curtain wall, the forecourt was jammed with Greycloaks, draught horses, and three heavy wagons.
She wove between them all, neatly avoiding a pile of horse manure and the elbow of a Greycloak who'd decided to stretch suddenly without checking his surroundings. Most of the soldiers were peering in one direction only, so it was easy to guess where the seneschal would be.
Kana was standing under the gate, flanked by Casavir. Ivarr knelt on the cobbles, regardless of the harm the damp and mud were inflicting on his priestly vestments. He was tending to the collapsed form of a man in a torn and bloody cloak.
Before joining them, she let her eyes flick around the gateway, until she found him. There. He was on the opposite side of the gate, half-concealed by the ridge of the portcullis track, one hand resting on his belt. She would have acknowledged him a week ago, grinned at him a year ago, but remembering what Elanee had told her, and Casavir's suspicions, she turned her back on him to focus on the casualty.
Definitely one of Callum's. A jerkin of good quality leather was discarded on the ground next to him; a regimental badge in the shape of the mountain Trigoron was still pinned to its breast. His face, though drawn and covered in a few day's worth of stubble, was familiar; squinting, she thought she recognised the scout who had brought reports of the orc tribes to the camp at Old Owl Well. His eyes were closed.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He will live," Ivarr replied. The dwarven priest had moved to the Keep in the early days of her captaincy, and being roused from bed at dawn to tend to an injured scout was almost routine. Now he stood up and drew her a little to the side. "He was struck in the shoulder – probably a knife wound – and there was poison on the blade. The poison and the knife wound are no longer troubling him, but his body will need time to recover." He smiled sadly. "His mind too. This delay will haunt him."
"Thank you." Poor man. If he'd been sent out yesterday morning and arrived now, the delay could prove fatal to Callum's troops. That had presumably been the intention of whoever had attacked him. Curious that the messenger had survived at all. It was as if the perpetrator had wanted the appeal for help to reach them, just not too soon. Curious as well that he carried a knife wound, and not the mark of shadows. There were many possible explanations for that, of course. It didn't have to be...
She caught Casavir's eye. In this instance, she was sure they shared the same suspicions. No conclusive proof though. She was careful not to look at Bishop.
"Could he tell us anything about the forces of the enemy?" she asked Kana. "What will we be up against?" Two days ago, she'd been sitting with Katriona at the edge of a hollow in the hillside, looking down on Hunter's Brook, longing for home. Now she was preparing to ride into danger again. Unbelievable.
"Captain." Even in the grey dawn light, Kana looked as straight as a spear-shaft, and more alert than Lila ever felt before breakfast. "The scout lost consciousness before he could give a detailed report. He said that Callum's forces were harried all the way from Fort Locke by small groups of shadows, and at the Withe they found the bridge held against them."
"But no mention of who was there? Or what?"
"No, Captain."
It could well have been an army of shadows like the ones that had ambushed her. Callum would hardly have been stopped by less. But the enemy had any number of creatures under his power: vampires, dark priests, elementals, blade golems, and Shadow Reavers. If a Reaver was there, she'd need Ammon or Zhjaeve or both. Zhjaeve wouldn't ride, and Ammon had slept for at most five of the last forty-eight hours. Was this how it would be from now on? The next fight coming so soon on the heels of the last that she was still reeling when it struck?
"How many riding horses can be made ready in an hour?"
Kana didn't hesitate. She'd known what would be wanted. "Forty, Captain."
"Good. As for the Greycloaks – the ones that can ride in Casavir's party should join us. Anyone else will need to be rounded up from the barracks. Tell them to put on their leather armour, and leave the breastplates off. They're no use against shadows, and we'll be able to travel faster without tiring the horses." And if this all went horribly wrong, as it most likely would, they'd be able to retreat faster too.
"Very good, Captain." Kana saluted. Lila thought the seneschal approved, though she wasn't smiling; the corners of her eyes seemed to have a positive inflection.
"Casavir, would you tell the others what's happened? Neeshka, Khelgar, and whoever else shows up."
He inclined his head. There was nothing to be read in his expression beyond a non-descript sort of dolour. Perhaps he was feeling guilty already for not having insisted on leading a company south as soon as word of Nasher's orders reached him. Perhaps he was feeling guilty for being glad about his last-minute reprieve. She had no time for guilt, his or hers. Later, maybe.
She thanked Ivarr, and was about to hurry back to the Keep to make her own preparations when she remembered the ranger. He was still leaning against the wall of the gatehouse, disdain written in every part of his face.
"Fancy a trip back south, Bishop?"
"I don't know, Knight Captain. How do you fancy dying?" He answered aggressively, without a hint of lightness. In the early days, he might have said something mildly shocking about how women paid him thousands in coin to go south on them. Cutting out the preliminaries and jumping straight to unbridled contempt was something he'd been doing more and more.
"You saw them then? The enemy?"
Bishop shrugged. "Half a dozen shadows." He sniffed the air, either indicating the dull ease with which he'd dispatched them, or his boredom with the line of questioning. She should have asked him earlier in order to keep up appearances, even if she couldn't trust a word he said. "Never went to the bridge – no need. There's a sheep that died out by the crossroads if I want to watch carrion crows circling."
Casavir tensed with anger. She intervened before the two men could start on each other; once they did that, Callum really had no chance of surviving till help arrived.
"Thank you, Bishop. I'm sure General Callum will value your heroism in finding his messenger, and bringing him to safety." Although the irony in her tone was minimal, she knew the ranger wasn't fooled. A mouse couldn't creep past him in the night unnoticed; no more could insincerity.
Bishop looked disgusted. He turned and stalked away towards the tavern. His last comment was shouted over his shoulder. "You're digging your own graves!"
Afterwards, she lacked the will to mutter a sarcastic comment and some choice swearwords under her breath. Instead, she exchanged another gloomy look with Casavir. Something would have to be done about Bishop. Any Greycloak officer would have got rid of him a long time ago, however talented he was. But then, she wasn't a real Greycloak commander, was she? She was just borrowing the soldiers for a while.
As she jogged over the bailey, she met Light of the Heavens striding in the other direction. Bevil followed after her, making a what-can-I-do gesture when their paths crossed. At the doors of the Keep, she nearly ran over Sand.
"I am desperate to volunteer for this very dangerous mission, Captain," said the elf in the voice he used to explain to Duncan why he wouldn't give him a discount on ale purgatives. She was in too much of a rush to dig deeper into his surprising admission. For someone who'd ridden thirty miles then spent the night in the library, he appeared fit enough for another excursion. His hair looked a little ruffled; in Sand terms, that might mean he was dying. Still...
"Thank you, Sand. Go find yourself a horse. And healing potions – we'll be needing them. Lots." She clapped him on the arm, and left him shuddering beneath the ten-foot doors of blackened oak.
The dressing room adjacent to the upper armoury was deserted. It was reserved for the use of herself, her associates, Kana, and anyone else who wouldn't fit in with the Greycloaks in the lower armoury. There was no need to stop there long; she pulled her best set of leather armour off its stand, and wriggled into it. After that, she strapped on her potion belt, which was custom-made by Lord Nasher's best master leatherworker, and had a multitude of compartments sewn into it, each containing a tiny glass vial. A light helmet, a standard-issue grey cloak, riding gloves, and it was time to move on.
Move down, rather. Hidden away on one of the Keep's lower levels, a tunnel cut through bare limestone led to a small windowless chamber, likely older than the castle above it; a blue flame in the centre of the room burned day and night, emitting neither heat nor smoke. This gave enough light to read the inscribed tablets set around the walls, though the writing on many was so antiquated that parsing out the meaning would take a day and a shelf of dictionaries.
A tablet chiselled from quartz that Grobnar had found on the shore near Highcliff was the latest addition. There was no body, or even ashes; as with Katriona, retrieving the corpse hadn't been possible. Lila could have used the recess behind the tablet, but that would have been too obvious a choice – the wards embedded in the limestone mortar of the chamber that guarded against scrying, spying, wicked men and undead wouldn't necessarily repel a curious Greycloak.
Instead, she drew her knife, and levered open a much older tablet. It memorialised Yolis, who had lived somewhere and done something for Lord Someone of Neverwinter. A skull grinned blankly at her from the front of its final bedroom.
The advantage of this particular compartment was that it stretched much further back that you'd expect of a niche designed to hold bones or ashes. She reached around the remains of Yolis. The hilt was there. As her fingers closed round it, a surge of energy raced up her arm. She drew it out, careful not to damage the skull by accident.
The Sword of Gith shone brighter than the room's indigenous blue fire. Unlike its dream-sibling, the echo of the sword that she'd called to her when she most needed it, this one was fractured in every part of the blade. In many places where shards were missing, there was more light than metal.
"I think we understand each other better now," she told the sword, though quietly, in case Yolis heard and thought she was going crazy. A little more rummaging in the stone recess produced the sheath. She shook grave dust off it.
Once the edges of the sword – both the physical and the other – where covered by tanned umberhulk hide, she slung the strap over her shoulder. Before returning upstairs, she leant her forehead against the cool stone wall. She wished she could tell herself that it was all going to be alright. Many of the dead memorialised in the little chamber would have assured her of the contrary: it was not going to be alright. It was a risk, perhaps a stupid risk, to lead so many soldiers and horses away from Crossroad Keep where they were needed.
The power of Guardian beyond the Mere hadn't fully dawned on her until she'd seen the East Road turned into a carpet of shadows. Yet she couldn't abandon Callum and his troops to their fate a few miles away from the stronghold of his allies. He'd spoken for her at the trial; she'd never forget that. And if they didn't fight back now, what message would that send to their enemy? Or to themselves? Was that why Nevalle had been so desperate for more soldiers to go to Fort Locke?
Straightening, she flexed her shoulder muscles and arms. It was time. The journey up from the depths of the castle to the hall was quiet; apart from a few soldiers and servers hurrying around, she saw no one. The bailey was a different matter. From the inner wall to the gate, it was jammed with people going hither and thither. No one had troubled to move the wagons; instead, stable hands and Greycloaks led saddled horses around and between them to the grounds beyond the gatehouse where the muster was taking place.
About twenty horses and Greycloaks were already there, and more were joining the crowd every minute. Even as she stood in the gateway marvelling, Kipp led Sorrel past her, and handed the reins to a Greycloak in an old style of helmet. She should ask Edario about that: all the soldiers were supposed to have been issued with new equipment. Sorrel and her guide disappeared towards the front of the assembly – or to where the front would be when they rode away.
She looked over the jumble of soldiers and horses, looking for her friends. A few of the female Greycloaks were there; the garrison had more men than women, but the recruiting work of Katriona and the glamour of Light of the Heavens had drawn in some two dozen volunteers from the women of the surrounding hamlets.
Shod hoofs rang on cobblestones; horses snorted and shook their bridled heads. She thought of the sturdy gelding on Deramoor, and hoped Darmon's people were taking good care of him. On one side of the throng, she spied Sand, Light of the Heavens, Khelgar, and Neeshka. She waved to them.
The next horses to trot through the gateway already had riders on their backs. When they drew level with Lila, the chestnut pony stopped dead, though it had no bit or reins to lend the rider control. The taller bay halted alongside it; again, it had no reins, no bridle, no saddle even.
Elanee nodded to her. The druid's head was still swathed in bandages, but the colour of her skin had returned to a healthy olive.
"Kalach-cha," said Zhjaeve from her lofty position on the bay. Lila didn't let her mouth fall open; it wanted to. Dark eyes sparkled at her above a taffeta veil. "Change is not the enemy of faith." She patted her horse's neck, and rode on to join the others. The scroll of True Names that could be used against the Shadow Reavers dangled at her hip.
"A horse does not need spurs or a bit to carry its rider," remarked Elanee. "With the right horse, and the right rider."
Lila felt her grip on events was rapidly loosening. She'd never had much of it to begin with. "Surely you should be staying here? You were just about dead one day ago."
"I do not intend to fight," said Elanee. "But you need more healers with you, and Zhjaeve's riding skills are not so advanced that I can let her go alone."
After carrying the elf across the dales like a vomiting sack of potatoes, the prospect of seeing all her efforts undone was tremendously irritating. She wanted to order Elanee back to the infirmary for at least the next week. All that heat and blood and suffering had to mean something. But the druid was right.
Elanee might have read her thoughts on her face. She added, "The soldiers will need me. Callum's too. Sergeant Katriona would not have wanted to see Greycloaks dying on the road because they could not be helped in time."
That was a deeply manipulative comment, even if it was true.
"Very well," said Lila. "Take care. Of yourself, as well as Zhjaeve."
When the pony and druid had gone, and the numbers in the assembly before the gate seemed close to full strength, she knew the moment had come. As she moved towards the front, she couldn't stop herself throwing a few glances behind her. The third time, she did spot Qara slouching across the forecourt; if she was with coming them, their firepower would mushroom, though Qara was not the one she had hoped for.
She concentrated on the now. As she skirted the edge of the company, a few familiar faces stood out – Brockle and Chowley, Alys from Conyberry, Gilvath the smith's younger son from Leilon. She stopped to shake hands with each of them, though with Gilvath she ended up patting the horse instead since he didn't want to let go of the reins.
Waiting near the point of departure, a black destrier with scarred flanks bore Casavir. Not far away, Draygood sat comfortably on a smaller, calm-looking roan. He was holding a furled banner, the tip of the staff resting on his booted foot, while a trumpet hung on a strap at his side. A career soldier, the veteran clearly believed in doing things properly.
"Good to see you here," she said. He and the other men from the Arvahn troop had permission to rest today. Draygood could only be mounted and ready because he had volunteered.
"Only way to escape the porridge for breakfast, Captain. Chantler never held with it either. The milk needs to be served on the side, not all mixed in. We're not barbarians."
She smiled up to him. Draygood wasn't really talking about food. "You're right. So was Chantler. I'll speak to the kitchen staff as soon as we get back. What the cook doesn't know won't hurt her. Standards have got to be maintained, after all."
"Damn right, Captain."
Casavir's hands kept shifting on the reins of his destrier. He seemed to have been infected by her own tendency to throw looks back at the way she'd come, though in his case it was the far side of the company that kept drawing his regard.
"Elanee's coming with us as Zhjaeve's riding instructor. She's said she'll stay behind the lines in the battle itself." It would be a real battle with ranks and formations, like as not. She hadn't been in one of those before.
Some men might have flushed. Casavir carried on looking pale and weary. "I pray she keeps to her resolution."
"Sir Nevalle is staying behind?"
"Yes. He wishes to stay in the Keep lest new dispatches arrive from Lord Nasher. And to support Kana, of course."
"How fortunate for Kana to have his strong right arm to lean on." His strong right arm would have been a lot more useful on the battlefield, where – she couldn't deny it – he was a gifted fighter.
Casavir briefly settled his attention on her. His eyes widened as he noticed the sword hanging over her shoulder. "The Silver Sword..."
She shrugged, and smiled wryly. "I've broken two swords in the last year. Let's hope the power of three is more than a myth." Hope. She found that word so easy to use. It tripped off her tongue, and spun itself through her thoughts. Casavir rarely talked about hope.
"Tyr watch over us," said the paladin.
"Indeed," said Lila. She would really have preferred to be talking to Draygood about porridge. Some time soon she should light a candle at a shrine to Lliira, her patron deity, and drop coins in a temple basket to avoid alienating all the gods and minor divinities of Faerun.
She crossed over to Sorrel, who was trying to nuzzle the Greycloak that held her reins. The stirrups had already been adjusted to her preferred length, so she simply swung herself into the saddle, suffering no more than a twinge or two from her calves and thighs. Once she was seated, the Greycloak saluted and mounted his own horse, a white mare she reckoned had arrived with a dozen others from Highcliff.
The sky was bright blue, and beams of yellow light sparkled behind the Sword Mountains. Thankfully, the morning had stayed cool. As a precaution, stable hands and spare soldiers were wandering through the riders, handing out skins of water – she took one from Kipp – but the heat of the last few weeks, first sweltering, then burning, was over. A flock of starlings fluttered in an out of a nearby holly tree.
She looked over her shoulder once more. Kana had appeared in the gateway. At a guess, she was coming to tell her the expedition was ready to depart. On the walls above her, a number of people had stuck their heads over the battlements. Aldanon, Harcourt, and Grobnar were in a cluster to the north. On the southern side of the gatehouse, Nevalle's honey-coloured hair shone as if it was made of polished bronze.
"Who else are you expecting?" The metallic resonance of the helmet made Ammon's voice more distinctive, rather than less. She didn't throw her arms around him. He'd just have leant back, and she'd have fallen head-first off her horse.
"No one now," she answered. "The disguise is quite effective." How she had failed to recognise his body language she would never know.
"Clearly." He had the advantage of her in more ways than one: the helmet's cheek-plates covered most of his face, save for almond-shaped gaps round the eyes and a line that ran vertically from the nose-guard to the base. He could see her expression, but she couldn't see his.
She reached across and pulled his cloak open so that she could examine the full pattern. An owl with its wings spread hovered above a set of scales. He didn't try to stop her.
"Pre-Nasher?" she guessed.
The helmet tilted back. "From long before Nasher."
There was no need to ask about why he was pretending to be a Greycloak. She'd spent hours after their first victory against a Shadow Reaver trying to persuade him to do exactly that. Holding up a pin-cushion to illustrate what would happen if all their enemies attacked him while he was reading from the scroll of True Names had made no impression. Apparently the five broken ribs, burnt arms, and dislocated shoulder he'd acquired at West Harbour in the spring had effected what she couldn't.
"I saw Sand earlier. It was funny," she said, watching the position of his arms and the slant of his helmet, "he said he was volunteering to go with us. That's not like him at all."
"He must have been reminded of his responsibilities."
"So you press-ganged him? Again?"
The helmet turned fully towards her. The few visible areas of his face were shadowed; his amber eyes seemed very bright in contrast.
"If there is a Reaver, Sand will make a convenient distraction. He has a counterfeit scroll; he can speak nonsense in any one of several languages."
"Zhjaeve's coming too," she reminded him. He certainly wouldn't have missed the entrance of the zerth mystic on horseback.
"All the better. She can provide a second distraction." Alongside the arrogance, she heard the irony too. Last year she might not have noticed it; last year it might not have been there.
"Kana's here," she said. She shifted in the saddle, straightened, and smiled at the seneschal. "All ready?"
"Yes, Captain. At your word."
"Thank you," she said. No one else could have prepared such a large troop so quickly, but saying that aloud would be unlikely to do more than embarrass Kana. "One last thing – could you arrange a guard for Callum's scout? I was going to ask Zhjaeve and Elanee, but they're riding with us."
"Do you think he's in danger, Captain?" Kana looked shocked. The Keep had seen no bloodshed since its reconquest.
"No...no. It's just a precaution – in case whoever stabbed him decides to finish his work."
"A necessary precaution," Casavir added with emphasis.
Kana departed. This was it. She scanned the crowd of soldiers, and the less regular shapes of her friends who stood out amongst the sea of identical helmets. Everyone was wearing a grey cloak now, even Zhjaeve, who didn't seem to think much of clothes in general: her veil was usually her most extensive garment.
"Captain," said Draygood. "It's tradition to set out with a trumpet call."
She paused. Trumpet calls were not wholly conducive to the element of surprise; still, how much surprise could a group of forty men and women on horseback maintain? Especially since they would certainly be expected.
"Is there one that means that reinforcements are approaching?" Too far for Callum to hear it, but if any more of his scouts were in the area, they'd know what it meant. The scout convalescing in Ivarr's care might hear it too.
"Yes. We just call it New Steel."
"A good choice," said Casavir. He sounded almost warm.
She took a breath, and raised her hand. Draygood blew a series of notes that ascended in quick triplets; the final blast lingered in the air, and was taken up by other trumpeters on the walls of the Keep, and in the throng of riders. The wild notes formed a canon, one triplet echoing another or overlaying it, until the noise seemed to be resounding across the farmland and further, as far as the dales and western sea.
She urged Sorrel forwards. Ammon followed her, then Casavir and Draygood, who had unfurled his banner to reveal a white castle emblazoned on a green and blue background. In the middle of the column, someone began to beat a quick march on a deep-voiced drum. The uproar of a hundred and sixty hooves striking the road almost drowned it out. Her heart accelerated; as the crossroads approached, she listened to the trumpet calls that were still singing from the walls of Crossroad Keep, and gave herself up to the moment.