David Weber - War Maid's choice

But the old bastard doesn’t want to use them, Varnaythus reminded himself. He remembers last time too well, remembers how the sky burned above Kontovar for weeks, how the smoke choked a world in The Year That Had No Summer. He remembers the screams, the destruction, the walls of flame marching across a continent. He watched it all in his grammerhain, saw every instant of it; it haunts him still, and that’s his ultimate weakness, the chink in his armor. He doesn’t ever want to call down that devastation a second time…but that doesn’t mean he won’t. He did it the first time; drive him hard enough, and he might yet do it again, despite his memories. Carnadosa only knows what provocation it would take to drive him to it, but none of us ever wants to find out.

And that was the risk of using the kairsalhain, for in its own way, the entire continent of Kontovar was one huge kairsalhain for Wencit of Rum. He could reach his fist into its bedrock and twist any time he chose, any time he was willing to kill enough millions of the wizard lords’ servants and slaves. And if those wizard lords used the art too openly here in Norfressa, he might decide that time had come.

“We’ll wait,” he said softly, taking his hand from his wand, sitting back in his chair. “It was never anything but our ultimate fallback plan, anyway-like the kairsalhain under Markhos’ throne room in Sothofalas-and the Council won’t be pleased if we’re driven to using it in the end.”

Sahrdohr nodded, his relief obvious despite his carefully controlled expression, and Varnaythus’ lips twitched in a sour smile. The magister was right; the Council wouldn’t be pleased if they used the art so openly…yet he could live with that if he must. His orders came from Carnadosa Herself, and whatever the Council might think, that was all the protection from its wrath he would need. Wencit wouldn’t be swayed by it, of course, but at least his fellow wizard lords would have no choice but to accept the deed once it was done.

Yet She wouldn’t like it either, really, if not for the same reasons as the Council. No, even though it would be precisly what She’d commanded him to do, She’d still be furious because the prize would be so much less valuable than the one She’d set out to claim. But if he waited, if he held his hand long enough to see what happened on the Ghoul Moor, he would be able to divert Her anger to a much safer target, for the failure against Bahzell would be Anshakar’s failure, not his. Bahzell had always been the main focus of this entire elaborate operation, and he could always point out that he’d warned Anshakar of the danger Bahzell presented, cautioned him not to take his task too lightly, too overconfidently.

He would have done all he could to make the attack a success, and then-and only then, after Krashnark’s servants had failed in every aspect of their mission-he would bring Her the death of Bahzell Bloody Hand’s wife. That prize, purchased at whatever price in the open use of the art, would be far, far better than to bring Her nothing at all.

And who knew? If Tellian and Markhos both died-and especially if he used the kairsalhain under Sothokarnas to destroy the fortress, half of Sothofalas, and Markhos’ wife and children, as well-the Kingdom might yet dissolve in civil war after all. There was still Yeraghor to think about. He’d be desperate when word of this reached him, and if that was followed by a power vacuum, an adroit advisor might well be able to convince him that…

“Markhos’ assassination was secondary to our main objective, anyway,” he told the magister, “and we damned nearly succeeded in it despite that busybody Brayahs and Tellian and his bitch of a daughter.” He shrugged. “Bahzell was always the main target, and no meddling mage is going to change a single damned thing that happens on the Ghoul Moor. It would take a god to change that!”

He bared his teeth, tapping his gramerhain, summoning up the view of Tellian’s marching army once more.

“We’ll wait,” he repeated, gazing intently down on the tiny, crystal clear images in the heart of the stone. “If Anshakar is half as mighty as he seems to think he is, we won’t need to worry about Markhos or the Sothoii. And if it should happen Anshakar isn’t strong enough to deal with Bahzell, there’ll still be time to kill the King and his precious family. And just between the two of us, Malahk,” his eyes were hard and hating as he glared at those distant images, “I find the notion of killing Bahzell’s wife and father-in-law curiously soothing at this particular moment.”

At least it wasn’t raining.

Bahzell Bahnakson would have been much happier if he’d been able to convince himself the absence of clouds was simply a natural change in the weather. Or, failing that, that it was because whoever or whatever had caused all those dreary days of rain had been dismayed by the steady advance of no less than three champions of Tomanak and decided to take the rain-and himself-elsewhere.

Unfortunately, he could convince himself of neither of those things.

‹ Neither can I, Brother,› Walsharno thought at him. ‹ But at least it means we can see whatever’s coming before it gets here. And our two-foots’ bow strings won’t be wet!›

“No, that they won’t,” Bahzell replied, his voice pitched too low for anyone else besides-possibly-Brandark, riding beside him, to hear. “And truth be told, I’ll take whatever it is we can get, and grateful I’ll be for it. Not that I’d be finding it in my heart to complain if it should happen we were offered more.”

‹ Nor I,› Walsharno agreed, tossing his head in assent. ‹ Nor I.›

Bahzell stood in his stirrups, stretching and simultaneously trying (vainly) to see a little further. Not that he expected to see very much. The Ghoul Moor was both more uneven and more heavily overgrown with scattered clumps of trees than the Wind Plain. In fact, it reminded him very much of the land further north and west, around Hurgrum, except for the absence of farmsteads. Ghouls did raise some crops, as winter fodder for their food animals, and Trianal’s mounted foraging parties would be keeping a lookout for any such sources of supply they could sweep up along the way. But those crops tended to be closer to the ghouls’ occupied villages, and the villages in the area here along the Hangnysti had been largely deserted since mid-summer.

They’d scouted this region cautiously over the last week or two, confirming that the villages in it remained empty. Since the rain had finally eased, though, their scouts had found tracks churned across the mud, indicating that quite a few ghouls had at least passed through it. Nor was that all they’d indicated, unfortunately. Ghouls were scarcely known for tactical or strategic sophistication, yet at least some of those tracks clearly suggested they’d been sending out scouts of their own, keeping an eye on the allied expedition. The possibility that the other side might know more about them than they knew about it for a change wasn’t exactly comforting, but the Sothoii scouting parties had at least turned up sufficient tracks to suggest conclusively where the ghouls had gone. They were gathering along the Graywillow River, a tributary of the Hangnysti about three hundred miles west of its junction with the Spear, which made entirely too much sense from their perspective.

The Graywillow was scarcely two hundred miles long, but it had a lot of small, winding tributaries which drained an extensive, often marshy floodplain, and the main stream was close to seventy yards across where it joined the Hangnysti. That made it a significant water barrier, and the terrain along its course-especially as it neared the Hangnysti-was rough, its banks lined with thick, tangled thickets of the willows from which it took its name. Farther upstream the willows gave way to dense stretches of mixed evergreens and hardwoods which could provide dangerously effective cover for troops as irregular as ghouls…and which would break up the formation of any infantry which tried to go in after them. Taken all together, it was an unfortunately good defensive position. On the other hand, with all the rain which had beset the Ghoul Moor in the last month or two, the Graywillow had to be running high and deep-probably deep enough to be a barrier even for ghouls, if they could catch them between their own advance and the stream.