Paul Kemp - Realms of War

Dev might have admired her gall, if he didn't despise the old hag personally.

He lifted the tent flap and immediately regretted disturbing the air. Hot, fresh blood and the stench of burning herbs wafted liberally from the tent. Dev put a hand over his mouth.

"Where's the priest?" He coughed, trying to see into the smoky interior. "The poor devil's running out of prayer time."

Three pairs of eyes lifted from the dying scout's pallet to regard Devlen. They watched him walk among them as one might an insect that had wandered onto a lord's feasting table. Morla was the only one who spoke.

"Be welcome, Scout Devlen." She gestured for Dev to stand in the corner of the tent. Her dull gray hair was pulled tightly back, revealing a broad, wrinkled forehead. Her nose was too long for her face; she had never been a beauty, so the men whispered, but her eyes were stinging bright. It was rumored that her vision was so keen at night she could see the pinpricks of light from a kobold's eyes, miles away in the hills.

Morla's single guard stood at her left hand. Opposite the pallet squatted a short, compact figure. His robes were filthy around the knees. Silently, he fed the reeking herbs into a brazier hanging from one of the tent poles near the scout's body.

"Why the quiet, priest?" Dev asked. He wiped his streaming nose. "Aren't you supposed to be sending him to his god?"

"My name is Gerond," the priest replied without looking up. He pressed a handful of the herbs to the scout's chest, but the man was too far gone to be bothered by the stench. "The lad wanted to smell the herbs of the Wealdath, the land of his birth." The priest pointed to the brazier. "What I have is a poor substitute, but I burn them in his honor."

"Wonderful way to die," Dev muttered.

"The scout made his last report," Morla cut in. She nar shy;rowed her hawkish eyes on Dev. "I have another mission for you, charlatan."

"Sending me off again, are you? Will you miss me, Morla my love, when I'm traipsing through the dark and wet, risk shy;ing death for you?"

Morla's voice was flat. "On the contrary, charlatan, the only time I think of you at all is when I'm feeding information to the enemy regarding your whereabouts."

Devlen laughed. "What sweet thoughts they are, I'm sure."

He tried to sound derisive, but inwardly he thrilled to this latest challenge. He may not have possessed Morla's cold dig shy;nity or the priest's piety, but then, he'd never needed either. Deception was his arena. He was Amn's decoy, sent to play the fiddle of Syth and Cyr. He knew the song and dance better than anyone.

Morla pointed to a map spread across a long, wooden table. "This is the route I want you to take." She pointed to the camp's current position. "Northwest across this plain-after you've gone, I'll spread the word to their spies that a courier has been dispatched to try to round up our scattered forces. You'll leave tonight and be at your destination before dawn, or you'll be dead from their archers when the light breaks and you're seen from the towers."

"What a prospect," Dev murmured. "Why that route? A shorter path and tree cover lie straight north."

"Because that ground," Morla traced a swathe of flat land with her dagger blade, "if you fail to recall, is where this army fought two days ago. We lost over four hundred souls on that plain, more than half our remaining strength. That's the route they'll expect you to take to search for survivors."

Devlen recalled the battle, but he hadn't fought in it, as Morla knew well. She would not allow a wizard-even a charlatan wizard-the honor of fighting in her army.

"So you want me to cross an open field, sweetly seasoned with the dead and dying, in clear sight of any goblins, kobolds, or ogres that might still be lingering? You know I'll do it, Morla my light, but it'll be a short walk, I can tell you that, and meanwhile your real courier won't have much of a head start getting your message through."

That was Amn's bane, of course: communication. Syth and Cyr had arcane means to carry their whispers between their forces. Battle after battle had splintered Morla's army into smaller bands that wandered like aimless, beheaded chickens. Foot traffic and brave-or stupid-couriers were the only means of exchanging information. More often than not, Amn's couriers had met with bloody disaster on these missions, until Dev had stepped in and offered his services. Now there were two messengers: the man who carried the truth, and Devlen the charlatan, with his well-oiled fiddle. Dev didn't mind being the decoy. It was his gift. He would lend it to Amn, in return for a favor to be collected later.

"You'll have company," Morla was saying, "so perhaps you'll last until the dawn."

Absorbed in his thoughts, Dev snapped to attention quick enough on hearing this last. "That's not part of the arrangement, Morla dear. This is my show."

"Not this night," Morla said. She handed him a stack of parchment, folded neatly and warmed by fresh wax. The papers bore the commander's personal seal. "Follow the route I showed you. In the center of the battlefield there is an overturned statue. Find it, and you'll know you're on the right path. Chieva, Lady Sorrow, is her name. She was planted in the field by Chauntea's faithful, in hopes of a better harvest. Can you remember this, charlatan? When you find her, break the seal on my instructions. They'll tell you where to lead the enemy. Once the trail is laid, get back here. You'll have to hurry. As it is, you'll be chasing the dark the entire journey."

"Maybe you didn't hear me." He was straying dangerously close to defiance, but Dev didn't care. "On his best day, every man in this camp moves slower than me, and makes a lot more noise."

"But they will fight to their deaths, even to protect a charlatan," Morla said. "So you'll take two and be silent about it, or I will have you beaten silent. I imagine that will slow you down enough."

Tension sat thickly in the stinking tent. The blunt-faced charlatan and a commander who'd lost half her army stared each other down. Finally, Morla lifted her left hand, the one she always clutched around her sword hilt. As soon as it left the steel, the hand began to tremble violently, a thing apart from the rest of her rigid body. Dev saw Morla's guard avert his eyes, in pity or disgust.

She clamped the hand on Dev's shoulder, where it steadied into a claw. Forcibly, she turned him to face the back of the tent. Her voice rasped in his ear, setting his teeth on edge. "There is the first of your companions, charlatan. Do you think he moves with more quiet than you?"

Dev blinked. He'd had no idea there was anyone else in the tent. But a figure stepped from the shadows, a large, hulking shape Dev recognized immediately.

"Resch," he said. He glanced at Morla. "You're sending him with me?"

"I am."

Resch, "The Silent," came to stand next to the priest. He was tall, with well-defined muscles and no tunic to hide them. His shaved head bore a wormlike scar behind his right ear. He was called The Silent because he never spoke a word to anyone. He never spoke a word to anyone because an ogre had ripped out his tongue in the initial attack on Murann, in the early days of the war.

Resch, by his manner, was still holding a grudge. Dev couldn't blame him.

"Gerond will go along as well." Morla offered the fat priest her right hand to help him to his feet. Her left had returned to its place at her sword hilt. "As you know, we recently lost our priest, Hallis. Gerond tells us he was a colleague of his," Morla said.

"Then why don't you keep him here, seeing as he's your only holy man now?" Dev asked.

Morla smiled thinly. "You're wasting time, charlatan. Dawn is waiting." She gestured to the guard, who turned and lifted the lid on an ornate, brass-handled trunk. He removed a bow and full quiver of arrows and handed them to Dev.