Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

On the right side of the table sat Amicia, for the abbey at Lissen Carak, and Lord Wayland-hardly a famous name, but Gregario, Lord Wayland, was the chief of the small lords of the northern Brogat, the Hills, and the lands just south of Albinkirk. He was himself a famous swordsman, and he wore the latest Harndoner fashions. By his side was his ally and lifelong friend, the Grand Squire, a dapper, handsome man of fifty in a green pourpoint cunningly embroidered-another of the north country’s famous swordsmen, and one of the north’s richest landowners. Closest to the duchess sat the Keeper of Dorling’s son. He was a tall, hard-faced youth, called Allan. In the Keeper’s own country, they called him Master of Dorling.

Across the table from them sat Ser Gabriel in his person as the Duke of Thrake, and Ser Thomas as the Drover, and Ser Alcaeus, representing the Emperor as Ser John represented the King. By courtesy-there had been other Councils of the North-a seat was left empty for the Wyrm. There were no Orleys left to take the seat by Lord Wayland. Instead, Lord Matteo Corner sat with Peter Falconer-the first the chief of the Etruscan merchants then in the north, and the other an officer of Ser Gerald Random. Between them, they knew, and might speak for, the mercantile interests. Across from them, the council was balanced by the interests of the Church in the person of Albinkirk’s bishop. It was an august gathering, and aside from the duchess’s ladies, Ser Gregario’s wife Natalia in the most fashionable dress in the hall, and Toby and Jamie, the squire of Ser John, the hall was empty of servants-and moths.

No one was late. When everyone was seated, Ser John rose.

“My lady duchess-my lord Duke of Thrake, my lord bishop, Master, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I am a mere soldier. But I have summoned this council in the name of the king, and I’m most grateful-in his name-that the king’s own sister and the rest of you have found time and means to come.

“My intention is simple. I want to create a unified plan to defend the north country this summer-yes, and for many summers to come. Thanks to your efforts, we have already put a small army in the field at no cost to the people of this district and, if God will grace our efforts, that’s a fine opening to our discussions.”

He looked over the table. “My scouts, and those of the Emperor and the duke, have provided us with reports that the bishop’s scribes have copied for all of you,” he said. “In brief, Plangere is coming. He has an army of the Wild and another of Outwallers, and he has new allies-Galles, who have a flood of reinforcements from home.” Ser John looked around.

Ghause looked bored. “So?” she asked.

“So, my lady duchess, he has the force to take Albinkirk. Or Ticondaga. Or Middleburg. Or Lissen Carak. Or even Lonika. But not any of them, if we all field an army together.” He was going to go on, but Ghause interrupted.

“Fiddlesticks,” she said. “Poppycock. I can see straight through him and he’s as impotent as-” She gave a wicked smile. “Never mind. He failed to defeat Ser Gabriel the other day-and he failed to take Lissen Carak a year ago.”

Ser Gabriel pursed his lips. “I don’t agree,” he said.

Ghause looked at him as if he was a mythical being. “I’m sorry, my child. Did I mishear you?”

Gabriel shook his head slightly. “I had a chance to learn from one of his officers.”

Ghause raised a perfect eyebrow. “You tortured him?”

“I subsumed him and took his memories,” Gabriel said.

A near perfect silence fell over the table.

“Ah,” Ghause said, with a smile that could only be described as motherly. “Please go on.”

“I have the impression, first, that the attempt on me was put together with clay and spit, and was not a serious effort. Despite which”-he looked away-“it was very nearly successful.”

“Perhaps,” Ghause said.

“And I also received the impression that Plangere is well-prepared. That the extent of his own preparations left him unwilling to take any risks.” Gabriel shrugged. “Why should he?”

“I don’t believe there’s enough men and power in the world to take Ticondaga,” Ghause said.

“No fortress is stronger than the men on its walls,” Ser John said. “And no fortress can stand a year of siege. Starvation can take any stronghold.”

Ghause sighed. “So much drama. Very well, what do you want?”

“I want to appoint a Captain of the North. And I want to have him muster an army.”

“This captain is to be you?” Ghause asked.

Ser John shrugged. “I was thinking of your son, Gabriel.”

Gabriel looked surprised. “I am going to the tournament at Harndon.”

Ser John nodded. “Harndon is five days’ ride for a single determined man and his escort. Faster if there’s a change of horses.” He looked over the table. “Wherever he strikes, we’ll be able to combine our forces. While I have greater fears for our ancient fortresses than the duchess, I agree that none of them will fall quickly. We will have a month or more to raise our armies if we are prepared.”

“My husband is ready to lead an army straight at the sorcerer, if that’s what you want,” Ghause said. She sat up, like a fierce hawk disturbed at her rest. “Why wait for him? Why not strike him first?”

Ser Gabriel frowned. “By water, your grace?” he asked.

Ghause smiled. “Yes, my child. By water.”

“You are a puissant magistra, Mother. Would you allow an attack on Ticondaga by water?” Ser Gabriel’s tone was quiet and respectful.

Ghause laughed. “I agree that water is a wonderful element to manipulate,” she said.

“And every step he takes south of the inner sea stretches his resources,” Ser John said. “Why should we go there and stretch ours?”

Lord Corner put his hands flat on the table. “Not all of us are men of war,” he said. “I see no reason to risk an army in the Wild.”

Ghause laughed-a genuine laugh, not her laugh of derision. “You are in the Wild right now, my lord,” she said. “Or perhaps I should say, there is no Wild. Irks and boglins-men and priests. And little to tell between them.”

Lord Wayland was a careful man. He leaned back, one finger against his chin. “It is always easier to rally men to defend their homes than to invade someone else’s.”

Now Ghause snorted her derision.

Amicia looked up and down the table. “My lords-how will we know when the sorcerer launches his true effort? Will he not attempt to deceive us?”

Ser John smiled at her. “An excellent point. No army will march and denude any district. We must have an arrière-ban ready to stand on the defence.”

Ser Gabriel met Amicia’s eyes. “It is an excellent point, Amicia. But I think that we can build a mobile army that will move faster than Thorn can.”

A frisson of power passed through the air.

Ghause threw back her head and laughed. “Bless you, my child,” she said. “You amuse me. Taunt him!” She smiled. “Thorn,” she said, seductively.

The air darkened a moment.

Eyes were wide.

“Leave it there,” Ser Gabriel snapped. “If we say a third, the die is cast. As it is, it will stay in the air.” He smiled. “I see all sorts of things that can go wrong, Ser John. But Alcaeus and I have a chrysobul from the Emperor authorizing us to call on the field army, which will, by the first of April or so, be at Middleburg.”

Ser John looked up in surprise. “My pardon, my lord duke, but the chatter in the market is that the Emperor is bankrupt and cannot field an army.”

The Duke of Thrake smiled mirthlessly. “What do you think we were doing last year?” he asked. “Dancing? The Empire has a field army. It will be at Middleburg.”