Part 34 (2/2)
The bent man took his hand. ”Be with me for a time. Help me not to be alone.”
Loneliness was a curse that had been set upon him ages past.
Once, in some dim, unremembered yesterday, he had sinned. His punishment was countless corporeal centuries, alone, directing diversions which would please Them, and possibly move Them to forgive....
He had said it himself. Things had become too complex to control.
The Guild general stepped from the portal into his apartment-and the cauldron of an unbelievable battle. He had no opportunity to learn what had happened. Two elderly, iron-hearted gentlemen, to whom the Guild meant more than life itself, awaited him.
”Hawkwind! Lauder! What...?”
They said nothing. Sentence had been pa.s.sed.
They were old, but they could still swing swords.
TWENTY-FOUR: Kavelin A-March
The volunteers poured in. Campfires dotted every patch of unused land.”They must be coming out of the ground,” Ragnarson observed.
Haaken stood beside him on the wall. ”It is hard to believe. So many. Who's doing the work?”
”Yeah. Some will have to go home. You sorted out the ones we want?” Haaken, Reskird, and his other staffers had found trebled work dumped upon them. Kavelin, preparing for war, could no longer proceed on inertia.
Ragnarson had to devote his entire energy to being Regent. He had to browbeat the Thing into accepting this venture, and to prepare a caretaker regime for his absence.
Gjerdrum had gotten that job, primarily because his father, Eanred Tarlson, had been a national hero trusted by every cla.s.s.
Gjerdrum thought being left behind worse than being accused of treason.
Haaken, Reskird, and the other zone commandants had selected six thousand men for Ragnarson's expeditionary force. On a backbone of regulars they had fleshed a corpus of the best reserves and most promising volunteers. A force of equal strength would be left with Gjerdrum.
It would be essentially an infantry force. The venture had raised little enthusiasm among the Nordmen, whence the trained knights came. Ragnarson would take a mere two hundred fifty heavy cavalry, counting those of the Queen's Own. Fleshed out, Ahring would field a thousand men, only half of whom were real horse soldiers. Most were light horse, skirmishers, messengers, and the like.
The infantry would be the Vorgrebergers, the Midlands Light, the South Bows, a battle each from the Damhorsters, Breidenbachers, and Sedlmayr Light, plus a hodgepodge of engineers, select skilled bowmen, and Marena Dimura auxiliaries.
Ragnarson was an inveterate tinkerer. He would have fiddled till he had his force balanced to the last billet. Only Haaken's nagging got him moving.
Ragnarson understood what few of his contemporaries did. That training and discipline were the critical factors in winning battles. That was why little armies whipped big ones. Why s.h.i.+nsan was so dreaded a foe. Her army was the most disciplined ever formed.
Ragnarson's plan depended on trickery and surprise, and his cabal of wizards.
”I'm nervous,” he told his brother. ”We're not ready for this.”
”We'll never be ready,” Haaken countered.
”I know. I know. And it pains me. All right. Get them moving. I'm going back to the Palace.”
He soon joined Gjerdrum in the empty War Room. Every available map of the east was posted there. Scribes directed by Prataxis had made copies for field use. His intended route was sketched in red on a master.
He kept worrying. Could he make it without being detected? Could he feed his men on the wild eastern plains?
What about water? Could he trust the maps to show genuine creeks and water holes?
I've got to stop this, he thought. What will be will be.There was no turning back. If nothing else, even failure would startle s.h.i.+nsan.
His s.p.u.n.k might make O s.h.i.+ng back off awhile, giving the west time to respond to Varthlokkur's warnings.
This was the second time Kavelin had had to be the bulwark. It wasn't fair.
Varthlokkur arrived. He was a pale imitation of the wizard of a week earlier.
”It's still dead?” Bragi asked.
”Absolutely. Even the Unborn is weakened.”
For no reason the wizards could determine, the Power had ceased to function six days past. Only the Unborn retained any vitality, and that because it drew on the Winterstorm, partially tapping different sources of energy.
The weakened Radeachar was busy. A spate of enemies had 2I3 pelted against Kavelin's borders after the Power's failure. VisiG.o.dred's a.s.sistant, flying the huge roc, was as pressed, scouting beyond the borders.
Radeachar would stay with Gjerdrum. His presence would keep the Nordmen in line.
”Marshall,” Prataxis called from the door, ”you have a minute? There's a man here you should see.”
”Sure. Come on in.”
Derel's man wore a Guild uniform. Ragnarson frowned, but let him have his say.
”Colonel Liakopulos, General. Aide to Sir Tury.”
Ragnarson shook his hand. ”Hawkwind, eh?” He was impressed. Hawkwind was the most famous of High Crag's old men, and justifiably so. He had performed military miracles.
”Colonel Oryon asked me to come. The General approved.”
”Yes?”
”Oryon was my friend.”
”Was?”
”He died last week.”
”Sorry to hear it. What happened?”
”Trouble at High Crag. Oryon was in the thick of it. You know how he was.”
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