Chapter Ten

Racheris stared at her armor. It was fine steel, polished to a bright sheen, emblazoned with Cuisienne’s golden fish in bright leaf, and as yet unmarked by battle. She put the stuff on every morning now, but it still bewildered her. She had never imagined herself in armor. The suit of Vloss plate she had arrived at Castle Caiross with had been a disguise to get her out of Cuisienne, nothing more. She had never expected Eldden’s leadership to take it as a sign that she was proficient in the art of war. She hadn’t expected them to summarily execute their Vloss prisoner, either. Nor had she expected Ard Hofnis to immediately flee Caiross. She had thought that he would at least stick around long enough to demand reparations.

But here she was, somehow in possession of the title of general and a suit of armor to go with it. And Sorak was no doubt still swinging from a gibbet. And Hofnis was somewhere well north. And outside her pavilion waited a multitude of Elddener lords and ladies, ready to receive their orders and argue incessantly about them before deciding whether to follow them or not.

The army that those lords and ladies had assembled was impressive, though. Queen Tieryn had dubbed it the Alliance. Racheris estimated that it was half the size of the Vloss army, but defending was easier than attacking. They were currently camped on the east side of the fork of the Elmwyves, where two rivers became one to flow into Cuisienne. The Vloss had established a fortified post downriver at the Broken Bridge. Racheris hadn’t seen it herself, but the scouts said that it was a mighty thing, a fortress spanning the river that could only have been built with the help of mages.

Thej was already up and ready, unsurprisingly. The servant had been given armor as well, a simple Unaian scale shirt and accompanying vambraces, greaves, and helmet, but she rarely wore it. Racheris, however, was a general, and held to a higher standard.

So she put on her gambeson, pulled on her boots, and let Thej help her put on the armor. At least it was fairly comfortable. It turned out that properly fitting armor was so much more effective that Racheris could scarcely believe it. It was still heavy and claustrophobic, but it moved more like heavy clothing and less like a cage.

The sword belt was the last thing to go on, and the part that Racheris had the most difficulty believing. A sword? For a diplomat with sixty-three winters behind her, whose joints creaked like rotting stairs? Her advisors assured her that she would not be expected to use it, but apparently it came with being a general, and she had to wear it.

The sword had been made for her as well, part of the gift that young Queen Tieryn had bestowed upon her. “We know of your bravery, but we would not ask you to go into battle unprotected,” the little girl had said, commanding that Caiross’s finest smith forge the newly-made general arms and armor fit for her station. So the sword’s pommel was delicately carved in the shape of a fish, its hilt wrapped in leather engraved with scales, and its blade adorned with an etching of a leaping fish, which Racheris tried hard not to take as a fish-out-of-water joke.

The unspecified fish was Cuisienne’s only real symbol. Sometimes ards designed fanciful coats of arms for themselves, but the individuals who owned them were generally the only people who could recognize them. The smith who had made Racheris’s armor had been annoyed that he had so little to work with, but he had obviously persevered.

Racheris buckled her helmet to her belt as she always did, steeled herself, and stepped outside to a cacophony. The various nobles of Eldden that had contributed their peasants and guards to the Alliance were gathered outside of her tent, and they all apparently had several dozen concerns that the general needed to hear, as they did every minute of every day.

Lord Teravon’s iveri were taken ill, but it was really Lord Ascal’s problem, because Ascal’s iveri had been ill first, and they had obviously coughed on some of Teravon’s iveri, and the beasts should be kept confined or put down, because the Alliance cavalry was pretty thin already. Lady Haran’s personal troops were complaining of a lack of food, and since Lord Galigon had brought twice as many supplies as anyone else, he should be made to share. The nearest bridge over the Elmwyves’s south fork was out, forcing Lady Tay’s reinforcements to go the long way around, and Lord Teravon owned the land the bridge was on, so he ought to be responsible for fixing it….

Racheris held up a hand to stop the flow. It continued regardless, so she barked, “Quiet!” The noise died down to low mutterings. “Lady Haran. Has there been any word from the people you sent to scout a path to the Academy?”

“Yes, General,” Lady Haran said. She was a solidly built middle-aged woman from the north of Eldden, renowned for her tournament victories. Her lands were at the base of Cuisienne’s border mountains, mountains that held a building that most people tried to forget existed. “A bird came early this morning. The eastern road to the Academy is in poor repair, and the autumn snows make passage difficult, but mountaineers could do it.”

“Could such mountaineers be located?” Racheris asked.

“Yes, but they would not be warriors. If the Vloss have cleared the western road and reached the Academy, there would be nothing the climbers could do.”

“We need to send them anyway. The Vloss have either not found the Academy, in which case we need to concentrate efforts on getting the mages out of there, or they have killed everyone in it, in which case we need to petition other nations for mages, or they have recruited our mages to their side, in which case we need to prepare for magical attack. We must proceed on that front, and in order to do so, we need information.”

Haran looked irritated, but Racheris moved on before she could muster a counterargument. “Lord Ascal, Lord Teravon. How many iveri are ill?”

“Half of my cavalry’s mounts are sluggish and coughing,” Teravon said. “No one knows what it is.”

“We’re sitting on farmland,” Racheris said. “These people’s lives depend on their animals. Knock on doors. Offer a reward to any person in the area who can diagnose and treat the iveri.”

Teravon flicked a hand, and one of his retainers went scurrying off to relay the orders.

A messenger came running up to Racheris. “My lady, Alddran jotyen are approaching from the east. They will be here soon.”

“Good,” Racheris said, amid outbursts from the assembled lords and ladies. “How many?”

“I’m not sure, my lady.”

“Do you have a guess?”

The messenger hesitated. “I’m not very good with numbers, my lady, but there are certainly quite a lot of them.”

“Good,” Racheris said. “Direct them here when they arrive.”

The messenger bowed and left, but not before Lord Galigon started making his concerns known. “Jotyen?” the old man sputtered. “You’re bringing in jotyen? What about King Urstald’s private forces?”

“There wouldn’t be nearly enough,” Racheris said calmly. “The jotyen are far more numerous. Not to mention more open to helping us. In case you’ve forgotten, Urstald hates Eldden so much that he’s been building a wall to keep you out. Queen Tieryn would never apologize to him for things done a generation ago, and in any case, not even the most sincere apology Rune has ever seen would be enough to convince Urstald to lend his support.”

“But they’re barbarians,” Galigon said. “Mercenaries! They’ll turn on us at a moment’s notice if the Vloss offer them a better bargain.”

“It’s possible, but I doubt it. The Vloss will want Alddra, too, and even the jotyen are very possessive of their home country. Not to mention that I gather Eldden is paying them generously.”

“The royal treasury is paying?” Galigon said, suddenly alert. “And where has our queen managed to procure sufficient funds to pay a large number of sellswords?”

“You’ll have to take that up with Queen Tieryn,” Racheris said. “It was my idea. She accepted it. Her counselors were enthusiastic, actually.”

“Jotyen aren’t so bad,” Haran said thoughtfully. “My cousin was an ambassador to Urstald’s court before Theryn’s little coup. He used to tell stories to us when we were children, things he had heard in Alddra, tales of great jotyen leaders and their exploits. They value honor more than you’d think. They might see helping us defeat the Vloss as a chance for their names to go down in history.”

“It’s a pleasant thought,” Teravon said dryly, “but whatever their storytellers would like you to believe, jotyen are sellswords first and heroes later, if at all. They’re being well paid for their presence, I assure you. The only question is by whom.”

The messenger returned. “My lady, they are coming.” Racheris turned and saw them.

So they do wear skulls. They didn’t look quite the way legends described them—Racheris saw a few riders with red war paint, but not bathed in blood by any stretch of the imagination—but they were certainly striking, riding in on their powerfully built iveri. They all looked similar, yet different. Uniformed, yet individual. They all carried weapons of every description, from clubs and hatchets to spears and swords, in hands, mounted on saddles, across backs, and hanging from belts. They all wore battered armor of leather and iron. Some wore carefully embossed suits, and others had clearly scavenged a variety of corpses. They had all painted their faces and exposed skin in a variety of patterns, some intricate, some simple handprints. They all had helmets with skulls mounted on them. Most of them had the remains of small animals, but some had larger trophies, dog or deer or goat. Their leader had the skull of a young iveri attached to his helmet like a visor, concealing his face.

They stopped by the gathered nobles. The leader swung off of his iveri and gave a small bow to Racheris. “General,” he said, his voice surprisingly young. Racheris caught herself glancing at his bare hands, trying to guess an age. This warlord cannot be more than twenty. Why do so many children know more about war than I do? The fearsome company behind him followed his example, bowing more deeply, an impressive feat from atop their animals, with low murmurs of “General” and “Lady” and “Ard”.

Racheris inclined her head. “Inskel,” she said, remembering the appropriate title for the leader of a group of jotyen. “It is an honor.”

“I am Erdra.” He gestured behind him. “This is the Blackbone skel. We come direct from Alddra, by request of Queen Tieryn. Rainblood, Silverscale, and Thessydda are a few days behind us.”

“We are honored to have your service, Erdra,” Racheris said. “Please feel free to set up camp wherever you like. Blackbone’s swords will be most welcome.”

“Erdra of Lothsweald?” came a sharp voice.

Racheris turned to see who had spoken and was surprised to find Lady Tay. Tay was the ruler of a small holding south of Lakespill, on the Rakken border. She was a mildly accomplished tourney fighter, but was more famous for her successful feud with a Rakkinen group that had attempted to claim her lands several years ago. She had challenged their lord to a duel and won handily. Racheris had hardly heard her speak three words outside of the initial greeting and introduction.

Erdra looked at Tay for a moment before answering. “Yes, I was born in Lothsweald.”

“Have you been there recently?”

“I have not.”

“Forgive my interruption.”

Erdra gave a little half-bow in her direction and turned back to Racheris. “We thank you, General.”

“May I offer you food and drink?” Racheris asked.

“This evening would be better, if it is convenient. The skel must make camp, learn of our surroundings, and make the appropriate offerings.”

“Offerings?”

“It takes much to win God’s favor, General, and more to keep it. It would be a great slight if we shirked our duties.”

Racheris bowed politely. “I look forward to your company this evening, then, inskel.”

When the jotyen were safely out of earshot, Lord Galigon spoke up. “So not only do we have to deal with the presence of those vandals, we have to entertain them at supper.”

“Racheris entertains you at supper,” Teravon said. “I expect the unwashed barbarians will be a welcome relief.”

Racheris held up a hand before Galigon could retort. “The jotyen may well be instrumental to our victory. I want assurances from all of you that they will not be troubled, by you or any of your followers. Is that clear?”

Lady Tay inclined her head. Lady Haran nodded casually. Teravon and Ascal didn’t show any signs of annoyance, which Racheris took for assent, and even Galigon finally shrugged in defeat.

“Good,” Racheris said. “Now—“ She stopped when she felt someone touch her.

It was Thej, tugging her elbow. The mute’s eyes were wide, and she was pointing to the west.

Racheris turned to look. Great columns of smoke the color of pitch were billowing up from across the river, reaching into the sky like great dark hands. “Arcshire’s on fire,” she said in dumb surprise.

“The Vloss,” Haran said. “They’re making their move.”

Racheris shook herself. “Everyone, in arms, now!” As she made her way to the iveri paddocks, pushing past running people frantically strapping on arms and armor, she thought, I suppose we’ll see how good jotyen are a bit earlier than expected.