“I’ve seen what he’s capable of now,” Croy said. “He’s proved an effective leader of men. I didn’t expect that when I first met him.”
“Leading barbarians is easy. You point them in the direction of defenseless women and untapped kegs of ale. They run after those things like a mule after a wormy apple. Here,” the Baron said, and tapped at a point on the map, on the road just north of Redweir. “Here, we have reports of messengers heading back to Helstrow. It will take them two days to get there, even if they push their horses to death. By tomorrow dusk they’ll likely be this far.” He pointed again, at a spot quite close to Easthull.
“You wish me to ambush them, milord?”
“Of course. If Morg doesn’t hear from his son in a few days, he’ll wonder what went wrong. He’ll send another contingent of troops to investigate. Not too many-a few hundred. Those are numbers we can oppose.”
Croy nodded, thinking. It would be a costly battle. For all his tireless efforts at recruiting, he’d found precious few men. He could marshal perhaps three hundred bandits and deserters and farmers who were missed in the original conscription. Against even a hundred well-trained, well-armed barbarians, he still could not guarantee a victory. The cost in blood would be staggering. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it will alert Morg to our presence here. So far we’ve stayed below his notice-the worst we’ve done to harry him could be written off as the work of bandit raiders and a few soldiers still fighting on their own.”
“That can’t last forever. Someone will see your face and tell Morg that an Ancient Blade is still at large. When that does happen, we need to capitalize on his surprise-and how it will invigorate the villeins. Better, I think, that we take the battle to him now. We need a victory, Croy. A victory to show the barbarian he is not invulnerable.”
Croy took a deep breath. A victory-a small victory-might give Morg reason to pause. It might concern him. But a major victory could shake him to his core. Give him enough of a fright to send him back east, across the mountains, and forget about Skrae for a while. One decisive stroke, made at the perfect moment, could turn everything around.
He knew Easthull didn’t see it that way. The Baron could only imagine the war stretching on for years, a bitter back and forth of sieges and countersieges as the barbarians moved west, a mile at a time. He was afraid, and Croy didn’t blame him. His own plan involved major risk, in the short term. Still, he knew he was right.
“This is the wrong time,” he said. “In a month I can double our forces, even treble them. I can send runners to the western fiefs and manors. I can recruit men from as far as Ness. And I can train them, teach them how to hold their ground. Then, when Morget withdraws from Redweir, I can meet him on the road before he can regroup with his father at Helstrow.”
“Out of the question. He has two thousand men.”
“He’ll need to leave a garrison at Redweir. That might cut his force in half. And we’ll never have another chance like this to catch one of the main chieftains by surprise. If we strike now, even if we win, Morg will strike back. He’ll scour all of Greenmarsh looking for us. We’ll be forced to disperse again-and we won’t be able to regroup before winter.”
“Hmm,” Easthull said, smoothing his map with one hand. “I see you’ve been giving this some thought, Croy.” He walked over to the narrow window at the back of the withdrawing chamber, perhaps forgetting it was covered with cloth to keep any light from escaping. “Militarily, perhaps, your plan makes good sense.”
“I’m… glad to hear you say that,” Croy said, cautiously optimistic.
“Politically, of course, it’s too large a gamble. You’ve been away from the court for too long, old friend. Even when you were there you never learned the art of statecraft. If we have a victory now, so soon after Morg’s initial success, we show him that we speak his language. He’ll treat with us then. He’ll come and make parley with me and we’ll come to some agreement. Perhaps we’ll have to let him keep some of our land, and give over some of our peasants into his thralldom. Perhaps he’ll want tribute of gold.” The Baron shrugged. “Let him have these things. The majority of Skrae will be free of this shadow. Then slowly, over time, we can negotiate for a return of what is ours.”
Croy’s blood surged in his veins. “That’s… folly.”
The Baron turned to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”
It was an insult. He was calling Easthull a fool. Duels were fought over such lapses of polite speech. Yet Croy could not stand here and listen to such drivel. Morg would never negotiate with them now. They were down on their backs, with their bellies in the air. Morg had them right where he wanted them. When dealing with barbarians, you didn’t try to talk to them. Bribing them was no use either. Ulfram V had proven that, and paid for it dearly. You responded to their force with force-and you had better be sure you could back up your feints. “Your pardon, milord. But this plan of yours-”
“I have decided on it. I await only your making it so.”
The dimly lit room was tinged with red in Croy’s vision. “I think you are forgetting something, Easthull. I’m the one who recruited our troops. I’m the one who commands them.”
“And I believe you are forgetting something, Croy.” The Baron thumped the table again. “You are a knight, and I am a baron.”
Croy could feel his hand moving toward Ghostcutter’s hilt. He forced it to stay by his side.
“The Lady put me in this station for a reason,” Easthull went on. “Because I am a man who can see the larger picture. She made you a knight to ride about on chargers and lop the heads off of my enemies.”
“I serve the king,” Croy said.
“And right now, I speak for the king as regent.”
Croy’s teeth clicked together in anger. “No one has appointed you to that role! Only the king can name a regent, and he-”
“And he is fast asleep. I am the only man suited to the job. If he could wake long enough to be asked, he could name no one else.”
“I… grant you that point,” Croy said, the words coming from his mouth as if each were coated in poison. “But-”
“But? You have some better claim to put forth? Do you, Croy?”
“No,” Croy grunted.
He could see that Easthull refused to be baited further. “I have precedence here. That is not in question. So I will give the orders, and you will do my bidding.” He sat down in a chair with his ankles crossed. The way a king would sit on a throne. “Kneel, Croy. Kneel on this floor, right now, and kiss my signet ring. Show me you have not forgotten who you are.”
Croy took a step toward the Baron, breathing deeply through his mouth.
He had taken certain vows. The same vows every knight took.
He lowered himself onto his knees.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Money kept coming in, as it always had, and that was enough to keep the guild of thieves quiet. Not that there was much noise in the city anyway. The better share of the shops and workplaces in Ness had closed down, their windows boarded and their bustle silenced. As Malden and Cythera walked through the streets they’d always known, they kept remarking to each other how different it seemed.
One didn’t notice the crowds, the clamor, the noisome smells, and the piled filth until they were gone, really. “We should have a war every year,” Malden japed, “if only to keep the streets clean.”
Cythera laughed, but only softly, and not for very long. She was distracted that day. Something was on her mind. Yet when he asked her what it was, she simply changed the subject.
“Look, Malden,” she said, and pointed toward a little alcove by the entrance to a close. “When was the last time you saw one of those?” She indicated a small clay statue of the Bloodgod, in the shape of a man with eight arms. Seven on one side, each holding a tiny clay knife or club. The eighth was alone on the other side, clutching the stem of a tiny flower.
“It’s been a while,” Malden admitted. Images of the Bloodgod were technically forbidden by law, and most were kept behind closed doors. The Burgrave had never bothered to tear them down-in fact, when Malden broke
