The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

She chuckled as she tied up the herbs into tight bundles. “Perhaps we do. Shall I hike back down the trail and light a fire for Eagle’s Sight, my lord? Liath may have reappeared. It’s been three nights since I’ve looked.”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel easy. We’re too close to Aosta now. Liath knows what her task is. We must stay hidden.” He grinned as an unexpected mood of reckless jollity swept him. “It is an irony, is it not? Isn’t that what the poets would call it? The regnants of Wendar kept secret the knowledge of the Eagle’s Sight so that they could make use of the advantage it gave them. Now, protection against that sight has become so commonplace among those of us who know of its existence that the sight no longer serves any function. Yet I find I prefer knowing that I will make my way unencumbered by sorcerous aids or obstacles.”

“Not even those wielded by your wife?”

He laughed, because it was both painful and sweet to think of Liath. “I don’t know. I only know that without magic Anne and Adelheid and Hugh could not have ensorcelled my father.” He gathered up the herbs. “Come,” he said, rising. “Only protect me from our guide’s lovely granddaughter, by whatever means necessary, and you’ll have my thanks.”

Thoughts of Liath stirred his dreams, and he woke more than once, restless, discontented, until those disturbing visions melted into broken dreams of war. A hammer beat out a sword, cruel and jagged in shape. Sparks flew from the glowing iron with every stroke, and each spark drifted heavenward on that holy fire, spiraling and dancing, to become a star.

All at once he started awake, hearing that ringing beat, but he realized he was listening to the chuffing of the griffins. From the half-open tent he saw the stars twinkling above, yet a haze began to obscure them as he watched, growing murkier, covering the sky. The canvas rustled as if a rain were rolling in, but the air was dry and no thunder sounded in the distance.

o;We’ll stop here for the night and let them rest. It’s not more than two days’ march to Aosta.”

“Thank God,” said Sibold. A few other soldiers had gathered, those brave enough to stand watch on the griffins, and they echoed Sibold’s words. They wanted out of the mountains. They wanted action, not this endless long journey.

Yet Aosta wouldn’t bring peace.

They set up a rough traveling camp. The Quman had a way of pitching canvas lean-tos to hold off the prevailing wind that the rest of the army had adopted, and after feeding the griffins Sanglant made a tour of the camp: the Villam auxiliaries under the command of Lord Druthmar; the Saony contingent who chafed under the difficult rule of Lord Wichman; a ragtag collection of fighting men out of Eastfall and Westfall whom he had placed under the able command of Captain Istvan; Lady Wendilgard and her Avarians; the centaurs and their Kerayit allies; the Quman clans, stolid and silent, and their strings of horses; his own personal guard, now numbering more than two hundred.

His soldiers had grown used to the routine of the long march. The horses were cared for first while sentries took up places along the road. A line formed at the infirmary, mostly men complaining of loose bowels and sore feet. There was plenty of light for men to collect mountain pine for firewood, although little enough meat or porridge to cook over those fires. They would live off the land in Aosta and make enemies by doing so, yet he could not regret that they would march down onto the Aostan plain at harvest time, when they might be assured plenty to eat and bread every night.

“You’re quiet, my lord prince,” said Hathui when they returned to the van where the griffins had settled down to rest like big cats curled up for the night.

“So I am.” He shaded his eyes to sight west along the mountain ridges, then turned to examine the wandering line of camp stretching north along the roadway. The rear guard lay out of sight because of the curve and dip of the valley. “We’re vulnerable, strung out along the road like this. Ah! Look there!”

A rich harvest of herbs grew beyond the alder, and until it grew too dark to see he plucked saxifrage, chervil, and wolfsbane.

“What virtue do these herbs have, my lord?” Hathui asked, working alongside him to his direction.

“Different virtues for different plants, but all of them can aid men who take wounds in battle. Wolfsbane can do more.” He glanced up at the sky, which was darkening as night swept up the valley. Only the peaks were still lit. “It can poison a man, should it come to that.”

“Poison is a traitor’s weapon.”

“Some name us traitors. Would you poison a man, Hathui, if it meant that a thousand men would be spared death in battle?”

She sat back on her heels. “You’ve taken me off my guard, my lord prince. How can we measure one man’s life against a thousand?”

“We do so all the time. Every day.”

She chuckled as she tied up the herbs into tight bundles. “Perhaps we do. Shall I hike back down the trail and light a fire for Eagle’s Sight, my lord? Liath may have reappeared. It’s been three nights since I’ve looked.”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel easy. We’re too close to Aosta now. Liath knows what her task is. We must stay hidden.” He grinned as an unexpected mood of reckless jollity swept him. “It is an irony, is it not? Isn’t that what the poets would call it? The regnants of Wendar kept secret the knowledge of the Eagle’s Sight so that they could make use of the advantage it gave them. Now, protection against that sight has become so commonplace among those of us who know of its existence that the sight no longer serves any function. Yet I find I prefer knowing that I will make my way unencumbered by sorcerous aids or obstacles.”

“Not even those wielded by your wife?”

He laughed, because it was both painful and sweet to think of Liath. “I don’t know. I only know that without magic Anne and Adelheid and Hugh could not have ensorcelled my father.” He gathered up the herbs. “Come,” he said, rising. “Only protect me from our guide’s lovely granddaughter, by whatever means necessary, and you’ll have my thanks.”

Thoughts of Liath stirred his dreams, and he woke more than once, restless, discontented, until those disturbing visions melted into broken dreams of war. A hammer beat out a sword, cruel and jagged in shape. Sparks flew from the glowing iron with every stroke, and each spark drifted heavenward on that holy fire, spiraling and dancing, to become a star.

All at once he started awake, hearing that ringing beat, but he realized he was listening to the chuffing of the griffins. From the half-open tent he saw the stars twinkling above, yet a haze began to obscure them as he watched, growing murkier, covering the sky. The canvas rustled as if a rain were rolling in, but the air was dry and no thunder sounded in the distance.

Something is coming.

As he slipped on his boots and buckled his belt, an odor that reminded him of the forge crept into the air, blown in on that wind. Memories like bright sparks snapped in his mind. The dark spirits, the galla, that he and his mother had battled at Verna three or more years ago had brought with them the stench of the forge.

He faced into the rising wind. Up and down the camp came awake. Horses stamped and neighed. Dogs barked. Men called out each to the others or pounded extra stakes and rope to fix down flapping canvas. The wind whipped his hair around his neck as he turned to face south toward the height of the road ahead where a dozen soldiers stood sentry duty. The chuffing of the griffins grew in pitch until it became a cross between a yelp and howl. Others woke, grasping their weapons. From the hill they heard the somber tolling as of a bell.

“What manner of storm is this?” asked Captain Fulk, coming up beside him.