It was likely a suicide mission, but there had been no lack of volunteers. But the only Cenarians going were a hundred of Agon’s Dogs, former sneak thieves and burglars and his wytch hunters with their Ymmuri bows.
Of course, as Agon and Garuwashi kept telling Logan, timing was everything. Those thousand men were among the armies’ best. If Wanhope did split his forces and tomorrow went as planned, Logan and Garuwashi might be close to victory. Those extra thousand veterans could turn a Khalidoran retreat into a rout.
“The Feyuri scouts say that the Ceuran force following us is led by the Regent himself,” Garuwashi said quietly. “I will be obliged to kill myself when he discovers I have no sword. My men will be invited to join me in suicide or return to Ceura immediately.”
“How far back is he?” Logan asked, his throat constricting. Now he understood why Garuwashi had been so adamant that the thousand who snuck through the Dead Demesne be sa’ceurai. It was a service to Logan. Separated from command, they wouldn’t know that their leader had been disgraced, so they would keep fighting.
“They will arrive tomorrow night.”
“We can stop them in the passes,” Logan said. “There are narrow—”
“He has twenty thousand sa’ceurai. My men would wonder why we were fighting the Regent, who only wants to see the Blade of Heaven. Even without him, they will expect me to lead them into battle. This is my last night.”
They turned as a man cleared his throat at the stairs. The man was nearly as big as Logan, not quite as tall, but wide as an ox. He carried some flab, but it was only a thin layer over rock hard muscle. “Maybe not, my lord,” Feir said, dipping his head. “I don’t suppose either of you has a big ruby?”
They looked at each other, and Logan saw a thin, desperate hope in Lantano Garuwashi’s eyes. He knew then that this man would kill himself in a heartbeat if he needed to, but there was nothing in Lantano Garuwashi that desired death.
“No?” Feir asked. “Damn. Well, I hope we can find someone who’s good with illusions.” The big man stepped forward and unwrapped a bundle to produce a sword. “My lord, I present you with Ceur’caelestos.”
85
Vi and three hundred of the fittest war magae made it through the eastern fork of the pass an hour before dawn. Sadly, fittest wasn’t the same as most Talented. The journey had taken longer than anyone had expected. Ushering eight thousand women—most of them middle-aged and every single one more than willing to share her opinion—through the mountains had been a nightmare. Most of the rest would arrive sometime during the day, but a sizable number wouldn’t arrive until the next day, or the day after that. Even with bodies that appeared decades younger than their years, eighty- and ninety-year-olds were simply not going to hurry. Vi thought that if she never saw another woman in her life, she’d count herself lucky.
After some bickering with sentries that had ended when Vi lifted both men off the ground with her Talent and shook them, Vi was brought directly to King Gyre. He was among his men, reassuring them with his presence, and as Vi approached, he was cinching the leathers of a young horseman’s pauldrons. Vi cleared her throat and Logan turned.
Vi had heard of Logan Gyre, of course, but seeing him was altogether different. He was perhaps the tallest man she’d ever seen, and perfectly proportioned. In his white enameled plate armor, gilded with a gyrfalcon with wingtips breaking a circle, he was the perfect picture of an energetic young king at war. He was muscular, his carriage erect, and though he walked with the knowledge that eyes were on him, he didn’t seem to revel in it. There was also something odd about his right forearm. It seemed brighter than the other, somehow. “My lady,” he said, nodding. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She stopped staring. “I’m Vi Sovari of the Chantry. I bring three hundred magae, and seven thousand more by tomorrow. We have come to help you.”
“Thank you, I dare say we will have need of healers, but so many . . .”
“Your Majesty, we’re war magae.”
“War magae.” The king’s eyes widened.
“We have withdrawn from the Accords, that we may help you.”
He scrubbed a hand through his blond hair. “This changes things. . . . They may have two thousand meisters, two hundred Vürdmeisters among them. We have ten magi. How can you help me?”
“Two thousand?” Vi despaired. “If they bring two thousand meisters against us before the rest of my Sisters arrive, we’ll be worm food in an hour.”
“I may have drawn off half of them. How long could you and your three hundred hold out against a thousand?”
“We might make it, and some of the Sisters should arrive during the day. My war magae are mostly good at defensive magic, Your Majesty.”
“Good, then I want half of you to hold Black Bridge and the dam. Spread the others out through the lines.” A messenger trotted up and Logan held up a finger, forestalling the man. “Oh, and thank you, Sister. Your aid is desperately needed and greatly appreciated. I hope to speak more with you this evening.”
“You’re welcome, and . . . Your Majesty, I know you were a friend of Kylar’s. He’ll be here.”
Logan got a strange look on his face. “Yes,” he said, “I’m sure he shall.”
Vi was stationed with a hundred and fifty of her Sisters at Black Bridge, almost in the shadow of the great dam, when she realized what that look meant. Logan thought Vi meant Kylar would be here in spirit. Logan still thought Kylar was dead. Stupid, Vi, stupid.
Logan and Garuwashi were astride their mounts in the Great Market as the first rays of dawn revealed the God-king’s armies arrayed across from their own. “They fell for it,” he said. “They must have sent fifteen thousand men to Reigukhas. Last night, they had six thousand more men than we did. Now they have ten thousand less.”
Lantano Garuwashi grinned. “Only two things can undo us now.”
“Magic?”
“And young men so drunk on glory they forget their discipline,” Garuwashi said.
“So when do we attack?” Logan asked.
“Right now.”
* * *
It was still dark in the royal tent. Dorian ran a hand over Jenine’s bare shoulder, down her back, and over her hip. Her beauty made him ache. He shouldn’t have brought her here. It was too dangerous in too many ways. She wasn’t asleep, but she feigned it for him. She knew how he enjoyed her. He inhaled the scent of her hair once more and sat up. He began dressing.
“That army is Cenarian,” Jenine said in the darkness. “Those are my people.”
“Yes,” Dorian said.
“How do I find myself in my enemy’s camp, my lord?”
“Have you ever wondered what would happen if someone threw a war and nobody came?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no intention of killing any Cenarians,” Dorian said, “though I understand why they won’t believe that. We’re here only to destroy Neph and Moburu. At dawn our emissaries will let the Cenarians know that we will not attack, but I don’t think we have to worry about them. They’ve already taken a defensive position, as have we. They’ll stay until they see us withdraw, and then they’ll go home.”