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would surely be bloody.'
Scait's lip curled and bared rows of sharpened teeth. 'What will that matter?
Take Set-Nav, and we can escape this planet. Then let the retribution of the
Morrigierj fall mad wreak death upon mankind.'
The watcher crunched a last bite of fish. 'But Set-Nav's location is not known
to us. The Sanctuary Towers at Landfast no doubt hold the key. Except they are
guarded by priests, and the most secure of arcane defences. The captive
manlings bonded to Sathid will never mature in one to spearhead your assault
against Keithland.'
The Demon Lord shrugged with malevolent displeasure. The Watcher was the last
of its kind; it had no ambition for power. If he slew it in a fit of defensive
rage, its skills could not be replaced. 'I will grant Mael-grim Dark-dreamer a
Gierj circle of sixty, and permission to enslave all of humanity.'
'Gierj power on that scale will ruin the boy's health quickly' scoffed the
Watcher. 'That he would be dead long before Landfast's securities could be
broached is a foregone conclusion.'
It blinked tiny, wise eyes and waited, but its overlord whirled and strode
from the chamber, kicking Gierj from his path with more than his usual
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viciousness. The Watcher sighed with resignation. Patiently it combed fish oil
from its quills, while the Gierj closed like a living blanket around the black
spheroid of their spore.
Keithland mustered for war. On Cliffhaven, where armoury and warehouses were
stocked with weapons for every contingency, the Kielmark ordered the forges
lit to benefit those domains less well prepared. The clangour of his
armourers' mallets rang night and day over the fortress, while ships came and
went in the harbour, delivering dispatches and transporting men. The vessels
sailed always with fair wind and full sails. Recovered from his prison of ice,
Anskiere of Elrinfaer served as weather warden. Between time, he began
instructing the Firelord to refine control of his mastery. The Kielmark
observed Jaric's progress with narrowed eyes, then immersed himself in
strategy and planning. Even the defences of Vaere-trained sorcerers had
limitations. Force of arms must not be neglected in preparation for battle
against Shadowfane.
The south-shore kingdoms and the Alliance archipelagoes proved woefully under
equipped; Kisburn's troops were still depleted from an ill-fated alliance with
Tath-agres, which left the northshore garrisons maintained by Hallowild and
Felwaithe. The Kielmark detailed captains to evaluate them; then, clad in the
white breeches he had not taken time to change since the council two days
past, he sent for Deison Corley.
The first captain was slow to arrive at the study. His smudged hands and tunic
showed that summons had reached him at the waterfront, where he laboured with
the dock workers to black down the rigging of the brigantine commissioned for
his command. Both sleeves bore stains at the wrists from the tanner's oil that
softened a new set of knife sheaths.
The Kielmark analysed such details at a glance; judging his captain well
recovered from the incident with the Karas, he made a decision and spoke. 'The
sorcerers and the Dreamweaver sail for Morbrith with the turn of the tide.'
Corley crossed the carpet, sat, and stared at his boot cuffs as if the leather
desperately wanted mending. He showed no surprise. 'Then you'll order me north
to Cover's Warren, to muster the patrol fleet and guard Felwaithe?'
'No. Tamic's doing that.' The Kielmark watched, muscles coiled like a snake's,
as his first captain shot up straight with a screech of chair legs. For a
moment blue eyes locked with ones of cinnamon brown.
Then Corley said, 'Why?' A stranger would not have noticed his hurt, that his
Lord had sent another, perhaps steadier man, where once he would have gone
himself.
'Because I'd never trust Tamic to keep order in this den of outlaws.' The
Kielmark rested his fists on the table; rubies flashed like blood at his neck
as he leaned forward. 'We'd have mutiny and murder within the hour Ladywolf
sailed.'
Corley blinked and slowly turned white as the name of the brigantine
registered. Ladywolf' was the Kielmark's personal command. 'You'll be going
yourself, then, with Taen and the rest?' His brows peaked in disbelief.
Through fifteen years of service he had never known the Lord of Cliffhaven to
leave his island fortress.
'Who else could keep Alliance councilmen, Kor's priests, and a flighty mess of
royalty in agreement enough to lead an army?' The Kielmark gestured in
exasperation. 'I have to go. I'm the only one who can threaten both trade and
their treasuries. D'you know any better way of keeping humanity in accord?'
Corley grinned. A little colour returned to his face. 'You're Keithland's most
likely candidate for a fine, solid citizen, right enough.'
'Fires,' snapped the Kielmark, for once intolerant of his first captain's
sarcasm. 'Slack the discipline while I'm gone, and I'll flay your hide from
your heels up.' As if reluctant to continue, he stopped, straightened, and
twisted his jewelled torque from his neck. He cast the circlet on to the
boards, and gold clanged sourly between his fist and his first captain's hand.
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'If any man questions your right to command, that's my token.'
Corley swallowed, speechless. Light came and went like flame in the heart of
the rubies as the Kielmark leaned across the window. He hooked his baldric
from the marble arms of the cherub, then tossed his great sword over his back.
Neither man spoke as he crossed the chamber; but both understood that the
torque on the table was as close as this sovereign would come to naming a
successor.
'Watch your back, friend,' Corley whispered at last.
The Kielmark paused by the doorway, wary as always, but smiling. 'Speak for
yourself,' he said roughly. Then he strode without farewell into the
candleless gloom of the hall.
Ladywolf raised anchor within the hour. Jaric stood at her rail, hands laced
over the cross guard of his own sword, newly reclaimed from the armoury where
it had lain since the last time Corley made port with Moonless. From the deck
by his side, Taen regarded the weapon with trepidation. Traditionally,
Vaere-trained sorcerers disdained to carry steel; but when Anskiere began
training to refine this Firelord's talents, Ivainson claimed the blade for his
focus. Neither reason nor propriety could induce him to revert to the usual
staff. The newest sorcerer sworn to service by the Vaere owned an obstinacy
that even a Dreamweaver who loved him dared not cross.
Taen's preoccupied silence passed unnoticed as the Kielmark shouted orders to
his boatswain; feet thumped on planking, and crewmen surged up the ratlines to
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