Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [51]
“Doubtless he’ll respect that, my liege, at least for a time.”
“So I hope. I’d hate to actually hang a helpless prisoner. After all, Eldidd can press his claim to the throne by attacking Cantrae lands. They share a long border to the north.” The king smiled gently. “Let Slwmar see how it feels to be a morsel of meat between a pair of jaws.”
One of those jaws was, of course, Dannyn and King’s Guard, who were raiding up in the north. Every time a messenger returned, Nevyn questioned him for news of Gweniver, and every time the man said in awe that not only was she well, but an inspiration to the entire army. God-touched, they called her. Nevyn supposed that most people would see her that way, one of those fortunate few whom the gods directly favor with power and luck. He, of course, saw it differently, because he knew what the gods are: vast centers of force in the Inner Lands, which correspond to part of either the natural world or the human mind. For thousands of years worshipers have built up the images of the gods and poured power into them, until they seemed to be persons in their own right. Anyone who knows how to build the appropriate mental images and chant the correct sort of prayers—the exact wording doesn’t matter—can contact the centers of force and draw off power for their own use. The priest contacts those centers in blind faith; the dweomerperson, cold-bloodedly, knowing that he creates the god more than the god creates him; Gweniver had stumbled into a dark corner of the female mind that women had been forced to bury for the past seven hundred years. Without a temple of the Dark Rite to teach her, she was like a child who tries to pick up a burning fire because it’s pretty, and he worried.
Yet even though he knew that her true Wyrd lay with the dweomer, he was forbidden by his vows to interfere boldly in her life. All he could do was win her confidence, make casual hints, and hope that someday she would ask him the right questions. If, of course, she lived long enough. He could only pray that the winter would come early that year. Once they were all in the dun together, with the campaigning over for the season, he would have a chance to become her friend.
For a month more the Cerrmor raiders struck with impunity along Cantrae’s southern border, because Slwmar was forced to siphon off troops to march west and deal with the new threat from Eldidd. Every now and then they faced a sizable army, but Dannyn generally withdrew before battle, preferring to bleed Cantrae’s sources of supply rather than lose men of his own. Finally, though, Slwmar was desperate enough to force battle, backing Dannyn’s men up against the Belaver by some shrewd maneuvering. Although the outcome was technically a Cerrmor victory that sent Slwmar’s men rushing back north toward the Holy City, the losses were high.
As he walked through the battlefield that evening, where his men were still working at finding and bringing in the wounded, Dannyn knew that another pitched fight would destroy them. With him walked Gweniver, as filthy and sweaty as any man there, with blood spattered on her face and shoulders. As they walked, she looked on the slaughter with an indifference that frightened him. For all that he loved battle glory and combat, he hated to see his men killed. His ideal of battle would have been something out of an old saga, where the noble-born challenged each other to single combat while their troops cheered them on.
“We’re going to have to withdraw,” he said abruptly.
“Whatever you think best, as long as we come back.”
“We might, we might not. With Eldidd in this truce, I could maybe strip Dun Cerrmor of the fort guard, but I’m not sure I want to. The king will have to make the final decision, of course.”
She turned her head to look at him in exasperation.
“Her holiness had best remember that we need men to send against the Boar this fall. There’ll be more slaughter then, maybe even enough to glut her.”
With a toss of