The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [129]
‘It might be called the Galan Targ. We travelled by such a roundabout route, your highness,’ the gerthddyn said, ‘that I was thoroughly confused by the time we left the forest. Thank the gods for sending us the dragons! They’ll see more than I did.’
Dragons? Kov thought. We have dragons? Brel caught his glance, then rolled his eyes heavenward as if to say, ‘worse and worse’.
‘Very well,’ the prince said. ‘So you followed this river south to the fortress?’
‘We did, your highness,’ Evan said. ‘Zakh Gral must have been at least twenty-five miles south of the ford. We walked for nearly a day and a half to reach it. The road runs by the river at first, but as it flows south, the river gets faster, and the canyon grows deeper.’
Much deeper, as it turned out—Evan estimated that the river lay thirty feet below the fortress, perched on the west bank cliff above. Brel began to stroke his beard in thought. The one hopeful thing about the description, Kov decided, was the nature of the cliffs—red sandstone, easily shattered by good steel picks, assuming, of course, that the sappers could reach the bottom of the gorge in the first place.
‘The hard question,’ Brel said, ‘is how we’re going to get the army across that river.’
‘I was hoping your men could build us a bridge,’ Voran said. ‘Everyone knows how clever the Mountain Folk are at such things. I have great faith in your—’
‘Flattery’s all very well,’ Brel interrupted, ‘but does timber grow around there, enough for the building of a bridge?’
Everyone looked at Evan, who smiled in a sickly sort of way. ‘The hills to the west of Zakh Gral are wooded,’ he said, ‘but on the east side of the river, I saw only scrub and grass.’
Brel muttered a Dwarvish oath foul enough to make Kov glad that he was the only one there who understood it. The young gwerbret looked back and forth between Brel and Voran.
‘Well, your highness,’ Ridvar said. ‘We can cross at that northern ford easily enough.’
‘We can,’ Voran said, ‘assuming they don’t learn we’re coming till we’re across it. If they do, we can still cross at the ford, but it won’t be easy in the least.’
Neb the scribe, who’d been studying his map, suddenly looked up and shuddered, as violently as if snow had just slid down his back. Voran laughed, one sharp bark.
‘Geese walking on your grave, lad?’ the prince said.
‘I’ll hope not, your highness,’ Neb said. ‘My apologies.’
Kov felt his stomach clench. He preferred to disbelieve in evil omens, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that he’d just seen one arrive.
With the muster complete, the army would stay only a single night at the Red Wolf dun. Dinner among the noble-born that night, a feast laid on to honour Gwerbret Ridvar and Prince Voran, presented such a challenge that Branna was glad that they’d all be leaving soon, despite her fears for the safety of her clansmen. As lord of the dun, Cadryc kept his usual place at the head of the table of honour, while the prince sat at his right and the gwerbret at his left. Since the tierynau in attendance filled the rest of the seats, leaving no room for Cadryc’s family or lesser lords, Lord Mirryn headed the next table over. Branna, who sat at the far end to share a trencher with Gerran, could overhear the conversation at the honour table. Neb found himself banished to the servitors’ table once again, some distance away.
At the various honour tables, conversation proceeded slowly, in spurts, making eavesdropping