The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [180]
‘In hopes of getting the women safely out,’ Kov said. Brel snorted. ‘They wanted to be there. They can take their chances with the men.’
‘Most of them are slaves.’
‘Oh. Well, then, that’s different. Do you think there’s any chance the stinking Horsekin will let them go?’
‘No, I don’t. We’ve already insulted them, and besides, if they figure out that we won’t attack the fortress while the women are inside, why would they let them go?’
Larn nodded agreement, then kicked the debris lying around his feet. When no more spiders appeared, he squatted down to pat the earth with both hands.
‘What by the slavering trolls of Hell are you doing?’ Brel said.
‘Seeing how damp the ground is.’ Larn got up and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘Not very. It can’t have rained here recently.’
All three of them looked up at the spotless blue sky.
‘When we fire the place,’ Larn went on, ‘it’s going to be raining sparks. What we need is a short storm, just enough to water down this stuff here, but not enough to soak the walls.’
‘By all means, ask the gods to send us what you need,’ Brel said, grinning. ‘They can fight it out with Alshandra.’
‘Too bad we don’t have a sorcerer or two handy,’ Larn said.
All three of them laughed, but Kov found himself remembering the day he’d taken his staff to Dallandra to ask about runes. His realization that his staff would have crumbled away without some sort of spell upon it combined in his mind with all the old mountain folktales about the Westfolk and their skill with magic.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Brel said to him. ‘You look like you bit into a peach and found a wasp there ahead of you.’
‘Just an unpleasant thought or two,’ Kov said. ‘They’re easy to have out here.’
‘Now that’s very true.’ Larn had turned away to look over the stretch of debris. ‘I suppose we could get every man in the army to pick up an armful of this tree dung.’
‘And how long would it take to clear a wide enough area?’ Brel said. ‘We’d have to clean it up well past the encampment, wouldn’t we?’
‘Depends on the wind. If there was a wind blowing towards the camp, we couldn’t get rid of enough of this rubbish in a month.’
All three of them took a few steps towards Zakh Gral. Up on the stone towers pennants fluttered. A huge banner displaying the gold bow and arrows of the goddess hung down the side of the wooden tower and occasionally flapped in the rising breeze. The wind was coming straight up from the south, as indeed it had been ever since the army had arrived, blowing right over the fortress on its way upriver to the army’s encampment.
‘One more idea,’ Brel said. ‘Tell me something, Weaponmaster. Suppose we were on the other side of the river—the whole army, I mean. Could you deliver a load of fire to the fortress from there? I know the canyon’s wide, but—’
Larn interrupted with a long peal of mocking laughter.
‘Oh never mind!’ Brel snarled. ‘I suppose we could try to send sappers and miners along the river. That sandstone crumbles easily.’
‘Not when you’re trying to swing a pick from a boat,’ Larn said. ‘The water comes right up to the canyon walls. It’s fire or nothing, Warleader.’
Kov’s odd feeling was growing in his mind, turning into an idea, an utterly improbable idea, an idea he found too stupid to voice, but an idea all the same. He brooded over it all afternoon until it became so insistent that he gave in and went to find Salamander.
The gerthddyn was sitting in front of his tent with Lord Gerran and Gerran’s young page. Kov joined them, and for a while merely listened to their conversation, which centred around the care and breeding of horses—a common topic among Deverry men, or so he’d noticed. Finally Salamander turned to him.
‘Is somewhat on your mind, Envoy? You looked troubled.’
‘Well, there is, truly. We Mountain Folk have been thinking about this siege, you see. We have somewhat with us that could burn down the fortress, but if the wind carries the sparks, we could roast our own army