The rest of the heavy infantry, fifty more ranks often, the core of the Army of Bloodstone, followed in tight and disciplined formation, similarly playing the cadence of mace and shield. As they passed out onto the field, the cavalry began its march again, riding wide and stretching the line to aptly protect the flanks of the core group, eleven hundred men and women, many the children of warriors who had fought with Gareth against the Witch-King.

If the infantry was the backbone of the force, and the cavalry its arms, and King Gareth and his six friends its head, then next came the legs: a second cavalry force, less armored and with swifter mounts. They were Olwen's men, rangers and scouts trained to act more independently. And behind them came still more infantry, lightly armored spearmen, mostly, serving as protection for the batteries of longbowmen.

On and on it went. More light infantry, battalions of priests with carts full of bandages, caravans of supply wagons, lines of strong men carrying ladders, horses towing rams and beams for siege towers….

Men and women lined the top of the wall, watching the procession as it issued forth from the Vaasan Gate for hours, and when at last those great gates swung closed, the sun was beginning its western descent and more than eight thousand soldiers, the heart and soul of the Army of Bloodstone, marched out to the north.

"It surprises me that Gareth moved so quickly and decisively on this," Riordan Parnell said to Olwen and Kane, the three of them bringing up the rear of Gareth's diamond set between the main ranks of heavy infantry.

"That has always been his strength, as Zhengyi learned," Kane replied.

"To his great dismay," Riordan agreed with a wide grin. "Zhengyi's, I mean," he added when he saw that his two companions were not similarly smiling.

While the others rode, Kane walked, his face as stoic as always, his eyes set with his typical grim determination. On the far side of Kane, on his lightly-armored but large horse, Olwen obviously stewed, and his great black beard was wet around his mouth from chewing his lip.

"Still," Riordan argued, "we have merely a simple piece of paper. It might mean little or nothing at all."

Kane motioned forward with his chin, directing Riordan's gaze to Gareth and Dugald, and the two wizards, Emelyn and Arrayan.

"The half-orc woman was very clear that the castle had returned to life," the monk reminded. "Our apprentice knight and his dark elf cohort meddle with the artifacts of Zhengyi. That is not 'nothing at all. »

"True," Riordan admitted, "but is it sufficient to rouse the Army of Bloodstone and abandon Damara at a time when we have gone to open war against the Citadel of Assassins?"

"The Citadel has been dealt a severe blow—" Kane began to answer, but Olwen cut him short.

"It's worth it all just to get the answers on the death of Mariabronne," he said, a throaty growl behind every word, so that it seemed to his companions as if he might use some ranger magic and turn into a bear at that moment.

It occurred to Riordan that the ranger's horse might not enjoy that experience, but the bard kept the thought to himself—though he did begin composing a song about it.

"Those two were involved, I'm sure," Olwen went on.

"Our information says they were not," said Kane. "Mariabronne scouted forward of his own volition, and contrary to the orders of Ellery. It is a convincing tale, particularly given Mariabronne's reputation for risk-taking."

Olwen snorted and looked away, his meaty hands working the knuckles white by clenching at the reins.

"Well, they are two people, and foolish ones at that," Riordan quickly put in, trying to get the conversation away from a subject that was obviously too painful for his ranger friend. "Even if they are dabbling in Zhengyian magic, as this report from Palishchuk and the words of the dragon sisters might indicate, are they truly such a threat that we should open our flank and our kingdom to the retribution of Knellict and Timoshenko?"

"Nothing is open," Kane assured him. "Spysong's network is fully ready to repel any moves by the Citadel, and if we are needed Emelyn can get us back with a wave of a wand."

"Then why didn't Emelyn just take us six there, leaving Gareth and the soldiers in place?"

"Because this is the opportunity our king has been patiently awaiting, to fully reveal his influence in Vaasa," answered another voice, that of Celedon Kierney. The eavesdropper slowed his horse to bring him in line with the three. "Gareth's aim here is not the castle—or at least, not the castle alone."

Riordan paused and considered that for a moment, then said, "Palishchuk." He glanced at Kane, who nodded knowingly. Olwen gave no indication that he was even listening. "He's showing Palishchuk that they are vital to his designs, and that when they are threatened, he will take that as seriously as if it were Heliogabalus itself under the Zhengyian shadow," Riordan reasoned on the fly.

The looks from Celedon and Kane showed him that he had correctly sorted the puzzle.

"That's why he's the king," Riordan added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

"I expect that by the time we return through the Vaasan Gate, the Kingdom of Bloodstone will be whole, Vaasa and Damara united under the banner of Gareth Dragonsbane," said Celedon.

Suddenly, to Riordan, the day seemed just a bit brighter.

CHAPTER 13

A BET HEDGED

The half-orc city was on edge. And why not? Word had reached Jarlaxle, and so it had reached Palishchuk as well, that King Gareth was on the march, his formidable army rolling northward across the Vaasan bog to challenge the claim of King Artemis the First. The news had surprised Jarlaxle—who didn't much like being surprised. He hadn't thought Gareth would move so decisively, or so boldly. Winter was coming on, which alone could destroy an army in Vaasa, and Gareth was dealing with drow, after all. Gareth had no idea what Jarlaxle had arrayed against him—how could he? And yet he had marched out at once, and in force.

Jarlaxle's respect for the man had multiplied with the news. Rarely had he encountered humans with such confidence and determination.

He made certain his boots clicked loudly even on the slick, rain-soaked stones on the side of the hill. He did not want a fight with Wingham, and did not want to startle any of the nervous sentries surrounding the half-orc.

Wingham stood near a small fire at the center of the hillock's flat top, with another, larger half-orc—Olgerkhan, Jarlaxle realized—close beside him. They noticed Jarlaxle's noisy approach and turned to greet him.

As he neared the pair, Jarlaxle recognized the anxiety in their expressions. A bit of fear, a bit of anger, all very clearly revealed in the way they, particularly Olgerkhan, kept glancing around them. Olgerkhan even had his burly arms crossed over his chest, as sure a sign of resistance as could be offered. The differences in racial habits occurred to Jarlaxle at that moment. In Menzoberranzan, when a drow male crossed his arms over his chest, it was a sign of obedience and respect. On the World Above, though, and as with the drow matrons, it was a signal of steadfast defiance, or at least defensiveness.

"Master Wingham," he greeted sweetly. "I am honored that you answered my call."

"You knew I would come out," Wingham replied, his tone less diplomatic than usual. "How could I not, with the winds of war stirring about my beloved Palishchuk?"

"War?"

"You know that King Gareth has marched."

"To celebrate the coronation of King Artemis the First, of course."

Wingham put on a sour expression that seemed even more exaggerated in the dancing shadows of the small fire.

"Well, we shall learn of his intent soon enough," Jarlaxle offered. "Let us both hope that King Gareth is as wise as his reputation indicates."