Chapter 11 – An Authority Among Scholars #5
“Edemir would ask whether that really ought to be our highest priority,” said Tounot, amused. “Trying to give me some ruins to study?”
“Well, there has to be some way you can be useful,” Remin replied, giving him a friendly shove, and laughed as Tounot punched him in his armored side. They had been trading insults and shoves since they were five years old.
“I’ll remember that next time you need someone to manage the gate passes,” Tounot retorted, grinning. “Crassege’s not going anywhere. We can come back in ’29 as easily as ’28.”
The thought of such permanence was obscurely comforting. They packed up the next morning after a surprisingly restful night, and though Remin wanted to tell himself it was because they had evaded the purring devil, he couldn’t shake the thought that it had gone in search of an easier target.
It made him all the more determined to reach the Spur.
It was getting colder. They were deep into the Berlawes now, with the terrain rising higher every day, and the snowcap above them was drawing near.
Four days from Crassege, the weather turned bad, with a squall of sleet and snow that soaked them to the skin, followed by a blustery night that left even the horses short-tempered and miserable.
“Stars, let me be wet or let me be cold, but not both at the same time,” said Auber the next morning, his teeth chattering as he peeled off his soaking tunic. Their shelter on a rocky outcrop had kept the devils off them, but not the weather.
The march ground on. Cold hands, sore feet, and stultifying boredom as the peaks loomed steadily nearer.
It had been two years since Remin last saw this place: Mount Virel, Faelon, the twin spires of Mount Orval and Mount Elun.
There were three Vallethi fortresses within a few days’ march, or what remained of them; Remin had broken them beyond repair, with the intent that he would come back later to assert his borders.
Valleth was in no position to challenge him.
Frankly, the devils were trouble enough for both of them.
It was good that they had left the forest behind.
It gave Remin time to improvise and test their defenses in this more open country, where the steep, rocky slopes only supported occasional stands of pine.
The early windstorm had made for a dangerous trip through the forest, but an easier one through the mountains; there were not enough devils here to threaten them.
Yet.
Remin had no doubt that would soon follow.
By day, he scoured the horizon, seeking the campsites that he wanted.
He had seen a dozen likely places last time he had been in this part of the mountains, but there was one in particular, a high bluff with narrow sides, and stands of pine to feed the torches and support a palisade…
“There it is,” he said, four days from Crassege. His breath puffed white with the words, and a light snow was falling.
It took a full day to fortify the camp to his satisfaction.
Really, it couldn’t be fortified against the purring devil; any creature big enough to shake a hundred-foot tree was big enough to knock over a palisade.
But Remin lined the inner walls with the box wagons, providing a platform to archers and spearmen, and mounted spike frames facing outward to deter stranglers.
At the base of the palisade, he and Jinmin dug a trench and shored it up with stones, to keep ghouls from digging under the wall .
And on that thought, he went to Lancer, washing and grooming the horse until his black coat gleamed, picking out the white scars that marred his haunches and barrel chest. Remin had never been terribly affectionate with his horse, but there was a sympathy between them; Lancer rumbled low as Remin latched his armor into place, testing the buckles and cinches with hard jerks of his fingers.
“Guard,” Remin ordered quietly, lifting a hand to stroke the horse’s nose. Lancer bit his palm, his ferocious black eyes gleaming.
The next morning, they broke open the last box wagon.
Heavy cloaks. Layers of woolen clothing. Spiked, fur-lined boots that laced tight to their feet, suitable for treacherous terrain and bitter temperatures. Every man had a belt equipped with coils of ropes, icepicks, and the materials to start a fire. Every other man carried a roll of extra torches.
Remin handed out rations, personally inspected every man’s armor and kit, and made all of them run up and down the hill beside the camp to make sure no gear went flying.
In his own skin, he felt a familiar jitter of nerves and excitement, that the moment was upon him at last. He had planned and planned, and now it was time to execute.
When they marched away that morning, he left five men behind to defend their camp and horses.
Three were Huber’s scouts, trained to survive in rough country on only the barest supplies.
The other two were sharp-eyed as eagles and knew how to read the Empire’s smoke signs, which Remin would use as a last extremity to signal what he had found.
He had no doubt that he would find something.