Soulcatcher, in
full leather and fuller ire, stalked the perimeter of the
encampment midway between Ghoja and Dejagore. A dozen frightened
officers followed, each silently appealing for mercy to his choice
of god or gods. The Protector in a rage was a disaster no one
wanted to experience. Her excesses made no more sense than do those
of a tornado.
“They haven’t moved. For six days now they’ve
hardly taken a step. After hurtling northward like the storm
itself, so fast we were killing ourselves trying to pull something
together fast enough to stop them. What’re they doing? What
changed suddenly?” As always when she was under stress
Soulcatcher was a babble of conflicting voices. That added to the
uneasiness of the men tagging after her. None had had any
experience with her before her arrival in camp. The actuality was
more unnerving than the stories predicted. She seemed every bit as
cruel and capricious as any god. Several graves beyond the
perimeter attested to the violence of her temper.
These sycophants would never find out but those who died had
been chosen only after extended supernatural espionage. Not one had
been a devoted servant of the Protectorate. Each had said so aloud.
Additionally, none had been particularly competent leaders and that
had been clear to their soldiers and compatriots. They had attained
their positions through nepotism or cronyism, not ability.
Soulcatcher was culling her officer corps. She was disappointed
that necessity prevented her from doing more. That corps was
terrible. But she would take no responsibility for that. Of
course.
How poor would it have been without the efforts of the Great
General? Probably an awful, corrupt joke without a punchline.
Without Mogaba’s dedicated nurturing there would have been
little to assemble here.
How to keep it here? The desertion rate was supportable now but
showing signs of rising. Was that the enemy strategy? Wait until
the Taglian armies melted because of the demands of the approaching
harvest? Would they charge north again then? It sounded like a
Black Company sort of thing to do. Indications were, they had the
wealth to maintain a force in the field a long time.
Mogaba’s messages indicated his own suspicions concerning
a similar strategy. He was tailoring his own approach toward
getting his enemy to take the long way around, into a trap.
Soulcatcher did not believe there would be any chance to trap
the Black Company. Their intelligence resources were much too
wonderful. While her own continued to fade. All species of crows
were becoming endangered. Mice, bats, rats, owls, those sorts of
creatures had no range. There seemed to be no modern sources of
quality crystal or worthy mercury with which to create a scrying
glass or bowl. The shadows she still controlled were few and feeble
and frightened and she refused to risk them in enemy territory,
often because each time she did a few more would not come back. And
for now she was cut off from her only source of replacements.
She glanced skyward, saw vultures circling to the north, over
woods which ran from right to left for as far as she could see. The
growth followed a shallow stream. Her sister had won a small
victory over the Shadowmasters there, ages ago, soon after the
Black Company had suffered the disaster that led to the siege of
Dejagore.
“I’m going to walk up there and see what those
vultures find so interesting.”
No one gave in to the urge to protest.
Maybe the vultures would dine on her.
“None of you need to come with me.”
Relief was obvious.
Soulcatcher, in
full leather and fuller ire, stalked the perimeter of the
encampment midway between Ghoja and Dejagore. A dozen frightened
officers followed, each silently appealing for mercy to his choice
of god or gods. The Protector in a rage was a disaster no one
wanted to experience. Her excesses made no more sense than do those
of a tornado.
“They haven’t moved. For six days now they’ve
hardly taken a step. After hurtling northward like the storm
itself, so fast we were killing ourselves trying to pull something
together fast enough to stop them. What’re they doing? What
changed suddenly?” As always when she was under stress
Soulcatcher was a babble of conflicting voices. That added to the
uneasiness of the men tagging after her. None had had any
experience with her before her arrival in camp. The actuality was
more unnerving than the stories predicted. She seemed every bit as
cruel and capricious as any god. Several graves beyond the
perimeter attested to the violence of her temper.
These sycophants would never find out but those who died had
been chosen only after extended supernatural espionage. Not one had
been a devoted servant of the Protectorate. Each had said so aloud.
Additionally, none had been particularly competent leaders and that
had been clear to their soldiers and compatriots. They had attained
their positions through nepotism or cronyism, not ability.
Soulcatcher was culling her officer corps. She was disappointed
that necessity prevented her from doing more. That corps was
terrible. But she would take no responsibility for that. Of
course.
How poor would it have been without the efforts of the Great
General? Probably an awful, corrupt joke without a punchline.
Without Mogaba’s dedicated nurturing there would have been
little to assemble here.
How to keep it here? The desertion rate was supportable now but
showing signs of rising. Was that the enemy strategy? Wait until
the Taglian armies melted because of the demands of the approaching
harvest? Would they charge north again then? It sounded like a
Black Company sort of thing to do. Indications were, they had the
wealth to maintain a force in the field a long time.
Mogaba’s messages indicated his own suspicions concerning
a similar strategy. He was tailoring his own approach toward
getting his enemy to take the long way around, into a trap.
Soulcatcher did not believe there would be any chance to trap
the Black Company. Their intelligence resources were much too
wonderful. While her own continued to fade. All species of crows
were becoming endangered. Mice, bats, rats, owls, those sorts of
creatures had no range. There seemed to be no modern sources of
quality crystal or worthy mercury with which to create a scrying
glass or bowl. The shadows she still controlled were few and feeble
and frightened and she refused to risk them in enemy territory,
often because each time she did a few more would not come back. And
for now she was cut off from her only source of replacements.
She glanced skyward, saw vultures circling to the north, over
woods which ran from right to left for as far as she could see. The
growth followed a shallow stream. Her sister had won a small
victory over the Shadowmasters there, ages ago, soon after the
Black Company had suffered the disaster that led to the siege of
Dejagore.
“I’m going to walk up there and see what those
vultures find so interesting.”
No one gave in to the urge to protest.
Maybe the vultures would dine on her.
“None of you need to come with me.”
Relief was obvious.