Patrice Sarath - Gordath 01 by Gordath Wood

Author:Gordath Wood [Wood, Gordath]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-05-28T10:26:05+00:00

Terrick threw him a quick glance. “He’s made it clear; he’s neutral in this.”

Marthen snorted.

“Then he has effectively thrown in his lot with Tharp.”

“Neutrality is still respected, General. We are a land governed by law.”

“And how much respect did Tharp show Kenery, I wonder? Perhaps a demonstration of those weapons, with a promise of a few if he stayed out of it?”

Marthen knew he stepped over the line, but damned if the man couldn’t be a stubborn, honest fool. Sure enough, Terrick grimaced.

“I will not win at the expense of losing all that we stand for.”

“Then you will not win.” Marthen said it flatly. It must have hit home, judging by the way Terrick stared at him. “He has us at an impasse, my lord. We have the advantage in men, but Tharp’s is the advantage of weaponry. We need Kenery’s thousands if we are to break his defenses.”

Terrick remained silent, thinking. Marthen pressed his advantage. “This isn’t the end, you know. If Tharp wins, what happens to your convocation? What of your rule of law then, my lord? Back to the days of a high king and lands owned in tenancy, like a commoner?” Like me?

Perhaps Terrick picked up on his unspoken comment, because the older man rounded on him, his expression savage. “And what is that to you, General?”

“I want to win.”

He surprised himself with the vehemence of his answer. Terrick laughed humorlessly.

“Well. We engaged you for that, after all. I will call a Council, General, and we will give you our answer.”

Marthen bowed, then watched Terrick walk away with one hand pressing down on his leg.

Kate spent the morning among the ostlers, feeding and tending the horses and helping mount up the scouts. Even as the horses reminded her of Mojo, the work soothed her sorrow. The ostlers worked quietly around her, accepting her presence without complaint. Poor Torm took one look at her and shouted something, then cringed as if he remembered her socking him in the jaw. Kate patted his shoulder in passing and went on hauling hay. “It’s okay, Torm,” she told him, and he beamed. He stuck close to her after that, his agitation settling down. The ostlers looked at each other, and then Mykal nodded and said brusquely, “You’ve a kind heart.”

Kate lifted her shoulders. Whatever, she wanted to say. Instead, she started in on feeding, the rich smell and warmth of the wet horses easing some of her sadness, though the lump in her throat thickened. It rained in fits and starts, and her hands were stiff and raw with cold. Her belly cramped at intervals, leaving her faintly queasy. Finally all the animals were fed and her work was done. On the pretense of storing the wheel-barrow, Kate gave Torm the slip and went around to the wagon where the saddles were kept. Mojo’s little saddle sat by itself off in the corner, dwarfed by the big, boxy saddles used by the army. Kate put her hands on the cool leather, letting tears spill without noise.

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