For a while no-one spoke or moved. They stood and watched as the Lord of the North returned to his castle. Then Galliott stepped up to the table.
‘Gentlemen, your attention please. Would the senior officers attend me? We need to discuss the logistics of this situation.’
An hour later Huntsekker strolled the southern battlements, Aran Powdermill beside him.
‘Can you believe it?’ asked Huntsekker, shaking his head. ‘I was convinced they would run for their muskets and blow us away. My heart was in my mouth when he told that officer to call him my lord, and when he said he’d have his tongue cut out . . . well! The man has balls of brass, I’ll say that.’
‘Soldiers like strong leaders,’ said Powdermill, gloomily. Huntsekker glanced at him.
‘Why so melancholy? We’ve damn near trebled the size of the army and our immediate enemies are dead. I’d say that was a victory to be thankful for.’
‘I’ll be thankful just to be alive two months from now.’ Powdermill leaned his slender frame against the battlements and stared down at the mass of soldiers below. There were now some fifteen tables set out, and lines of men had formed before each of them. ‘Galliott is a good organizer,’ he said.
‘Aye, he’s solid,’ agreed Huntsekker. ‘So you think it was just the strength of the Moidart’s leadership that won the day?’
‘No. Not just that. He’s a canny man. Soldiers do like strong leaders – but they are also pragmatic. The first thing he mentioned was the wages. Dead men don’t pay wages. Once they saw the Finance’s head they knew there was only one man going to do that. After all, most of them are mercenaries. If they’re paid on time, and they can get strong drink and loose women they’ll stay. And if they get victories. One defeat and you’ll see this little army bleed away in days.’
‘You are in a sour mood.’
‘Aye, I am. Do you fear death, Huntsekker?’
The big man tugged at the twin silver spikes of his beard. ‘Don’t think about it overmuch.’
‘Well, I thought I feared death worse than anything else. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Is this about the dream you had?’
‘It wasn’t a dream,’ snapped Powdermill. ‘It was a vision. I saw a city, and a man wearing a crown of antlers. No, not a man exactly. I don’t know what he was. But I sensed his power, Huntsekker. It was colossal. This was someone – some thing – that could rule the living and the dead.’
‘Makes no sense to me.’
‘Nor me – but it wasn’t a dream. I felt terror such as I never thought to experience.’
‘Well, there’s no terror here and now. The sky is blue. We are both alive and we have an army. I’m satisfied with that, for the moment. Now aren’t you supposed to be going into a trance, or whatever you do? The Moidart wants to know what is happening with his son.’
‘I’m too frightened, Huntsekker. I can avoid these Redeemers, or spit castaway spells at them. But what if the man with the antlers is waiting for me? He’ll tear my soul to shreds.’
Huntsekker heaved his huge bulk onto the battlements. ‘Look at it this way, Aran. There may be a man with antlers waiting for you. On the other hand there is the Moidart. He won’t rip your soul from your body. He will, however, rip your body. That’s a certainty.’
‘Greed got me into this,’ said Powdermill, mournfully. ‘I swear to the Source that if I get out of it alive I’ll never give in to greed again.’
Huntsekker laughed. ‘We are what we are, little man. We won’t change. Now set to and see something we can take to the Moidart.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GALLIOTT THE BORDERER STOOD UP FROM THE TABLE AND MADE WAY for Sergeant Packard to replace him. The fingers of his right hand were inkstained and his wrist ached from. the hours of unaccustomed writing. The ledgers he had purchased from Wincer’s Store were all full now, and the names of newly enlisted men were being written on spare sheets of paper.