Adolfo stared out the window, watching the storm continue east into Wolfram. Not much of a storm now—and still too much. Far too much.
He shuddered.
“Master?”
Adolfo turned away from the window. Ubel had been reporting on the number and position of the men marching toward the western border under the family crests of Wolfram’s barons, the fleet of warships standing ready in the harbor, the messages sent by the Arktos barons to confirm their readiness to wage righteous war against the Sylvalan barons who couldn’t see with a clear eye what honorable, decent men needed to do to cleanse their land.
He’d heard nothing from the moment he’d opened the window to let some rain-cleaned air into the stuffy room. One of the things that had helped him become the Master Inquisitor, the Witch’s Hammer, was his ability to scent magic. It was how he detected witches—the real witches—and it was how he recognized men who had the Inquisitor’s Gift. He trained those men, honing them into weapons. The ignorant might call the Inquisitor’s Gift a kind of magic, but he wouldn’t permit such blasphemy to be spoken out loud. He didn’t like his Inquisitors wondering about magic, except as a thing to be destroyed.
“Master?”
“The rain stinks of magic,” Adolfo said heavily, half turning to watch the raindrops roll down the outside of the window. “Do you know what this rain will do, Ubel?”
“I—I’m not sure, Master Adolfo.”
Ubel wasn’t sure of much lately. His fault? Perhaps he should have been gentler when his Assistant Inquisitor had returned from the west, even though he had failed to destroy Baron Padrick’s family and had lost the other five Inquisitors who had gone with him. Yes, perhaps Ubel had heard too much of the reprimand in his voice.
“What does rain do, Ubel?” Adolfo asked gently.
Ubel watched him warily for a moment, then licked his dry lips. “It falls from the sky to the ground.”
Adolfo nodded encouragingly. “And then?” He sighed before Ubel could answer, not out of impatience but out of the dread that had begun filling him as soon as he realized what this storm could do. “It soaks into the ground, Ubel. It soaks deep into the soil, into the fields and forests. It fills the brooks and streams and rivers.”
“Yes, Master. I suppose it does.”
“This storm…this rain stinks of magic.”
Adolfo waited patiently, watching as understanding paled Ubel’s fair skin and filled the blue eyes with horror.
“Yes,” Adolfo said heavily.
“But—But the magic in Wolfram’s Old Places is dead. We destroyed it when we destroyed the witches.”
He shook his head. “As long as there is any left, magic never fully dies. You can bleed it out of a place so that the place feels dead, but it’s like creatures that bury themselves deep in the mud when a brook dries up. You think they’re gone, destroyed. Then the rain comes and renews the brook—and they come back with it to live and breed again.”
“No,” Ubel whispered.
“Yes. A puddle of magic, hidden so deep even the Small Folk can’t feel it…This rain will feed it…and it will rise again. A small piece of woods will suddenly have enough magic for the Small Folk to live in it. And once they return and take root, no man will be able to set foot there and hope to come out again. This rain will make a few women forget their proper place in the world, and they will remember things they hadn’t known they’d forgotten…and men will no longer rule the land. How can men rule when a female can flood the fields, or hold back the rain so that crops wither and die, or command the land itself to remain barren? How can a man’s toil fight against that?”
“Then we have to stay here and fight,” Ubel said. “We have to stay and protect our own country.”
“How do we protect it from rain, Ubel? How do we protect Wolfram when every storm that crosses the Una River from Sylvalan is filthy with magic?”
“We have to do something,” Ubel insisted.
“We will. And we are.” Adolfo walked over to the table and looked at the papers filled with Ubel’s neat handwriting, scattered over a map of Sylvalan. “The only way to keep Wolfram clean is to wade through the muck of Sylvalan until it, too, is clean.”
“Within the next phase of the moon, we’ll have most of our—“We can’t wait.” Adolfo took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Don’t remind him of his failures. He needs to believe nothing can stand against him. Afterward…Afterward I will have to consider carefully whether or not Ubel has been too mired in Sylvalan’s filth to be trusted. “We must strike now. We must strike fiercely…and without mercy. Any Sylvalan baron who does not support us in our fight against the Evil One and its servants must be destroyed. We must bring the battle into Sylvalan before those creatures, those witches, can do more harm to Wolfram.”
“What do you want me to do, Master Adolfo?”
Ubel still looked pale, but there was a fire in his eyes now. He wouldn’t run away from the fight this time, not when his homeland was at risk of being contaminated by the magic spawned by their enemies.
Adolfo pushed the papers aside until he uncovered the western part of the map of Sylvalan. “You will take our ten largest warships and fill them with Wolfram warriors. Those ships and men are yours to command. Check the ports at Seahaven and Wellingsford as you head west. There may be witches and their kin trying to find transport to the witch-loving barons further up the coast. But do not linger. We must not give them time to gather an army against us.” He pointed to a spot on the western coast. “That looks like a small harbor, opposite those islands. From there, it doesn’t look to be more than a day’s march to Breton—two at the most.”
“There is a harbor town south of Breton,” Ubel said.
“But you would have to march inland and then north to reach Breton. That gives the western barons more warning and more time to gather men to stand against you.”
“I was told there wasn’t a harbor town near Breton.”
”
Disliking the shakiness he heard in Ubel’s voice, Adolfo continued softly but firmly. “You don’t need a harbor town. A small fishing village will suffice. Anywhere you can bring the ships in close enough to land your men will suffice. The more swiftly you move, the less resistance they can bring against you. After thinking about your report on the barons’ council, it is now clear to me that Padrick, the Baron of Breton, controls the other western barons. Therefore, it is no longer enough to punish him for helping Liam after that whelp spoke out against us in the barons’ council. Padrick must be destroyed. Completely. His home, his family, his fields, his livestock. You must leave nothing but corpses and ashes, Ubel. Without him to lead, the western barons will need time to regain their balance, and while the west is in turmoil, the Arktos barons will lead their men to the northern part of Sylvalan, along with the northeastern barons who already support our cause. Our Sylvalan barons in the southern part of the land will march to here.” Adolfo pointed to another spot on the map. “They’ll come up to the southern end of the Mother’s Hills, blocking the midland barons if they attempt to enter the fight.”
“What about the Fae?” Ubel asked in a strained voice.
What about the Gatherer? is what he’s really asking. Adolfo suppressed a shudder. He would never forget that black-haired woman riding her dark horse. He would never forget that she’d killed his Inquisitors. And he would never forget what she did to him. His left arm dead, just from touching her. And the dreams lately…No. No one could know about the dreams.
“You must strike swiftly,” Adolfo said again, “before a warning can be sounded. Swiftly, Ubel. And then you must leave just as swiftly. I do not want to lose my finest Inquisitor. When Padrick is dead, bring the ships and men back to Wellingsford. From there you can keep any ships from sailing out of the west—and destroy any ships trying to sail to the west.”
“Yes, Master.” Ubel hesitated. “And what will Wolfram’s army be doing?”
You mean, what will I be doing? Perhaps it was an attempt at arrogance, but Adolfo thought the question sounded more like a young boy’s plea for reassurance.
“I will lead the Wolfram army, and the rest of the Sylvalan barons who are decent men, as straight as an arrow to Willows-brook. And after we crush the bastard Liam…” He turned to look at the sun coming out, shining through the last wisps of the storm. “After we crush Liam, the three prongs of our great army will march into the Mother’s Hills and destroy everything that lives there.”
“Will the magic die completely then?” Ubel asked.
Turning back, Adolfo laid his right hand on Ubel’s shoulder, and said softly, “I told you, Ubel. It never dies completely once it’s taken root in a place. But if you destroy all the creatures who have the ability to reach it, then it’s as good as dead.”