From the saddle of the gray mare, Secca looked out across the valley, again in the early dawn, once more at another thick layer of fog that separated her forces from the Sturinnese encampment. Behind her were Stepan, Wilten, Haddev, Richina, and the two chief players. All were mounted and looking southward across the gray that blanketed the valley below. If the valley were narrow—like a river gorge—Secca might have considered building a bridge, but no sorceress could song-build a structure spanning nearly three deks—and even if she could…she and the players would be exhausted and worthless for weeks.
“The fog is thicker than before,” Wilten said. “We cannot wait and wait.”
“Not for long,” agreed Stepan. “Yet to attack through it would be foolhardy. Even scouts would lose their way, and could be slain or captured by any Sturinnese waiting there.”
Above Secca, the sky was cloudless, the air still, but cold. Clearsong’s pale white disk was at the zenith, while Darksong would be at its zenith near midnight. Secca glanced again at the fog that shrouded the valleys to the south. With such weather, she feared the Sturinnese could create and hold their fog for days, if not weeks. All the scrying glass showed was that the Sturinnese forces maintained their sentries and picket lines, practiced arms and thunder-drums…and waited.
“Let us see where the Sturinnese lancers from Dolov are. Then we will see what we must do.” With a nod at Wilten and Stepan, she turned her mount and rode the gray back along the ridge and toward her tent.
Once back in the encampment, she dismounted and extended the reins to the lancer guard. “Achar…if you would…I won’t need her for a while.”
“Yes, lady.”
“Thank you.” Secca offered a smile, then hurried into the tent to reclaim lutar and mirror. She brought out the mirror and began to retune the lutar, going through a vocalise as she did so, hoping to be ready by the time the others had taken care of their mounts.
Still, the others had gathered and were standing in a semicircle around the mirror as Secca finished her third vocalise. She cleared her throat and launched into the short spell.
“Mirror, mirror, on the ground…”
As her words died away, the glass turned a blank silver, then misted over before the swirling mists dissolved and revealed an image. The white-clad lancers who had been at Dolov were breaking camp, forming up into columns once more. On the left side of the image was a river.
“The river is not so wide there. I would judge another four days, three if they ride hard, before they reach the River Syne,” Stepan said.
“How long can they hold that fog?” asked Wilten.
“For days,” Secca replied, “if the weather remains as it has.”
“There is no sign of change,” observed Delvor.
For a time, no one spoke.
Finally, Secca said, “There may be a way. I will work on it and let you know.” She smiled at Stepan, and then Wilten. “If your scouts will keep us informed…”
“That we will.”
“Yes, lady.”
After all had left but Richina and the lancer guards, Secca recased the lutar.
Richina picked up the mirror and carried it into the tent behind Secca, replacing it in its case and sliding the case under the narrow cot.
Secca slid the lutar beside the mirror.
“Can I help, lady?” asked Richina.
“If you would get me some water…I need to think.”
Richina nodded and slipped out of the tent.
Secca sat on the cot, in the middle, where she wouldn’t tip it over.
The problems were simple enough. The lowlands that were filled with fog were too wide for her spells to carry across and too deep for casual winds or breezes to disperse. So she couldn’t sneak up in the night the way she had with Mynntar. She couldn’t get the archers close enough to attack the drums or drummers without going into the fog itself.
So…she had to get rid of the fog…somehow.
Wind? Could she raise a wind to disperse the fog? She got wind when she did the mining spell.
She pulled out several folded sheets of paper and the grease pencil and began to jot down phrases.