‘What company?’ Whiskeyjack asked.

‘The Grey Swords. Have you heard of them, Commander?’

‘No.’

‘Nor have I,’ Brood said. ‘It’s said they’re up from Elingarth – a decent complement: over seven thousand. Whether they’ll prove worthy of the usurious fees they’ve carved from the prince remains to be seen. Hood knows, their so-called standard contract is almost twice the coin of what the Crimson Guard demands.’

‘Their commander read the situation,’ Kallor commented, his tone suggesting vast weariness, if not outright boredom. ‘Prince Jelarkan has more coin than soldiers, and the Pannions won’t be bought off – it’s a holy war as far as the Seer’s concerned, after all. To worsen matters, the council of High Priests has the backing of each temple’s private company of highly trained, well-equipped soldiers. That’s almost three thousand of the city’s most able fighters, whilst the prince himself has been left with dregs for his own Capanthall – which he’s prevented from expanding beyond two thousand by law. For years the Mask Council – the coalition of temples – has been using the Capanthall as a recruiting ground for their own companies, bribing away the best—’

Clearly the Mhybe wasn’t alone in suspecting that, given the opportunity, Kallor would have gone on all afternoon, for Whiskeyjack interrupted the man as he drew breath.

‘So this Prince Jelarkan circumvented the law by hiring mercenaries.’

‘Correct,’ was Brood’s swift reply. ‘In any case, the Mask Council has managed to invoke yet another law, preventing the Grey Swords from active engagement beyond the city walls, so the crossing will not be contested—’

‘Idiots,’ Dujek growled. ‘Given this is a holy war, you’d think the temples would do all they could to effect a united front against the Pannions.’

‘I imagine they believe they are,’ Kallor answered with a sneer that could have been meant for Dujek or the priests in Capustan, or both. ‘While at the same time ensuring that the prince’s power remains held in check.’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ Brood countered. ‘The ruler of Maurik capitulated with little bloodshed by arresting all the priests in her city and handing them over to the Pannions’ Tenescowri. In one move, she saved her city and its citizens, topped up her royal coffers with booty from the temples and got rid of an eternal thorn in her side. The Pannion Seer granted her a governorship which is better than being torn apart and devoured by the Tenescowri – which is what happened to the priests.’

The Mhybe hissed. ‘Torn apart and devoured?’

‘Aye,’ the warlord said. ‘The Tenescowri are the Seer’s peasant army – they’re fanatics that the Seer doesn’t bother supplying. Indeed, he’s given them his holy blessing to do whatever is necessary to feed and arm themselves. If certain other rumours are true, then cannibalism is the least of the horrors—’

‘We’ve heard similar rumours,’ Dujek muttered. ‘So, Warlord, the question before us is, do we seek to save Capustan or let it fall? The Seer must know we’re coming – his followers have spread the cult far beyond his borders, in Darujhistan, in Pale, in Saltoan – meaning he knows we will be crossing Catlin River somewhere, somewhen. If he takes Capustan, then the river’s widest ford is in his hands. Which leaves us with naught but the old ford west of Saltoan where the stone bridge used to be. Granted, our engineers could float us a bridge there, provided we bring the wood with us. That’s the overland option, in any case. We’ve two others, of course ...’