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more rugged, but also more meagerly defended.”
    “Over Breakneck?” the earl marshal exclaimed in disbelief. “There is no road—only a poor track that is often little more than a goat-path! And in late Boreal Moon we would risk fierce rains and washouts, snowstorms driven by hurricane winds, or—God help us—those sudden ice-mists that freeze a man and beast to glazed statues before they realize their mortal peril.”
    The pass in the eastern reaches of the Dextral Range was indeed a shortcut to Holt Mallburn, but so steep and hazardous that only couriers, smugglers, and the bravest of legitimate traders made use of it. Almost all land commerce between Cathra and and its northern neighbors was through Great Pass, north of Beorbrook Hold.
    The prince said, “The Wolf’s Breath has upset the seasons of our island in many ways, significantly delaying the onset of winter in the high country. Favorable weather will prevail over Breakneck Pass at least until Leap Day of the Boreal Moon. I have been assured of it.”
    “By the Conjure-King of Moss?” Lady Zeandrise inquired softly.
    Conrig continued without responding to her. “Our fighting force will consist only of mounted warriors, lightly armored for the sake of speedy travel. We’ll have no foot soldiers. Strong mules and ponies will carry supplies in the rear. We’ll move very quickly once we cross the frontier and strike without warning. There is only one small mountain outpost between Breakneck Pass and Castle Redfern, and the fortress itself is poorly sited, vulnerable to a surprise attack during fog.”
    “Fog!” Beorbrook’s eyes narrowed. “And we can count upon fog?”
    “Oh, yes,” the prince reassured him. “And not the dreaded freezing mists, but a warm concealing shroud, through which our army will ride on muffled hooves, led by friendly guides. We’ll seize Castle Redfern and use it as a staging area for the main assault upon Holt Mallburn, after we have briefly rested.”
    “What of Redfern’s windvoices?” asked Baron Bogshaw. He was a hulking presence whose face was disfigured by a livid diagonal scar from a swordcut that had blinded his left eye. His lands, like those of Ramscrest and Cloudfell, lay along the mountainous frontier between Cathra and Didion. “And the foe may have talented ones posted at their outpost as well. Once they spot us, they’re sure to windspeak the alarm, even if our covert crossing of the pass is successful.”
    “Any Didionite windvoices along our line of march to Redfern will be silenced before our arrival,” said Prince Conrig. “And so will those at the castle.”
    “Ah…” A soft sound from many throats.
    “However, it will be up to us to make certain that no ordinary foemen escape and give warning in a commonplace manner. When we leave Redfern, we’ll move like ghosts through the mist, down from the mountains to the Coast Highway leading to the capital. We’ll cross over the great Mallmouth Bridge—its gate will be opened for us by our magical ally—and when we reach the inner city we’ll set selected parts of it afire as a distraction, using tarnblaze bombshells that each one of us will carry. A portion of our force under Lords Skellhaven and Holmrangel will press toward the quay, where they’ll use their nautical expertise to seize or destroy whatever ships are tied up there or moored in the harbor. The rest of us will take the palace, capture King Achardus, his two sons, and the other royal officials, and force Didion to surrender to the Sovereignty.”
    “Great God!” said old Toborgil Silverside. His sunken eyes were shining. “What a glorious feat that would be!”
    “We’re to accomplish all this under cover of fog?” Munlow Ramscrest was dubious. “In a strange city notorious for its twisted maze of streets?”
    Conrig inclined his head. “As I’ve said, we will have guides. From the summit of Breakneck Pass to the raised portcullises and open barbican gates of Holt