Free Abomination by Gary Whitta Page A

Soon he could be using it to turn the Danes on themselves.”
    A silence settled on the Great Hall for a moment. Alfred waited while the full implication of that sank in. Wulfric had become an expert at war, in both theory and practice, but this was no longer war as he understood it. The rules had changed. In the old way, the way it had been for thousands of years, both sides lost men in battle. But under Aethelred’s new rules, the victor converted the vanquished into his own ranks and grew more powerful with eachconquest. It was a terrifying idea, both strategically and in other ways that troubled Wulfric far more deeply.
    It was Chiswick who broke the silence. “Our concern is not a war between the Danes and Aethelred’s army, if one can even call it that. It is that any kind of attack from within Wessex will be perceived to be in the King’s name. If Aethelred breaks the accord and attacks the Danelaw, it will stir up an already precarious situation and perhaps lead to a counterinvasion.”
    “And another all-out war,” Wulfric observed. It was a strange thing, he thought, to be considering ways in which to prevent an attack against the Norse, after all the times he had helped to plot them. He had no love for the Danes, after all they had done to him and those he loved, but the kingdom simply could not afford another war.
    “My advice is simple,” he said. “Dispatch the full force of your armies to intercept Aethelred before he reaches the Danelaw. Crush him quickly, with overwhelming force, and end this thing before it begins.”
    “Would that it were that easy,” Alfred responded with a heavy sigh, looking to Chiswick.
    “Our forces are scattered throughout the kingdom,” said Chiswick, pointing to various annotations on his map indicating the disposition of infantry encampments and other military assets. “Even at best speed, they have little chance of assembling into a force sufficient to overwhelm Aethelred before he reaches the Danelaw. And even were it possible, committing such a force would leave the rest of Wessex ill defended should the Norse seize the opportunity to attack from elsewhere along the border. No, our best chance, we believe, would be to take him by surprise using a small, swift, mobile force, one specially formed for this task.”
    Wulfric scratched his head, confused. “If Aethelred’s force is equal to more than a thousand men, what chance does a small contingent have against him? Most likely you would only be sending more men for him to enslave.”
    For the first time, Alfred allowed himself a smile. Wulfric knew it well, the wry look the King adopted when he had a bright scheme. “Aethelred is not the only one with magickal tricks up his sleeve,” he said. “Come with me to the chapel. Thank you, Chiswick.”

    The priest paced up and down before the stone altar of Winchester’s chapel. He had been told to await the King’s presence, and so far he had been waiting for more than an hour. Yet it was not the waiting that bothered him but the worry of what would be expected of him when the King did at last arrive. He had been practicing all hours of the day and night and was confident he had mastered what had been asked of him. But he also knew, more than most, what was at stake—and the price of failure, both for himself and for the men who would be placing their lives in his hands. One small mistake, one mispronounced syllable or moment of hesitation, would spell disaster.
    The irony had not escaped him. He was not by nature cut out for the martial professions; he had entered the priesthood largely because it was a path of peace. But that path had now twisted in an unforeseen way and was leading him into the very thing he had hoped to avoid—a war, and not just any war, but one fought with weapons more horrendous than anything ever before conceived by man. A shiver ran through him, only partly because it was cold in the small stone-walled chamber.
    He heard the chapel door