Röedr had arranged the column with the First and Second Brigades—two thousand Harlingar, in all—riding in the lead in the event there was an attack just ere dawn. The Third and Fourth Brigades—some two thousand riders, all told—would follow and form up the supply train—no waggons, only packhorses—each man with several tethered behind, for it was likely that dawn would arrive before the train was very far up in the pass. As Röedr had said, it was vital to protect the provisions, and so those two brigades, towing pack animals, would go when they would enter the slot after the Spawn had fled the oncoming day, and where the pack train would clear the pass before nightfall, ere any maggot-folk might return. As to those riding in the rear—some six thousand Vanadurin—should darkness fall ere they exited the pass, they would take the brunt of whatever the Wrg might try, be it an assault or no . . . though with a Jordian force so large, an attack was unlikely.
It was yet dark when they set out from Jallorby, though the sky held the first hints of the day to arrive. All about them, the citizens of that town in good cheer rallied to see them off.
Leading their horses, up into the pass walked the lead group, warming their mounts for the day, and then they checked the cinches and mounted up for the ride. And three or four abreast in a long column upward they fared, and ere dawn came, black-oxen horns rang and echoed from the crags and signaled the all clear to those following as well as to those below. Dawn was just breaking when the packhorses started up, and still the oxen horns, deep and mellow, passed the signal back, the crossing yet safe.
To Durgan it seemed midmorn by the time he and the third group got under way, yet it was not quite that late, as up into the slot the Sixth Brigade started.
And the black-oxen horns sounded.
Durgan and Aksel rode side by side, not far behind Valder and Ulrik. Even so, the full of the Fifth Brigade—a thousand Vanadurin in all—led the Sixth up the slope.
Four more brigades would follow, and horns would continue to peal.
Durgan rode in deep thought. Surely the Sixth Brigade would see battle if any came . . . or so he hoped. And he wondered if this was a futile journey, for they were some eight or nine hundred miles from Gûnarring Gap. Would they arrive too late?
• • •
AS THEY RODE UPWARD, Durgan looked at the cliffs towering to either side. Noting his gaze, Aksel said, “We are well into the Grimwalls, my friend, where the fördömlig maskfolk dwell. Should it come to combat, there are places where we would be hard pressed—the walls too near for many to act in concert. If so, then a lance will be of little use, close combat as it will be, yet a good bow or saber will do.”
Durgan said, “I haven’t a lance anyway.” He patted his bow in its saddle scabbard and then the saber at his side. “But these, I well understand their use.”
Aksel’s freckled face broke into a grin and he said, “Stick with me, then, for I can use a good hand.”
Durgan smiled in return as up through the cloven slot in the mountains he fared, with one of Hrosmarshal Röedr’s most trusted men at his side.
The higher they climbed, the cooler became the wafting air, and though grasses and small trees grew in the pass, as well as an occasional flower, and even though summer lay on the land, here and there deep crevices and cracks held snow, the dark shadows within too far for the sun to pierce, the clefts too narrow for warm breezes to reach. Winter had been harsh at these heights, and ice had split the stone above and had caused rockfalls. The going was rough, and in places even rougher, the long column threading its way through boulder-laden twists and turns. Still they pressed onward, hooves clattering over the stony route. Now and again soldiers would dismount, and walk beside their steeds, giving respite to the horses as they moved over the uneven ground. Durgan found these strolls to his liking, for during his long, long journey on his ride to Jordkeep, he had had little relief from the saddle, and so he relished the chance to stretch his legs.
As the column progressed, the sky darkened with heavy clouds, and Durgan gathered his cloak around to ward off the growing wind. The sky continued to darken, and a dampness filled the stirring air.
“Rain,” grunted Aksel.
“Aye,” said Durgan.
And on they pressed.
Shortly ere the noontide they topped the crest of the col and started on the long descent under the leaden sky. To either side of the pass, the rock rose sheer and far. “In a channel like this,” said Aksel, he and Durgan now afoot, “the wind sometimes roars. If it carries rain, the drops will strike like sling bullets.”
“Then let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Durgan, and they mounted up and rode onward.
As if Aksel’s words were prophetic, a chill wind began to blow at their backs, and the dark clouds roiled above. Within a candlemark or two, a raging storm came shrieking across the range and howling through the pass.
• • •
NIGHT WAS UPON THEM by the time the last of the brigades had struggled to the foothills below. The hurling rain hammered upon them as into a woodland they fared. They eagerly sought the shelter of the trees, though the wall of mountains behind afforded some protection from the worst of the fury. Even so, as Aksel had said, the pass itself acted as a channel, and the blow was merciless, both animals and men suffering under its outflowing wrath.
Westerly they turned, to escape the worst of it, and soon they found some relief. Finally, Röedr called a halt, and the men took care of the horses first and saw to their own needs last.
A time later, the rain stopped, and the clouds above began to break, with a star or two gleaming here and there through the rifts.
• • •
IT WAS JUST AFTER mid of night when Durgan was jolted awake by prolonged and hideous yowling.
“Värgs,” said Aksel, sitting up nearby.
“Vulgs, you mean?”
“Aye,” said Aksel, gaining his feet and taking up his lance. “Make ready, my friend, for it is this way they run.”
Even as Durgan stood and strapped on his saber, the night was split by the squalling blats of hundreds of brazen horns.
48
Waiting
According to the common foot soldier, it seems ever in war that one must “hurry up and wait.” But to the commanders who are laying out strategies and tactics, time runs at a different pace, for contingencies must be explored in the event of both success and disaster. What to do for various outcomes of victory or defeat is somewhat easier to plan for in the early stages. It boils down to a minimum of two questions: If we succeed, then what? But what if we fail? The “then whats” continue to mount up the further one tries to plan ahead, for given the first outcome—good or bad—the same two questions then repeat. And given that second outcome, again those two questions arise, the outcomes branching and branching, doubling and redoubling time after time. Quickly, the planners reach a practical limit of tactics to pursue, and they then set specific plans aside and fall back on a general strategy.
Even so, as new thoughts occur, the planning continues. Such was the case at Gûnar Slot, where some nations and commanders and soldiers had been in place for weeks, while others were yet to come as the muster continued to accrue. And with every newcome contingent, the strategy and tactics were reviewed and at times modified. And over the last ten days, ever since King Reyer had ridden into camp, the contingents from Gothon and Jute and Gelen had come, but Thol had not yet appeared. . . .
And so, the intense sessions of review and planning had occurred as the newly arrived leaders as well as the old had gathered before War Commander Raden’s tent.
But as far as the common foot soldier was concerned, nothing had changed; hurry up and wait was the rule. . . .
• • •
ALRIC GROANED AND SAID, “Ah me, but my head aches from the what-ifs and maybes.”
Reyer nodded in agreement. “Still, Alric, as Armsmaster
Halon used to say, ‘’Tis better to have a plan, even a bad one, than to have no plan at all.’”
“Well, I say, just give me a lance and a horse and point me at the enemy.”
“Or a pony and a bow,” said Perry.
“Not so,” said Digby. “King Reyer is right. We need a plan.”
Perry shook his head. “Remember what Captain Windlow says.”
“What?” asked Alric. “What does your wee captain say?”
“A plan is good up until the first arrow is loosed.”
Alric laughed, but Reyer said, “Mayhap so, yet one should keep tactics in mind and—”
Reyer’s words were interrupted by the sound of a horn and the sight of a scout galloping toward Lord Raden’s tent.
Alric sprang to his feet. “Let’s go see.”
Moments later, the four arrived even as Raden, a bear of a man, stepped forth from his quarters, and the scout, a slender youth, haled his steed to a halt and dismounted. “What is it, lad?” Raden barked.
The young man looked at Reyer and then at the War Commander, as if in confusion as to whom he should report.
“My lord”—the rider inclined his head at Reyer and then to Raden, and corrected himself—“my lords, Lord Aarnson and the Tholian army are but a half day’s march away.”
“At last,” growled Raden, his red beard all wild and afly. He turned to Reyer and said, “By your leave, my King, I say we give them a day of rest, and then we march.”
Even as Alric clenched a fist and echoed Raden’s “at last,” Reyer’s heart suddenly hammered in his chest, and he felt a pang of regret, for men would die at his command. He took a deep breath and glanced down at Digby and Perry and then up at Gûnar Slot, and he nodded and said, “The day after morrow, then.”
49
Intervention
In the land of Jord, riders keep free-running herds well away from the Grimwalls and the Gronfangs, for horse meat is the favorite food of the Spawn. And for those towns nigh the mountains, palisades are the rule, and the horses kept within, while sentries patrol the walls. A nation that lives and dies by the horse makes it a rule to live and die protecting them. Hence, when possible, encamped Jordian warbands stake their horses in the center, with the warriors ringed ’round, for such is the way Jordians live.
As for the Spawn, whenever a chance presents itself, they have been known to abandon a mission, no matter how critical it might be, to capture a horse or a pony and make a meal of it. Only fear of retribution can turn maggot-folk away from gaining such a repast. Nunde wielded such fear, though were the Spawn to devastate the Jordian herd in the woods outside at Jallor Pass, well, that, too, would accomplish Nunde’s end.
• • •
VULGS HOWLED AND BRAZEN horns blatted and the hard-running treads of massed Spawn bore down upon the Jordian army. And all the horses in the middle of the camp skittered and shied and stirred in alarm.
“Stand behind me, boy,” shouted Aksel.
“Chun Ifreann leis sin!” spat Durgan, refusing. “I am a Kellian, and you have none better in your ranks than me.”
“What did you say?” demanded Aksel.
“I said to Hèl with that,” replied Durgan. “I am Kellian trained, Dylvana trained, and I am as good a warrior as any in this band.”
Aksel growled and said, “You’d better be right, else Röedr will have my head.”
• • •
HIGH ABOVE AND IN THE NIGHT, Nunde in astral form gloated at the scene unfolding below. To his sight, light was dark and dark was light and all colors reversed, the trees bright red, the ground pale red-violet and other such inversions. And he watched as his stark white Vulpen with their poisoned bite raced ahead of the Chun—Drik and Ghok and massive Oghi and Gok on Hèlsteeds driving them forth.
• • •
THE JORDIAN ARMY KICKED up their hard-won, wet-wood campfires, the better to see by, though dim was the light among the enshadowing trees.
Again the howls sounded, closer and ever closer.
“Vulgs,” said Aksel. “And I hear the roar of Ogrus. Ah, me, but we will be hard-pressed if there are many of those monsters, for we’ve not a great deal of fire at hand.”
“The horns?” asked Durgan, fitting an arrow to string, even though the light was muted.
“Maggot-folk, as you would say in Common. Most likely Hlôks driving the Rûcks.”
On the far side of the camp to the north, Jordians shouted and Foul Folk yawled, and there sounded the clang and skirl of steel on steel, as well as the screams of the dying—men and Spawn both.
“Let’s go,” cried Durgan.
“No!” shouted Aksel. “For they come this way, too.” And he lowered his lance to horizontal. “Stand ready; they are nigh upon us.”
But then deeper howls split the air.
Aksel frowned. “What th—?”
• • •
UP ABOVE, NUNDE ALSO heard the deep roars. His gaze swept the bright red forest. And then he saw black shapes, charging at his white Vulpen. “Draega?” he screamed. “Silver Wolves?”
And then a vast and blinding blackness bloomed among the trees.
• • •
GLARING LIGHT BLASTED THROUGHOUT THE FOREST. Durgan staggered back, his forearm reflexively shielding his eyes. And yet he could see as silver shapes flashed past him, charging toward the oncoming Spawn.
A great wail rose up among the Foul Folk, for it seemed as if day had come upon them, and they reeled hindward and shrieked, for, were it the sun, the Withering Death would follow.
Turning, they fled toward darkness, even as the Draega leapt upon the escaping Vulgs, and with savage teeth the Silver Wolves shredded their ancient foe.
Durgan squinted toward the source of light and cried, “Dalavar!”
For there midst frightened horses stood Dalavar Wolfmage, a terrible aspect of effort distorting his face and form.
And in the distance flames sprang up among the fleeing Spawn. Trolls screamed and batted ineffectually at the spectral fire upon them, and even as they ran they tore off their greasy hide garments and flung them away.
• • •
“DALAVAR WOLFMAGE!” shrieked Nunde far above, his plans fallen to ruin. He watched in frustration as illusory dark green flames wreathed the Oghi and they cast off their clothes in fear.
And in his aethyrial form, Nunde could do naught to turn the tide.
And he fled away ere the Wolfmage might espy him, for Dalavar was a foe Nunde dared not meet.
• • •
AND STILL THE LIGHT flared among the trees, but of a sudden it vanished, as of a blown-out candle, and Dalavar swooned and fell to the ground unconscious.
50
Long-march
When trekking overland, unlike the Vanadurin, most armies do not have the luxury of a horse for every man. Hence, in the main, the common soldier marches afoot to reach the battle site. Most often their supplies are hauled by mule- or horse-drawn waggons, and at times heavy armor is hauled by waggon as well, along with spare weaponry.
Any riding horses within a given army are used by scouts and messengers and officers and, if there are enough, by a cavalry.
But, for the most part, the men of the main body march.
Thus it has been and thus it will be and thus it was at Gûnar Slot. . . .
• • •
EVEN AS, FAR TO the north, the Harlingar at Jallor Pass laid their slain upon pyres and sang their souls unto the sky, to the south, at Gûnar Slot, Reyer strode before the massed commanders, Alric and Lord Raden at his side, Digby and Perry trailed after, along with Silverleaf and Conal and Driu. The sun was not yet risen, but dawn was faring toward day. The full of the army had broken their fast in darkness, and then the officers assembled to hear their King.
Reyer leapt to the back of a waggon so that
all could see him in the beginning light, and his gaze swept across the lords and marshals and lieutenants and such, as well as wee Captain Windlow in front. And he smiled down at the Warrow, then he raised his face and called out for all to hear: “This I ask you to say to your men: those who wish to do so can turn about at this time and leave for their homes, for I would not have the unwilling marching with me. Yet this I also say: those who begin the march are henceforth my liegemen, and should anyone then turn away, it will be a breach of fealty, and he will be outcast from my lands to never return. This, too, I declare: once we are engaged in battle, those who turn tail and run, they will suffer the well-deserved fate of cowards. But those who are brave and stand with me, those I shall remember forever, and I shall serve them the best I can, and that is my sworn promise as well as my sworn allegiance to you.”
A murmur swept over those watching, and officers looked at one another and nodded in general agreement, for this youth, as young as he was, well, by his heritage and by his words he was a rightful King.
Reyer raised his voice to quell the rustle and murmur. “On this day, let it be said, that brave men walked at my side.” Even as Reyer stepped forward to leap down, in that very same moment, as if it were an omen, the sun lipped the horizon and illuminated his face and frame, and his golden hair formed a halo about his head, and in that instant he seemed to be more than a king, more than a man, somehow . . . more.
A mighty cheer rose up and calls of “King Reyer, King Reyer” delayed his descent. But finally Reyer signaled Alric, and the lad raised his black-oxen horn to his lips and sounded the call for the march.
And thus began the long walk toward an unknown destiny.
• • •
THEY FARED INTO THE morning shadows of the vast cleft known as Gûnar Slot, a wide pass slashing through the Grimwall Mountains to connect the land of Rell to the realm of Gûnar. Here it was that the Grimwall Mountains changed course: running away westerly on one side of the Slot, curving to the north on the other. And as the march made its way southward, clouds began to gather above, and a wind sprang up to blow in their faces.
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