by Roger Taylor
And none would have disobeyed Ivaroth's commands even had they wanted to.
After a breathless, galloping, hacking interval, a rider, shadow-like and stark against a backdrop of the blazing camp, reined his horse to a halt before his leader. ‘It's done, lord,’ he proclaimed triumphantly.
Ivaroth stared at him, unseeing, for a moment, until the features of his lieutenant came into focus.
'All dead, Endryn?’ he asked in regretful surprise, lowering his bloodstained sword.
'All dead, lord,’ Endryn confirmed. ‘Now the Ensceini menfolk can do no other than come against us and perish for their arrogance in defying your will. Then your leadership of all the tribes will be beyond dispute.'
Ivaroth bared his teeth exultantly, then jumped down from his horse, tore a shawl from the hacked corpse of a woman lying nearby and began cleaning his sword with it.
When he had finished, he squinted, narrow-eyed, along the blade, wrinkling his nose irritably as he fingered the edge where it had been turned in places. ‘We must spare some of the city blacksmiths when we get there,’ he said. ‘I hear they make fine swords.'
As he sheathed the sword, the cloth in his hand caught his eye and he brought it close to his face for examination in the flickering firelight. Though soiled, its fine weave and delicate coloured patterning were clearly visible and along its tasselled edge hung tiny, carved wooden figures.
'Weavers and carvers,’ he sneered. ‘The Ensceini would have been of no value to us anyway, with their women's ways. Better that they at least die as men.'
Contemptuously he threw the shawl away and remounted his horse.
'To camp, Endryn,’ he said. ‘Leave our sign here and make sure that our trail is clear. The Ensceini may be great hunters, but I want this matter ended quickly now, and I've no desire to be waiting about for days while they search us out. We've greater deeds to move to and the sooner we get back to Carthak, the better.'
A low red sun broke through the clouds as Ivaroth and his troop rode away from the camp. It threw long shadows across the harsh plains’ grass, and until it sank below the horizon it also threw the wavering shadow of the black smoke from the burning camp along their path like a grim warning finger.
Within two days it seemed that Ivaroth's wish was to be fulfilled. The Ensceini men emerged from the morning mist carrying their battle flags.
Despite Ivaroth's arrogant dismissal of their worth, however, their sudden appearance caused a wave of alarm to spread through the camp, for they stood silent and unmoving along the broad summit of a nearby hill, appearing first as dark shadows and then as grey uncertain monoliths as the sunless dawn broke. Their skill as hunters was legendary among the tribes and none of the camp guards had heard them arrive or could say how long they had been standing there in their eerie vigil.
Thus Ivaroth was wakened by a sudden panic-stricken clamour from the alarm bell.
'They could have been on us with fire horses while we slept! Cut us down as we groped for our swords!’ He could hear the words flying round the camp even as he focused on the waiting figures.
Then, chillingly, ‘Why are they not afraid?'
And because of them, Ivaroth spared his guards the summary punishment they might justly have expected for such negligence, for he knew that each hasty blow to a guard would have reverberated through the camp like a clarion call, confirming the very aptness of the fears and tipping his army over into panic.
Spared all save one, that is; the guard who had sounded the alarm. Him, he felled with his own bell-striker.
'You disturb my sleep with your clatter,’ he said, handing the man his striker back and kicking him casually as he rose, to let him know that he was being treated leniently.
Then he turned towards the waiting Ensceini and sniffed. They were still silent and motionless. That they had not chosen to fire the camp when they had the opportunity was yet another measure of their weakness, and too, he realized, the protection that his destiny afforded him. Now they would pay for their folly with their lives the easier and all the sooner.
'They're waiting because they're in no rush to join their womenfolk,’ he said with dismissive scorn. Incongruously, his stomach rumbled in the morning stillness. He patted it and grinned malevolently. ‘Mount up. We'll eat afterwards. The exercise will sharpen your appetites.'
Thus Ivaroth took his army's fear and turned it into courage and confidence once more.
The Ensceini did not move as Ivaroth's horde began to ooze from the camp like a vast, uneasy mudslide. As they began to move up the shallow hill however, one of the waiting riders moved forward, bearing a flag of truce.
Ivaroth signalled a halt and, nodding to his two companions to accompany him, continued up the hill to meet the lone rider.
As he drew nearer Ivaroth recognized the man.
'Ho, Wrenyk son of Wrenyk,’ he shouted. ‘Is it the Ensceini way to send a boy to do a man's work? Where is your father? You've caused me much trouble and I'd hoped to receive his apology from his own lips.'
'With my mother,’ the young man replied, his voice unsteady. ‘The sight of your handiwork took the life from him as surely as if you had speared him yourself.'
Ivaroth shrugged indifferently. ‘It's a pity he didn't die sooner,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps your tribe wouldn't have been misled by his foolishness and would have joined us. And all this need not have happened.'
'It need not have happened anyway, you hell hound.’ Wrenyk's passion burst out and his horse shied a little. ‘What harm did we offer you or your vaulting ambition that you had to slaughter our women and children?’ Ivaroth's companions closed about their leader, protectively, but he waved them aside and walked his horse forward until he was within a pace of the young man.
Wrenyk was pale, and his face was bewildered and stained with dried tears. He was covered in dust from riding, and black ash from the razed camp, and he held his reins tightly to stop their trembling as his raging inner turmoil contended with his fear before the menacing presence of the man who had become at once the unifier and the scourge of all the tribes of the plains.
'You're young and foolish, Wrenyk,’ Ivaroth said darkly. ‘Scarcely into manhood, for all you might think otherwise. You should have let one of your uncles undertake this task. They've cooler and wiser heads and are better versed in the acceptance of such matters. If you've come here with this sorry remnant for vengeance or reparation you'll find neither. And if you don't listen to me then the Ensceini will perish utterly this day, and in neither song nor saga will they be heard of again.'
Then he relaxed and became almost avuncular. ‘But I'm an understanding man, young Wrenyk. I've children of my own-somewhere.’ His two companions joined in his lecherous laugh. ‘I'll forgive you your hasty tongue, and give you and your men one more chance to live. Accept my leadership and join the confederation of the tribes and together we'll sweep down through the mountains and reclaim our ancient lands to the south. Honour, glory, and battle lie by one hand, with more than enough women and … goods … to replace those you've lost. But by the other hand lies certain death. Think well, chieftain, before you speak. You have the fate of others in your gift.’ He looked significantly at the still motionless riders cresting the hill.
Wrenyk fought to control his face. ‘My answer is the same as my father's,’ he replied eventually, his voice quieter. ‘We came in our battle array not to threaten but to show you our weakness. We can't avenge ourselves nor do we seek weregild for our dead. We acknowledge your domination of the tribes of the plains, but we ask that you leave us alone. We want none of your folly. We live at peace with this land and all its creatures and its plants and its endless mystery. We have neither need nor desire to bring flame and sword to the peoples of distant lands. To bring to others the pain that we ourselves are feeling even now.'
'Desire!’ Ivaroth snarled, suddenly angered by the young man's grief and the seeming absence of any wish for vengeance. ‘My intentions for the south aren't some
idle whim. They're the destiny of our people. The southlands were ours before the sea people drove our ancestors out and forced us to retreat to this…’ He waved his arm across the plains about them. ‘…this bleak wasteland.'
Wrenyk followed the sweeping arm and his eyes became sad. ‘You're as blind as you're demented, Ivaroth,’ he said. ‘You see only a wilderness while I, even in my youth, see true riches. And you speak of old camp fire tales and fables about the south as though they were as true and real as a quarrel about last season's hunting.’ Contempt began to mingle with his sorrow. ‘But, setting that aside, great leader of men,’ he went on. ‘Haven't your kin in the border tribes told you about the mountains with their great crags and narrow pathways where a missed footing can hurl man and horse into depths unimaginable?’ The contempt became withering. ‘We're a plains’ people, Ivaroth, not mountain-dwellers. And horses are plains’ animals. And has no one told you about the stone-faced Bethlarii who guard the passes and relish nothing more than cruel fighting in that terrain?'
He pointed to the south. ‘Blood, pain and death are all that await you and all that follow you there, Ivaroth, believer of children's fireside tales and murderer of women and children.'
Ivaroth, stunned by Wrenyk's tirade, sat motionless for a moment. Then he started forward, his face livid, as if to strike him. But Wrenyk did not flinch. Instead he suddenly stared into his eyes intently. Ivaroth hesitated. Wrenyk's eyes were like his own. The irises were black, like deep pits.
'Ah,’ Wrenyk said softly, his voice breathless with both fear and realization. ‘I see you truly now. You have the sight as I do. You walk the dreams of others. It's you who's brought the demon to our nights. You who's been possessed by it. And it's you it uses for its own ends! How could I not have seen.’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘Abomination! I…'
Before he could finish however, Ivaroth had deftly pivoted his spear in its saddle sheath and with a powerful thrust, run him clean through.
Wrenyk cried out in pain and shock, but then he wrapped his hands around the shaft to prevent Ivaroth withdrawing it. Leaning forward on to it, he whimpered, childlike. Then, his face close to Ivaroth's, he opened his mouth and breathed in his face. Ivaroth flinched away but, held by his own grip to his spear, he could not withdraw. With unexpected vigour, Wrenyk suddenly spat at him and, releasing the spear, wiped one hand down Ivaroth's cheek. It left a smear of dust and black ash.
'By air, water, earth and fire, I curse you, Ivaroth,’ Wrenyk gasped, scarcely able to speak. ‘Would I had the flame here that would sere your accursed black soul, but…’ His voice faded and he began to grope for a dagger in his belt. As he did so, Ivaroth wrenched his spear free. Wrenyk cried out again, and with one hand clutched at his bleeding wound while with the other he gripped his saddle in an instinctive attempt to avoid the rider's indignity of tumbling from his horse.
'There are others, abomination,’ he whispered painfully. ‘Others who walk the dreams and who will oppose…'
Ivaroth swung the spear round and struck him viciously on the temple with its weighted butt. The impact tore Wrenyk out of his saddle, but he uttered no sound other than a harsh gasp as he crashed on to the hard earth.
Deliberately, Ivaroth jerked his horse round to trample on the still form, kicking it into brief, grotesque life. Then he raised his spear high, a great cry forming in his throat.
It faltered before it left him, however, as he looked again at the ridge of the hill. It was empty. The Ensceini had gone. Drifted softly away like the morning mist while all eyes had been on the two leaders.
For a moment the sudden shock turned his stomach into ice and the trembling that had possessed Wrenyk's hands threatened to take over his own.
Feverishly he fought for control of his wilful body, keeping his face away from his men. For a moment he felt the great momentum of his destiny waver. Then, as the abyss opened before him, he was himself again.
His face furious, he rounded on his waiting riders.
'Donkeys!’ he thundered. ‘Blind, brainless donkeys. Isn't there one pair of eyes among you?’ The entire mass of riders moved back as one under the weight of his anger. Then, as he paused, sensing the declaration of a dire punishment for their neglect, they forestalled it with the same spontaneous unanimity by simultaneously moving forward with a great cry before he could pronounce it.
Rapidly gathering speed, they poured up the hillside like a great, breaking wave.
Ivaroth, standing in their path, found, as leaders have before, that he had little alternative but to lead the charge.
Wrenyk's body was crushed beyond recognition by the same hooves that had destroyed his tribe.
But the furious charge was to little avail. When the leading riders reached the top of the hill, only a few of the Ensceini were to be seen, and they were travelling at great speed in different directions. The rest were gone; vanished like campfire smoke into the vast, deceptive terrain that they knew so well.
Ivaroth reined his horse to a halt and wiped Wrenyk's spittle from his face. He watched the distant, fleeing figures fade into the landscape and cursed silently to himself. That had been an ill finish to what should have been the final act of his conquest of the many tribes of the plains.
The Ensceini were to have been publicly and conspicuously crushed not only for their continued opposition to his will but also to stiffen the resolve of some of his less enthusiastic allies. Now, scattered and leaderless, they could offer him no opposition, but their strange departure might ensure that part of them would linger in the minds of his superstitious followers. That, at least, he could crush.
'We've no time to chase wisps of dead grass over the plains.’ His powerful personality washed over his now silent followers. ‘The Ensceini are no more. They've paid the price of their defiance. Now, united, we shall prepare for our greater destiny.’ And with a mighty cry, he turned his horse about and galloped back down towards the camp.
As the riders turned in response, the cry, ‘Ivaroth, Mareth Hai! Ivaroth, Mareth Hai!’ began to be heard, and as they reached the camp, it was ringing out in a great, echoing roar.
Mareth Hai. First and greatest. Great leader. King emperor. The words held many meanings with the many tribes, but above all they meant that his power was now absolute and beyond question.
The acclamation swept away the lingering remnants of dismay at the escape of the Ensceini and of Wrenyk's black-eyed sight into his soul. Ivaroth rode the sound as he might ride a string of chained horses in the Mirifest, the great annual celebration of riding skills that, hitherto, had been the only uniting element in the lives of the plains’ tribes.
Faintly, like a slave whispering in his ear as he rode in triumph, however, Wrenyk's last words returned to him. ‘There are others who walk the dreams…'
They were as nothing, however, amid the jubilation and exhilaration and it took little effort on his part to dismiss them. Many strange, terrifying things happened in his night wanderings, but with the blind man as his guide and guardian he was protected from all ills when asleep just as he was protected in his waking hours.
'Ivaroth, Mareth Hai!'
The cry seemed to hover in the air about him, all through the breaking of the camp and the return south to the huge, almost permanent, camp at Carthak that had become the base for his conquest of the tribes.
It grieved some of his closest personal allies that he seemed to be abandoning their traditional wandering ways, and there were, indisputably, many serious problems associated with living in a large fixed camp.
The concerns he eased with a mixture of blandishment and encouragement. ‘It'll not be for long … The harder we strive, the sooner we can go our ways again … Are we incapable of doing what the enfeebled city dwellers of the south do?'
The problems he solved by brutal delegation. ‘Deal with it,’ he would say, usually to the bringer of the problem. And it soon became apparent that that was to be the totality of his involvement. After some spectacular demonst
rations, few returned to their leader with excuses, however valid, about why they had not been able to achieve this or that object.
Those problems that he could not solve were those he suffered from himself. Those that were written into the very nature of the people. For the plains’ people were wanderers, and the children of wanderers for unknown numbers of generations. To remain still was to be imprisoned.
Yet they remained in one place, held there ostensibly by Ivaroth's will and the needs of his wars of conquest, but in reality held by the strange needs of the blind man.
'This land is rich in the ancient powers,’ was all that he would offer Ivaroth on the rare occasions when he was at once coherent and in a mood to explain.
Ivaroth, however, was able to use the subtle anguish produced by this defiance of the tribespeople's basic natures to weld together the savage and angry heart of his huge army.
'When we are done, we shall have the entire world to roam in and none shall gainsay us.'
It was the elder Wrenyk's querying, and subsequent rejection of this promise that had led ultimately to his death and his tribe's downfall.
As the caravan neared Carthak, Ivaroth looked at the sprawling, ragged jumble of tents appearing on the horizon, their curved, peaked roofs seeming to mimic the mountains behind them to the south.
Carthak was built on the site that his tribe had been camping on when he had been expelled, and he could never approach it now without recalling his return from that brief exile, riding Ketsath's horse through the low morning mist and carrying a strange, hooded figure behind him.
A child gathering water from a stream had been the first to see him. She had looked up, wide-eyed and alarmed, as his horse had clattered on the stones fringing the curve of the opposite shore. There had been a brief pause and then recognition had dawned and she had turned and fled, calling out to her father. The pitcher she had been using rocked for a moment then tumbled over slowly to return most of its contents to the stream.
