by Roger Taylor
Ivaroth's eyes widened in alarm at the sight and, instinctively, he slid his hand under his cloak towards his knife.
But even as he touched the hilt, calmer counsels prevailed.
The blind man had never before talked about his past and the hint of defeat in the few words that he had just spoken, addressed themselves to the tactician in Ivaroth. He might … no, would … need to defeat the old man himself one day, and while he was being so forthcoming …
He was about to ask, solicitously, who this master was, and who the cruel swordsman, when, to his horror, he saw that the blind man's fingers had dug into the rock as if it were no more than damp sand. Ivaroth felt the hairs all over his body stand on end.
Then the old man seemed to recover himself, and, casting a sly, sightless glance at Ivaroth, he withdrew his fingers from the rock and, with a longing pass of his hands, made it whole again.
'It is a power beyond your knowing or understanding, Ivaroth,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘But through me, it will give you the power that you seek, the victories, the wealth, the worship of your people, the vengeance of your race.'
'And what will it give you?’ Ivaroth asked, pulling his thick kerchief over his face to disguise the hoarseness of his voice as it struggled from his fear-dried throat.
The old man's face became alive with anticipation. ‘More,’ he said, simply.
It was a chilling answer, but Ivaroth felt himself drawn inexorably forward. ‘And then?’ he pressed.
'Then…’ The old man paused. ‘Then, I shall return and seek my master, and his master in turn. And restore…’ His voice faded again and, though still powerfully curious, Ivaroth did not choose to pursue his questioning. The image of the torn rock hung in his mind. Whatever masters the old man had served in the past, he had no wish to learn of them. At least not at the moment.
Turning away, Ivaroth clicked his horse forward a little way and then dismounted. Peering ahead he could just make out in the distance the red flags that his scouts had positioned to guide the army.
Drawn from the southern tribes who had regularly raided the northern Bethlarii outposts, their mountain lore, though limited, had proved invaluable. ‘The gods favour us, Mareth Hai,’ they had said when they reported to him at daybreak. ‘They bring the cold wind, but they keep at bay the mists. We'll move well today.'
And they had. Indeed they had moved well almost every day since they had left the plains. Mindful of Ivaroth's injunctions, complaining had become a discreet affair throughout the army, confined to low voices and close friends, though few were at ease with the alien terrain.
And not without cause. There had been several fatalities and many injuries as the plains’ people learned about this new, unyielding domain. Unwary feet which dislodged rocks on to those following below; narrow and treacherous paths and too steep slopes that claimed wagons and horses and also those who struggled too long to restrain them; savage winds which toppled the incautious down buffeting crags and into screaming voids.
At the same time a new breed had appeared amidst the disparate tribes that Ivaroth had welded together in this great venture. Men who had looked at the terrain and at the sweating, straining effort of their fellows, and who had directed their own effort into acquiring skills unknown in the plains: widening and strengthening pathways, fixing ropeways, using levers and pulleys.
Ivaroth watched this remarkable metamorphosis but hid his elation as each new piece of ingenuity spared his fighters and moved his army forward. He hid also his distrust for these men with their strange, clear-sighted vision. What did they see when they looked at him? Still, they were like the blind man, they were but men, and susceptible to blade and point.
'Good. You have done well,’ he would say impassively. And they went away aglow with his approval.
A hand caught his elbow. He did not respond, the blind man's cloying grip was all too familiar.
'Soon,’ the old man said, lifting his face upwards as if scenting the air. ‘You are nearer to your old lands than your new.'
'How long?’ Ivaroth asked.
The blind man did not answer. His head was swaying from side to side hypnotically.
Ivaroth did not press his question. It would be to little avail; the old man seemed to have either no concern for, or conception of, time and distance. It was as if part of him, perhaps the greater part of him, existed in some other place.
Later, as the great caravan rested, draped like a thin dark scarf about the shoulders of mountains, Ivaroth amazed his scouts by telling them what they had been about to tell him. A few days, the weather continuing to favour them, and they would be out of the mountains and moving across the rolling foothills. Ahead of them then would be the rich lands of the south.
'Tonight we must visit our allies,’ Ivaroth said to the blind man. ‘To ensure they are still resolute in their purpose.'
The blind man smiled.
Ivaroth turned away from the sight.
Chapter 33
As Arwain dispatched the gallopers to carry the news of the intended attack back to Ibris, his thoughts became as dark as the surrounding night.
'It's no worse than any ambush,’ part of him said.
'It's murdering sleeping men,’ said another.
'You'll not murder many. You'll be lucky if you reach the camp unseen, and if you do, the alarm will be sounded within minutes. Then you'll be fighting for your lives. Outnumbered more than ten to one now they've brought new troops up.'
'But killing men unshriven…'
'There's no good way to die in battle. And they've done it to us often enough in the past.'
'We aren't them.'
'Ah, are we not? We've never done it to them in the past?'
'We've changed.'
'Indeed?'
Silence.
'But you've just sanctioned this deed? Will you account for it when the time comes?'
'The time is now, and I account for it now, to the one who matters the most: myself.'
'Too easy.'
'Killing them may save us, and many others.'
'May is a frail word on which to place this dark and joyless burden; from which to claim necessity.'
'It's all we have. All I have. The treaty, the paper wall that kept us apart, is breached. Breached by them, utterly, and without a vestige of provocation.'
'Not enough.'
Stillness. Then, ‘The last religious war was savage beyond belief. We must defend ourselves.'
'But an unprovoked attack?'
'The assault on Whendrak is provocation by virtue of treaty and historical fact. Serenstad must defend itself, and we, here, cannot risk waiting the enemy's pleasure.'
Silence.
'They'll come definitely, if you attack.'
The arguments began to circle. ‘Yes, but probably quickly, with a small force that we may be able to contain. And if they send a large force, it'll have been delayed and it'll move more slowly.'
'May? If?'
Arwain closed his eyes. For a moment, his mind was choked by a great, entangled, knot of causes and effects which disappeared back into time and far beyond the boundaries of his knowledge.
They ceased suddenly as if they had been severed by a swift sword cut.
'What we do is necessary. It's necessary because we're here, and all other alternatives that we have from here lead … may lead … as far as we can see, to destruction.'
Unsought and unexpected, a vision of his wife, and a great longing for her, intruded on his thoughts and made him falter. But his debate had a momentum of its own, and the vision was swept away even as Arwain reached out to it.
'What myriad happenings brought us here, brought the Bethlarii here, is beyond my sight and my understanding, let alone my unravelling. What we're going to do is necessary and its necessity is the true measure of war.'
The debate faded. Arwain reached up and wiped his brow. It was damp with perspiration despite the morning's chill.
And this necessity was also a measure of hi
s father, he realized. His father, who had determinedly turned his face against the ways of the past and led the Serens and their allies away from such necessities for so many years.
Standing alone in the cold darkness, Arwain resolved that should he and Serenstad survive, he would try to be a better pupil at the feet of this man. Now, however, he must guard his father's life's work by following his teaching and tending to this cruel necessity.
Then Ryllans was by his side. Arwain felt his urgency. The east was greying relentlessly. The mountains would slow the arrival of the morning light at Whendrak, but the attack must not be delayed further or it would be impossible to effect the clandestine retreat that was vital to their intention.
'I'm ready,’ Arwain said, turning towards the Mantynnai. Silence was to cover the vanguard of the Serens’ attack. A great roaring charge might possibly panic the first of the besiegers that they reached, but the Bethlarii were hardened fighters and the very din of battle would probably help them to recover and regroup quickly. In addition, the noise would certainly rouse those in more distant parts of the camp, bringing them to the scene armed and savage.
Thus those among the bodyguard with the skills for the task were now moving silently ahead to kill the sentries as quietly as possible. That done, the main force would move equally silently into the camp, killing and destroying all they could, and then retreat quickly at the first sign of the Bethlarii recovering.
The action had to be swift and lethal, and it was essential that the Bethlarii gain no measure of their true size or they would counter-attack recklessly at first light and Arwain had no illusions about the ability of his battalion to withstand what would surely be a massive and infuriated onslaught by a vastly more numerous army.
Slowly, crouching low, the Serens drew nearer to the camp.
Almost ritualistically, as if for comfort, Arwain's hand kept testing the metal buckles on his belt and scabbards to ensure that the cloths binding them were firm and secure to prevent them from rattling.
The force had been divided into small groups, each of which could fight as a close formation team in the event of unexpected opposition. At the same time, the groups would maintain close contact with their neighbours to minimize the risk of being separated and cut off. The use of such groups would also help to maintain discipline when the fighting-the killing-began.
'This is an action to cause damage and delay,’ Ryllans emphasized. ‘It's not a battle we can win. The last thing we want is anyone running amok, screaming and yelling like some berserker. The Bethlarii will be doing enough of that in due course, and the sooner the camp's roused, the sooner we have to retreat, and the sooner they'll regroup and come after us. Is that clear?'
The shadows around him nodded silently.
'Right. Just remember. Keep quiet, keep your wits about you, advance cautiously, keeping contact with your neighbouring groups, and do your jobs. That way you'll survive.'
Soft, whispering orders sighed through the darkness and the advance stopped. Arwain tightened his grip about his sword. He looked back to see that his group was in good order. They were very near to the camp now.
Presumably not anticipating an attack from either the city, or from along the valley, the Bethlarii had posted few sentries, though several were guarding a partially constructed siege tower. A few lamps revealed their vigil and it was the rapid destruction of these particular guards that Arwain had taken as the task for his own group.
There was a short, high-pitched cry from some way ahead, to the left, followed by some grunting and scuffling. Arwain jumped, as did several of his companions. The noise seemed to ring like a trumpet clarion through the darkness and Arwain felt his already racing heart pound even harder. Deliberately, he took in and released several slow breaths to calm himself, forcing himself to look at the men around the tower.
No stir came from the camp, however, though some of the guards looked about to see what had caused the noise.
Unnecessarily, Arwain held up his hand for both silence and stillness but, after a long moment, the tower guards fell back into their casual watch.
Then, like a poison-tipped arrow, the code-word he had been waiting for and dreading, hissed at him out of the night. The lone sentries were down, move in.
Arwain gestured to his two immediate companions and the three of them stood up and began walking forward casually. The remainder vanished into the darkness.
As they neared the tower, Arwain's companions put their arms about his shoulders, and he drooped his head as if he were sick or injured, and in need of support. They did not speak, but they made no attempt to walk quietly.
As they drew nearer, Arwain scuffed his feet along the ground and coughed.
The sound galvanized the tower guards. ‘Halt,’ one of them called, advancing, his spear levelled.
'It's all right,’ one of Arwain's companions called back with what they had agreed was a passable attempt at a Bethlarii accent. ‘Our mate's cracked his head open, we're looking for the…'
The accent was not good enough.
'Ye gods, they're Serens! Sound the…'
At the first exclamation, however, Arwain had relinquished his supporters and moved forward. He reached the man in three long, swift strides. The movement was so sudden and purposeful that the guard faltered momentarily, and, side-stepping the extended spear, Arwain drove his sword through the man's throat, silencing his cry instantly.
The guard's hands dropped the spear and came up reflexively and futilely to grip the lethal blade. For an instant, Arwain lost his balance. As he struggled to recover it and also retrieve his sword he felt his two companions move past him and engage the other guards. Then the rest of his group were there, at the rear of the distracted guards.
Even as Arwain registered this fact, a figure lunged towards him. Without thinking, he twisted sideways and felt the terrifying draught of a blade passing in front of him. His attacker lurched forward under the impetus of his missed blow and Arwain drove the palm of his free hand into the side of the man's face ferociously. He felt a bone crack, and heard the man utter a strange cry as he staggered under the blow. Arwain tore his sword free from the dying man and struck the reeling figure a blow on the shoulder. The man went down and Arwain struck him again.
Then there was a flare of light. A lamp had been knocked over and the spilled oil had ignited violently. Arwain took in the scene as if it had been some vivid picture hanging in his father's palace. A mass of shadows and men, swirling and moving in some unholy dance, something far away from him, aesthetic almost, to be viewed dispassionately, at leisure.
In the same instant he heard again a score of Ryllans’ training yard reproaches.
'Move, Arwain! Move!'
The distant vision passed from his mind and he saw the scene as it was: shadows and men swirling and moving in terror, rage and bloodlust. He saw too that the guards were losing, and that the fire would probably ignite the whole tower.
Good, he thought, as he drove his sword into a Bethlarii about to bring his foot down on a fallen figure. That'll be useful to the Whendreachi. He pushed the struggling Bethlarii off his sword with his foot and reached down to drag the downed Serens to his feet.
A glance showed him the last guard falling and that all his men were standing, though some appeared to be injured.
How long had it all taken? Scarcely twenty heartbeats something told him, but time had no meaning here. Here there was only now.
Quickly he checked that those injured could continue, then he looked out in the darkness away from the flickering flames beginning to rise up the tower. The night was alive with the shadows of his battalion, moving silently into the Bethlarii camp like a great, engulfing, black tide. Where it passed it would leave only death.
He pointed towards the nearest tent. A figure was crawling out of it. At the sight of the blazing tower, he, like the first guard, faltered, and like the first guard, he died for it as a single blow from Arwain almost severed his head. Then sw
ords cut open the tent, and in a brief orgy of stabbing and hacking, killed the bewildered occupants, before moving swiftly to the next tent.
The deed was repeated along the whole of the Serens’ line. And repeated and repeated.
Arwain did not count how many died. He thought mainly of his next stride forward, knowing that to do otherwise could bring death to him as easily as he brought it to the surprised Bethlarii. Once he thought of those that this cruelty might save, but the thought vanished as he was obliged to deal with an armed Bethlarii who was more quickly aroused than his fellows.
Gradually the night silence began to fill with the cracking and snapping of the burning tower, the sounds of pounding feet, hacking effort, and, increasingly, agonizing cries of bewilderment and terror.
Then it was rent by the shrill alarm cries of escaping survivors. First one, then another, then many, dashing through the camp and rousing whoever they could in their flight.
As this clamouring news of the assault began to outpace the progress of the attackers, so the first rush of the black tide began to peter out, and the Serens found themselves meeting increasing resistance.
It was necessarily disorganized however, and by maintaining their close groups, the Serens were able to continue pushing relentlessly forward for some time, ruthlessly cutting down those Bethlarii who attempted to stand their ground.
For a brief period, and quite by chance, several of the groups came together to form a continuous marching line reminiscent of the traditional pike line in formal battle array. And for that same period, it seemed that panic would indeed overwhelm the Bethlarii as they fled before it.
The Serens’ line advanced triumphantly.
By the light from the burning tower, Arwain saw the group nearest his own accelerate and surge off into the darkness.
His stomach went cold. ‘Close up, close up. They've separated from us,’ he hissed to his own group.
Over to his right he heard the mounting noise of the wakening camp. He and Ryllans had discussed the many dangers inherent in this attack. The greatest, they concluded, was not the possibility of being overwhelmed by direct resistance, but in fact the contrary. It was the possibility that the Bethlarii immediately in front of the attack would crumble and that as a consequence, the Serens would move too far forward, perhaps even breaking through the Bethlarii circle, only to find it closing about them in awakened force and leaving them with their backs to the city wall.
