by Roger Taylor
'It's very … comfortable. And kind of you to let us use it.’ Antyr's reply was a little awkward. He was fairly certain that the wagon would have been commandeered, and that they were about to be subjected to some acrimony on that account.
Bannor, however, simply inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Known the Duke a long time.'
'You know the Duke?’ Antyr could not keep the surprise from his voice.
Bannor nodded again, but did not amplify his observation immediately.
'Good man,’ he said, after another long pause. ‘Asked me to look after you.'
There was a chuckle from Tarrian. ‘Deep one, this,’ he said. ‘And quiet. Pleasure to be with. Not like you rattling townies.'
Antyr ignored the jibe.
'How do you come to know the Duke?’ he asked, speaking slowly in an attempt to make his curiosity seem less strident against Bannor's patient demeanour.
'Fighting,’ Bannor answered.
Antyr nodded. How else? he thought.
'And you?’ The echo of his own question from Bannor, albeit leisurely, caught Antyr unawares. He had a fleeting image of slow plodding feet following a plough; feet that would neither quicken nor slow with the terrain, but would continue relentlessly until the whole field was turned, and would then carry their owner to his hearth at the same pace.
'He … sent for us,’ Antyr replied eventually, fiddling with his ring of office.
Bannor nodded slightly and sucked on his pipe. ‘Knows his men, the Duke,’ he said. ‘Always did.'
And that seemed to be the end of the matter; at least for the time being. Antyr was quietly relieved. He made a note to himself to be careful with this seemingly slow countryman. He sensed no malice in him, but realized that his relaxed manner might extract confidences more readily than the craftiest Liktor. He wondered how many more ordinary people the Duke bound with old ties of personal loyalty. Probably a great many, he decided.
He turned his gaze to the baggage train ahead of them. Many of the wagons were of a standard army design, but the majority were obviously modified farm vehicles, although there were also hospital wagons and several specially made house wagons to accommodate the administrative personnel that were an integral and vital part of Ibris's army.
He leaned out and glanced back at the train behind them. In the distance he could see the lavish wagons that housed the lady Nefron and her entourage. It added an unnatural sense of incongruity to the scene. Like most Serens he knew the rumours about the reason for Nefron's confinement to the Erin-Mal, but official pronouncements had always resolutely maintained that she was ‘plagued by ill health'. Now she was suddenly recovered and trailing dutifully after her husband, ‘for the morale of the troops'.
Not for mine, though, Antyr thought, remembering that it was her unseen touch that had brought him to Menedrion.
He sided with the current refectory wisdom; Ibris had released her to guarantee greater unity among the various factions that comprised the city's government, but he didn't want her left to her own devices in Serenstad.
Antyr shrugged the conjectures aside. Whatever their truth, he had more urgent matters to occupy him.
'Double your guard on myself and Menedrion,’ Ibris had said to him and Pandra before they had left Serenstad. ‘I know you feel I'm strong enough to protect myself, but we're all of us going to be increasingly tired and preoccupied, and this bond between Menedrion and Arwain is too vague for me to rest easy with-especially as they're a long way apart now. Besides, with this matter coming to a head, who knows what … they'll … do before it's finished.'
Antyr could not dispute this precautionary recommendation, though he had expressed some concern that, not fully understanding what was happening, he might prove inadequate to the task.
Ibris could well have replied that, inadequate or not, Antyr was all they had to oppose these strange attackers, but instead he just looked at him and said, bluntly, ‘You won't be.'
It had done little to reassure Antyr, but he had done as he was bidden and, with Tarrian and Grayle, had assiduously guarded the Duke's sleeping hours, while Pandra and Kany had guarded Menedrion's. In addition, they had wandered through the night thoughts of the camp in search of the untoward. It had been a disturbing experience, full of doubts and fears and longings for home, shot through with red and screaming strands of madness and bloodlust. But they had found nothing unusual and had reported the same to the Duke.
Ibris had nodded knowingly. ‘They're waiting,’ he said. ‘Waiting to see what happens at Whendrak. Don't lower your guard.'
What guard? Antyr mused wryly, as the comment came back to him, but he did not voice the question.
Alongside the baggage train, the infantry flank guards were walking stolidly on in loose order, some alone and silent, others in groups, talking and laughing; above all, laughing.
The sound brought back memories to Antyr of his own time in the line; there were few things to compare with the camaraderie brought about by a common discipline and a common danger. And it lingered long after grimmer memories had sunk into the darker recesses of the mind.
Perhaps it was this selective recollection that helped keep such monstrous folly as war alive in the world, he thought, with a mixture of irony and bitterness as he looked at the young faces walking beside his wagon. Always it was the young who paid the price of their elders’ greed and pride and foolishness.
Yet people were predominantly forward-looking and hopeful, and by their nature they could not, would not, burden themselves constantly with the horrific memories that were necessary if such folly was to be prevented in future.
Balance was all. To remember all was to choke the future with the vomit of the past. To forget all was to leave the ground fallow for its re-creation.
'A deci for your thoughts,’ a voice said, interrupting his reverie. It was Estaan. He jumped up on to the wagon.
He was smiling broadly and Antyr responded as he moved along the seat to make a space for him. ‘They're worth more than that,’ he said with a profound shake of his head. ‘I've just solved all the world's problems.'
Estaan declined the seat and remained standing on the edge of the platform, supporting himself by holding the corner upright of the wagon. He drew in a hissing breath laden with reservation. ‘We'd better recruit another army then,’ he said. ‘It's people like you who start wars.'
Then he laughed loudly, infecting Antyr and Pandra and even raising a soft, shaking chuckle from Bannor.
As he subsided, it occurred to Antyr, not for the first time, that here was balance. The Mantynnai knew, remembered, and progressed. They protected the weak and they taught the less able to protect themselves where they could. Much of his time training with Estaan had been spent in considering the harsh logic of violence, and the insight derived from that revealed many other things. Indeed, it was a defensive weapon as potent as any sword and any amount of instruction in its use.
'It's a fine day, gentlemen,’ Estaan went on. He lifted his head and scented the air. ‘The fields are preparing for rest. Winter's on its way, sharp and clear.'
'We are going to war,’ Antyr said in some surprise at this enthusiasm.
'We're not there yet, and it's still a fine day whether we have a war or not,’ Estaan retorted, smiling again. He leaned out from the wagon and made an expansive gesture. ‘Look at those birds, those trees, everything.'
Further debate on the matter was ended, however, by the arrival of a messenger. Antyr judged that he was scarcely of an age to be serving his compulsory army duty. Probably lied about his age, he thought, and, with the thought, he had a vision of fretful parents moving about their house in awkward silence, unable to look at one another for fear that they would see in each other's eyes the spectre that the boy had invoked.
'Lord Antyr,’ the boy began, breathless and flushed. ‘Would you attend on the Duke immediately, please.'
Tarrian chuckled at the boy's wide-eyed promo
tion of the Dream Finder to the aristocracy. ‘He's probably misheard,’ he said. ‘The Duke probably said old, not lord.'
'We'll be along straight away,’ Antyr replied to the messenger, poking Tarrian with the toe of his boot.
Estaan jumped down from the wagon and Antyr followed him. He unhitched the horses from the back of the wagon and handed Antyr the reins, then he watched with quiet approval as Antyr carefully adjusted his sword before he mounted.
Tarrian and Grayle jumped down also and, weaving nimbly through the infantry, disappeared at speed into the fields.
Kany's stern, and very loud, injunction followed them. ‘No rabbits!'
The ‘or else!’ implicit in the tone made even Antyr quail.
It took the two men some time to reach the head of the long, marching column, and when they did, there was little of Estaan's appreciation of the day to be found.
The interior of the large wagon that the Duke was using as his march headquarters contrasted starkly with the surroundings in which Antyr had previously seen him. Its lines were simple and functional and it was undecorated and contained nothing, as far as Antyr could see, that was not absolutely necessary.
Antyr took in the whole ambience of the place instantly as he and Estaan were ushered in by a guard. Yet he belongs here just as he belongs in one of his lavish staterooms, he thought, as he saw the Duke sitting at a small, robust table. He was facing the door.
Looking up, the Duke nodded an acknowledgement, as did Menedrion and Ciarll Feranc who were sitting at the sides of the table.
A slight frown crossed Ibris's face and he gestured to the guard who had admitted Antyr and Estaan.
'Arrange for Antyr's wagon to be brought to join the advance train here. It's too far away,’ he said. ‘Attend to it immediately, please.
'I want to keep you up to date with everything that's happening,’ he said to Antyr, as the officer left. ‘I don't know how you ended up in the baggage train, but…’ He shrugged dismissively and picked up a paper from the table.
'We've had word from Arwain,’ he went on. ‘When he arrived at Whendrak he found two full Bethlarii divisions surrounding the city and more troops arriving. To delay them from moving down the valley, he launched an attack last night which inflicted quite heavy casualties on the enemy, and he's now taking up a defensive position in anticipation of their response.'
A battalion against two divisions! Antyr thought. He could not read the Duke's impassive face, but either Arwain had taken leave of his senses or the situation at Whendrak was truly desperate. A scuffling outside the door interrupted his conjecture.
Antyr's head suddenly filled with characteristic abuse, then there was a loud bark and the door was banged open noisily.
'Sorry. He didn't seem to know who we were,’ Tarrian said to everyone as he dropped down on to all fours. He and Grayle padded noisily across the wooden floor. An indignant and flustered guard appeared in the open doorway.
Impassive at the heroism or folly of his son, Ibris allowed his irritation to show at this trivial incident. ‘He didn't,’ he said crossly. ‘It's just another administrative oversight.'
He waved to the guard. ‘It's all right,’ he said. ‘These animals are quite tame, they're to be allowed to roam where they please.'
'Tame!’ Tarrian's indignation, however, was for the Duke and Antyr only.
Ibris ignored the protest and continued. ‘See that that is clearly understood by everyone. Interfering with them will be a disciplinary offence.'
The guard saluted nervously and left.
Ibris levelled two fingers at the two wolves. ‘That is not carte blanche for you to raid every kitchen tent in the column,’ he said sternly. ‘I shall regard that as looting. Is that clear?'
'Yes,’ came a rather sulky reply after a short pause.
Ibris nodded, and the sternness fell away from him. ‘Keep away from the men,’ he said. ‘There's endless scope for misunderstandings and accidents in these circumstance and I don't want either of you injured.'
Antyr gave Tarrian a sharp, private command to stay silent, and Ibris returned to his message from Arwain.
'As a result of his action we're sending two divisions up at speed, to meet with one from Stor.’ He looked at Antyr, who was wondering what relevance all this activity was to him. ‘They'll be under the command of Menedrion, and I'd like you to go with him. Pandra can stay here and keep an eye on me.'
The relevance explained, Antyr's stomach sank; he had no desire to be rushing towards a battlefield behind Menedrion's banner. He'd done his part when it was needed, he shouldn't be asked to do it again. It was too much.
But other thoughts came through the fear. Despite the seeming quiet of the past few nights, the Duke's eldest son still needed to be protected. And with Arwain, Menedrion and the Bethlarii in close proximity, who could tell how vulnerable this would make them to the Mynedarion and his guide? Antyr felt again the weight of his own ignorance about these unseen assailants.
However, Pandra couldn't do it. Not the journey, nor, in all probability, any defence of the dreamers against a serious assault.
Somewhere he felt choices falling away from him; felt his feet being drawn down a path determined by others.
But to where? Into what darkness?
'Tarrian? Grayle?’ he reached out to them silently.
For a brief instant he was surrounded by sensations and a deep, ancient knowing, that were at once profoundly familiar and utterly alien to him. And they were sharp and intense.
I am wolf, a fading, distant part of his mind thought before it vanished.
All around was fear and reluctance; and a terrible longing to return to a place far away. A place of endless freedom and light, of great beauty, where a great harmony prevailed.
And, too, the place of his birth, the place of the song, of the …
He was himself again.
'We have some measure of your burden as you have of ours, Antyr,’ Tarrian said, his voice subdued, shocked even. ‘We'll stay with you to the end, or until our strength fails us.'
Antyr looked at the Duke. ‘We'll do whatever you wish, sire,’ he said.
Chapter 34
Efnir was a small hamlet of perhaps twenty families situated in the shadow of the mountains that marked the far northern edge of Bethlarii territory. It was an isolated, self-sufficient community, far from the mainstream of Bethlarii life, but its people were of a traditional, old-fashioned disposition, and it was a matter of some pride to them that when the Hanestra called on men for the army, Efnir would always play its full part, and would not stint on its duty.
Thus it stood now empty of men, other than the very young and the very old.
Not that this greatly affected daily life. The departure of the men was not particularly welcomed, but it was not uncommon in any Bethlarii community, ‘The army must be kept in good order', and life was arranged accordingly.
Now, more than ever, any distress at the leaving of the men was thoroughly hidden beneath stern, determined faces, for this time it was no training exercise that the men had gone to, it was war. This time, sons and husbands had been sent off by their proud mothers and wives with an embrace and the time-honoured edict, ‘Return with your shield, or on it.'
'The Serens have assailed our people in Whendrak, in breach of the treaty, and the city is to be returned at last to its true allegiance.'
There had been some slight, extremely polite, questioning … requests for clarification … of the priestly acolyte who had brought the news, but, as was fitting, he had not been pressed, and, as had become the way these days, he had confined many of his answers to, ‘It is the will of Ar-Hyrdyn.'
Despite this divine reassurance, there had been some unease … suspicion? … among the men that all was not as it should be. Such of them as travelled at all, knew that the Serens had gone their own way for many years now, seemingly indifferent to rekindling the flames of old conflicts.
And surely there would be no Bethl
arii community at Whendrak? It was a city mired in trade and commerce. There might well be Serens there, of course; they were a mongrel breed quite without honour and pride, and capable of anything. But there would be no Bethlarii there, surely?
Certainly no true Bethlarii.
And, too, there was some concern about the … intensity … of the priests who seemed to be rising high in political power up there in Bethlar.
But these doubts had scarcely found voice, other than obliquely. For as each man looked at his neighbour he saw only a reflection of his own face with its expression of a grim willingness to observe the ancient, trusted code of unquestioning submission to the Hanestra. At such times, even to show doubt was to preach dissension and that would surely bring about public or worse, private, denunciation and thence, disgrace, banishment, perhaps even death.
Thus the men of Efnir, full of confidence and bravado, left their homes and their wives and mothers, ‘for the good of the state', which, of course, was above them all.
Magret and her ten-year-old son, Faren, went over the field towards the place from where they normally drew their water. It was a cold day, a bitter wind blowing down from the mountains that dominated the tiny hamlet.
Magret adjusted her shawl. ‘When we've done this, we must go up to the forest with the others to help collect firewood; we'll be needing plenty soon,’ she said to her son, pulling the wide collar of his tunic up about his red ears.
With an accurate imitation of his father's scowl, Faren pushed it down again and straightened up to face the cold wind; a man should not concern himself with such discomforts.
Magret smiled to herself at the gesture, but, unwittingly, a little sadly, as pride at her son's spirit mingled with those deeper currents that told her, far below the well-learned patriotic responses that passed for thought, that these men and their warring, strutting ways, were fools beyond description; tragic fools.
The stream was wide and slow-moving where they stopped to fill their earthenware jars. It had bubbled and cascaded down rocky channels and over steep edges before it came here, and but a few paces further downstream it would chatter off again on its way down to the lowlands and the great rivers. But here it was slow and placid, as if gathering its breath after such a journey, and readying itself for the next.
