To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  “She’s fine,” Simon shot back. “She’s stronger than you think.”

  “The Thrithings-folk know horses if they know anything,” Sludig said over his shoulder. He turned away from the tree trunk, lacing his breeches. “Do not be so proud, Simon.”

  Simon stared at the Rimmersman for a moment before speaking. “It is not pride. I rode this horse a long way. I will keep her.”

  Hotvig raised his hand placatingly. “I did not mean to make you angry. It is just that you are thought of well by Prince Josua. You are his knight. You could have one of our fleet clan-horses for the asking.”

  Simon turned his stare on the braid-bearded grasslander, then tried to smile. “I know you meant it well, Hotvig, and one of your horses would be a gift indeed. But this is different. I called this horse Homefinder, and that is where she will go with me. Home.”

  “And where is that home, young thane?” asked one of the other Thrithings-men.

  “The Hayholt,” Simon said firmly.

  Hotvig laughed. “The place where Josua’s brother rules? You and your horse must be mighty travelers indeed, to ride into such fierce weather.”

  “That’s as may be.” Simon turned to look at the others, squinting against the oblique afternoon light streaming past the trees. “If you’re all ready, it’s time to go. If we wait longer, the storm may die. We’ll be under the light of an almost full moon tonight. I’d rather have the snow and the sentries all hunkered down over a fire.”

  Sludig started to say something, then thought better of it. The Thrithings-men nodded in agreement and swung easily into their saddles.

  “Lead on, thane.” Hotvig’s laugh was short but not unfriendly. The little company eased down out of the copse and back into the bitter clutches of the wind.

  Simon was almost as grateful for the simple chance to do something as he was of this evidence of Josua’s trust. The days of increasingly bad weather, coupled with the important duties granted to his companions but not to him, had left Simon restless and ill-tempered. Binabik, Geloë, and Strangyeard were in deep discussion over the swords and the Storm King; Deornoth oversaw the arming and preparing of New Gadrinsett’s ragtag army; even Sangfugol, thankless as he found the task, had Towser to watch. Before Prince Josua had called him to his tent, Simon had begun to feel as he had in days he had hoped long past—like a drummer boy hurrying along after the Imperator’s soldiers.

  “Just a little spying work,” Josua had called this task, but to Simon it was almost as splendid as the moment he had been knighted. He was to take some of Hotvig’s grasslanders and ride out for a look at the approaching force.

  “Don’t do anything,” the prince had said emphatically. “Just look. Count tents—and horses if you see them. Look for banners and crests if there’s enough light. But don’t be seen, and if you are, ride away. Quickly.”

  Simon had promised. A knight leading men to war: that was what he had become. Impatient to be off on this glorious quest, he had squirmed—unobtrusively, he hoped—as he waited for Josua to finish with his instructions.

  Sludig, surprisingly, had asked to come along. The Rimmersman was still smarting over Simon’s high honors, but Simon suspected that, like Simon himself, Sludig was feeling a little left out, and would even prefer being Simon’s subordinate for a short time to the frustration of waiting atop Sesuad’ra. Sludig was a warrior, not a general: the Rimmersman was interested only when the fighting became real, blade on blade.

  Hotvig had also offered his services. Simon guessed that Prince Josua, who had come to both like and trust the Thrithings-man, might have asked Hotvig to go along and keep an eye on his youngest knight. Surprisingly, this possibility did not bother Simon. He had begun to understand a little of the burden of power, and knew that Josua was trying to do his best for all concerned. So, Simon had decided, let Hotvig be Josua’s eye: he would give the grasslander something good to report.

  The storm was worsening. All the Stefflod river valley was covered with snow, the river itself only a dark streak running through a field of white. Simon pulled his cloak tight and wrapped his woolen scarf more tightly around his face.

  The Thrithings-men, for all their confident bantering, were more than a little frightened by the changes the storm winds had brought to their familiar grasslands. Simon saw their eyes widen as they looked around, the uneasy way they spurred their horses through the deeper drifts, the small reflexive signs to ward evil that they made with crossed fingers. Only Sludig, child of the frozen north, seemed unaffected by the bleak weather.

  “This is truly a black winter,” said Hotvig. “If I had not already believed Josua when he said there was an evil spirit at work, I would believe him now.”

  “A black winter, yes—and summer only just ended.” Sludig flicked snow from his eyes. “The lands north of the Frostmarch have not seen a spring for more than a year. We fight against more than men.”

  Simon frowned. He did not know how superstitious the clan men were, but he did not want to stir up any fears that might interfere with their task. “It is a magical storm,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the cloak-snapping wind, “but it’s still only a storm. The snows can’t hurt you—but they might freeze off your tail.”

  One of the Thrithings-men turned to him with a grin. “If tails freeze, then you will suffer most, young thane, riding that bony horse.” The other men chortled. Simon, pleased at the way he had changed the conversation, laughed with them.

  Afternoon swiftly melted into evening as they rode, a journey almost silent but for the soft chuffing of the horses’ hooves and the eternal moaning of the wind. The sun, which had been overmatched by clouds all day, at last gave up and dropped down below the low hills. A violet, shadowless light enveloped the valley. Soon it was almost too dark for the little company to see where they rode; the moon, enmeshed in clouds, was all but invisible. There was no sign of stars.

  “Should we stop and make camp?” Hotvig shouted above the wind.

  Simon considered for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said at last. “We are not too far away—maybe another hour’s riding at most. I think we could risk a torch.”

  “Should we also blow some trumpets?” Sludig asked loudly. “Or perhaps we could find some criers to run ahead and announce that we are coming to spy out Fengbald’s position.”

  Simon scowled but did not rise to the bait. “We still have the hills between us and Fengbald’s camp at Gadrinsett. If the people who fled his army are right about where he is, we can easily put our light out before we are within sight of his sentries.” He raised his voice for emphasis. “Do you think it would be better to wait until morning light, when Fengbald’s men are rested and there is sun to make us even easier to spot?”

  Sludig waved his hand, conceding.

  Hotvig produced a torch—a good, thick branch, wrapped in strips of cloth and soaked in pitch—and struck a spark with his flints. He shielded the flame from the winds until it was burning well, then raised the brand and rode a few paces ahead of the others, mounting the slope of the riverbank as he headed for the greater shelter of the hillside. “Follow, then,” he called.

  The procession resumed, moving a little more slowly now. They passed across the uneven terrain of the hills, letting the horses feel their way. Hotvig’s torch became a jogging ball of flame, the only thing throughout the storm-darkened valley that could hold a wandering eye: Simon almost felt he tracked a will-of-the-wisp across the misty barrens. The world had become a long black tunnel, an endless corridor spiraling down into the earth’s lightless heart.

  “Anybody know a song?” Simon asked at last. His voice sounded frail lifted against the mournful wind.

  “A song?” Sludig wrinkled his brow in surprise.

  “Why not? We are still far off from anyone. In any case, you are an arm’s length away and I can scarcely hear you over this damnable wind. So, a song, yes!”

  Hotvig and his Thrithings-men did not volunteer to sing, but they seemed
to have no objection. Sludig made a face, as if the very idea was foolish beyond belief.

  “Up to me, then?” Simon smiled. “Up to me. Too bad that Shem Horsegroom isn’t here. He knows more songs and stories than anyone.” He wondered briefly what had happened to Shem. Was he still living happily in the Hayholt’s great stables? “I’ll sing you one of his. A song about Jack Mundwode.”

  “Who?” asked one of the Thrithings-men.

  “Jack Mundwode. A famous bandit. He lived in Aldheorte Forest.”

  “If he lived at all,” scoffed Sludig.

  “If he lived at all,” Simon agreed. “So I’ll sing one of the songs about Mundwode.” He wrapped his reins around his hand once more, then leaned back in the saddle, trying to remember the first verse.

  “Bold Jack Mundwode,”

  he began at last, timing the song to the thudding rhythm of Homefinder’s pace;“Said: ‘I’ll go to Erchester,

  I’ve heard that there’s a maiden sweet

  Who is a-living there.’

  “‘Hruse her name is:

  Hair of softly flowing gold,

  Shoulders pale as winter snows,

  Hruse young and fair.’

  “Jack’s bandits warned him,

  Said: ‘The town’s no place for you.

  Their lord has sworn to take your head,

  He’s a-waiting there.’

  “Jack only laughed then.

  Lord Constable he knew of old

  Many times had Jack escaped him

  By a slender hair.

  “Jack put on rich dress,

  Shining silks and promise-chain

  Told Osgal: ‘You’re the servant

  Who’ll stand behind my chair.

  “‘Duke of Flowers I’ll be,’

  Said Jack, ‘—a wealthy nobleman.

  A man of grace and gifts and gold

  Come to the county’s fair.’ ”

  Simon sang just loudly enough to let his voice carry above the wind. It was a long tune, with many verses.

  They followed Hotvig’s torch through the hills as Simon continued the story of how Jack Mundwode entered into Erchester in disguise and charmed Hruse’s father, a baron who thought he had found a wealthy suitor for his daughter. Although Simon had to pause from time to time to catch his breath, or to remember words—Shem had taught him the song a very long time ago—his voice grew more sure as the ride progressed. He sang about how Jack the trickster paid court to the beautiful Hruse—sincerely, since he had fallen in love at his first sight of her—and sat beside the unknowing Lord Constable at the baron’s supper. Jack even convinced the greedy baron to take a magical rose bush as Hruse’s dowry, a bush whose delicate blossoms each contained a shining gold Imperator, and which, the supposed Duke of Flowers assured Hruse’s father and the constable, would bear fresh coins every season as long as its roots were in the ground.

  It was only as Simon neared the end of the song—he had begun the verse that told how a drunken remark by the bandit Osgal spoiled Jack’s disguise and led to his capture by the constable’s men—that Hotvig reined up his horse and waved his arm for silence.

  “I think that we are very close.” The Thrithings-man pointed. The hillside sloped downward ahead, and even through the swirling snows it was clear that open land lay before them.

  Sludig rode up beside Simon. The Rimmersman’s frosty breath hung in the air around his head. “Finish the song on the way back, lad. It is a good tale.”

  Simon nodded.

  Hotvig rolled over his saddle and down onto the ground, then snuffed his torch in a drift of snow. He patted it dry on his saddle blanket before slipping it under his belt and turning to Simon with an expectant look.

  “Let’s go, then,” Simon said. “But carefully, since we have no light.”

  They spurred their horses forward. Before they had gone halfway down the long hill, Simon saw distant lights, a sparse collection of gleaming dots.

  “There!” he pointed, and immediately worried he had spoken too loudly. His heart was hammering. “Is that Fengbald’s camp?”

  “It is what is left of Gadrinsett,” said Sludig. “Fengbald’s camp will be near it.”

  In the valley before them, where the invisible Stefflod met the equally unseeable Ymstrecca, only a scatter of fires burned. But on the far side, camped near what Simon felt sure was the Ymstrecca’s northern bank, a greater concentration of lights lay spread across the darkened meadows, a myriad of fiery points arranged in rough circles.

  “You’re right.” Simon stared. “That will be the Erkynguard there. Fengbald is probably in the middle of those rings of tents. Wouldn’t it be nice to put an arrow through his blanket.”

  Hotvig rode a little nearer. “He is there, yes. And I would like to kill him myself, just to pay him for the things he said about the Stallion Clan when we last met. But we have other things to do tonight.”

  Stung, Simon took a breath. “Of course,” he said at last. “Josua needs to know the strength of armies.” He paused to think. “Would it be useful to count the fires? Then we should know how many troops he has brought.”

  Sludig frowned. “Unless we know how many men share each fire, it will mean little.”

  Simon nodded, musing. “Yes. So we count the fires now, then ride closer and find out if each tent has one, or every dozen.”

  “Not too close,” Sludig warned. “I like a fight as much as any God-fearing man, but I like odds that are a little better.”

  “You are very wise,” Simon smiled. “You should take Binabik on as your apprentice.”

  Sludig snorted.

  After counting the tiny points of flame, they rode down the hill.

  “We are lucky,” Hotvig said quietly. “I think the stone-dweller sentries will be standing close to their campfires tonight, staying out of the wind.”

  Simon shivered, bending a little closer to Homefinder’s neck. “Not all stone-dwellers are that smart.”

  As they came down onto the snowy meadows, Simon again felt his heart racing. Despite his fear, there was something heady and exciting about being so close to the enemy, about moving silently through the darkness scarcely more than an arrow flight from armed men. He felt very alive, as though the wind blew right through his cloak and shirt, making his skin tingle. At the same time, he was half-convinced that Fengbald’s troops had already spotted his little company—that even at this moment the entire Erkynguard was crouching with bows drawn, eyes glittering in the deep darkness between the shadowy tents.

  They made a slow circuit around the outside of Fengbald’s camp, trying to move from the shelter of one clump of trees to another, but trees were in unpleasantly short supply on the edge of the grasslands. It was only when they came close to the riverside and the western-most end of the encampment that they felt themselves safe for a while from staring eyes.

  “If there are less than a thousand men at arms here,” Sludig declared, “then I’m a Hyrka.”

  “There are Thrithings-men in that camp,” Hotvig said. “Men-of-no-clan from the Lake Thrithing, if I know anything.”

  “How can you tell?” Simon asked. At this distance the tents showed no markings or distinctive features—many of them were little more than cloth shelters staked to the ground and then roped to bushes or standing stones—and none of the inhabitants of the camp’s perimeter were out in such fierce weather.

  “Listen.” Hotvig cupped his hand behind his ear. His scarred face was solemn.

  Simon held his breath and listened. The windsong covered everything, drowning even the sound of the men riding beside him. “Listen to what?”

  “Listen with more care,” said Hotvig. “It is the harnesses.” Beside him, one of his clansmen nodded his head solemnly.

  Simon strained to hear what the grasslander did. He thought he could make out a faint clinking. “That?” he asked.

  Hotvig smiled, showing the gap in his teeth. He knew it was an impressive feat. “Those horses are wearing Lakeland ha
rnesses—I am sure of it.”

  “You can tell what kind of harnesses they wear by the sound?” Simon was astonished. Did these meadow-men have ears like rabbits?

  “Our bridles are different as the feathers of birds,” one of the other Thrithings-men said. “Lakeland and Meadow and High Thrithings harness are all different to our ears as your voice is from the northerner’s, young thane.”

  “How else could we know our own horses at night, from a distance?” Hotvig frowned. “By the Four-Footed, how do you stone-dwellers stop your neighbors stealing from you?”

  Simon shook his head. “So we know where Fengbald’s mercenaries are from. But can you tell how many of the men down there are Thrithings-folk?”

  “By their shelters, I guess that more than half these troops are from the unclanned,” Hotvig replied.

  Simon’s expression turned grim. “And good fighters, I’d wager.”

  Hotvig nodded. There was more than a trace of pride in the set of his jaw. “All the grasslanders can fight. But the ones without clans are the most ...” he searched for a word, “... the most fierce.”

  “And the Erkynguard are no sweeter.” Sludig’s voice was sour, but his eyes held a faintly predatory spark. “It will be a strong and bloody battle when iron and iron meet.”

  “Time to go back.” Simon looked out to the stripe of dark emptiness that was the Ymstrecca. “We’ve been lucky so far.”

  The little company crossed back over the exposed spaces. Simon again felt their vulnerability, the closeness of a thousand enemies, and thanked the heavens that the stormy weather had enabled them to come close to the camp without having to leave their horses behind. The idea of having to flee on foot if they were discovered by mounted sentries—and flee through wind and snow at that—was a disheartening one.