by GJ Kelly
“Really?”
“Really. It is not in our nature.”
“Hmm. It’s not endearing, you know, it’s just another reason to despise you. Why should you escape such miseries?”
“We must endure other tortures inflicted by our kings.”
“True enough. And, speaking of torture brings us neatly back to the original subject of our conversation this dank Mornland morn. You have a better understanding of these things than I, how much false aquamire and how much effort would it take someone, oh, say an Ahk-Viell of the Toorseneth, to manufacture a Condavian and an Eye of Morloch and despatch it.”
“Actually, quite a lot… ah.”
Gawain grinned, and then in the blink of an eye became entirely serious. “They have two advantages, numbers of men and sticks, and knowing where we are. We have one principle disadvantage, not knowing where they are. I can’t literally rip off their arm, but I can harry them from afar, cause them to expend pointless effort and resources, and sow doubt and confusion in their putrid minds. All it costs us is a day. It costs them much more.”
“Unless they have resources to spare,” Allazar announced quietly. “Behold, Longsword, a third Condavian, far to the north.”
Gawain stared back towards the ridge, and saw the tiny black hyphen high in the sky beyond the great rise. It seemed to be wheeling there, taking a station in the far distance and coming no closer, as if it meant to block their retreat. And away to the northeast flew the second, circling above Ognorm and Venderrian, the two riders now well on their way to the clover-wood and a reunion with Gawain and Allazar.
“I have a feeling,” Gawain grimaced, “That until the Toorseneth is destroyed and all its followers with it, there’ll be no shortage of false aquamire and dark creatures made there for use against wizardkind and any who oppose the creed. However, knowing how much distance such birds as those can cover in a short space of time would seem to suggest that the enemy is quite some way south of us.”
“Is that a guess or a calculation?”
Gawain shrugged. “A guestulation. Famous old Raheen word describing the art and craft of determining an enemy’s location from limited information. They’re south of us. Between us and the Arrun border. And I still do not know why they are so keen to prevent us crossing out of Mornland there. You?”
The wizard shook his head. “The only reason I can think of is but a poor guestulation on my part.”
“Which is?”
Allazar shrugged. “Perhaps they fear we might enter the Hallencloister and draw up its gate against them. Doubtless they are not aware that the chains were all loosed from the wheels and now lay in heaps upon the great east gate. It would take a small army of men to hoist them and thread them again through the mechanisms.”
“And we have no such army, nor is there any likelihood of our raising one nearby. I am worried though. Sometimes I worry Elayeen has disobeyed my orders, and mobilised Last Ridings, and they now wait with what reinforcements they may have raised, there at the border of Arrun.”
“I hardly think so, Longsword.”
“No, no, me neither. But I certainly didn’t expect them to arrive at Urgenenn’s Tower either and there they were. Cherris and Dirs should have arrived at Last Ridings in the second week of November. It’s what, December the third today?”
“It is.”
“Well then, allowing for a few days preparation, if E had left Last Ridings it’d still be another week before she reached the Hallencloister. No, it would make no sense for the Tau to be concerned about that. I am seeing dread where there really is none. Elayeen will not jeopardise herself and our child. There’s another reason for the creed to wish to prevent our crossing into Arrun. Let’s hope we do cross that border, and thus discover what it is for ourselves when we’re there.”
“And that it’s a good reason from our perspective,” Allazar grunted, heaving his saddle back up onto his horse and settling it in place gently.
“You’re finally getting the hang of it,” Gawain smiled.
“I have had a deal of practice of late.”
“And you haven’t killed a horse in ages. Huzzah for you.”
“Not counting the unfortunate beasts at the battle of widow’s peak hill.”
“Yes,” Gawain acknowledged sadly, “Not counting those.”
He shuddered, remembering the Surge Allazar had loosed into the charging horses, and how the animals had crashed into each other in their panic, and brought each other down in a flurry of tumbling hooves…
When Ognorm and Venderrian arrived the ranger immediately reported the third Condavian off to the north and Sighting no other lights, dark or otherwise. With two Condavians now circling over their heads and one lurking at the edge of normal visibility, Gawain examined the two horses newly arrived and then declared them fit to ride back to the ridge. This they did, arriving at least two hours before noon, and there the horses were rested.
It was strange, Venderrian observed, but the northern Condavian had seemed to retreat from them, and was now no more than a dot in the clouds to ordinary eyes. However, the two up from the south circled lower than before, keeping their Eyes fixed upon the quartet through the branches and twigs of the winter-bare trees. Clearly, Gawain declared, their morning manoeuvres had rattled the enemy’s confidence.
An hour later, Ognorm was despatched protesting and alone to the east along the ridge once more, and Venderrian alone to the west. A spot was chosen in the north for a rendezvous, and it was to that point which Gawain and Allazar rode at the trot.
And so the game was played throughout the day until, towards sunset, four Condavians circled above their camp and one loitered much further to the north.
The following day, all four riders set out with the packhorse in tow and continued south to the clover-wood, pausing only briefly to watch a lone hawk harrying the quartet of Condavians following their progress. By the middle of the afternoon there were but three of the huge black birds tracking them, the hawk having succeeded in bringing one down for the insult of their evil passing through its territory. That success had earned the hawk a hearty cheer and a wave from the riders on the ground, but of course it paid them no heed.
Nor was it the only hawk they saw on their cautious journey south. Three Condavians became two on the 5th of December, and two became one on the 7th. Still the speck in the far north kept pace and kept its distance, and managed to survive nature’s aerial arsenal. Or, Gawain opined, was replaced as needed by the ToorsenViell. He was considering more diversions and shenanigans to confuse the enemy when, as if anticipating this move, a fresh Condavian slid through the sky from the south, and joined its winged comrade above them
“Dwarfspit,” Gawain sighed, seeing the sunlight glinting from the metal harness slung beneath the bird’s great wings. “The bastards learn quickly.”
They were ten days north of the Hallencloister line and tracking more and more west of south to avoid the coast and its habitations, and the land around them was beginning to undulate gently, higher hills and ridges becoming fewer and further between. The trees which they’d taken to sheltering in at night were gradually being supplanted by grasses as the predominant vegetation, the lakes and woodlands of the Mornland midlands slowly giving way to the scrubby plains of Arrun.
It had snowed in the night, a light dusting of powdery white, and it was cold, the snow surviving the first hours of pallid sunshine. Days were short, nights were commensurately much longer, and the solstice, Allazar noted, was still two more weeks away. If all went well with them, the shortest day of the year would be celebrated on Arrun’s soil.
“This news does not seem to cheer you, Longsword.”
“I think I’ll reserve my cheer for the day itself, and then only if we’re in Arrun as you say. Besides, our meandering course and our toying with the enemy has no doubt added time to our journey. While we might have expected to cross the Hallencloister line on or near the seventeenth, it might be some days later now. If it we
ren’t for the need to draw our enemies away from our friends I’d prefer to hug the coast all the way to Nordshear, and thence likewise to the southern capitol of Arrun. As it is, our course now takes a more south-westerly track, almost directly to the Hallencloister itself from here.”
“Arr, and that puts us back in harm’s way then.”
“It does, Oggy, it does indeed. And the closer we approach to the border with Arrun unmolested, the more disturbed is my natural calm. They know exactly where we are, yet still they do not attack, even with their superior numbers. My games with them may well have worked even better than expected.”
“How so?” Allazar asked as they rode at the walk.
“Perhaps they dare not,” Gawain explained. “Perhaps they cannot take the risk of losing forever the sceptre they seek by simply destroying us with their overwhelming force. They cannot know that one of us hasn’t buried or hidden the artefact during our excursions back at the ridge and around the clover-wood. They cannot know now whether we carry the object they seek, or not.”
“Sneaky!” Ognorm blurted, adding a little sheepishly, “If’n you don’t mind my sayin’ so, melord.”
Gawain smiled. “No. I don’t mind. I do mind that smoke yonder to the southeast, though. A hamlet or village perhaps. We need to pass it at a safe distance, and that means turning further west than I’d hoped. Come, let’s put some miles behind us. Trying to second-guess this enemy is as fruitless as trying to second-guess Morloch himself.”
oOo
32. Corridor of Uncertainty
At noon on the 9th of December they emerged from a copse atop a low hill, and Gawain caught his breath. Stretching before them was a vista which would have had him sending out dozens of scouts were he commanding the One Thousand of Raheen on a lowland excursion in the South-halt. His three companions heard the sound of that sharp intake of breath, recognised the intensity of the young man’s gaze, and froze, giving him the silence he needed to consider their next actions.
On his left flank, a river winding south and then sliding in a gentle arc through a narrow forest of conifers and away to the east. Beyond that forest the river emptied into a broad lake before it emerged on the far side and continued meandering roughly due south. An army could be hidden in those evergreens, and the river and the lake beyond formed a freezing natural barrier which would be difficult and uncomfortable, though not impossible, to cross.
On his right flank, a rise, almost a ridge running roughly north-south, topped by more pines, the trees packed as densely as nature allowed all such growth unmanaged by kindred hands.
To his front, a broad expanse of open ground, lush and verdant, with silver ribbons of streams winding here and there. Far in the distance, more trees, but they were on the horizon which, Gawain estimated from the height of the hill they were standing on, was twelve miles away.
The effect was of a long corridor of soft and verdant land perhaps half a mile wide flanked by natural barriers and enticing them to proceed due south. South, across open land, for a dozen miles, in full view of a pair of Condavians circling eagerly overhead, or so they seemed to be to Gawain.
“Ven?”
“MiThal.”
“I know it isn’t easy, but do you see anything at all in the trees on our right and left flanks?”
“No, miThal. Only the trees, and being ever green, their lights are not dimmed greatly by winter as others have been. I see some smaller animals, but nothing larger than a timber wolf.”
Gawain dismounted, patted Gwyn on the neck, and strode forward a pace or two, standing with his arms folded beneath his cloak. From the trees near the distant lake a hawk rose, speeding up, arrowing towards the Condavians wheeling over the open space before them. The two broad-winged spies in the sky were circling in diametric opposition to each other, though when the hawk was spotted they broke and turned for the west.
Gawain watched them, and wondered if any significance might be attached to the direction of their flight. Aerial combat began, the hawk tearing up from below, catching a Condavian’s wing-tip on its first pass and scattering feathers.
“Is the third Eye still in the north, Ven?” Gawain asked over his shoulder.
A few moments later the ranger confirmed that the northern Condavian maintained its distant watch. Allazar dismounted, and moved to stand beside Gawain, the cloth-wrapped staff held firmly in the kind of woollen fingerless gloves Arramin would have been proud of.
“It seems peaceful enough, Longsword.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Birds going about their business undisturbed in the trees and in the air around them, save for hawk and Condavian. The river, winding lazily through the trees on its way to a shimmering jewel of a lake, and thence beyond through verdant valleys. What wouldn’t we have given for such a bucolic scene there in the Eastbinding on our journey to Urgenenn’s Tower? How many rabbits d’you think dwell down there in that soft well-watered earth, the grasses green and lush year-round?”
“A great many.”
“Aye. And timber wolves in the forests, and badgers, and foxes, and hawks and owls, and all of nature’s making bred for idylls such as this.”
“But?” Allazar whispered. “And there is of course a but.”
“A cavalryman’s joy to behold. What a battle could be fought here. Whoever held the western ridge could sweep down, and with their enemy pressed back against the narrow forest, river, and lake, prevail. The only escape would be south towards the forest on the horizon, or up here to the north, though the commander holding the ridge would of course despatch a company to these woods and cut off that retreat.”
“Would Tellemek of Callodon recommend such tactics?”
Gawain smiled. “Any cavalryman worth his salt would take one look at this landscape and recommend such tactics. The only drawback would be the going underfoot. It looks to be slow down there, a lot of water on the surface, a lot of green. Ground’ll be soft, and that would slow a charge.”
“The Tau we face are unlikely to be cavalrymen, Longsword, and certainly none of them comparable to a Rider of Raheen, as we and they learned at the widow’s peak hill. Do you suspect an ambush here?”
Above them, the hawk folded back its wings and plummeted like a stone towards the westernmost Condavian, again tearing wing-feathers from it as it passed, jinked, and began climbing again for another assault.
“It’s a good place for one. And according to Byrne, the enemy have riders of Bek’s Greys with them.”
“Yet you yourself have said, the enemy will not risk losing the sceptre in an all-out battle. Yours was very far from a toothless plan, and they now will fear killing any one of us who might be the sole guardian of the sceptre’s location.”
“Yes,” Gawain sighed, “Yes that’s true. But Allazar, I am what I am. Were I the commander of the Tau, this would be as fine a place as any for a battle, or for an assault leading to capture. The very fact that I have seen the threat this geography presents makes me wary of it. I can’t ignore that. And we are likely a week, perhaps a little less, from the border with Arrun.”
“A border which is wide indeed, and likely has many places such as this scattered along its breadth. Our friend Venderrian has seen no hint of the Tau, and nothing here seems out of place or keeping with the region. Look! The hawk has struck a fatal blow.”
It was true. The hawk had speared down from the heavens like a speckled brown thunderbolt and torn open a Condavian’s back. Feathers flew and drifted, smoke began to plume, and then in a silent explosion of dull purple smoke, the Condavian was gone, a glittering wire cage bearing the foul jelly of a Morloch’s Eye tumbling down towards the forest atop the western rise. Only it wasn’t Morloch’s Eye any more, Gawain knew, it was the Tau’s Eye, and they were out there, somewhere, watching him.
“Well, I have no scouts but Ven’s eyes, and no One Thousand at my back. We could spend a lifetime looking for a route south which wouldn’t disturb my Raheen training in some way or other. We’ll descend, an
d take the miles between here and the distant forest at the canter if the ground holds, at the trot if not. The sooner we’ve left this corridor of uncertainty behind us, the better I’ll feel.”
They mounted, and Gawain took a deep breath, letting it out slowly while he loosened arrows in his quiver, tested his string, loosened the sword in the scabbard across his back, and when the others had finished checking their weapons, Gwyn moved forward and down the slope towards the level ground below.
“Stay tight and close!” Gawain commanded, and the knot of four accelerated to the canter, the packhorse dutifully following freely behind them.
Initially, the ground under hooves was as firm as that on the slopes, but after a mile or so the three-beat rhythm of the canter slowed to the two-beat rhythm of the trot, softer earth and puddles of standing water near the streams making for soggy areas which obliged them to proceed with greater caution, the horses little trusting in ground that sucked at their hooves.
Their progress was thus stuttering, good for a few hundred yards, then quickly slowing. Heads swivelled, eyes scanned, and the lone Condavian circled high above them while the hawk rested from its earlier endeavours. Gawain’s hackles rose, and he shuddered. To be caught in the open here would mean disaster. If it meant the difference between life and death, the horses in their love for their riders would run themselves into the ground and out from this world heedless of the treacherous regions of boggier land ground around them. Gawain, obviously, would prefer that not to happen.
He fretted. Gwyn could feel it, and her ears twitched this way and that as she ran, eyes wide and alert. At their current and varying rate of progress, it could take an hour and a half to traverse the length of the corridor and attain the woodlands at the southern end. Assuming those woodlands weren’t filled with elves of the Tau wearing armour studded with glassy black gems.
Twenty minutes of riding which to Gawain felt like the lurching of a wounded man dragging a ruined leg, and the hawk rose up from the forest to the east on their left flank, and with all the grace endowed by nature sped towards the Condavian which hovered now to the south as if waiting for the riders to catch up with it. Gwyn slowed for another boggier patch, then splashed through the firmer ground of a gravel-bedded stream before picking her way through the clods and tufts on the other side.
