by Roger Taylor
Oremson’s gaze went from his Queen’s resolute face to the baby slung about her shoulders and thence to the sword and staff hanging by her side. With an effort and a reproachful look at Hylland, who shrugged a wordless disclaimer, he managed a fretful acknowledgement of his Commander’s will.
‘And I want no ceremony, Lord,’ Sylvriss added as they rode forward again. ‘I’m here as your Commander and I wish to know the state of the war.’
When she arrived at the tower, however, Sylvriss found that a formal welcoming escort and a large cheering crowd were already waiting for her. The sight made her relent a little and she allowed herself a happy entry to the grim fortress.
The evening was spent as she had promised, and the would-be revellers found themselves closeted with their Commander and poring over the messages and reports that had been sent back by the advancing army.
The following morning, Oremson had almost given up all attempts at dissuading his Queen from her journey. Apart from her own determination, she would have an escort that would be more than adequate: a company of mounted High Guards routinely going to reinforce the forts, and a squadron of Muster riders who had followed late in the wake of their Ffyrst. He fought to the end, however.
‘Majesty, you’ve studied all the reports and mes-sages,’ he pleaded. ‘There have been regular harrying attacks on the army. And serious assaults on at least two forts. I beg of you, reconsider, if only for your baby son.’
Sylvriss looked down at her baby and then at Orem-son’s anxious face. ‘Lord,’ she said. ‘I’m travelling on an errand that’s simply not of my choosing. When it’s completed I’ll return, and gladly. But in the meantime I’m bound by duties as you are; duty to my crown and duty to my son.’
Oremson yielded reluctantly. ‘We shall be watching you for as long as we can, Majesty,’ he said. ‘And I’ll have men stand by to come to your aid immediately if need arises.’
Sylvriss smiled and saluted. Then, mounting Serian, she gave the order to advance.
She did not look back as she rode down the valley away from the tower.
* * * *
‘Sit down, Lord, you look tired,’ Loman said as Eldric entered the tent.
Eldric accepted the offer and flopped into a nearby chair noisily. ‘After we escaped from the Westerclave, I swore I’d never again complain about creature discom-forts,’ he said. ‘But this place is just as bad as I remember it. It’s as if even the air is tainted in some way.’ He gazed up at the roof of the tent. ‘I’m haunted by the thought of my favourite chair, and the carvings around my room, peaceful and homely in the light of the radiant stones.’
He fell silent and continued staring at the floor for some time, then, with a sigh of self-reproach, he sat upright again.
‘Sorry,’ he said brusquely.
Loman smiled. ‘I should think so, Lord. Any more of that and you’d have been on a charge for spreading despondency amongst the ranks.’
‘No, no,’ Eldric said. ‘There’s insufficient evidence for a charge. I’m only spreading my despondency to you. I’m quite hearty out there.’
Any further debate was ended by the arrival of Arinndier, Hreldar and Darek.
‘A good day’s progress,’ Arinndier said.
Loman nodded off-handedly. ‘Have you checked the perimeter fence?’ he asked.
‘Twice,’ Arinndier replied. ‘And there’s no shortage of volunteers for guard duty these nights.’
Loman frowned. Would that it were otherwise, but Mandroc raids during the night were becoming almost routine and while they had little effect, they could not be ignored. On the first few occasions they had caused great alarm, the Mandrocs showing a reckless wildness which, for the Orthlundyn, was quite different from the ferocity of the Morlider and, for the veteran Fyordyn, quite different from such few encounters as they might have had when riding the Watch.
Morale had wavered initially, but the perimeter fortifications which had been built each night with much grumbling had demonstrated their worth admirably, and Loman and the Lords had been able to change these strangely desperate forays by the enemy into valuable training exercises.
As a result, the Mandrocs suffered heavy casualties with little to show for their pains. Yet, despite the losses, the attacks continued and, in fact, they were becoming progressively more severe as the army moved further northwards. Such determination and such an indiffer-ence to life on the part of the enemy was a grim portent, and one which was burdening Loman profoundly. Looking at his companions, he raised this concern with them for the first time.
There was an odd silence when he had finished and Loman had the feeling that these four foreigners were communing with one another in some silent fashion.
‘Urthryn doesn’t like his people manning the fences. He’s bursting to go after the Mandrocs during the day on reprisal raids. And the Helyadin want to find their camps and attack them pre-emptively,’ Hreldar said eventually. ‘Give them their head.’
There was a note in Hreldar’s voice which Loman could not identify at first. Then, quite suddenly, his foreboding was gone; despite themselves, and perhaps even unknowingly, these four old friends were anxious about this outlander commanding their army.
‘No,’ he said unequivocally. ‘If we send people out into this country we’ll be giving the enemy an advan-tage. They might find the odd camp and do some damage, but at what cost?’ He looked around at the four Lords. ‘We’ve agreed that it’s highly probable we’ve been drawn into this conflict so that Sumeral could fight a defensive war and destroy His most powerful enemies with one single campaign. We march knowing that. If now He chooses to attack and allow us the advantage of defence, then that’s fine-we’ll make the most of that advantage.’
He grimaced as the next words formed in his mind but, increasingly now, he knew that he must deliberately detach himself from the personal agonies of the individual soldiers and the price they must pay for this horror both now and in their future lives. He must concern himself with the broader cruel realities that those same soldiers demanded of him to ensure that they would have a future. Further, he must separate himself a little from these four stalwart leaders if he was to obtain their total support.
He went on, speaking as he knew Hawklan would. ‘The simple fact is that every Mandroc that dies here can’t fight us again. And, to be blunt, it’s important that our troops get plenty of practice at hand to hand killing, and winning; the Muster not least. That’s why I’ve got them manning the perimeter. After what happened in Riddin they’ve been wearing their sense of failure like a wet cloak and it’s been destroying their morale.’
The atmosphere in the tent eased perceptibly.
Loman moved in to finish his task. ‘I don’t mind your doubts about me, Lords,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly stern. ‘I take them as a sign of trust and affection. And, despite the opinion of your Queen and Hawklan, leaders of men such as yourselves would be rare fools not to be concerned about a bumpkin horse shoer from sleepy Orthlund suddenly given charge of this vast army. But in future, do as I do, speak your doubts to me as they occur. I knew I could speak freely to you here of the vague darkness looming in my mind, and that I would be heard and helped. In such manner we will win this war.’
Eldric lowered his gaze and there was an uncom-fortable silence in the tent for some time.
‘I’m sorry-we’re sorry,’ he said when he looked up. ‘You shame us.’
Loman waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, Lords,’ he said. ‘Sometimes doubts come because you are seeing the uncertainties more clearly, and there’s no shame to be had in seeing the truth, and accepting it.’
He leaned forward before any of them could reply. ‘Know this truth, Lords,’ he said, quietly, but with chilling force. ‘As we near this creature’s lair and as we pile up His soldiers dead by the wayside, I am set on our original intention more strongly than ever. We march straight forward, to His very throne, and through His corrupt heart. If anything chooses to stand in our w
ay we will crush it as completely as we can and at as little cost to ourselves as our combined wits and ingenuity can allow. This is no more than His intention for us, and nothing less on our part will suffice.’
* * * *
Flat on his stomach at the top of a small rise, Hawklan looked at the distant clutter of buildings, colourless and drab in the grey dawn. ‘I didn’t think your people lived in villages,’ he said to Byroc.
Byroc shook his head. ‘That is one of His slave places,’ he said. ‘Where weapons and other things are made. We must pass by carefully. There will be many black ones there and probably stinking Dowynai Vraen priests.’ Hawklan shot him a sidelong glance. The Mandroc was trembling with rage and it seemed that at any moment he might leap up and charge into the camp to wreak what slaughter he could before he perished. It was a response he would have to watch for carefully.
‘Control your anger, Byroc,’ he said, his voice like ice. ‘Or go your own way, now.’
Byroc’s eyes narrowed viciously. ‘You do not under-stand,’ he growled after a moment.
‘I, above all, understand the loss of a people,’ Hawk-lan replied. ‘Save your anger for the true creator of your ills.’
Dacu interrupted. ‘Do you want me to find a way round?’ he asked.
Hawklan nodded, but Byroc grunted. ‘I know the way,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ And, without waiting for any debate, he wriggled backwards down the slope until he could stand without being seen from the slave camp. Hawklan and the others followed.
For some time they followed a wide circular route around the camp which took them through increasingly wet ground. After they had jumped over several rancid-smelling ditches, Byroc stopped, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘This place has changed,’ he said. ‘And it stinks of His work. We must turn back.’
Hawklan looked down at the unpleasant mud cling-ing to his boots. It was black, with streaks of white running through it, and it was unlike anything he had ever seen before.
‘Let’s go a little further,’ he said. ‘It may be drier up ahead.’
Reluctantly Byroc agreed, and the party moved off again. They were soon brought to a halt, however, as they suddenly found themselves at the edge of a vast swamp-like area, flooded to a large extent by a black liquid. Several areas of tufted vegetation stood above the liquid but they were blackened as if they had been scorched, and the few trees that could be seen were not only leafless and stunted, but also a ghastly white.
‘They’re like the hands of drowned men,’ someone said into the sudden silence.
Hawklan bent down and looked out over the silent black surface. It was alive with shimmering iridescence.
Cautiously he moved forward, but he had gone scarcely four paces when his foot sank into the ground and suddenly he stumbled.
Several hands seized him immediately and dragged him back before he could fall. The ground released his foot with a noisy lingering slither and a foul smell rose into the air.
Coughing and choking, the group retreated in dis-order. When they stopped, Hawklan’s flesh was crawling. ‘What is that?’ he said, turning to Andawyr wide-eyed.
The Cadwanwr shook his head but nodded towards Byroc. ‘His work,’ he said, echoing the Mandroc’s remark. ‘Keep away from it.’
It was an unnecessary warning. Everyone was pale-faced and shocked. ‘It’s an obscenity,’ Athyr said, holding his stomach uncertainly. ‘Who could do such a thing, even to a benighted countryside like this?’
Byroc answered. ‘This is the Groundshakers’ work,’ he said. ‘It comes from what they do at the slave-place. In other parts it is very bad.’
‘Worse than that?’ Athyr said, aghast.
‘Outside His bigger slave-places, yes,’ Byroc replied. ‘The air burns and the waters glow in the night. Even the wind from such will tear the throat and blind the eyes-sometimes forever.’ His upper lip curled savagely to reveal his massive teeth. ‘It bends and destroys even the unborn.’
Hawklan turned away from the Mandroc’s pain.
‘Let’s get well away, then,’ he said, setting off again. ‘We’ll have to find a way round the other side of this slave-place, however difficult it is.’
‘That might mean waiting until night-time,’ Dacu said, looking up the small slope that was hiding them from the camp.
Hawklan scowled. ‘We can’t spend the whole day sitting about waiting. Time’s against us here,’ he said. ‘And in any case I’ve no great desire to go wandering about in the dark with surprises like that waiting to be fallen into. We’ll get around today if we have to crawl around on our bellies.’
They moved back along the route they had been following, cautiously helping one another over the ditches they had earlier jumped quite casually. Eventu-ally the ground became drier and the air fresher, though to Hawklan it still carried a strange taint, and all of them found it difficult to rid themselves of the stench that had risen from the poisonous quagmire.
They crawled slowly to the top of the slope until they could see the camp again.
‘It looks deserted,’ Isloman said after a while.
Hawklan looked at Byroc. ‘How many people would there be in a place that size?’ he asked.
Byroc slapped his muscular hands together rapidly in a scissoring action. ‘A few tens of tens,’ he said. ‘And much noise, smoke, and stink.’
‘I can see no one,’ Isloman said.
‘Trust Gavor to wander off when he’s needed,’ Tirke said.
‘He’ll be here when he’s needed,’ Hawklan said sharply. ‘I think we can reconnoitre a place like this on our own. Isloman, crawl forward. Dacu, go with him.’
Without comment, the two men set off.
Despite his bulk, it was the big carver, with his Goraidin training and his subtle shadow lore, who disappeared from view first. There was a soft whistle of appreciation from one of the watchers.
Then there was a long nervous pause as the group waited for a signal from the now invisible scouts, or a desperate alarm from the camp.
‘They’re there,’ Yrain said abruptly, pointing. Peer-ing between the long rough grass, Hawklan followed her hand to see the two men edging into the camp, shadows against the grey buildings.
What are they doing? he thought, in some alarm, but he said nothing out loud. Then they were gone, out of sight amid the buildings somewhere, and there was another long period of tense, silent waiting for the watchers.
Eventually they both reappeared, beckoning the others forward.
Despite the reassuring signals, however, Hawklan and the others ran low and crouching across the intervening open ground until they reached the camp.
‘It’s completely deserted,’ Isloman said, before Hawklan could ask. ‘I don’t think anyone’s been here for several days.’
Hawklan turned to Byroc questioningly, but the Mandroc looked bewildered and nervous. ‘This is a bad place,’ he said. ‘All His places are. We mustn’t linger.’
‘These buildings are like those monstrosities that Dan-Tor built outside Vakloss,’ Yatsu said.
Hawklan looked around at the drab grey buildings. They were obviously not old, but they had a worn, neglected look which was peculiarly depressing. Further, he found that his inability to see into the distance all around was disconcerting.
‘Let’s move out,’ he said. ‘My instincts are with By-roc’s, and we’ve wasted enough time here already.’
They moved through the eerily silent camp quickly and quietly, splitting into two groups and trotting down either side of the long street that ran through it. At its centre was a building with what appeared to be a watch-tower on top of it. As they passed it, Byroc paused and growled. ‘Stinking priest hole,’ but offered no further amplification of the remark when Hawklan looked at him.
They passed through the remainder of the camp without incident but as they reached the last buildings, Gavor came swooping along the street behind them. ‘Look out… ’ he began, but his message was ended by the sudden appearance of a
rider out of the scrubland that bounded the road where it left the camp.
He was a Mathidrin, and at his heels was a troop of some twenty of more Mandrocs.
‘Whoops,’ Gavor said as he landed on Hawklan’s shoulder briefly and then took off again.
‘Slave gatherers from the mines,’ Byroc said. ‘They will be looking for those who escaped.’
‘Yatsu, Lorac, Tel-Odrel, move to the sides and look as if you’re in charge,’ Hawklan said urgently. ‘The rest of you look beaten. Those at the back, string your bows discreetly. We’ll have to go through this lot whether we like it or not, and we’ll have to bring down as many as we can before they close with us.’
‘They’ll hardly take you for slaves, carrying swords and bows,’ Yatsu said as he and the others moved to the side of the group and assumed the typical arrogant pose of Mathidrin officers.
‘Your Mathidrin uniforms and Byroc here will con-fuse them for long enough,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Are you ready at the back?’
There was grunted confirmation.
‘On my command, come forward and start firing. Don’t worry about the man, he’ll be no problem. Take the Mandrocs, they’re an unknown quantity. The rest of you string up as quickly as you can once the action starts.’ He glanced at Andawyr. ‘When they close with us, stay together. Andawyr is to be protected at all costs.’
He caught a glimpse of Dacu’s hand signal, ‘And Hawklan, too.’
‘Yes, and me too,’ he confirmed reluctantly.
Andawyr touched his arm. ‘Don’t use the sword or the bow, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘I doubt I can keep that from Him.’
Hawklan frowned. ‘I understand,’ he said.
Suddenly Byroc froze, and his mouth curled up into a horrifying gape. ‘Dowynai Vraen!’ he snarled savagely.
Hawklan felt the intention of the Mandroc and reached out to dissuade him, but Byroc evaded his grip and with an angry cry, broke ranks; not to run forward at the approaching patrol, but to disappear into a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
