by Roger Taylor
Closing the entrance behind the Queen, Gulda turned round pensively. Then she moved towards a long chest by her bed and producing a key from her gown, unlocked it.
* * * *
As Sylvriss walked away from the tent, four large men emerged discreetly from the shadows. ‘Majesty, Loman has asked us to protect you,’ one of them said. For an instant Sylvriss considered protesting, but apart from the fact that she had the child to protect she knew that if she had no bodyguard then a far greater number of her subjects and countrymen than four would be distracted from their duties by fulfilling the role secretly.
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said. ‘That would be most reassuring.’
The Mandroc attack that night was worse than usual, and Sylvriss was glad of the four silent figures about her tent as the air began to fill with the relentless chanting of the Mandrocs and the shouted commands of the defenders. Eventually, though the baby seemed undisturbed by the noise, she took it from its crib and lay with it in her arms, staring up at the roof of the tent lit by the soft torchlight, and listening to the furore outside until it merged into her dreams like the sound of a distant, pounding, ocean. Somewhere in them floated the faint memory of an awed remark she had once heard: ‘The Memsa never sleeps.’
* * * *
Aelang dismounted and looked around at the deserted slave camp. He needed no trackers to tell him there had been a battle here. The area had been cleared, but the dark skeins criss-crossing the stone streets were unmistakably bloodstains. Besides, it stank of it in some way.
‘Find the bodies,’ he said. ‘Let’s see how good these people really are.’
Within minutes the bodies of the ill-fated Mandroc patrol had been discovered in a windowless room in one of the buildings. Aelang showed a little surprise at the number but then examined them dispassionately. ‘Slave gatherers from the mines,’ he said. ‘Out-shot and out-fought by the look of it. Skilled hunters indeed, our quarry-we must be careful of ambush.’
As he turned to leave, the Mandroc standing next to him let out a piercing yell. Mindful of his last remark, Aelang spun round, drawing his sword as he did, and bracing himself for an attack.
But there was no attack. The Mandroc was pointing at the pile of bodies. Aelang frowned; what was it howling about? They’d all seen and done worse than this to their own kind themselves.
Then he saw the bodies of the two priests killed by Byroc, their heads crushed in. He swore to himself. That was a heretic Mandroc killing and it could drive even his elite troops here into an uncontrollable frenzy if he didn’t act quickly.
The Mandroc was beginning to roll its eyes and stamp its feet. Without hesitation, Aelang killed it with a single thrust of his sword. As he withdrew the blade he pushed the body so that it fell on top of the dead priests, then he turned round furiously on the other Mandrocs.
‘Get out and form up!’ he thundered offering them the smoking blade menacingly.
There was no debate. Aelang’s savage and arbitrary discipline was as legendary amongst the Mandrocs as it was amongst the Mathidrin. No explanation would be given for his conduct; the Mandroc had offended in some way and been duly punished. To question the Commander’s action would be to incur the same punishment.
Aelang slammed the doors behind him and set off towards the edge of the camp. He signalled to the trackers to move ahead.
Within a few minutes, however, they returned to him. ‘They continue north, towards His Citadel, Great is His name, His will be done.’
Aelang finished wiping his sword. He cast away the small bruised sheaf of harsh grass then looked north and smiled, his canine teeth sharp in the grey daylight. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we need only go to the west.’
* * * *
Sylvriss surveyed the destruction the next day as the camp was being broken. Outside the rudimentary palisade lay scores of dead Mandrocs, and fatigue details were hauling them away and recovering arrows and spears. Occasionally a knife was drawn to dispatch some badly wounded individual. Sylvriss started forward the first time she saw this, but Loman laid a hand on her arm.
‘We can’t tend them,’ he said sadly. ‘We tried at first, but once they gain the least strength, they’ll try to kill anything that comes near.’
Sylvriss grimaced but made no comment. It was an unpleasant enough task for those involved without her displeasure adding to it.
She mounted her hitherto favourite horse. The ani-mal had galloped faithfully behind with the remounts while she had ridden from Vakloss on Serian and now it reacted with pleasure as she settled into the saddle. Sylvriss felt like a faithless lover as she stroked its neck affectionately, for though the affection was genuine, her mind was full of the mystery of riding Hawklan’s now vanished black horse.
Initially, with well-disguised reluctance, she took her place with the baggage train, Hylland and her four bodyguards riding escort. After a while however, she was trotting up and down the huge column, talking, laughing, encouraging.
Loman turned and smiled as she approached. ‘Lady,’ he said. ‘You’re the only thing so far that’s managed to bring some lightness into this weary land. Just look at it.’
Sylvriss looked around. As ever, the mist obscured the horizons, but it held none of the mellowing haziness that might be expected. Sometimes it would be sparse, grey, and chill, fading coldly into the dull sky; at others it would be dense and white or, worse, yellow and clinging to the ground as if trying to suffocate it or obscure some approaching menace. And it seemed to shift and change to some eerie law of its own, tendrils seeping forward and then retreating, or reaching up into the sky like eyeless spies.
The terrain itself was harsh and uneven, littered with rocks and boulders, stagnant lakes and sluggish rivers, and here and there pocked by ragged areas of discolouration as if something had lain there that had slain the ground for ever.
Trees and shrubs grew in watchful malevolent clus-ters as though fearful of attack, and even the grass seemed to cower.
‘It’s an ill land these creatures possess,’ Sylvriss said. ‘Perhaps if we’d looked to them more… ’
She left the sentence unfinished. Oslang looked at her. ‘Our whole journey here is littered with "ifs", lady,’ he said. ‘Perhaps in the future we might pay more heed to them.’
‘Concern yourself with the present, Cadwanwr,’ Loman said gently. ‘Or there’ll be no future for us.’
It started to rain. Cold, vertical, rain. Loman wiped his hand across his mouth. Even the rain seemed to be oily and tainted. He pulled up his hood.
Ahead, the large scattered groups of infantry who were acting as scouts started to disappear from view as the rain formed its own mist. Loman turned and looked back down the main column. That too was disappearing.
‘Go back to the baggage train, Lady,’ he said to Sylvriss. ‘This is ambush weather.’
Sylvriss nodded and turned about.
When she had gone, Loman motioned to Oslang, and the two of them rode over to Eldric.
‘Will we reach the central plain before nightfall?’ Loman asked.
Eldric nodded tentatively. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘It must be generations since anyone rode the Watch this far north, but our old maps have been quite reasonable so far… ’
Loman allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Except for a few rivers and forests,’ he said.
‘I was about to say, with regard to the major fea-tures,’ Eldric added defensively. ‘If that remains the case then we should reach the edges of the plain well before dark. After that, I must admit, the maps become too vague to be of real value.’
Before Loman could reply, a rider drew up beside him. It was Fyndal, one of the Helyadin who had been sent out to assess the threat to the supply route following Sylvriss’s observations. Despite the cold rain, both he and his horse were sweating.
‘There are large groups of Mandrocs to our rear,’ he said to Loman immediately. ‘It’ll take a substantial force to get through them. We’re cut
off from Narsindalvak unless we want to head back and make a fight of it.’
‘I understand,’ Loman said, then he cocked his head on one side as a faint whistling reached him. It was a relayed message from up ahead.
‘It’s the Goraidin coming back,’ he said, urging his horse forward. ‘Let’s see what lies ahead of us now that we know what lies behind.’
Yengar, Olvric and Tel-Mindor looked substantially worse than Fyndal. They were tired and dishevelled, and their horses too were steaming in the steady rain. They had been riding hard for some time and it needed no subtle eye to see they brought ill news.
‘Speak then rest, Goraidin,’ Loman said simply, by way of greeting.
‘There’s an army camped on the plain two days’ march away,’ Yengar said.
‘Mandrocs led by Mathidrin?’ Loman asked.
Yengar nodded.
‘How big is it?’ Loman went on.
Yengar glanced briefly at his companions. ‘Bigger than we are by far,’ he said. Then, hesitantly, ‘Three, perhaps four times our number.’
Chapter 31
Hawklan looked down at the piece of meat on Dacu’s knife. He pulled it off and began chewing it, trying to look appreciative.
‘You’re not hungry enough yet,’ Dacu said, chuck-ling a little.
Gavor was less discreet. ‘Eat it up, or you’ll get it for your breakfast,’ he said, mimicking Gulda, and laughing raucously.
Hawklan glowered at him. ‘Thank you, Dacu,’ he said graciously. ‘And you Byroc, for your hunting.’ Gavor continued to laugh.
‘Indeed, Byroc,’ Dacu seconded Hawklan’s remark. ‘I’ve never seen such wary game. We’d have been waiting a lot longer for food if you hadn’t helped.’
Byroc grunted. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are a good hunter. Very quiet. You will soon learn.’
‘Aren’t there any herbs and roots we can eat round here?’ Hawklan asked almost plaintively.
‘If you wish to die, yes,’ Byroc said. ‘This is a bad place.’ He waved a half-chewed bone at Hawklan. ‘Full of His poisons. Nothing wholesome grows. Even this. We eat this now because we must, but we must not eat too often.’
Hawklan looked at the remnant he was holding, then began chewing it again. He was no great meat eater, but he knew that the Mandroc was speaking no more than the truth. He had examined some of the vegetation that surrounded them and it had a distinctly unpleasant aura. He looked at Byroc. The Mandroc had been an invaluable ally and his knowledge of the country had enabled them to make far more progress than they would have been able to make alone.
‘How much further to Lake Kedrieth?’ Hawklan asked.
Byroc looked at him. ‘We cannot go further this way,’ he said. ‘We must move to the road now.’
He became the focus of attention for everyone in the shelter. ‘North are marshes,’ he said. ‘They move. There is no way through them.’
The road, however, seemed a bleak defenceless proposition.
‘Can’t we make a raft of some kind?’ Tirke offered.
Byroc crunched a bone noisily. ‘Everything sinks in the mud,’ he said. ‘Everything. Byroc knows. Black ones, stinking Dowynai Vraen.’ He made an ominous slurping sound. ‘They all sink. And the water flames, and the air burns and chokes. If you want to enter His place, you must use His road.’
There was a long silence. On their journey they had passed several deserted slave camps and on the occasions that they had seen the road it had apparently been deserted. It was as if the whole of Narsindal had been emptied of everyone save themselves. But still, they had encountered one patrol, and there must surely be others. The road was too exposed. The risk of discovery while using it was far too high.
But now Byroc left them no choice.
Hawklan looked around at the group. They were none of them in the best condition. Andawyr, being the oldest and least fit, was suffering the most, not least because he seemed to be bearing some kind of increas-ing burden as they moved nearer to Derras Ustramel. The others were suffering mainly from fatigue brought on by a combination of reduced, and dubious, rations, their long journeying, and the grim, depressing terrain. Time was against them.
‘We must move soon, too,’ Andawyr said unexpect-edly, his words echoing Hawklan’s thoughts. ‘Something is happening.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hawklan asked, concerned at some note in the Cadwanwr’s tone.
Andawyr screwed up his eyes and craned forward as if he were trying to hear some solitary voice amid a babble. ‘Forces are gathering,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ Hawklan repeated.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘His Will is… moving now… I think perhaps the army is drawing near.’ He looked at Hawklan intently. ‘We must destroy Him soon, very soon. Or He will destroy everyone. We must leave now.’
Hawklan felt Andawyr’s bright eyes burning deep into him and it seemed that the path before him was becoming narrower and narrower.
‘Very well,’ he said slowly. ‘This is no more than you’re all trained for. We must truly be Helyadin and Goraidin. We must move through the midst of our enemies without them seeing us, and slay Him in His own lair.’
Byroc drew the Mathidrin sword he had taken dur-ing the fighting at the mines, and squinted along its edge. ‘Amrahl is mine,’ he said. ‘If He would be chief of all the tribes, then He must face me.’
One or two were about to reply, but Hawklan shook his head at them. ‘Whoever reaches Him must slay Him,’ he said. ‘Who can say what part we’ll all play at the end? But use my Sword to do it. Use your own weapons for our lesser enemies.’ He held out a beckoning hand towards Byroc’s sword. The Mandroc looked at him for a moment, and then handed it to him. Hawklan passed it to Isloman, indicating its turned and chipped edge.
Isloman nodded, and drew out a sharpening stone. Within minutes, the edge glinted and shone in the low torchlight, and so did Byroc’s eyes as he received it back. As he hefted it menacingly, he bared his teeth in a predatory grimace.
‘Almost as good as Loman could do with such poor metal,’ Isloman said. ‘Even though I shouldn’t say it. Anyone else?’
When the party broke camp, there was not an edged weapon amongst them that did not bear the touch that had sharpened the chisels of Orthlund’s master carver.
They abandoned the shelter and everything else that was unnecessary and, still following Byroc’s lead, set off silently into the damp, grey, mist.
* * * *
It was a cold, grey morning that dawned on the allies’ camp two days after the Goraidin had brought the news about the army waiting for them. They had reached the central plain that same day and marched across it through the next. Except for occasional flurries of spiky, thorn-laden vegetation, it was featureless and drab terrain and, despite its openness, it offered no relief from the dank atmosphere that had pervaded their journey so far.
‘Another reason for speed,’ Loman mused to Eldric. ‘A long campaign in this place would sap the morale of even the finest soldiers.’
Eldric agreed. ‘It took no great subversion by Dan-Tor to engineer the abandonment of the Watch,’ he said ruefully.
There were no Mandroc attacks during the two nights they camped on the plain, though in the latter part of the second a long line of twinkling lights appeared on the northern horizon.
Eldric drew in a long hissing breath as he watched them. Yengar’s words kept returning to him. ‘Three, perhaps four times our number.’ One purpose of the Mandroc raids became clear to him. Hitherto, they had been creatures of terror in legend. Now they had been shown to be just such, in real flesh and blood. Oslang had pronounced that their reckless disregard for their own lives was probably due to their being possessed by some unholy religious fervour but that did nothing to allay the terrifying prospect of facing them in open combat. And so many of them!
Worse, lurking in the mists of Eldric’s thoughts, was the question: how many more of the enemy might be lurking in th
e mists of this benighted land?
Wilfully he repeated to himself Loman’s words to Urthryn. ‘We have bows, pikes and, above all, disci-pline.’ For a while before the dawn, his mood oscillated between fearful depression and exhilaration until, seemingly by accident, his hand touched the small carving that Isloman had given him as he and Sylvriss had prepared to leave his mountain stronghold.
He sat down and looked at it quietly in the subdued torchlight of his tent. It had such depth and, as he moved it slightly, so the image of Hawklan riding Serian seemed to move, or rather, to become alive. And yet it was only a few scratches on a piece of stone. In his mind he saw again Isloman astride Serian, supporting the unconscious Hawklan. ‘… and I only had my knifepoint… ’ the carver had said.
A few scratches, yet… so much; the wisdom and skill of generations.
He slipped the disc back into his pocket and found his mind full of the battle for Vakloss; how the army had force marched across Fyorlund to travel to the heart of its enemy like an arrow, and how, like the point of that arrow, he and his cavalry had crashed through the broken militia straight towards the distant figure of Dan-Tor.
His wavering concerns vanished and, though still fearful, he became calmer. Stepping outside his tent he went to join Loman on a small watch-tower. Together they stood staring out at the lights filling the distant horizon.
Then Loman turned to him. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked simply.
Eldric nodded and took out the carving. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve just won the hardest part of my battle. Now we go straight for their heart.’
Loman took the disc and looked at it for a long moment.
‘One day, I think my brother may look at this, and the one he gave the Queen, and say that for all their simplicity, they’re his finest works,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘But then, as he’d doubtless remind me, I’m no great judge of carving,’ he said mocking himself gently. ‘Suffice it that he tells us now that he’s here with us, and Hawklan, and Serian.’
