Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  A thin layer of wispy clouds drifted at an altitude of about five hundred feet, spread on a horizontal plane. Above it stood a deep chasm of cloudless sky, roofed by thick, fast-moving cumulus, like clumps of lamb’s wool borne on a clear tide. The river meandered below, grey as polished pewter, its shores braided by dark green knots of trees. Dense flosses of foliage mottled the landscape as far as the eye could see. Through the dense cover the road could seldom be glimpsed. Occasionally Asrăthiel and her passenger would see a curve of it engraved into the foliage, with pocket-handkerchief fields and meadows fanning out from the verges, studded with square-cut buttons that were the roofs of buildings.

  It was easy to spy the marching columns of King Thorgild’s cavalcades and infantry columns: an articulated serpent in gleaming mail winding its way along the River Road towards Narngalis, pennants flying. The troops who walked or rode below the aerostat looked up to behold two beautifully dressed young women gliding upon the air, borne up by a silver-white sphere, and they were struck with awe by the sight. They welcomed the presence of a weathermage to aid them in their journey. Asrăthiel guided her aircraft with a precision that pilots lacking the brí could only dream of, until the basket hovered just above the treetops at the head of the column, matching the pace of the marchers. Flocks of crows scattered from the trees as the balloon passed by.

  King Thorgild rode in the lead with his three sons Hrosskel, Halvdan and Gunnlaug. Unhelmed were they, their hair shining copper-gold whenever the sun broke through the clouds. The emblem of the square-sailed longboat was embroidered against the turquoise background of their velvet tabards, and peacock plumes adorned the harness of their steeds. Beneath the tabards they were armed, but not yet heavily armoured for war. Over the rattle and shriek of the startled crows, Asrăthiel exchanged greetings with the royal family and gave them such advice as she could. The way seemed clear before them, she had sighted no danger on the road, and King Warwick’s troops were southbound to meet the first spear thrust of the invasion. She emphasised the fact that haste was imperative, for against the combined forces of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth, Narngalis would be outnumbered and hard-pressed.

  Well after the sun had set, the columns continued to march, but eventually, when they had penetrated a lush and fertile river valley, Thorgild issued the command to halt and make camp for the night. Speed was essential, it was true, but the troops must arrive at their destination in good order, not exhausted and underfed. Within the hour, a city of portable shelters sprang up all along the valley floor.

  Having known a long period of peace, Grïmnørsland was not equipped with the latest in tentage for military campaigns. Many of the structures were aged. Most had originally been fashioned for use at tournaments, state ceremonies, picnics or hunting expeditions. Made from heavy sailcloth first dyed with weld then over-dyed with woad to produce a deep blue-green shade, the tents were triangular or wedge shaped, with finials cast in the design of fishes. The royal compound dominated the encampment, its vertical sides adorned with heraldic devices, banners flying from the tips of its pointy roofs. Here it was that Thorgild sheltered his horses and the upper echelons of his household. The main structure in the compound consisted of twelve single- and double-peaked pavilions with tasselled valances, all connected by passages. Four of the edifices were for the use of Thorgild—a pavilion for the council of state, a bath pavilion, an arming pavilion and so on—the rest were for his sons. As royal pavilions went, it was austere.

  It was not until Asrăthiel and Linnet had landed the balloon and joined the royal family in their lodgings that the weather-mage spoke of the rumours of Uabhar’s alliance with the Marauders, the unsolved mysteries of Silverton and, above all, the undoubted betrayal and imprisonment of the weather-masters. She had had no wish to dampen the spirits of the troops by shouting such disturbing tidings over their heads from the balloon’s gondola.

  Propped against piles of brocade cushions strewn about the carpeted floor, her audience remained in silence while she made her report. Lamps, hanging on long chains from the ridgepole, glowed like faceted gems, their light casting a muted sheen on the wall-hangings and the satin festoons billowing from the ceiling. The youngest prince, Gunnlaug, sat cross-legged with a dish of garlic sausage on his knee, chewing while he listened.

  ‘I am grieved that Sir Isleif and the Shield Champions were unable to protect the weathermasters from Uabhar’s treachery,’ Thorgild said heavily, when Asrăthiel had finished speaking. ‘My knights never returned from that mission. Uabhar sent word that they had been slain by Marauders on the road as they journeyed, not two leagues from Cathair Rua, but I did not believe a word of it. No barbarian cave dwellers could overcome such fine warriors. I am now convinced they met with foul play from Ó Maoldúin, but there is no way to prove it.’

  ‘I grieve also, at this loss,’ said Asrăthiel. ‘The fame of the Shield Champions was widespread. Sir Isleif was greatly esteemed.’

  ‘He was a man most honourable,’ agreed Prince Halvdan, ‘a defender of his people, oath-bound to uphold truth and justice.’

  ‘And in all things wise, level-headed and determined,’ his elder brother Hrosskel appended.

  ‘But it seems,’ Gunnlaug put in through a mouthful of food, ‘he was bested in the end. Ó Maoldúin is indeed a formidable foe.’

  Hearing these words King Thorgild wrinkled his brow in exasperation, and Hrosskel turned a disapproving look upon his youngest brother.

  ‘Formidable and ruthless,’ Asrăthiel agreed, to break the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Methinks you have been consorting again with the druids, Gunnlaug,’ the monarch said sharply. ‘Stay away from them! They meddle overmuch in affairs of state, and poison men’s minds with insidious advocacy of causes that enhance their own veiled interests—which, I’ll warrant, do not lie with us. Slievmordhu is not as redoubtable as they would have you believe.’

  Putting aside his dish, Gunnlaug counted on his fingers: ‘Ó Maoldúin owns an eldritch weapon, and a covenant with our pretty friends of the caves. He has stifled his most powerful adversaries, convinced the desert king to aid him, and jumped first, while the rest of us were asleep.’

  ‘He also has his weaknesses,’ said Halvdan.

  ‘They are hard to see, from where I am sitting,’ said Gunnlaug, ‘but I long to find them out with my axe.’

  ‘It will take more than your axe to finish Ó Maoldúin,’ observed Hrosskel. Clearly he intended it as a jest, but Gunnlaug gave him a filthy look.

  ‘Think you?’ the youngest prince thrust out his chin. ‘Perchance you think you could do it all by yourself, eh? Or you and Hrosskel shoulder to shoulder, champions of Grïmnørsland!’

  ‘Save your hero’s boasts,’ Thorgild said, directing his gaze at all three of his sons, but his words to only one. Gunnlaug subsided, and Asrăthiel seized the opportunity to lead the discussion to a topic close to her heart. For a while the youngest prince listened without making a contribution, obviously bored. Presently he got up and wandered away.

  During the previous exchange Asrăthiel had been bracing herself to broach a certain subject with the king. Of all political causes, that of the rights of nonhumans was dearest to her, but it was also the only subject that won her disfavour amongst many of her friends. They were all good people, she knew, but cultural mores had made them blind to the suffering they caused by their actions or inaction. Risking dislike by speaking out was hard, but remaining silent would have been harder.

  ‘I would that this war had never begun,’ the damsel said to Thorgild, ‘not least because of the terrible toll humankind’s battles take on horses. It is injustice beyond belief that innocent beasts, grass-eaters, should be used as war machines and, usually, end up thrashing and dying in agony at the end of a spear. Our quarrels are not theirs. To use them thus is inhumane in the extreme. The employment of cavalry is unjust and cruel.’

  This was tactless of her, she was aware—particularly at such a time, but contrary to
her own best interests she was driven, as ever, by compassionate ideals, even to the extent of sacrificing the kind opinion of those who would review her.

  Thorgild’s increased displeasure was evident. ‘Have you spoken of your concerns with Warwick?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed, sir, I speak often to him on this subject. He is sympathetic to the cause, however he says he can find no alternative.’

  ‘And there is no alternative, if we are to defend our realms against an enemy who has no such qualms about using horses in warfare,’ Thorgild said firmly.

  ‘Yet that does not diminish the wrongness of it,’ the weathermage persisted.

  ‘With respect, Lady Maelstronnar,’ the king said formally, ‘I am grateful to you for your help and I value your friendship. Nonetheless, I will no longer listen to your lectures. I fear you are in danger of becoming a pedant.’

  The weathermage’s efforts had come to naught, as she had rather suspected they would. She could only hope that by sheer repetition, illumination and persistence she might cause humankind to question the existing state of affairs. She disliked admonishing people in this way and always had to steel herself to the task. The entire business of abuse and exploitation was hateful enough, without that it made her feel obliged to say and do things that grated on the sensibilities of others; it felt like swimming upstream against a fast current, when by nature she would rather have simply crossed to the other side and gone about her business.

  Bowing coldly, the damsel said, ‘Compassionate folk have to show opposition to cruelty, sir, and at times we have to run the risk of having unflattering labels placed on us, because there are some things for which we should display no tolerance.’

  She and the king spoke no more to each other that evening and Thorgild initiated a discussion of strategies with his generals. Prince Halvdan and Asrăthiel were the last to seek their couches that night; they conversed until late. ‘Like you I am sorely grieved that this war has come to pass,’ the prince told her. ‘I do not want to fight against Slievmordhu. Because of this war I have lost my friends at Ó Maoldúin’s court.’

  ‘You will not lose the goodwill of the crown prince,’ said Asrăthiel, ‘nor of Two-Swords Gearnach.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘Kieran and Conall, above all men, understand the concept of duty. They will absolve you from all blame.’

  ‘I can only hope that the conflict will soon be over,’ said Halvdan, ‘and that peace and amicability will be restored between our realms.’

  A pavilion was set up for Asrăthiel, and an overnight watch posted on Lightfast. Next morning the entire tent city was dismantled and the army was on the move before sunrise. The weathermage and her maid accompanied them in the aerostat, hovering near the head of the procession at a height of two hundred feet so that she might keep watch for signs of danger. Some of the gawping soldiers took to calling the weathermage ‘The Lady in the Moon’.

  She had temporarily set aside her efforts on behalf of horses used in battle, for no one would listen. Her vexation became part of the general turmoil within her breast. Wrath at Uabhar’s subjugation of her kinsmen ate at her like a canker, and her thumbs twitched with desire to summon thunderbolts. The anger was a lid that battened over dread. Since King Thorgild’s revelation that he believed Uabhar had lied about the way his knights met their end, she had begun to fear, within some secret recess of her heart, that a fate worse than captivity had been inflicted upon her kinfolk. She would not, however, permit herself to dwell on the possibility, and deliberately concealed the tumult within her mind.

  As for King Thorgild, he brooded, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary, even during the nightly meals he took with his sons and Asrăthiel. He was filled with self-reproach for having invested his faith in Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, and unable to forgive himself for his role, no matter how unwitting, in the betrayal of the weathermasters. Nobody, not even his sons who rode beside him, could rouse him from his gloomy abstraction.

  Having prevailed at the Battle of Blacksmith’s Corner, the southern troops speedily regrouped. Shortly thereafter they began to press on towards that region in Narngalis known as the Eldroth Fields, in the wake of the retreating defenders. Marauders skulked along the fringes of the marching battalions, like predatory beasts seeking the weakest of the herd. Scouts and reconnaissance parties kept a wary eye on the swarmsmen who, in spite of alliances and promises, appeared ready to pounce on any man they might encounter.

  A company of Ashqalêthan cavalry was crossing a hillside meadow when the outriders spied a scuffle breaking out amongst the willows lining the stream at the bottom of the slope. From a distance it looked as if the circling Marauders had stumbled upon two Narngalish stragglers, whom they set upon with a vengeance. To the astonishment of the observers the Narngalishmen broke free of their attackers and ran away, doffing their garments one by one, with each stride, throwing them wildly to the winds. Hats and jackets were tossed into the air, and shirts, and belts, and even—after some stumbling, rolling and hopping—breeches. The Marauders gave chase. Soon the hunt disappeared into a grove of alders.

  ‘Ha! The freaks prove their worth,’ one of the horsemen said, snickering contemptuously.

  Another shrugged. ‘And the Narngalish, faced with defeat, are losing their wits.’

  Had the audience stayed to keep watch on the alder grove they might have seen, some while later, two threadbare figures cautiously emerging.

  ‘Rotten as a tooth!’ said a high-pitched voice. ‘Uniforms! He sez the uniforms of the sharp-swords will keep us safe! Rotten idea.’ Scroop rubbed his bruised shoulders and squinting at the world from his least swollen eye.

  Grak’s uneven gait was more pronounced than usual. ‘Get a better one,’ he challenged.

  At the northern marches of the Eldroth Fields King Warwick’s troops reassembled, dug themselves in, and set up their indigo and ivory pavilions, ready to take a second stand against the invaders, with the Companions of the Cup in the front lines.

  There was little assistance to be had from the most powerful allies of the north-kingdom, the weathermasters. No full-fledged mages remained in the Mountain Ring, save for the Storm Lord, but the few prentices who could be spared had flown out to join Warwick at his field encampment. What limited support the king’s troops received from Rowan Green was heartily welcomed. The odds were quite clearly stacked against the Narngalish. In alliance, the military forces of the southern kingdoms outnumbered the defenders. Already the soldiers could hear the wails of eldritch weepers mourning for men whose lives would soon be cut short, and they jested to each other, ‘Hark, the wights weep for our foes and wash Slievmordhuan blood from their rags and tatters!’ But the unease behind their eyes belied their jocularity. Fervently the northerners prayed that King Thorgild’s reinforcements would arrive speedily. They were acutely aware, nonetheless, that many perilous leagues lay between Narngalis and the western kingdom.

  As the invaders pressed further into Narngalis the rumour of their advance precipitated panic. Retreating Narngalish troops had warned the civilians that pillaging aggressors were on the way, so the villagers had packed their belongings and fled with them, or hidden them in secret cellars, or buried them. They drove their herds before them, or, if their haste was too great, turned them free so that the beasts stood a chance against the arrows of the foraging infantry. Every village through which the southerners marched was deserted. They found slender pickings—a few hens, an overlooked sack of rye—and it was too early in the season for ripe fruit, or they would have stripped bare the orchards. Nonetheless, the columns carried with them sufficient provisions and were never in danger of starving. Angry that the peasants had thwarted them, some called for firing the thatch of the empty cottages, but their superior officers warned them there was to be no wanton destruction. ‘These hamlets now belong to the Crown. Anyone caught wilfully damaging the king’s property will be flogged.’ Which Crown, that of Slievmordhu or Ashqalêth, was deliberatel
y left unclear.

  The allies surged forward in an eager wave across the countryside until they reached the outskirts of the Eldroth Fields, where the foe waited on the other side. There Uabhar called a halt. A belt of green turf, half a mile wide, separated the armies of north and south. Sitting astride his destrier Mac Brádaigh shaded his eyes against the sun’s glare, staring across the open acres at the glittering fence of troops ranged across the furthest border of the fields. The wily strategist chafed at the slightest delay, knowing they should waste no time in the assault. The decision, however, was out of his hands. For the moment, his liege lord refused to let him act.

  There was much perplexity in the Narngalish camp as to why the southerners did not attack straight away, driving home their advantage. Each hour that passed without engaging in warfare enabled the northerners to strengthen their position, throwing up embankments and redoubts, distributing provisions, honing arms and preparing armour. Had they known it, squabbles had broken out between Uabhar and Chohrab as to the most effective strategy, and the bickering led to an impasse. No fighting was in progress but the tension throughout the bivouacs was almost palpable. Each side was watching for the other to make the first move, alert for the slightest signal that the foe was on the point of launching assault.

  Late that afternoon one of Uabhar’s sentries noted a couple of peasants skulking at the edges of the Slievmordhuan encampment. His captain was about to issue orders to challenge the lurkers when he perceived that a patrolling band of Marauders, having also spotted the prowlers, was rushing to the attack.

  ‘So much for our new-pledged brother swarmsmen obeying orders to refrain from setting upon civilians,’ grunted one of the captains. ‘Not only do they have the look of wild beasts, they act like them.’