On the evening the two Narngalish knights crossed the Eldroth Fields under the white flag to seek parley, the Storm Lord’s granddaughter, attended by her maid, was floating in the wicker gondola of Lightfast above Thorgild’s troops as they marched through the wild country north of High Darioneth. Asrăthiel gazed out across hills and valleys striped with long shadows. The bloom of Summer was on the land and the blowing forests were festive with flowers. Streams leaped noisily down from the hills, and herds of deer grazed on the slopes. Southward reared the jagged rim of the Mountain Ring. Draped in their cloaks of tattered cloth-of-silver, the peaks towered in splendour. The sky-balloon’s shadow danced across grassy meadows sparkling with dew. At last the aeronaut spied the hilltop semaphore station she had been looking for, a collection of low stone buildings surrounding a taller edifice crowned by its two-armed tower. She descended, letting the airy pearl glide smoothly down the currents.
‘What news from the battle front for King Thorgild?’ she asked the signal operators.
‘The fighting rages on at the Eldroth Fields,’ they answered in apprehensive tones. ‘But worse tidings are at hand. The station at King’s Winterbourne sends reports of unseelie tribes on horseback swarming down into Narngalis from the ranges.’
‘Great heavens!’ Asrăthiel was taken aback. She riffled through the written notes the signalmen had provided, her brow furrowed with concentration, concern and frustration. At length she said, half to herself, ‘If there are clues to these mysteries, I can make nothing of them.’
‘Tir is in great danger, my lady,’ said the chief signalman. ‘We are fortunate we have the weathermasters to shield us from any unseelie scourge.’ And he bowed deeply.
‘As we are fortunate we have scrupulous signallers to man their posts, come what may,’ Asrăthiel said, returning the compliment. ‘Now I must hasten back to the king’s encampment with this news. Farewell!’
Asrăthiel guided her aerostat to the meadow where Grïmnørsland’s troops had halted to rest themselves and their horses. King Thorgild and his sons were taking a hasty supper, seated upon wood-and-canvas folding chairs beneath the spreading eaves of a leafy beech wood that bordered the grassland. Gunnlaug sat a little apart from the rest, in the shadow of a gnarled bole, gnawing on a bone and drinking beer.
Thorgild’s commanders gathered around to hear what the weathermage had to say. When the monarch heard her report he let the bread and meat fall from his hand. Foreboding inscribed his ruddy countenance. He shook his head as if gravely discouraged, and his eyes hardened like stones. ‘An unhappy accident,’ he said, in echo of Warwick’s sentiments, ‘that eldritch wights should choose to assail Narngalis at a time of war. Yet,’ he added presently, ‘I am puzzled. I have never heard of the gwyllion riding upon horses.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Prince Halvdan, close at his father’s side. ‘I cannot help but wonder what manner of unseelie manifestation we are confronted with.’
‘I wonder also,’ said Asrăthiel. ‘The signalmen’s notes state that the few living folk who have, from afar, descried these raiders-in-the-mists assert that their mounts are not true horses. They avow they are eldritch steeds.’
She handed the billets to Halvdan, who perused them, saying, ‘I daresay they are waterhorses, then; tame brags or vicious kelpies maybe.’
‘Yet,’ said Asrăthiel, ‘if that is so, then they are unlike any waterhorse I have ever heard of. One witness claimed he glimpsed, from afar, manes and tails that glow like green fire . . .’
Thorgild muttered a curse. ‘Eldritch steeds with fiery manes? This is most strange. It reminds me of a tale I learned at my old nurse’s knee, a tale of daemon horses, the trollhästen. Lanky, lightsome and fell were they, and faster than falling stars, and passing comely. The story was my delight, and I used to dream of having a horse like that, though in vain, for they would never allow themselves to be ridden by mortalkind. As far as I know such steeds have not trod the grasses of Tir for many lives of men. If I recall rightly, only one species of wight ever leagued with the trollhästen, but for the life of me I cannot, at this moment, remember which one.’
His commanders shook their heads and exchanged comments, declaring that they had no recollection of any such tales.
Addressing his eldest sons, Thorgild said, ‘Both of you have studied the records of ancient battles and the archives of eldritch lore stored in the libraries of Trøndelheim. Have you ever read aught about the trollhästen?’
The princes contributed their theories, after which general discussion ensued. Gunnlaug watched his father and brothers over the top of the knuckle of ham on which he was chewing. At the first pause in the conversation he said, ‘What about me, sir? You have not asked me for my rede.’
Thorgild drew a deep and silent breath. ‘What is your rede, Gunnlaug?’
‘I am planning a strategy to win this war. When it is ready I will tell it to you, but in the meantime I take it ill that my brothers should be consulted and not me. All three of us have played war games and trained with the defence forces since boyhood.’
‘You are indeed a man of action, Gunnlaug, but Hrosskel and Halvdan have spent long hours studying the tactics used to win battles of yore.’ The king refrained from adding that although Gunnlaug was indeed a warrior of considerable might and prowess, his team had always lost the mock battles. Their leader was prone to ignore pre-planned manoeuvres and charge headlong with a single goal: to inflict harm upon his opponents. ‘I did not consider that you were much interested in sitting around tables debating logistics. You have always been the hunter, the wrestler, the pugilist.’
‘You have read me wrongly,’ said Gunnlaug, ‘for warfare in every aspect is my obsession, and you should make me a general. I am a better warrior than anyone under this wood—’ he stared meaningfully at Hrosskel and Halvdan, ‘—and were I to lead the troops we would smash our enemies and kick their bloody heads around the field for sport.’
‘I will not use my sons in military positions.’
‘Then you are unwise.’
‘That is enough!’ Thorgild roared, standing up and advancing on his son.
Gunnlaug was on his feet also, holding his ground, daring to bait his father. ‘We need a wise leader if we are to win against this unseelie onslaught. Uabhar is wise, even the druids say so. His might is growing. The druids say he might some day be High King of Tir.’
The onlookers gasped.
Father and son confronted one another, separated by a hand’s breadth. Softly, so that none could overhear, Thorgild said, ‘If you ever utter such treasonous nonsense again, I will exile you.’ They held each other’s challenging stare for a moment, before Gunnlaug dropped his eyes. Throwing down the remnants of his meal he slunk away.
He took a shortcut to his tent by way of a thicket that jutted from the beech wood, keeping to the shadows, but careful to stay within view of the glimmering campfires between the trees. No one overheard him savagely muttering to himself, ‘Fools! The might of Slievmordhu is greater than you bargain for, and shortly you will be forced to learn that at your peril. You ought to be grateful that you have a warrior such as I to defend us against Ó Maoldúin—instead you treat me like a cur. Soon you will come to know my quality!’
Oblivious of his son’s vituperations Thorgild said to the gathering, ‘Now, let us to our beds with no further ado, for early in the morning we must take to the road. If Warwick is forced to weaken his defences by sending troops to defend the north, we have all the more reason to make haste!’
On the lavender-scented linen of the couch in her pavilion Asrăthiel lay wide awake while her maid Linnet slumbered peacefully nearby. The weathermage’s mind was a whirlpool of conjectures, questions and overlapping trains of thought. The questions, in particular, harassed her. Would her grandfather’s rescue expedition be able to free her weathermaster kindred from Uabhar’s dungeons? Were her loved ones hale, or had Uabhar mistreated them? If the ruthless king had slain their guardians, K
ing Thorgild’s Shield Champions, might he not do the same to them? What would the four princes of Slievmordhu think of their father’s unpardonable crime against Rowan Green? Who were the eldritch riders, and what measure of menace did they present? Were they gwyllion, or something else? What if her father happened to return home at this dangerous time, and encountered the unseelie hordes on the road? What if he never returned home? What was happening at the Eldroth Fields? Would the Narngalish troops be able to hold out until the Grïmnørslanders came to their aid?
For an instant she wished the urisk could be in the tent with her. His extensive knowledge would be useful; he was sure to know all about those wicked wights. Moreover, she realised in hindsight that she had found comfort in his presence, as if they shared something, perhaps a bond of fellowship derived from both being unlike their own kind. She missed the creature to an extent that surprised her; it was like having a bruise in her side, or maybe even some deeper wound. To soothe the ache she reminded herself what pain he had given her in person—his unwarranted derision of Prince William, for example.
‘Ah, William!’ she sighed, turning over on her pillowed couch, and her thoughts flew to King Warwick’s encampment . . .
In the middle of the night a ragged vagrant limped amongst the Narngalish tents, tripped over a series of guy ropes and was seized by a pair of halberdiers.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here? Are you a spy?’ the guards demanded sternly.
‘By the bones of Ádh, I am no spy!’ said the beggar, quailing and rolling his eyes in fear. ‘I only came to bring valuable tidings and this is how I am treated!’ His accent was unidentifiable; besides which he was practically toothless, and mumbled.
‘From whence do you hail?’
‘I have travelled here from Cathair Rua, and a harrowing journey it was too.’
‘If you are of Slievmordhu, then you are our enemy!’
‘I am not of Slievmordhu. I am a proud Narngalishman.’
‘And a good liar, no doubt! You are a cunning fellow if you managed to slip through the lines of the southerners.’
‘Nobody notices me if I set my mind to it,’ said the beggar, a hint of conceit bizarrely mingling with his abject fear. ‘I bring valuable tidings, I tell you!’
Upon hearing the commotion one of Warwick’s captains strode up to the beggar and halberdiers. ‘We shall not treat you unkindly,’ he said, ‘if you do indeed bear important news and are no troublemaker. What is your name?’
‘They call me Cat Soup. I am so hungry I can barely speak,’ whined the beggar. He rubbed his bony hands together. The finger joints were pink and swollen.
‘Tell us first and we shall feed you afterwards.’
The old man cowered, looked up at the soldiers who loomed over him, and sniffed the cooking smells from a stew pot bubbling over a campfire.
‘Do you give your word?’
‘You are in no position to demand promises!’ snapped the captain. ‘Speak now!’
‘All right,’ Cat Soup said placatingly, blinking strands of greasy hair out of his red-rimmed eyes. ‘I will tell you what felonies I saw lately at Cathair Rua.’
And he began to relate his gruesome tale.
Uabhar hardly slept, so feverishly preoccupied was he with his machinations. In the first hour after sunrise he paced to and fro within his compound, at a safe distance from the action.
His royal lodgings consisted of a series of four huge rectangular pavilions linked together by galleries. Decorations of gold knotwork ran along the tops of the ridge-beams. Round pavilions with conical roofs jutted from this formation, five on each side. Every component was made from matching material; a heavy, close-woven woollen fabric dyed madder red, figured with gorgeous motifs of contrasting colours. Scores of guy ropes held the entire arrangement in place, and the finials were shaped like beasts from myth.
Not to be outdone by the royal tent makers, Uabhar’s personal valets made certain the king was magnificently dressed at all times, even in the throes of war. The crimson lining and gold stitch work of Uabhar’s doublet contrasted sharply with his breeches of black velvet, and he wore spurs upon his boot heels, heedless of the damage they caused to the splendid rugs strewn about the floor.
‘By rights we ought to have defeated them by now,’ he raged at the cringing valets, momentarily losing any vestige of restraint. ‘Narngalis should be ours! I am surrounded by imbeciles!’
His bodyguard heralded the arrival of High Commander Risteárd Mac Brádaigh. The soldier entered the luxuriously furnished chamber carrying his helm beneath one arm, bowed—to the accompanying sound of rustling chain mail—kissed the back of the king’s proffered hand and waited with barely concealed impatience.
Uabhar dismissed his attendants. ‘Speak!’ he said to Mac Brádaigh.
‘My liege,’ said the soldier, ‘all is in turmoil this morning. Rumours are spreading amongst the troops. It is said that swarms of deadly wights are issuing out of the highlands in the north and flooding across Tir, slaying all who stand in their way.’
‘I have heard these rumours,’ Uabhar said, his eyes darting rapidly from side to side. ‘They are false. Narngalis is attempting to terrify and undermine us with wild stories. He will fail.’
‘Men say the inhabitants of Narngalis’s northern villages are deserting their abodes. They are crowding the roads, not heading due south but making south-east and south-west, so as to avoid encountering Your Majesty’s troops.’
‘But this is a pack of lies!’ Uabhar roared. ‘Are you really fool enough to believe it, Mac Brádaigh? Who is broadcasting this nonsense? Where did it come from?’
The soldier’s visage turned brick-red with ire, but his voice was carefully controlled. ‘The stories started with the two Narngalish knights who rode under the flag of parley. They spoke of the matter to the captains who escorted them to the royal pavilion. Their words were overheard by many others. Such news spreads swiftly through an encampment.’
‘Scare-mongers will be discovered and chastised.’
‘Sire,’ the high commander continued levelly, ‘that is not the only source of the tales. The troops on the Narngalish front line have been shouting across the Fields. When the wind is in the north their words can sometimes be deciphered.’
‘Purely a strategy to weaken our resolve. A worn-out trick. Only dupes would heed the agitations of the enemy.’
Mac Brádaigh was about to say something more, but Uabhar’s sentries announced the advent of a despatch rider. The courier burst through the notched doorway like a gust of wind. He was breathing hard.
‘Your Majesty,’ said the courier, flinging himself at the king’s feet, ‘I come on the business of Lord Genan of Áth Midbine. Overnight my lord captured a Narngalish scout. Before he perished, the Narngalishman told my lord all he knew. He spoke of deadly riders, and daemon horses of green fire. Unseelie hordes are coming to destroy the world.’
‘Áth Midbine’s interrogator brings out the truth in men,’ Mac Brádaigh interjected, seizing the opportunity.
‘The truth as they believe it,’ snapped Uabhar. ‘Narngalis propagates falsehoods amongst his own troops to achieve his ends, knowing they will infect us with his lies.’
Mac Brádaigh said, ‘My liege, the men are restless. They are ready to battle against a foe they can see with their own eyes, an enemy who submits to the laws of life and death, but it is a different matter if they find themselves pitted against an adversary they cannot understand. There are concerns amongst the captains that fear might drive them to mutiny . . . ’
‘Rebels will be hanged!’ shouted Uabhar. ‘There are no unseelie hordes! They do not exist!’ He cocked his head to one side, then added, ‘And if they do, then let those hordes hasten south, for they will find Wyverstone barring their way before they encounter Slievmordhu. Let them destroy my enemies for me!’ To the messenger kneeling on the floor he said curtly, ‘Go back and tell that to Áth Midbine!’
‘That is not all. Th
ere is other news, sire,’ said the messenger.
‘Say!’
‘This very hour we shot down a carrier bird flying from the Narngalish encampment. It bore a message meant for Storm Lord Avalloc. Warwick has come to believe that the weather-masters have been slain by trickery.’
‘And at whose door does that deluded inventor of fancies lay this charge?’
‘At the door of Slievmordhu, sire.’
‘Rumour and hearsay! Fancies and delusions! Is that all the information my noble officers have to send me? Tell them this,’ said Uabhar, ‘any man who spreads sedition will be boiled alive. I will not tolerate the broadcasting of alarm and despondency amongst my troops. Now begone, bearer of bad news, begone! You too, Mac Brádaigh!’ Brusquely he extended his hand.
The high commander gave a peremptory bow, brushed his lips against the back of Uabhar’s hand and made a swift exit, followed by the courier. After they had gone Uabhar’s second son appeared from behind an embroidered hanging where he had been seated upon a chair of carved walnut, reading despatches. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘is it true?’ The face of young Prince Ronin was as pale as if cast in plaster. His shoulders were draped with a cloak of rich brocade, lined with scarlet satin, and loose tendrils of dark brown hair straggled across his cheeks.
‘Is what true?’
‘Have you indeed slain the weathermasters?’
‘You foolish whelp, I have merely caused the meddlers to be removed from our path. They are Narngalish subjects, and ever in alliance with Wyverstone. Do you suppose our campaign would have advanced even this far, had they been free to do as they wished? Well, do you?’
‘I suppose not,’ replied Ronin, but his voice was scarcely audible, and his lips were compressed to two smudged lines against the whiteness of his flesh. ‘But I thought you had merely imprisoned them. Pray tell me whether—’
He broke off as Crown Prince Kieran entered the royal pavilion, throwing off his mud-spattered cloak. Having heard that the high commander and a messenger had paid a visit, Kieran was about to enquire after the latest news, but checked himself when he perceived the situation between his father and brother. The anxiety he always experienced when attending Uabhar sharpened to dread.
Fallowblade Page 8
