by R. J. Grieve
The speech had been conducted entirely in the Old Language, but Enrick had not been so remiss in his application to its study as his younger brother and followed it with ease.
“Welcome, Demeron of the Perith-arn,” he replied graciously. “Your aid is most timely, for although help is on its way from our allies in Serendar, it will not arrive in time for the battle that is sure to take place tomorrow. The Lord of Westrin tells me that your people are skilled with the bow.”
“They are, sire. Moreover, we use only the longbow, which has greater power and distance than the crossbow. I assure you, we will thin the ranks of our enemies tomorrow, before the battle lines even meet.”
He said this with such relish that Enrick smiled. “I can see, Demeron, that you are a man after my own heart. Where are your men at the moment?”
“They are concealed in the forest, as we did not wish our presence to be misconstrued.”
“Then bring them to join us, Demeron, and reassure them that they could not be more welcome.”
By the time Vesarion had overseen the arrival of the Perith-arn and attended to a myriad of other matters, it was pitch dark when he wended his way to his own tent. The cool, velvety night was softly punctuated by the orange glow of many small camp fires. Some of the men were already asleep, rolled up in their blankets; some were sitting by the fires putting the final edge to their blades, and others talked quietly together. They all knew what the morning would bring and each man dealt with it in his own way. Occasionally, a soldier would respectfully approach him and ask to see the famous sword that legend decreed would protect them – and Vesarion never refused.
Upon entering his tent, he reflected that this time, compared with his previous foray into the Forsaken Lands, he travelled in luxury. Not only did he have a roof over his head – albeit a canvas one – he had a small folding chair, a table with a lighted candle upon it and a padded bedroll to intervene between his bones and the unforgiving ground. He sat down at the table and began, rather desultorily, looking through some papers left for his attention. But his mind would not concentrate. It kept wandering in the direction of Addania, wondering what Sareth was doing, what she was thinking. He sensed of late that she was hiding something that troubled her, and guessed it was what troubled them all – the impending battle. He wondered if he should write her a letter, but realised that it was probably futile. The night before he had left Addania, he had told her all that was in his heart without reserve, knowing that this time there must be no regrets. Indeed, his only cause of self-reproach was that due to his own foolishness, their time together had been so short. Pushing the thought aside, he tried to drag his mind back to his papers and was succeeding tolerably well, when the flap of his tent was drawn back and he saw out of the tail of his eye, a young subaltern enter. Not best pleased at being interrupted, Vesarion did not take his attention from what he was reading, but as the young soldier did not speak, he finally said tetchily: “Well? What is it?”
“Reporting for duty, sir,” said a familiar voice.
Vesarion leaped to his feet, oversetting his chair. “Sareth!” he cried. “How can this be?”
She tugged off her helmet and her glossy hair descended onto her shoulders.
He gripped her arms as if he could not believe she was real. “How do you come to be here?”
“Iska is here too. Eimer has found a tent for her but at the moment we are keeping out of Enrick’s way, just in case he takes exception to the fact that I didn’t obey his orders to stay in Addania. Gorm nearly gave the game away, because he let such a squeal out of him when he saw me, that I thought he’d have the whole camp in a panic.”
He had been listening a little bemused to this recital but losing interest in it, instead caught her into his arms. “Never mind. All that matters is that you are here now.” However, a moment later he leaned back from her. “Er…Sareth? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but chainmail is not exactly huggable.”
“Oh! Take it off!” she commanded laughingly, holding up her arms. “It weighs a ton and I’m tired of it already. How you manage to fight in it, I have no idea.”
“So what are you wearing it for?” he asked, helping her out of it. “You’re not, I trust, thinking of taking part in the fight tomorrow?”
“Oh, no,” she replied airily. “It’s just for disguise.”
He looked down at her solemnly. “Sareth, it’s me, Vesarion, you are talking to. Someone who has known you since you were born. Do you really expect me to swallow that?”
She blushed guiltily. “Iska and I will stay at the back, out of harm’s way.”
He raised his brows disbelievingly.
“I promise,” she declared. “And, anyway, what about your promise?”
“What promise?”
“Not to take your helmet off.”
“I cannot think of any reason why I should wish to take my helmet off in the middle of a battle, but if it makes you happy, I solemnly vow to keep it on. What is this obsession with helmets anyway?”
“Nothing – it’s just stupid, really.”
Vesarion cast the hauberk onto the ground and turned up her chin. “You’re a handful,” he said in mock despair. “Do you know that?”
“I’m sorry,” she said contritely.
“Don’t be. You once told me that if I wanted abject obedience, I should buy a dog.” He sighed theatrically. “It’s beginning to look like I’ll have to.”
But her eyes were cast down. “I should not have said such a thing to you.”
He lightly touched his finger to her lips to silence her. “Do not apologise. I would not change you, not by so much as the breadth of a hair.”
In reply, she drew down his head and kissed him. His arms tightened around her and a moment later, his shirt joined the hauberk on the ground, soon followed by various other assorted items of clothing. The little candle was extinguished and as Sareth felt the warmth and gentleness of his touch in the enveloping darkness, she re-lived the joy of the discovery she had made that first night in the Rose Tower – that the reserved man she had married was deeply and tenderly passionate.
Later that night as she lay at peace in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest as he slept, in the stillness of the night she realised that she could hear his heart beating. And all at once it was borne upon her that all her happiness, her very reason for living, depended on one beat following another and suddenly life had never seemed to her to be so fragile. Unable to bear the torture, she moved her head so that she could no long hear the sound, then gently tracing the outline of his chin with her finger, she whispered into the darkness: “It was only a dream. It means nothing. It was only a stupid dream.”
Dawn saw the Eskendrian army a hive of activity. Horses were being saddled, armour donned, bows re-strung. Extra arrows were being distributed by the quartermasters and the few who had not already honed the edges of their weapons, now did so with enthusiasm. Shields were checked for soundness, swords belted on and helmets pulled into place.
Eimer was engaged in tightening the girths on his saddle when Iska appeared at his side.
“I….I have come to wish you luck,” she said tentatively, as if unsure of her reception.
He looked up from his task. “Try to stay our of trouble, will you?” he asked, in the tone of someone who knows he won’t be heeded. “I know that Sareth promised that the two of you would stay out of the way, but I don’t believe that any more than Vesarion does.”
A silence fell between them, and they stood looking at one another a little awkwardly, as if there was more to be said but neither could find the courage to say it. But after a moment or two of this impasse, Iska, suddenly giving in to impulse, abruptly reached up and taking his face between her hands, kissed him full on the lips. When she drew back, Eimer found her finger wagging in an admonitory fashion before his astonished eyes.
“Now, listen to me, Prince Eimer,” she began. “In future, if you so much as look at another barmaid, you are in
serious trouble. Is that clear?”
Rapidly recovering his nerve, Eimer smiled knowingly, and hooking his finger into the front of her belt, jerked her closer.
“Explain it to me again,” he commanded brazenly.
Vesarion had already taken his leave of Sareth. He had held her in silence for a long moment, his cheek resting against her hair, and like the day at the inn in the city of Adamant, time seemed to stand still. The bustle and noise of the camp around them faded to nothing and for a moment they stood alone together in a place where no harm could touch them. When finally they drew apart, Sareth looked up into his eyes and said the three words that he most wanted to hear. Then she was gone, leaving a cold, empty place in his heart.
When Eimer led his horse over to Vesarion, he looked back in the direction in which Sareth and Iska had vanished. “What are the chances that those two will keep their word and stay out of this?”
Vesarion glanced up from pulling on his gloves. “Slim to none, I imagine.”
“Our two women are not exactly timid little mice,” Eimer concluded, as if making an amazing discovery.
This was rather too much for Vesarion. A little knot of tension had been tightening in his stomach but suddenly it vanished and he dissolved into laughter. The Ravenshold Brigands, hearing the unexpected sound, found themselves infected by their commander’s amusement, and even though they had no idea what the joke was, they began to grin like idiots.
When he finally sobered up, Vesarion said in wonderment: “Eimer, permit me to award you the prize for being the master of understatement.”
Eimer grinned delightedly, but their light-heartedness was banished a moment later. Just as they were preparing to mount, Gorm came charging over to them as fast as his short legs would carry him, his face bearing an expression of alarm.
“Enemy know we are here,” he panted. “Took a look over there this morning,” he explained, waving his hand in a vaguely northwards direction, “and they are preparing for battle very fast. Must tell King now!”
Enrick, by now, had learned not to doubt Gorm’s reports and instantly reacted by putting his battle plans into effect. The trumpeters were ordered to sound the assembly and every infantryman, archer and rider hurried to find his place in his division. Moving out into the openness of the plain, the King began to deploy his army, aware that there would be no second chances. He gave orders to place the heavy infantry in the centre, in anticipation that this was where the brunt of the attack would fall. As their divisions marched into position, their ranks bristling aggressively with pikes and halberds, their lighter armed comrades were placed to guard their flanks. Vesarion watched with an approving eye as division by division, Enrick positioned his forces. The Perith-arn and the Ravenshold Brigands were divided into two and placed on the wings. Vesarion was in command of the more vulnerable right and Prince Eimer took the left. The barons were busy shouting orders and soon began to raise their standards one by one, to indicate that their respective commands were in position.
When all was in readiness, the Eskendrian army made a formidable sight, with its forces deployed across almost the entire width of the plain, its myriad banners bright against the dull grassland. Every man’s face was turned to the north, silently waiting.
A little inauspiciously, the sky above the plain was a uniform, dismal grey, without even a hint of the sun. Occasionally, a spot of rain like a tear, plinked onto the metal of shield or helmet – and the heavy clouds promised more. As a raindrop struck Eimer’s helmet, he glanced at the sky disapprovingly, not looking forward to fighting in wet armour. As he did so, the wind dropped, as if worn out, and all the standards that had flown so bravely before the walls of Addania, now hung limp in the still air. Out on the opposite wing to Eimer, from the vantage-point of the saddle, Vesarion looked across the open plain to the dark line of trees on the far side. Nothing stirred. There was not a sound, other than the small noises issuing from their own forces – the occasional cough, the clink of armour, the snort and stamp of restless horses. It all seemed unreal, like a stage awaiting the players. Where were they? What was taking them so long?
Enrick, sensing the men’s growing uneasiness, realised he had to act. Riding out in front, he wheeled his horse to face them.
“Men of Eskendria, archers of the Perith-arn, the forces of Adamant come against us today led by a Prince whose aim is to conquer and enslave that to which he has no rightful claim. But if he thinks that we lack the courage and will to oppose him, he will find himself badly mistaken. We have faced mightier enemies before and have shattered them, and this Prince of Adamant will fare no better. He tried to take from us the sword of Erren-dar, but he failed, and now it leads us into battle against him. It defeated the forces of the Destroyer sixty years ago and will do so again today.” He paused, before resuming in a voice of rising strength. “I swear to you that not one foot of soil of our beloved land will fall to this man. I swear that not so much as one Eskendrian child will bow to his rule. I swear that here and now, on this very day, at this very hour, we will crush his pride in the dust and make him taste the bitter ashes of defeat.” Drawing his sword and holding it high in the air, he cried: “Who amongst you will stand with me?”
A thunderous roar of approval broke from every throat and Vesarion, listening approvingly, realised that adversity had been the making of Enrick. Yet during the whole time the King was rousing his troops, his cousin had been keeping his eyes glued to the opposite forest, and he found himself muttering under his breath: “What is keeping them? They must come before all this enthusiasm that Enrick has whipped up vanishes like mist. Where are they?”
As if in response to his words, a deep, bass drumbeat suddenly sounded from amongst the dark ranks of the trees. The cheering faltered and died away.
Thump, thump, thump-thump, thundered many invisible drums, echoing across the still plain. Still nothing could be seen, and a murmur of unease, hastily checked by the barons, passed like a rippling wave along the ranks.
Then slowly, from the dark concealment of the distant trees, the forces of Adamant began to emerge. As the drums continued their thunder, rank by rank, the enemy appeared, already fully armed and in battle order.
Vesarion watched as they spilled out of the forest onto the open plain in their thousands. Relentlessly, they streamed from the trees, and with a sinking heart, he realised that there were even more of them than he had feared. The Eskendrians were outnumbered by far. In contrast to the defending army’s many banners, their enemies carried with them only two – the coiled snake on the green background of Adamant and the plain black flag, without symbol or device, of the Destroyer. Last to emerge into view was the most fearsome of all – the army of black warriors. Moving with uniform precision, they took up their positions, each one as tall as the tallest man, with a breadth of shoulder that suggested great power. Their faces, and their thoughts, if they had any, were concealed beneath their full-face visors. When they reached their allotted place in the centre of the line, they simply stopped moving and stood as motionless as if they had been turned to stone. In the dull light, the rows of steel visors, gleaming and expressionless, made them look as if they were beyond the reach of mere mortal weapons. Enrick’s heart quailed when he saw them and for the first time, he prayed that the powers of the sword of Erren-dar were more than just a myth.
After a tense pause, suddenly the drum beats quickened their pace and the army of Adamant began to move towards them. The still air carried clearly the heavy tramp of marching boots and the strange rustling, creaking noise of an army moving to attack position. A few of the rasher spirits amongst the Eskendrian troops tried to move forwards to meet them, but were hauled back sharply by their barons, for the King had not given the order to advance. When the Adamantians came to a halt, there was only about half a mile of open plain between them and their opponents. Suddenly, the drums ceased and silence fell like a icy blow. From behind the ranks of the enemy, a powerful figure mounted on a black horse
appeared. He wore a chainmail hauberk over which was an armoured shoulder-piece held by a cross-strap. He carried a round shield emblazoned with a coiled snake and on his head, his visorless helmet bore the same device in gold around the rim. Although the distance was too great to make out his features, Vesarion, watching with burning intensity, knew without a doubt who it was. He remembered well that arrogant posture, that pitiless scorn, evident in every line of his body. He remembered the look of amused boredom on Mordrian’s face as his bound prisoner was viciously beaten by his henchman. He saw once more those amber eyes watching mercilessly as the Scorpion’s Sting had torn his back to ribbons. And once more, as in the Morass of Engorin, he felt rage begin to smoulder deep in his gut.
Mordrian began to guide his horse through the ranks towards the front, each man falling back respectfully before him, until he was in clear view of the enemy ranged against him. His brother, and a squire bearing the snake banner, rode a subordinate pace or two behind him. The three riders moved out into the open plain towards the enemy lines, remaining just out of bowshot. Mordrian halted his horse and his eye travelled back and forth over the Eskendrian forces for a tense moment, then he threw back his head and laughed. Looking over his shoulder at Kerac, who appeared uncomfortable, as if uncertain as to why he was there, he called scornfully: “Is this it? Is this the best they can do? I had been hoping for a decent fight, but this is going to be easy.”
