It was a cold, bright, sunny day when the first divisions of Ibris's army marched out of Serenstad on their journey to Whendrak. The sky was cloudless, and a slight breeze fluttered the buntings and pennants that had been draped about the city for this occasion.
A flag-draped podium had been erected on a rocky outcrop on the far side of the river, and from it, Ibris and various other dignitaries were reviewing the troops as they passed over the bridge.
A large crowd had gathered and the many boats in the harbour were also crowded with spectators. There was a comforting amount of cheering and applause, but it was encouraging in tone, not joyous, and the predominant mood was one of anxiety.
After so many years of comparative peace and growing prosperity, the sudden flaring of Bethlarii hostility had come as a peculiarly awful shock to the Serens, and many could still not yet properly accept it.
It did not help that nothing had presaged this adventure; no increasingly acrimonious exchanges between envoys, no rumours of villages being raided, or trades routes blockaded, no formal denunciations, challenges or declarations. In fact, nothing which would serve to rouse the population into a mood unequivocally in favour of military action.
But it was the possibility that the reason for the aggression might be religious which caused the real concern. Trade and land were matters that the Serens could understand fighting for if need arose. But some bizarre deity …?
'This is the information I have received, and it is beyond dispute,’ Ibris told a subdued and hushed joint meeting of the Sened and the Gythrin-Dy following the return of Arwain's Mantynnai with their unhappy confirmation of the Bethlarii's intent.
'I need hardly mention that when many of us here were younger, fighting the Bethlarii was almost an annual occurrence, on one pretext or another. Fortunately, times have changed and we've all become a little wiser. Indeed, I'm sure that, despite our many differences, no one here will dispute that these are enlightened times. Times in which the sword and the bow are no longer regarded as acceptable tools of disputation. Fortunately too, however, despite this absence of hostilities, we have remembered that no city, no community, no man even, can lightly set aside those same tools or turn completely away from the idea of such conflict, as there will always be those who would seek to impose their will upon us by such means.'
There were murmurs of agreement about the chamber.
'Thus we have continued to give due note to martial skills, maintaining our army and making service a necessary social duty for all our young men. Not to menace our neighbours. But to show that as we value the hope of the future, so, by maintaining our strength, we remember the lessons of the past.'
He had concluded his speech by an appeal for unity between the many quarrelsome factions of the two governing houses and the other city institutions.
'This conflict, however, my friends, will be like no other there has been within our lifetimes. The Bethlarii have turned away from light, and reason, and knowledge, and have been possessed by a dark and ghastly bigotry. They will know no rest until they have spread this monstrous creed across the whole land unless they are shown the folly of their ways. And they will know that folly only when they have been decisively, conclusively, stopped.'
He paused and looked slowly over the silent, watching, representatives of his people.
'It will be a grim conflict we send our young men to,’ he went on, after a long pause. ‘And we must stand as they stand. Shield to shield. Stirrup to stirrup. We ask them to stand and suppress the weakness of their flesh in the face of missiles and charging cavalry. To stand even when their comrades fall wounded and dying about them. Thus we too must suppress our own weaknesses and petty differences and stand firm in the face of those among us who would seek to use this tragedy for their own ends, or worse, who would seek to appease this tyranny of ignorance which the Bethlarii have chosen to accept.'
There had been a little uncomfortable shuffling at these last remarks, but Ibris had won the unanimous support he had asked for.
'For now,’ Aaken added cryptically.
'Now's the important time,’ Ibris replied.
He had been obliged, however, to make a sacrifice of his own in the wake of this appeal, and standing beside him now on the podium was his wife Nefron: ‘Much recovered from the long and exhausting illness which had confined her to the Erin-Mal, and standing true and strong beside her husband in the land's great time of need.'
'Just keep an eye on her,’ Ibris told Feranc and Ryllans with prodigious emphasis.
'But …?'
'Don't worry, I'm not leaving her at my back. She'll be accompanying us to the front,’ Ibris said grimly, answering the question before it was asked. ‘For the morale of the army,’ he added significantly. ‘Or at least as near as will seem seemly of me to the people.'
Neither Ryllans nor Feranc demurred openly at this decision. Nefron gaining public esteem by such ‘courage’ was probably better than Nefron left to her own devices back in Serenstad.
'So thoughtful of you to bring me out in this bitter wind, my dear,’ Nefron said quietly to him as she smiled and raised a waving hand to the passing troops.
Outwardly Ibris ignored the barb, though, as they both knew, it struck home and, despite himself, long-buried memories of their earlier passions stirred to reproach him.
'Another cloak for the lady Nefron,’ he snapped unnecessarily at a nearby servant.
'Winter's in the air,’ someone said.
The remark made Ibris cast a brief but anxious look at Feranc, standing nearby. Though the Commander of his bodyguard never spoke of it, Ibris knew that he had a particular horror of winter combat.
Ironically, however, this was to the benefit of the army, as Feranc had imagination enough to put himself in the place of those he led. Thus he was meticulous in ensuring that clothing was appropriate and that supplies were adequate and thoroughly organized. More importantly it drew on his every dark resource to the full, to ensure that the conflict would be over as soon as possible.
Menedrion, standing beside his mother, shifted uneasily. He had little time for such ceremonies and was anxious to be with his troops.
Not that there was a great deal of ceremony about this march past. Apart from battalion and company colours and a liberal sprinkling of favours and pennants on pikes and wagons, there was no other concession to the traditional, more formal, departure of the army from the city. The matter was too urgent for such niceties and the men were in their field uniforms and setting their faces towards a rapid march to Whendrak.
Others would follow in due course and others had already left. Except for his immediate personal guard, Ibris's elite bodyguard, equipped with the minimum of supplies, were already well on their way, by forced march. They were under the command of Arwain, with Ryllans as his aide. What they found when they arrived at Whendrak would be carried back by gallopers and would form the basis of the tactics for the army proper.
The baggage train and its flank guards were now rumbling past.
Menedrion shifted again.
'Be patient, Irfan,’ Nefron said. ‘I'm sure Arwain will be able to manage without you for a little while.'
'Go and take up your position in the column, Irfan,’ Ibris said, before Menedrion could reply. Then with a nod to the officer in charge of the ceremony, he turned, said a few farewells to the various dignitaries, and, taking his wife's arm, gently escorted her down the podium steps. At the bottom he left her in the charge of her own small entourage and bodyguard.
Below them, the crowd was beginning to head back across the bridge towards the city. Some remained, however, as the rearguard passed by and for some time after even the Duke and his party had left. Mothers sent their love and hopes after their sons and tried to keep their fears from their faces. Wives held babies close, and clutched young, uncomprehending hands tightly and did the same. Young boys felt the weight of the adult fear, however, and did not play and roister with the toy swords and spears they had brought in support of their departing brothers and fathers.
Ibris and Nefron parted without speaking.
'Galloper!'
'Let him through!'
Arwain looked up with a start and cursed himself silently. How long had he been walking along in a trance? The relentless marching pace was both exhausting and hypnotic; he must have been almost asleep on his feet!
That wouldn't happen again, he resolved, as he searched for the approaching rider.
The man soon came into view and Arwain saw that he was driving his horse hard.
There was little semblance of rank and file in the column, as each individual made the best pace he could to keep in contact with the leaders, but there was still a clear order of march, and the straggling vanguard parted to let the rider through. He came to a staggering halt beside Arwain.
The horse was lathered in sweat and the rider was little better. He accepted Arwain's supporting arm as he slid, exhausted, from his saddle. A trooper ran up and took the horse.
Ryllans appeared at Arwain's side.
Before either of them spoke, the messenger said, breathlessly, ‘The Bethlarii have surrounded Whendrak. Two full divisions, as far as I could see.'
Arwain's heart sank. Two divisions! Ten times the men he had. The scale of the Bethlarii's intent and the speed of its execution chilled him. And what could he do against such odds?
'Surrounded, or taken?’ Ryllans’ calm inquiry cut across Arwain's dismay. He offered the messenger his water bottle.
The man seized it eagerly.
'Surrounded,’ he confirmed. ‘There were still signs of fires inside the city, but it must still be sealed, the Bethlarii were making towers.'
'Good,’ Ryllans said. ‘While Whendrak holds out against them, they'll not be anxious to move on through the valley. Were you seen?'
'No. I kept to the south ridge and it was deserted.'
Ryllans nodded, but said nothing. Then, dismissing the messenger, he spoke to Arwain quietly. ‘If they've not occupied or put lookouts on the ridges then they're either not expecting us yet or they just don't care. It's not like them to be so careless, but then…’ He shrugged. ‘This whole business is out of character…’ He thought for a moment.
'We've got to keep them in the valley until the main column arrives,’ Arwain said. ‘And there's no saying how long Whendrak will hold with them on the outside and some kind of uprising on the inside. They could be on the move even now.'
It was a dark thought. ‘We can't meet them with a force this size,’ Ryllans said, mouthing the obvious to clear his mind. ‘Not anywhere in the valley, it's too wide. But we can harass them, slow them down, if needs be.’ He nodded to himself.
'We'll need to hold the ridges for that,’ Arwain said.
Within the hour a rider was heading back to Ibris's army with the news and details of Arwain's intention, a company of the bodyguard was moving forward at full speed, with a view to securing the ridges during the night, and Arwain was forcing his complaining limbs to meet the renewed pace of the column.
They rested for a little while during the night. ‘We'll be at the valley tomorrow,’ Ryllans said. ‘Perhaps fighting. A little food and sleep is essential now.’ Though it seemed to Arwain that the Mantynnai himself got little of the latter. Certainly he was always either awake or absent on the several occasions that Arwain was jerked awake by one physical discomfort or another.
He made a note to mention Ryllans’ apparent self-neglect in the morning with a view, perhaps, to a mild rebuke, but it was he who was bleary-eyed, stiff and shivering, and Ryllans who was wide awake and quietly mocking when the camp roused itself in the pre-dawn darkness.
It was an eerie awakening. Silence would be essential from here on, and the chilly gloom was alive with whispering shadows and hooded lamps, as weapons, supplies and equipment were checked, stiff joints massaged, blistered feet given their final attention before being pressed back into duty.
Then they were marching again, though not as quickly as before, and more carefully. It was more important now that the column did not spread out too far.
Trudging through the darkness, surrounded by so many companions, Arwain felt suddenly very alone. He had commanded before, but not such a lightly armed, swiftly moving and independent group. True, he had Ryllans beside him and he was more than content to note the Mantynnai's unobtrusive advice, but he knew that he must bring to the fore everything that he had ever learned about fighting, about tactics, about people, about the terrain, everything, if he was to be anything other than a hindrance, or worse, to the group.
He stared into the darkness around them. There was no moon and the stars appeared only fitfully through a light haze of cloud. And it was nearly freezing; the air was misty with the clouded breath of the walking men and filled with the muffled sound of careful treading and the occasional rasp of a foot slithering on a damp rock.
He glanced up at the sky again and as he did so, two thin spears of light skimmed briefly across his vision.
He smiled. Chance, he thought. Starflies were not common at this time of year, and they shone for barely the blink of an eye. Yet he had looked up at this one moment just in time to see two of them perform their flight across the heavens.
Thus was it going to be from now on until this cruel affair was over. There would be plans, strategies, tactics, but always chance would be there to divert the course of any combat with its arbitrary and featherlike touch; an arrow caught in a breeze, a pebble under a foot, a cry to distract the attention, a spark from a burning brand.
'In battle, as in all things, you must learn from what was, you must look to what may be, but your mind and your body must be neither clouded nor ruled by either. You are here now, and now you will live or die.'
The advice had not been Ryllans', but Ciarll Feranc's when one day he had seen Arwain training and had chosen to speak for some reason.
Ryllans had stood back respectfully. ‘I try to understand him,’ he had said when Feranc had left and Arwain had turned to him for an explanation. ‘Just remember what he said, and think about it. He's twenty times the warrior that I'll ever be.'
Arwain took the advice and, occasionally, just like the brief faint flaring of the starflies’ flight, he thought he understood.
Then, without realizing how it had come about, he felt differently about the stiffness in his limbs, about the cold striking into his hands and feet, about the burdens of leading this group, about the endless options that lay ahead. None of them was in any way diminished, but in some way he accepted rather than resisted them and they became no more onerous to him than the weight of his mailcoat and boots.
And he knew where they were. The bewildering darkness became subtle shapes and shadows that he recognized.
'We're near the mouth of the valley,’ he said softly to Ryllans. ‘About two hours’ hard marching from the city, I'd say. We'd better halt and send out scouts.'
The Mantynnai nodded, and sent out the whispered command to halt.
The column closed ranks in the darkness and, after a brief discussion with the officers, Ryllans sent a small group ahead to reconnoitre, before ordering the column forward again, slowly and battle ready.
The silence that had pervaded the marchers thus far became tense now and was permeated with soft whispers: ‘keep together…’ ‘keep quiet…’ There was an occasional muffled cry and flurry as someone was startled by a scurrying night animal, or low swooping bird.
After a while, there was a flicker from a hooded lamp ahead and, following a whispered challenge, two of the scouts returned to announce that the road ahead was clear for some way and that they had left markers. The other scouts were continuing ahead. Then the two men were gone again.
Ryllans did not increase the speed of the march, however, as haste was no longer needed, and it was important that the column kept together.
Gradually the eastern sky began to grey, but like a grim parody of a sunset, the western horizon became noticeably red. ‘Let's hope that's just camp fires,’ Arwain said.
As they eased forward, successive scouts returned to say that the road was still clear, and then, finally, that the city was still untaken. Further, the Bethlarii were not attacking; their camp was at rest. Less heartening, though, was the news that further Bethlarii troops appeared to have arrived.
Ryllans called another halt and led Arwain aside.
'We've no idea of the state of affairs in Whendrak,’ he said. ‘They might be secure and comfortable, or they might be on the verge of defeat. From what we saw while we were there, they're badly divided among themselves and I fear the latter's more likely, if only by virtue of treachery at the gate. However, that may well be academic. If the Bethlarii are bringing up fresh troops, they may be planning a major assault, or they may be intending to leave a force here to contain the city while their main army moves on through the valley. In which case they could be moving at dawn.’ He nodded towards the greying east.
'Go on,’ Arwain said into the silence.
'We can wait and see if they intend an assault,’ Ryllans continued. ‘But if they don't, if they move on, then they'll march right into us.'
'I presume we've occupied the ridges,’ Arwain said. ‘We could harass them if they move, as we decided.'
Ryllans shook his head. ‘It would've been risky against two divisions, even allowing for a couple of battalions being left around the city. But if they've been building up their numbers while we've been marching, we've no idea how many would be coming through. It may not be possible for us to delay them until the main army arrives. In which case we could lose a great many men and perhaps even find ourselves cut off for no great gain.'
Arwain breathed in slowly. They had no information on which to make a rational decision, but Ryllans’ comments were sound and, with or without information, the decision had to be made.
'That leaves us with retreat or … an immediate attack,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘And as retreat would be worse than just standing here, that means we must attack. Now. Before dawn.’ He felt at once sick and excited.
Softly, Ryllans summoned the officers again and laid the same conclusion before them. It was greeted with an uneasy silence and Arwain was glad of the darkness concealing his face. He became aware, however, of the faces of others, pale in the darkness, turning towards him.
'I see no other alternatives,’ he said, surprised at his own calmness. ‘There are people in Whendrak fighting both their own and the Bethlarii, and every moment we wait, we jeopardize them and we allow the Bethlarii to increase their force. My father's finest troops didn't make a forced march across the country to act as mute witnesses to the death of Whendrak or to stand by like keening widows as the enemy brushes us aside.’ He paused.
'They have numbers. We have surprise.’ The die was cast.
Ivaroth Ungwyl brought his horse to a halt as he reached the ridge. A bitterly cold wind struck him suddenly, making him tighten his cloak and swear to himself.
Overhead, an unbroken sea of grey clouds moved southward, as if, whey-faced, they ran to tell the lands there of his coming.
Ivaroth glared at the lowering peaks above and around him. Here and there the higher ones disappeared up into the clouds, and some were capped and streaked with recent snow, making them brilliant even in the prevailing greyness. The scene would have moved a less jaundiced spirit with its stern splendour and majesty but, to Ivaroth, the massive, ageless, and immovable presence of the mountains was an affront.
These stones mocked him.
'Who are you, Mareth Hai?’ they seemed to say. ‘And of what worth is your vaulting ambition in the span of our time? ‘Tis but a heartbeat since your long-dead kin fled through our valleys into the north, and the merest shake of our hoary heads would sweep your great army into oblivion forever. And who will remember you in but a handful of summers?'
Ivaroth snarled and fought to dismiss the thoughts.
I am Mareth Hai, he shouted in silent defiance. As I conquered the plains so will I tear you rock from rock if you defy me. Level your cliffs, span your ravines, choke your rivers and waterfalls.
His inner spleen, however, gave him little solace. The mountains had taken a toll already and, he knew, would take a further before his army rode out into the southlands.
He looked back. The army was spread out along the trail. Men were toiling with horses and wagons loaded with tents and food and equipment, struggling with tow ropes and carrying heavy packs and panniers. The rambling procession dwindled into the distance where it disappeared from view, swallowed by the rugged terrain. He knew, however, that it was spread out far beyond his sight like a great dark serpent, moving relentlessly forward at his will.
'It is good.'
The voice both echoed and interrupted his triumphant reverie. It was the blind man. He was, as ever, standing nearby, seemingly as oblivious to the biting cold as he was to all the other rigours of the journey. Ivaroth suppressed a shudder. The old man seemed to be drawing some unholy sustenance from the rocks themselves as they moved deeper into the mountains. Now he was running his hands over a flat slab of rock as though he were a tender lover with his bride. Only his own consuming need for the man prevented Ivaroth from cutting him down in disgust.
However, it was rare for the old man to speak unless either spoken to, or to express some need, and, almost in spite of himself, Ivaroth felt drawn into a conversation. ‘What is this power you draw from the rocks?’ he asked. It was a long time since he had asked such a question, though even as he did, he expected nothing more than the reply he had always received in the past: silence.
The blank white eyes turned towards him, unreadable as ever, though Ivaroth sensed a dark amusement. The long, bony hands closed around the edge of the rock in a repellent embrace.
'It is the power,’ he said, unexpectedly and with a mild hint of surprise in his voice. ‘The old power that is in all things. Since the beginning of all things. Since before the beginning. My master taught me its use.’ The hands began to caress the rock again. ‘And here it is rich with the memories and skills of those who went before. Soon I will be as I was before he came. Came with his cruel sword and slew my…'
His voice tailed off in a strangled snarl, and his face became a mask of rage.
Ivaroth's eyes widened in alarm at the sight and, instinctively, he slid his hand under his cloak towards his knife.
But even as he touched the hilt, calmer counsels prevailed.
The blind man had never before talked about his past and the hint of defeat in the few words that he had just spoken, addressed themselves to the tactician in Ivaroth. He might … no, would … need to defeat the old man himself one day, and while he was being so forthcoming …
He was about to ask, solicitously, who this master was, and who the cruel swordsman, when, to his horror, he saw that the blind man's fingers had dug into the rock as if it were no more than damp sand. Ivaroth felt the hairs all over his body stand on end.
Then the old man seemed to recover himself, and, casting a sly, sightless glance at Ivaroth, he withdrew his fingers from the rock and, with a longing pass of his hands, made it whole again.
'It is a power beyond your knowing or understanding, Ivaroth,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘But through me, it will give you the power that you seek, the victories, the wealth, the worship of your people, the vengeance of your race.'
'And what will it give you?’ Ivaroth asked, pulling his thick kerchief over his face to disguise the hoarseness of his voice as it struggled from his fear-dried throat.
The old man's face became alive with anticipation. ‘More,’ he said, simply.
It was a chilling answer, but Ivaroth felt himself drawn inexorably forward. ‘And then?’ he pressed.
'Then…’ The old man paused. ‘Then, I shall return and seek my master, and his master in turn. And restore…’ His voice faded again and, though still powerfully curious, Ivaroth did not choose to pursue his questioning. The image of the torn rock hung in his mind. Whatever masters the old man had served in the past, he had no wish to learn of them. At least not at the moment.
Turning away, Ivaroth clicked his horse forward a little way and then dismounted. Peering ahead he could just make out in the distance the red flags that his scouts had positioned to guide the army.
Drawn from the southern tribes who had regularly raided the northern Bethlarii outposts, their mountain lore, though limited, had proved invaluable. ‘The gods favour us, Mareth Hai,’ they had said when they reported to him at daybreak. ‘They bring the cold wind, but they keep at bay the mists. We'll move well today.'
And they had. Indeed they had moved well almost every day since they had left the plains. Mindful of Ivaroth's injunctions, complaining had become a discreet affair throughout the army, confined to low voices and close friends, though few were at ease with the alien terrain.
And not without cause. There had been several fatalities and many injuries as the plains’ people learned about this new, unyielding domain. Unwary feet which dislodged rocks on to those following below; narrow and treacherous paths and too steep slopes that claimed wagons and horses and also those who struggled too long to restrain them; savage winds which toppled the incautious down buffeting crags and into screaming voids.
At the same time a new breed had appeared amidst the disparate tribes that Ivaroth had welded together in this great venture. Men who had looked at the terrain and at the sweating, straining effort of their fellows, and who had directed their own effort into acquiring skills unknown in the plains: widening and strengthening pathways, fixing ropeways, using levers and pulleys.
Ivaroth watched this remarkable metamorphosis but hid his elation as each new piece of ingenuity spared his fighters and moved his army forward. He hid also his distrust for these men with their strange, clear-sighted vision. What did they see when they looked at him? Still, they were like the blind man, they were but men, and susceptible to blade and point.
'Good. You have done well,’ he would say impassively. And they went away aglow with his approval.
A hand caught his elbow. He did not respond, the blind man's cloying grip was all too familiar.
'Soon,’ the old man said, lifting his face upwards as if scenting the air. ‘You are nearer to your old lands than your new.'
'How long?’ Ivaroth asked.
The blind man did not answer. His head was swaying from side to side hypnotically.
Ivaroth did not press his question. It would be to little avail; the old man seemed to have either no concern for, or conception of, time and distance. It was as if part of him, perhaps the greater part of him, existed in some other place.
Later, as the great caravan rested, draped like a thin dark scarf about the shoulders of mountains, Ivaroth amazed his scouts by telling them what they had been about to tell him. A few days, the weather continuing to favour them, and they would be out of the mountains and moving across the rolling foothills. Ahead of them then would be the rich lands of the south.
'Tonight we must visit our allies,’ Ivaroth said to the blind man. ‘To ensure they are still resolute in their purpose.'
The blind man smiled.
Ivaroth turned away from the sight.