As Arwain dispatched the gallopers to carry the news of the intended attack back to Ibris, his thoughts became as dark as the surrounding night.
'It's no worse than any ambush,’ part of him said.
'It's murdering sleeping men,’ said another.
'You'll not murder many. You'll be lucky if you reach the camp unseen, and if you do, the alarm will be sounded within minutes. Then you'll be fighting for your lives. Outnumbered more than ten to one now they've brought new troops up.'
'But killing men unshriven…'
'There's no good way to die in battle. And they've done it to us often enough in the past.'
'We aren't them.'
'Ah, are we not? We've never done it to them in the past?'
'We've changed.'
'Indeed?'
Silence.
'But you've just sanctioned this deed? Will you account for it when the time comes?'
'The time is now, and I account for it now, to the one who matters the most: myself.'
'Too easy.'
'Killing them may save us, and many others.'
'May is a frail word on which to place this dark and joyless burden; from which to claim necessity.'
'It's all we have. All I have. The treaty, the paper wall that kept us apart, is breached. Breached by them, utterly, and without a vestige of provocation.'
'Not enough.'
Stillness. Then, ‘The last religious war was savage beyond belief. We must defend ourselves.'
'But an unprovoked attack?'
'The assault on Whendrak is provocation by virtue of treaty and historical fact. Serenstad must defend itself, and we, here, cannot risk waiting the enemy's pleasure.'
Silence.
'They'll come definitely, if you attack.'
The arguments began to circle. ‘Yes, but probably quickly, with a small force that we may be able to contain. And if they send a large force, it'll have been delayed and it'll move more slowly.'
'May? If?'
Arwain closed his eyes. For a moment, his mind was choked by a great, entangled, knot of causes and effects which disappeared back into time and far beyond the boundaries of his knowledge.
They ceased suddenly as if they had been severed by a swift sword cut.
'What we do is necessary. It's necessary because we're here, and all other alternatives that we have from here lead … may lead … as far as we can see, to destruction.'
Unsought and unexpected, a vision of his wife, and a great longing for her, intruded on his thoughts and made him falter. But his debate had a momentum of its own, and the vision was swept away even as Arwain reached out to it.
'What myriad happenings brought us here, brought the Bethlarii here, is beyond my sight and my understanding, let alone my unravelling. What we're going to do is necessary and its necessity is the true measure of war.'
The debate faded. Arwain reached up and wiped his brow. It was damp with perspiration despite the morning's chill.
And this necessity was also a measure of his father, he realized. His father, who had determinedly turned his face against the ways of the past and led the Serens and their allies away from such necessities for so many years.
Standing alone in the cold darkness, Arwain resolved that should he and Serenstad survive, he would try to be a better pupil at the feet of this man. Now, however, he must guard his father's life's work by following his teaching and tending to this cruel necessity.
Then Ryllans was by his side. Arwain felt his urgency. The east was greying relentlessly. The mountains would slow the arrival of the morning light at Whendrak, but the attack must not be delayed further or it would be impossible to effect the clandestine retreat that was vital to their intention.
'I'm ready,’ Arwain said, turning towards the Mantynnai. Silence was to cover the vanguard of the Serens’ attack. A great roaring charge might possibly panic the first of the besiegers that they reached, but the Bethlarii were hardened fighters and the very din of battle would probably help them to recover and regroup quickly. In addition, the noise would certainly rouse those in more distant parts of the camp, bringing them to the scene armed and savage.
Thus those among the bodyguard with the skills for the task were now moving silently ahead to kill the sentries as quietly as possible. That done, the main force would move equally silently into the camp, killing and destroying all they could, and then retreat quickly at the first sign of the Bethlarii recovering.
The action had to be swift and lethal, and it was essential that the Bethlarii gain no measure of their true size or they would counter-attack recklessly at first light and Arwain had no illusions about the ability of his battalion to withstand what would surely be a massive and infuriated onslaught by a vastly more numerous army.
Slowly, crouching low, the Serens drew nearer to the camp.
Almost ritualistically, as if for comfort, Arwain's hand kept testing the metal buckles on his belt and scabbards to ensure that the cloths binding them were firm and secure to prevent them from rattling.
The force had been divided into small groups, each of which could fight as a close formation team in the event of unexpected opposition. At the same time, the groups would maintain close contact with their neighbours to minimize the risk of being separated and cut off. The use of such groups would also help to maintain discipline when the fighting-the killing-began.
'This is an action to cause damage and delay,’ Ryllans emphasized. ‘It's not a battle we can win. The last thing we want is anyone running amok, screaming and yelling like some berserker. The Bethlarii will be doing enough of that in due course, and the sooner the camp's roused, the sooner we have to retreat, and the sooner they'll regroup and come after us. Is that clear?'
The shadows around him nodded silently.
'Right. Just remember. Keep quiet, keep your wits about you, advance cautiously, keeping contact with your neighbouring groups, and do your jobs. That way you'll survive.'
Soft, whispering orders sighed through the darkness and the advance stopped. Arwain tightened his grip about his sword. He looked back to see that his group was in good order. They were very near to the camp now.
Presumably not anticipating an attack from either the city, or from along the valley, the Bethlarii had posted few sentries, though several were guarding a partially constructed siege tower. A few lamps revealed their vigil and it was the rapid destruction of these particular guards that Arwain had taken as the task for his own group.
There was a short, high-pitched cry from some way ahead, to the left, followed by some grunting and scuffling. Arwain jumped, as did several of his companions. The noise seemed to ring like a trumpet clarion through the darkness and Arwain felt his already racing heart pound even harder. Deliberately, he took in and released several slow breaths to calm himself, forcing himself to look at the men around the tower.
No stir came from the camp, however, though some of the guards looked about to see what had caused the noise.
Unnecessarily, Arwain held up his hand for both silence and stillness but, after a long moment, the tower guards fell back into their casual watch.
Then, like a poison-tipped arrow, the code-word he had been waiting for and dreading, hissed at him out of the night. The lone sentries were down, move in.
Arwain gestured to his two immediate companions and the three of them stood up and began walking forward casually. The remainder vanished into the darkness.
As they neared the tower, Arwain's companions put their arms about his shoulders, and he drooped his head as if he were sick or injured, and in need of support. They did not speak, but they made no attempt to walk quietly.
As they drew nearer, Arwain scuffed his feet along the ground and coughed.
The sound galvanized the tower guards. ‘Halt,’ one of them called, advancing, his spear levelled.
'It's all right,’ one of Arwain's companions called back with what they had agreed was a passable attempt at a Bethlarii accent. ‘Our mate's cracked his head open, we're looking for the…'
The accent was not good enough.
'Ye gods, they're Serens! Sound the…'
At the first exclamation, however, Arwain had relinquished his supporters and moved forward. He reached the man in three long, swift strides. The movement was so sudden and purposeful that the guard faltered momentarily, and, side-stepping the extended spear, Arwain drove his sword through the man's throat, silencing his cry instantly.
The guard's hands dropped the spear and came up reflexively and futilely to grip the lethal blade. For an instant, Arwain lost his balance. As he struggled to recover it and also retrieve his sword he felt his two companions move past him and engage the other guards. Then the rest of his group were there, at the rear of the distracted guards.
Even as Arwain registered this fact, a figure lunged towards him. Without thinking, he twisted sideways and felt the terrifying draught of a blade passing in front of him. His attacker lurched forward under the impetus of his missed blow and Arwain drove the palm of his free hand into the side of the man's face ferociously. He felt a bone crack, and heard the man utter a strange cry as he staggered under the blow. Arwain tore his sword free from the dying man and struck the reeling figure a blow on the shoulder. The man went down and Arwain struck him again.
Then there was a flare of light. A lamp had been knocked over and the spilled oil had ignited violently. Arwain took in the scene as if it had been some vivid picture hanging in his father's palace. A mass of shadows and men, swirling and moving in some unholy dance, something far away from him, aesthetic almost, to be viewed dispassionately, at leisure.
In the same instant he heard again a score of Ryllans’ training yard reproaches.
'Move, Arwain! Move!'
The distant vision passed from his mind and he saw the scene as it was: shadows and men swirling and moving in terror, rage and bloodlust. He saw too that the guards were losing, and that the fire would probably ignite the whole tower.
Good, he thought, as he drove his sword into a Bethlarii about to bring his foot down on a fallen figure. That'll be useful to the Whendreachi. He pushed the struggling Bethlarii off his sword with his foot and reached down to drag the downed Serens to his feet.
A glance showed him the last guard falling and that all his men were standing, though some appeared to be injured.
How long had it all taken? Scarcely twenty heartbeats something told him, but time had no meaning here. Here there was only now.
Quickly he checked that those injured could continue, then he looked out in the darkness away from the flickering flames beginning to rise up the tower. The night was alive with the shadows of his battalion, moving silently into the Bethlarii camp like a great, engulfing, black tide. Where it passed it would leave only death.
He pointed towards the nearest tent. A figure was crawling out of it. At the sight of the blazing tower, he, like the first guard, faltered, and like the first guard, he died for it as a single blow from Arwain almost severed his head. Then swords cut open the tent, and in a brief orgy of stabbing and hacking, killed the bewildered occupants, before moving swiftly to the next tent.
The deed was repeated along the whole of the Serens’ line. And repeated and repeated.
Arwain did not count how many died. He thought mainly of his next stride forward, knowing that to do otherwise could bring death to him as easily as he brought it to the surprised Bethlarii. Once he thought of those that this cruelty might save, but the thought vanished as he was obliged to deal with an armed Bethlarii who was more quickly aroused than his fellows.
Gradually the night silence began to fill with the cracking and snapping of the burning tower, the sounds of pounding feet, hacking effort, and, increasingly, agonizing cries of bewilderment and terror.
Then it was rent by the shrill alarm cries of escaping survivors. First one, then another, then many, dashing through the camp and rousing whoever they could in their flight.
As this clamouring news of the assault began to outpace the progress of the attackers, so the first rush of the black tide began to peter out, and the Serens found themselves meeting increasing resistance.
It was necessarily disorganized however, and by maintaining their close groups, the Serens were able to continue pushing relentlessly forward for some time, ruthlessly cutting down those Bethlarii who attempted to stand their ground.
For a brief period, and quite by chance, several of the groups came together to form a continuous marching line reminiscent of the traditional pike line in formal battle array. And for that same period, it seemed that panic would indeed overwhelm the Bethlarii as they fled before it.
The Serens’ line advanced triumphantly.
By the light from the burning tower, Arwain saw the group nearest his own accelerate and surge off into the darkness.
His stomach went cold. ‘Close up, close up. They've separated from us,’ he hissed to his own group.
Over to his right he heard the mounting noise of the wakening camp. He and Ryllans had discussed the many dangers inherent in this attack. The greatest, they concluded, was not the possibility of being overwhelmed by direct resistance, but in fact the contrary. It was the possibility that the Bethlarii immediately in front of the attack would crumble and that as a consequence, the Serens would move too far forward, perhaps even breaking through the Bethlarii circle, only to find it closing about them in awakened force and leaving them with their backs to the city wall.
And this was what was happening.
Arwain did not hesitate.
'Sound retreat, quickly!’ he shouted urgently to his signaller.
Even as the horn call rang out, it was echoed by an identical call from Ryllans’ signaller at the other end of the attack line. It did not surprise Arwain. The tactic was one of many that had been agreed in advance of the attack, in the knowledge that communications between the two principal officers would be impossible once the enemy was engaged.
Arwain peered anxiously into the darkness.
'Sound again, and keep sounding!’ he said.
'Lord!’ A hand seized his arm and turned him round. His companion was pointing back to the blazing tower. Against its light, Arwain saw a large group of Bethlarii forming around it, spears and swords silhouetted clearly. They were in some disorder, but even as he looked he saw the group's attention drawn towards the darkness from which came the invader's horn call.
Arwain's immediate response was to retreat, but now his group were effectively the rearguard to a large part of the battalion and these Bethlarii were the unwitting vanguard of the encircling movement that must inevitably cut off the Serens’ force if they did not retreat quickly.
'Form up around the signaller,’ he ordered. ‘Lock shields and hold.’ Then, to the signaller, he hissed, ‘Blow as you've never blown.'
The signaller needed no such instruction but acknowledged it with a glance of his whitened eye and a nod which made his horn call waver slightly.
Arwain's attention returned to the now cautiously advancing Bethlarii. They were visible against the light of the tower and, occasionally, a point or an edge reflected the firelight ominously. If they closed, then his small group would not be able to hold for more than a few minutes. He glanced over his shoulder. Other fires were springing up through the camp, but still there was no sign of the neighbouring groups returning.
Briefly a surge of self-reproach washed over him. Would this venture prove to be no more than the reckless loss of Ibris's famous bodyguard? The finest of Serenstad's troops massacred under the command of his bastard son?
He had a vision of the endless disastrous consequences of such an outcome and once more his wife's face appeared to him.
But the relentless sounding of the horn kept him anchored firmly to the present and the vision of his wife merely served as a centre around which he formed a stern resolve.
'Shout,’ he cried to his men. ‘They can't see us as well as we can see them. Shout! Swords and shields!'
The men obeyed, banging their swords on their shields and roaring fiercely. The advancing Bethlarii hesitated slightly, their leaders crouching slightly and peering into the gloom.
The horn blew.
'The charge chant!’ Arwain shouted to his men.
The shouting faded suddenly and was replaced by a rhythmic chanting punctuated by equally rhythmic tattoos of foot stamping and swords against shields. At this change, the Bethlarii halted and some of them began to edge back a little, though others, Arwain noted, began to close ranks.
As the chanting increased in intensity, Arwain desperately looked again into the darkness behind him. For the most part, the Bethlarii were still only a loose-knit crowd; they might scatter at the climax of the chant in anticipation of a solid line of shields and spears emerging out of the darkness towards them, but …?
Should he risk a short charge? Line abreast, he and his few men would look more numerous than they were.
The decision, however, was made for him. The Bethlarii might only have been a loose-knit group, but they were an angry one and their anger was growing in proportion to their hesitation. They needed only the slightest touch to release their building energy.
It came in the form of a tall figure who broke through to the front of the crowd and began haranguing them. Arwain noticed that he was dressed differently from the rest.
One of their damned priests, he thought.
But scarcely had the thought formed than the priest let out a great shriek, full of hatred and fury, and began to charge. Without even the slightest hesitation, the Bethlarii followed him.
'Lock shields! Hold the circle!’ Arwain shouted.
Cries of ‘Hyrdyn! Hyrdyn! Hyrdyn!’ reached him as his own men fell silent.
His legs began to shake.
'Hold,’ he said, commandingly. ‘The others will be retreating back towards us. We mustn't fail them.'
He braced himself for the impact.
Then, to his horror, he was aware of the circle breaking; space at his back. Before he could turn to confirm this, however, a spear flitted across his vision and struck the Bethlarii priest full in the mouth. His shrieking battle cry stopped in a stomach-churning squeal and the impact of the spear coupled with his forward movement sent him crashing backwards, his legs flailing in the air.
Two more spears followed, one striking another Bethlarii, the next narrowly missing a third. Just as the priest's arrival had ignited the crowd, so his abrupt demise doused it, and the Bethlarii began to retreat.
'They're back,’ one of Arwain's companions said, looking over his shoulder.
The remark was unnecessary.
'Retreat,’ Arwain ordered. That too was unnecessary.
But in the darkness the retreat proved more dangerous than the advance even though there was no immediate pursuit. Then, they had approached quietly and carefully in close formations, placing each foot with care. Now, they were carrying their dead and wounded. And with hatred and anger howling behind them, and retribution waiting in the near future, they were all fighting an almost overwhelming urge to flee. Despite the best efforts of the officers, they did not maintain a pace slow enough to be safe in the difficult terrain and several were injured in falls.
Eventually, as the dull grey dawn began to etch out figures and landscapes, they gathered on a level area some way from the road that meandered down the centre of the valley.
They were greeted by the battalion's companies of archers. The assault on the camp had been too scattered for them to be used effectively, and they had been left to try to establish ambush positions to deal with the inevitable Bethlarii response.
While the returning infantrymen tended their injured, Ryllans sent scouts forward to report on the movement of the Bethlarii and conferred with the archers about their dispositions.
Arwain joined him. ‘How many dead?’ he asked.
'I don't know yet,’ Ryllans replied. ‘But not many I think. We were lucky. I never expected that we'd come so close to breaking through the line like that. A little later with the retreat and it would've been a very different tale.'
But there was little time for either reminiscence or analysis. The attack had nearly foundered by virtue of its success. Many Bethlarii had been slain and no small amount of damage done. Whatever their intention had been for this day, it would now be radically different. Arwain still could not fault the original surmise; it would be a small force quite soon, or a large one much later. But, that was surmise, and until it became reality, Ibris's bodyguard must be prepared for any outcome.
Arwain sent another galloper back towards his father's approaching army with details of the outcome of the attack, then returned to his men.
There was a strange quietness about the cold field. Some of the men were talking softly. Some were resting, as well as they could on the rocks littering the dew-sodden turf. Others were comforting or being comforted. Many were at the edge of a nearby stream washing blood from their weapons and themselves with its icy water. Arwain moved through them all, encouraging, sustaining, quietening; an unwitting copy of his father when himself a young commander.
Finally he came to the lee of a large rock where the battalion's physician was doing what he could for the seriously wounded.
As he drew near, his eye was caught by several lines of hummocks in the grass by the rock. It was not until he was almost upon them that he identified them as bodies.
Even as he watched, two men helping the physician brought another and laid it gently by the others. One of them wrote something on a piece of paper.
Against the rock-face, several lamps and a small fire etched out a bright, colourful tableau in the morning greyness. At its edges were the wounded, lying and sitting, some alone, some with companions to sustain them, while at its centre was a huddle of kneeling men. Arwain wanted to turn away, but forced himself forward.
The physician, his face strained and gaunt in the cold, unnatural light of the lamps and the burgeoning daylight, was routing into an open wound in a man's leg from which protruded part of an arrow shaft. The man was struggling desperately.
Catching sight of Arwain silhouetted in the half light, the physician snapped, ‘Don't just stand there, man, help hold him down.'
For a moment, and, to his immediate regret, Arwain found he was looking for an angry rebuke for the physician for this insolence. Then, in atonement, he did as he was told and seized the man's legs which were coming free from the ropes that had been used to secure them to two posts driven into the ground.
The man's eyes were wide with terror and agony, though he did not make any attempt to relinquish the heavy leather belt that his teeth were biting into.
There was a sudden grunt of effort and then a sigh of relief from the physician and the arrow's barbed head was drawn reluctantly from the wound. Then, briskly, the physician snapped his fingers at one of his assistants by the fire. Almost before Arwain realized what was happening, the assistant, his hand protected by a thick cloth, had drawn a metal rod from the fire and given it to the physician who plunged its red-hot end resolutely into the wound.
The sound and the smell turned Arwain's stomach, but clenching his teeth, he clung to the still struggling legs, focusing his gaze on the round hammer marks in the splayed and split top of one of the posts to which the man's legs had been bound. He seemed to feel every blow that had been struck to drive the post into the hard ground. Then, at last, the injured man gave a convulsive heave and then went limp. After a moment, Arwain released his legs. His head was spinning and he was shaking.
'Sew him up quickly before he recovers,’ the physician was saying to someone. ‘Then get him up to the road with the others. There's nothing else I can do for him here. His war's over for some time.'
With an almost incongruous gentleness, the two men picked the man up and carried him a little way off to attend to this injunction.
The physician bent down and washed his hands in a bowl nearby. Arwain caught the sweet, pungent smell typical of Drayner's surgery. Then the physician was shaking his hands vigorously and beckoning his helpers to bring the next victim forward.
He glanced at Arwain while he waited. His gaze was one that Arwain had seen before in the faces of field physicians; practical and detached but underlain by a deep anger. It contained a cruel vision.
But who knows what my own gaze tells, Arwain thought, and, as if in confirmation, a brief look of self-reproach passed over the physician's face.
'I'm sorry I spoke harshly, Lord,’ he said. ‘I didn't recognize you.'
'It's of no consequence,’ Arwain said, laying a hand on the man's arm. ‘Tend your charges.'
The physician turned to the man being laid in front of him.
The men carrying him were being impeded by an anxious-looking trooper who was holding the wounded man's hand, but neither offered him any reproach.
Gently, the physician unwound the bloodstained rag that had been used as a makeshift bandage about the man's head. One of the helpers brought a lamp closer. It revealed a livid and gaping wound that had obviously been done by a battle axe. The physician's brow furrowed slightly. Arwain tensed his stomach and forced his own face into immobility. Then the physician looked at the man's waiting friend, and shook his head.
'If he wakes, he'll not live. And there'll be nothing but pain for him until he dies,’ he said softly. ‘What do you want me to do?'
To Arwain's horror, the man turned towards him, his eyes pleading. ‘He saved my life,’ he said. ‘That was meant for me.'
There was a similarity in the features of the two men that indicated they were related-brothers, perhaps. Man and commander fought within Arwain. The man sought for soft words, compassion, understanding, for time in which this tragedy could be accepted. But the commander knew their situation was too dangerous for the celebration of grief. That must come later.
The two needs merged. ‘He's your kin,’ Arwain said quietly. ‘Do for him what you'd like him to do for you if you were in his place.'
The man looked down at the mangled head, his eyes filling with tears. Tenderly he ran his hand over the blood-clotted hair.
Then, his mouth taut, he nodded towards the physician. ‘Do it,’ he said hoarsely.
The physician glanced at Arwain and flicked his eyes towards the distraught brother. Arwain stood up and took the man's arm. ‘Come on,’ he said, gently, helping him to stand. ‘He'll be tended with respect and there are others needing the physician.'
The man nodded slowly, then suddenly yanked himself free from Arwain's grasp and dropped to his knees by his brother. The physician signalled his helpers, but Arwain held out his hand to stop them.
The trooper bent forward and put his head by his brother's. Arwain heard him whispering something to the dying man, then he was standing again, wiping his hands down his crumpled tunic. Without a word he strode off into the grey anonymity of the field of waiting soldiers.
Even though the man was gone, the physician kept his long-bladed knife from view as he drew it. It was a well-practiced gesture.
Arwain turned away and left the lamp-lit scene.
Coming towards him was Ryllans.
'Any news?’ he asked, for want of something to say that would distance him further from this one death.
'Only from the company on the ridges,’ Ryllans answered. ‘They met no opposition and they're well placed to defend their positions.'
'And us?’ Arwain asked, looking round at the broad field that sloped gradually up from the road until it petered out in dense vegetation and scree. Adequate as a rallying point, it was not remotely defensible against a large force.
'The archers have found a narrower, rockier section further back,’ Ryllans said, pointing down the valley. ‘It's not perfect, but it's as good as we're likely to find.'
A little later, the surgeon's work finished, one of the two wagons that had accompanied the battalion began its journey back to the main army, bearing those wounded too seriously to continue.
The straggling column of retreating men opened to let it pass, and then closed behind it like a dark, silent river.
As they trudged steadily forward, a dull sun rose to greet them, throwing long, faint shadows up the valley. Grim black columns of smoke scarred the western sky.
Antyr moved to the front of the enclosed wagon that he was sharing with Pandra. He was still not wholly used to its relentless, rocking motion and frequently stepped outside to join the driver and enjoy the cold morning air.
Tarrian and Grayle were already there, lying in the foot-well, their paws draped over the kicking board, and their inquisitive heads held high as they peered around at the rumbling train and the quiet countryside preparing for winter.
'Another storm brewing, sailor?’ Tarrian scoffed, as Antyr's head emerged from the wagon.
'Shut up, or I'll ride my horse and you two can run beside me like dutiful hounds,’ Antyr replied brutally.
'You forget I've seen you ride,’ Tarrian retorted, unabashed by the threat.
Antyr contented himself with a grunt and sat down by the driver. He was joined almost immediately by Pandra, who carefully placed a large cushion on the hard wooden seat before sitting down.
'A hard bed, I like,’ he said. ‘But not seats.'
'Are you all right?’ Antyr asked. The wagon was, in many ways, remarkably lavishly appointed, but Pandra was an old man to be undertaking such a journey.
'Yes, I'm fine,’ Pandra replied, shuffling himself comfortable and rubbing his hands together. ‘I'm enjoying this. It makes me feel quite young again.'
Antyr caught a whiff of some caustic comment by Kany, but Pandra merely smiled smugly and patted his pocket gently.
Well wrapped against the morning cold, they sat in companionable silence for some time.
'Dream Finders are you?’ The question came from the driver. Both Antyr and Pandra turned to him. He was a man whose grey hair and weather-beaten face made all attempts at guessing his age futile, but even if his face had not confirmed him as a countryman, his patient, placid manner would have. Antyr and Pandra's surprise, however, was due to the fact that throughout the journey so far he had spoken very little to his two passengers, confining himself mainly to puffing on a carved wooden tobacco pipe and clicking affectionately to his horses from time to time.
'Yes,’ Antyr replied.
The driver nodded sagely, and removed his pipe from his mouth as if to speak.
Then he put it back again. Antyr and Pandra exchanged glances, and the driver clicked at his horses and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
'Bannor,’ he said after a while.
He held out his hand to Pandra, who, after a brief hesitation, shook it and introduced himself in turn. The hand moved to Antyr who did the same. It was large and muscular, but its grip, though positive, was gentle and careful, and, despite the cold morning, its touch was warm.
'You're a farmer, Bannor?’ Antyr asked
Bannor shook his head slowly and took his pipe from his mouth again. ‘Labourer,’ he said. ‘Traveller. Farm to farm as season needs.’ He pointed the pipe stem over his shoulder. ‘My wagon,’ he added.
The revelation left the two Dream Finders at somewhat of a loss as to what to say next.
'It's very … comfortable. And kind of you to let us use it.’ Antyr's reply was a little awkward. He was fairly certain that the wagon would have been commandeered, and that they were about to be subjected to some acrimony on that account.
Bannor, however, simply inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Known the Duke a long time.'
'You know the Duke?’ Antyr could not keep the surprise from his voice.
Bannor nodded again, but did not amplify his observation immediately.
'Good man,’ he said, after another long pause. ‘Asked me to look after you.'
There was a chuckle from Tarrian. ‘Deep one, this,’ he said. ‘And quiet. Pleasure to be with. Not like you rattling townies.'
Antyr ignored the jibe.
'How do you come to know the Duke?’ he asked, speaking slowly in an attempt to make his curiosity seem less strident against Bannor's patient demeanour.
'Fighting,’ Bannor answered.
Antyr nodded. How else? he thought.
'And you?’ The echo of his own question from Bannor, albeit leisurely, caught Antyr unawares. He had a fleeting image of slow plodding feet following a plough; feet that would neither quicken nor slow with the terrain, but would continue relentlessly until the whole field was turned, and would then carry their owner to his hearth at the same pace.
'He … sent for us,’ Antyr replied eventually, fiddling with his ring of office.
Bannor nodded slightly and sucked on his pipe. ‘Knows his men, the Duke,’ he said. ‘Always did.'
And that seemed to be the end of the matter; at least for the time being. Antyr was quietly relieved. He made a note to himself to be careful with this seemingly slow countryman. He sensed no malice in him, but realized that his relaxed manner might extract confidences more readily than the craftiest Liktor. He wondered how many more ordinary people the Duke bound with old ties of personal loyalty. Probably a great many, he decided.
He turned his gaze to the baggage train ahead of them. Many of the wagons were of a standard army design, but the majority were obviously modified farm vehicles, although there were also hospital wagons and several specially made house wagons to accommodate the administrative personnel that were an integral and vital part of Ibris's army.
He leaned out and glanced back at the train behind them. In the distance he could see the lavish wagons that housed the lady Nefron and her entourage. It added an unnatural sense of incongruity to the scene. Like most Serens he knew the rumours about the reason for Nefron's confinement to the Erin-Mal, but official pronouncements had always resolutely maintained that she was ‘plagued by ill health'. Now she was suddenly recovered and trailing dutifully after her husband, ‘for the morale of the troops'.
Not for mine, though, Antyr thought, remembering that it was her unseen touch that had brought him to Menedrion.
He sided with the current refectory wisdom; Ibris had released her to guarantee greater unity among the various factions that comprised the city's government, but he didn't want her left to her own devices in Serenstad.
Antyr shrugged the conjectures aside. Whatever their truth, he had more urgent matters to occupy him.
'Double your guard on myself and Menedrion,’ Ibris had said to him and Pandra before they had left Serenstad. ‘I know you feel I'm strong enough to protect myself, but we're all of us going to be increasingly tired and preoccupied, and this bond between Menedrion and Arwain is too vague for me to rest easy with-especially as they're a long way apart now. Besides, with this matter coming to a head, who knows what … they'll … do before it's finished.'
Antyr could not dispute this precautionary recommendation, though he had expressed some concern that, not fully understanding what was happening, he might prove inadequate to the task.
Ibris could well have replied that, inadequate or not, Antyr was all they had to oppose these strange attackers, but instead he just looked at him and said, bluntly, ‘You won't be.'
It had done little to reassure Antyr, but he had done as he was bidden and, with Tarrian and Grayle, had assiduously guarded the Duke's sleeping hours, while Pandra and Kany had guarded Menedrion's. In addition, they had wandered through the night thoughts of the camp in search of the untoward. It had been a disturbing experience, full of doubts and fears and longings for home, shot through with red and screaming strands of madness and bloodlust. But they had found nothing unusual and had reported the same to the Duke.
Ibris had nodded knowingly. ‘They're waiting,’ he said. ‘Waiting to see what happens at Whendrak. Don't lower your guard.'
What guard? Antyr mused wryly, as the comment came back to him, but he did not voice the question.
Alongside the baggage train, the infantry flank guards were walking stolidly on in loose order, some alone and silent, others in groups, talking and laughing; above all, laughing.
The sound brought back memories to Antyr of his own time in the line; there were few things to compare with the camaraderie brought about by a common discipline and a common danger. And it lingered long after grimmer memories had sunk into the darker recesses of the mind.
Perhaps it was this selective recollection that helped keep such monstrous folly as war alive in the world, he thought, with a mixture of irony and bitterness as he looked at the young faces walking beside his wagon. Always it was the young who paid the price of their elders’ greed and pride and foolishness.
Yet people were predominantly forward-looking and hopeful, and by their nature they could not, would not, burden themselves constantly with the horrific memories that were necessary if such folly was to be prevented in future.
Balance was all. To remember all was to choke the future with the vomit of the past. To forget all was to leave the ground fallow for its re-creation.
'A deci for your thoughts,’ a voice said, interrupting his reverie. It was Estaan. He jumped up on to the wagon.
He was smiling broadly and Antyr responded as he moved along the seat to make a space for him. ‘They're worth more than that,’ he said with a profound shake of his head. ‘I've just solved all the world's problems.'
Estaan declined the seat and remained standing on the edge of the platform, supporting himself by holding the corner upright of the wagon. He drew in a hissing breath laden with reservation. ‘We'd better recruit another army then,’ he said. ‘It's people like you who start wars.'
Then he laughed loudly, infecting Antyr and Pandra and even raising a soft, shaking chuckle from Bannor.
As he subsided, it occurred to Antyr, not for the first time, that here was balance. The Mantynnai knew, remembered, and progressed. They protected the weak and they taught the less able to protect themselves where they could. Much of his time training with Estaan had been spent in considering the harsh logic of violence, and the insight derived from that revealed many other things. Indeed, it was a defensive weapon as potent as any sword and any amount of instruction in its use.
'It's a fine day, gentlemen,’ Estaan went on. He lifted his head and scented the air. ‘The fields are preparing for rest. Winter's on its way, sharp and clear.'
'We are going to war,’ Antyr said in some surprise at this enthusiasm.
'We're not there yet, and it's still a fine day whether we have a war or not,’ Estaan retorted, smiling again. He leaned out from the wagon and made an expansive gesture. ‘Look at those birds, those trees, everything.'
Further debate on the matter was ended, however, by the arrival of a messenger. Antyr judged that he was scarcely of an age to be serving his compulsory army duty. Probably lied about his age, he thought, and, with the thought, he had a vision of fretful parents moving about their house in awkward silence, unable to look at one another for fear that they would see in each other's eyes the spectre that the boy had invoked.
'Lord Antyr,’ the boy began, breathless and flushed. ‘Would you attend on the Duke immediately, please.'
Tarrian chuckled at the boy's wide-eyed promotion of the Dream Finder to the aristocracy. ‘He's probably misheard,’ he said. ‘The Duke probably said old, not lord.'
'We'll be along straight away,’ Antyr replied to the messenger, poking Tarrian with the toe of his boot.
Estaan jumped down from the wagon and Antyr followed him. He unhitched the horses from the back of the wagon and handed Antyr the reins, then he watched with quiet approval as Antyr carefully adjusted his sword before he mounted.
Tarrian and Grayle jumped down also and, weaving nimbly through the infantry, disappeared at speed into the fields.
Kany's stern, and very loud, injunction followed them. ‘No rabbits!'
The ‘or else!’ implicit in the tone made even Antyr quail.
It took the two men some time to reach the head of the long, marching column, and when they did, there was little of Estaan's appreciation of the day to be found.
The interior of the large wagon that the Duke was using as his march headquarters contrasted starkly with the surroundings in which Antyr had previously seen him. Its lines were simple and functional and it was undecorated and contained nothing, as far as Antyr could see, that was not absolutely necessary.
Antyr took in the whole ambience of the place instantly as he and Estaan were ushered in by a guard. Yet he belongs here just as he belongs in one of his lavish staterooms, he thought, as he saw the Duke sitting at a small, robust table. He was facing the door.
Looking up, the Duke nodded an acknowledgement, as did Menedrion and Ciarll Feranc who were sitting at the sides of the table.
A slight frown crossed Ibris's face and he gestured to the guard who had admitted Antyr and Estaan.
'Arrange for Antyr's wagon to be brought to join the advance train here. It's too far away,’ he said. ‘Attend to it immediately, please.
'I want to keep you up to date with everything that's happening,’ he said to Antyr, as the officer left. ‘I don't know how you ended up in the baggage train, but…’ He shrugged dismissively and picked up a paper from the table.
'We've had word from Arwain,’ he went on. ‘When he arrived at Whendrak he found two full Bethlarii divisions surrounding the city and more troops arriving. To delay them from moving down the valley, he launched an attack last night which inflicted quite heavy casualties on the enemy, and he's now taking up a defensive position in anticipation of their response.'
A battalion against two divisions! Antyr thought. He could not read the Duke's impassive face, but either Arwain had taken leave of his senses or the situation at Whendrak was truly desperate. A scuffling outside the door interrupted his conjecture.
Antyr's head suddenly filled with characteristic abuse, then there was a loud bark and the door was banged open noisily.
'Sorry. He didn't seem to know who we were,’ Tarrian said to everyone as he dropped down on to all fours. He and Grayle padded noisily across the wooden floor. An indignant and flustered guard appeared in the open doorway.
Impassive at the heroism or folly of his son, Ibris allowed his irritation to show at this trivial incident. ‘He didn't,’ he said crossly. ‘It's just another administrative oversight.'
He waved to the guard. ‘It's all right,’ he said. ‘These animals are quite tame, they're to be allowed to roam where they please.'
'Tame!’ Tarrian's indignation, however, was for the Duke and Antyr only.
Ibris ignored the protest and continued. ‘See that that is clearly understood by everyone. Interfering with them will be a disciplinary offence.'
The guard saluted nervously and left.
Ibris levelled two fingers at the two wolves. ‘That is not carte blanche for you to raid every kitchen tent in the column,’ he said sternly. ‘I shall regard that as looting. Is that clear?'
'Yes,’ came a rather sulky reply after a short pause.
Ibris nodded, and the sternness fell away from him. ‘Keep away from the men,’ he said. ‘There's endless scope for misunderstandings and accidents in these circumstance and I don't want either of you injured.'
Antyr gave Tarrian a sharp, private command to stay silent, and Ibris returned to his message from Arwain.
'As a result of his action we're sending two divisions up at speed, to meet with one from Stor.’ He looked at Antyr, who was wondering what relevance all this activity was to him. ‘They'll be under the command of Menedrion, and I'd like you to go with him. Pandra can stay here and keep an eye on me.'
The relevance explained, Antyr's stomach sank; he had no desire to be rushing towards a battlefield behind Menedrion's banner. He'd done his part when it was needed, he shouldn't be asked to do it again. It was too much.
But other thoughts came through the fear. Despite the seeming quiet of the past few nights, the Duke's eldest son still needed to be protected. And with Arwain, Menedrion and the Bethlarii in close proximity, who could tell how vulnerable this would make them to the Mynedarion and his guide? Antyr felt again the weight of his own ignorance about these unseen assailants.
However, Pandra couldn't do it. Not the journey, nor, in all probability, any defence of the dreamers against a serious assault.
Somewhere he felt choices falling away from him; felt his feet being drawn down a path determined by others.
But to where? Into what darkness?
'Tarrian? Grayle?’ he reached out to them silently.
For a brief instant he was surrounded by sensations and a deep, ancient knowing, that were at once profoundly familiar and utterly alien to him. And they were sharp and intense.
I am wolf, a fading, distant part of his mind thought before it vanished.
All around was fear and reluctance; and a terrible longing to return to a place far away. A place of endless freedom and light, of great beauty, where a great harmony prevailed.
And, too, the place of his birth, the place of the song, of the …
He was himself again.
'We have some measure of your burden as you have of ours, Antyr,’ Tarrian said, his voice subdued, shocked even. ‘We'll stay with you to the end, or until our strength fails us.'
Antyr looked at the Duke. ‘We'll do whatever you wish, sire,’ he said.