'Got yourself in a fine mess there, brother,’ Menedrion said as he unexpectedly embraced Arwain. Then he looked him up and down appraisingly. ‘How much of that is yours?’ he asked.
Arwain followed his half-brother's gaze, looking first at his hands and then at his clothes. In common with his companions, he was covered in blood. Tentatively he felt about himself.
'None, I think,’ he concluded after a moment. ‘Or not much anyway.'
Menedrion shook his head and reached up to touch Arwain's helmet. He ran a finger along an indentation. ‘It's a wonder,’ he said. ‘You're supposed to be the thinker, Arwain. Has it never occurred to you that blocking stones and sword blows with your head is not the wisest of things to do?'
There was little time for such exchanges, however. Menedrion's reaction on hearing of his half-brother's intention to launch an attack on the vastly superior Bethlarii force had been the same as everyone else's, namely, considerable alarm, and this had manifested itself in the speed at which he had led his two divisions to Arwain's aid.
However, it had been no mindless charge and, noting Arwain's information that the ridges had not been taken by the Bethlarii, Menedrion had sent gallopers ahead to tell the infantry from the approaching Stor division to move along the north ridge, while the infantry from one of his own divisions moved along the south. The remaining infantry and all the cavalry were to follow them along the valley floor.
The tactic was intended to look like a large-scale encirclement of the forces around Whendrak, and would indeed have served as such had opportunity presented itself. Menedrion, however, harboured only moderate hopes that this would happen, as the ridge routes were not easy and were too visible from below to allow surprise. Further, the mountain weather was, untypically, clear that day.
Nevertheless, the prospect of such an assault had been sufficient to make those Bethlarii attacking Arwain withdraw at full speed.
Now, it was essential that the three arms of the attacking force continue towards Whendrak, the valley force in particular chasing the Bethlarii back to their camp and, with good fortune, causing panic there that might lead to a precipitate withdrawal from the valley.
'I can't see that happening, to be honest,’ Menedrion said to Arwain. ‘But at least they'll have to pull back from the city before they make a stand and that'll be some gain. Wait here until father arrives or until you hear from me.'
Briefly Arwain had considered protesting at being left behind, but the thought expired almost as it was born. He was exhausted, thirsty, hungry, shocked, and now cold, as the frenzy of the battle faded away. His men were the same and they must be looked to before he himself could even think of rest.
Menedrion left some of his pioneers and commissary staff behind as he moved off along the valley. Soon they were pitching tents, lighting fires, rigging kitchens, and, the most wretched of their tasks, clearing the battlefield.
Later, their men tended as their needs demanded, Ryllans and Arwain sat leaning against a rock by an open fire.
'How are you?’ Ryllans asked, looking at his pupil.
Arwain was about to utter a conventional platitude when he caught Ryllans’ eye.
'Sick,’ he answered truthfully. ‘And bewildered. My head's still ringing with the noise, my arms twitching with hesitant sword and shield strokes, and my eyes and my legs are still watching for arrows and spears falling out of the sky. And thoughts are circling my mind as relentlessly as the Bethlarii did our square. It's as if the least slip on my part would bring them crashing down on me.’ He picked up a small twig from the edge of the fire and tossed it into the flames. ‘I want to be back home with my wife, fretting about my training and my duties and palace politics…'
Ryllans smiled slightly and nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Don't be concerned about your thoughts. While you can see them, and while you're that honest with yourself, they're not going to hurt you. Your mind has to twitch just like your body after such a shock. And you're not alone, Duke's son.'
He held out his hand. It was shaking.
Arwain looked at it in some surprise. ‘Every time I looked at you, you seemed so calm,’ he said.
'As did you,’ Ryllans replied. ‘Indeed, as we both were, given the circumstances. But being calm in battle isn't the same as being calm by one's fireside.'
Arwain remembered his own legs shaking as he had confronted the Bethlarii priest between the two armies.
'You've a way with the obvious,’ he said with a slight laugh that cracked and died.
Ryllans’ head came forward a little and he stared at Arwain intently. ‘You're right, I do have a way with the obvious,’ he said. ‘And for good reason. One man's obvious is another man's ignorance.’ He reached out and took Arwain's arm, to catch his attention. Arwain turned and met his gaze. ‘All the battles you've fought before have been as a cavalry officer, Arwain,’ he went on. ‘You've no measure of what it's like in the line, no measure of the obvious. So I'll tell you now, I've been in battles longer and bloodier than this by far, but I've never known anything as terrifying. Not even at Viernce. Never been so frightened of that random arrow or spear, of my own weakness, my inadequacy. The thoughts circling my head are saying, “How did we hold so long?” Over and over.’ His grip on Arwain's arm tightened. ‘They'll pass, I know, but believe me, tales of this brief little battle here will ring down through history. Storytellers will eat well, making their listeners sweat and shiver with the excitement and the bravery of it.'
Arwain continued looking at him as this revelation broke over him. It should not be thus; it should be the terror and horror of it that persisted, not the vicarious excitement and misunderstood bravery. But that, he knew, was a matter beyond any controlling.
Then a dark thought emerged into the light. ‘The stuff of tales it might have been, but it was a mistake for all that,’ he said.
Ryllans did not respond.
'I misjudged completely the speed of their column and the speed at which we could withdraw.’ Arwain's guilt found words. ‘We should never have had to stand and face them.'
Ryllans seemed unconcerned. ‘We both misjudged them,’ he said abruptly. ‘But we were neither foolish nor careless and that's all the solace you're going to get. War is misjudgement writ large, and chance, let alone misjudgement, runs riot. That's why we train. So that we can respond to the unforeseeable with some hope of surviving. Just concentrate on learning what's to be learnt.'
His guilt cauterized by Ryllans’ words, rather than purged, Arwain sat silent, gazing into the crackling fire.
Ryllans stared out over the empty, scarred ground that had been so bitterly fought over but an hour ago.
He scowled.
'We've got nine dead and twelve, maybe fifteen, seriously injured,’ he said, half to himself. ‘But they must have lost perhaps seventy or eighty dead, including at least one of their precious priests. And god knows how many more were badly injured.'
Arwain turned to him. Ryllans’ words stirred something that was on the edge of his own thoughts.
'It was a cruel ambush we launched against them,’ he said.
Ryllans nodded. ‘But their response was absurd nevertheless. All those men killed for virtually nothing. All they had to do once we chose to stand was to surround us, bring up more archers from the camp, and use us for shooting practice.’ He shook his head. ‘They could have destroyed us utterly without losing a single man.’ He gave a slightly bitter smile. ‘They'd even have got all their arrows back afterwards.'
'They didn't have time with the army so close,’ Arwain offered, glad to be exercising his mind with practicalities.
'It wouldn't have taken long,’ Ryllans answered, brutally. ‘And anyway, they didn't know the army was coming. If they didn't even bother to post proper sentries, it's highly unlikely they'd done any reconnaissance beyond the valley.'
Arwain had no reply. Ryllans was right. The Bethlarii had been well disciplined in the defence of their marching column, but wildly reckless in their assault on the square. And no amount of anger, however justified, should have turned disciplined fighters into such a disordered rabble.
Ryllans’ eyes narrowed. ‘They're possessed utterly by this religion of theirs,’ he said. ‘Logic and reason have gone and they're going back to what they must have been centuries ago: ignorant, vicious barbarians.'
Arwain held out his hands to the fire.
'No attempt to secure the ridges, no lookouts along the valley, inadequate sentries. It's certainly bad, and it's certainly not typical of them,’ he mused. ‘But I'm not sure what it tells us, except that such carelessness may be to our advantage.'
'It tells us that they're unpredictable and thus perhaps more dangerous than they've ever been,’ Ryllans said starkly. ‘I've seen religious fanatics take a score of arrows and still kill people before they died. It's not good for morale I can assure you. But…’ He raised a finger to forestall a question. ‘While we're aware of the problem, we can deal with it. Thought and calmness in action, coupled with a steadfastness of purpose…'
'Murderous ruthlessness, you mean,’ Arwain interrupted.
Ryllans nodded and continued. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Thought and calmness and murderous ruthlessness will give us the day.'
The two men fell silent and, after a moment, Arwain drifted off to sleep. Ryllans reached across and pulled his cloak about him, then settled back against the rock and closed his eyes.
To a casual observer, it would have appeared that the Mantynnai had fallen asleep like his Lord, but at the sound of a soft footfall nearby, a thin bright line appeared under the seemingly closed lids.
He was surrounded by his own kind and those that they trained, but his hand eased itself inconspicuously into his cloak and towards one of his knives. There was something odd about the sound; it was too soft, and there was no call for stealth in this place.
The reason for the softness manifested itself almost immediately as a woman emerged into view around the rock. It could have been one of the nurses from the medical corps, but Ryllans’ hand did not move from his knife, and for an instant there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
'Lady Nefron,’ he said.
The woman drew in a sharp breath and lifted her hand to her heart as she turned quickly towards him.
'You startled me,’ she said.
Ryllans made no apology, but he stood up and stepped towards her, placing himself between her and the sleeping Arwain.
'What are you doing here?’ he asked, politely, but authoritatively. ‘This may yet be a battleground again. Do you have the Duke's permission to be here?'
Nefron's eyes blazed. ‘Of course,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Do you imagine I'm free just because I'm no longer in the Erin-Mal? I can do nothing without his word, nor go anywhere without an escort of stone-faced troopers following me. But you'd know that, wouldn't you? As you and your kind trained them.'
'Yes,’ Ryllans replied.
Nefron flinched as if her own venom had rebounded from Ryllans’ flat reply. ‘I asked to come because I thought I'd be able to help your wounded,’ she went on. ‘That's what I've been dragged along for, isn't it?'
'The Duke doesn't consult me on such matters,’ Ryllans said. ‘But the men will appreciate your concern. Fighting is a cruel matter, all solace is welcome.'
Nefron looked at him intently.
'I can't read you, Mantynnai,’ she said after a moment. ‘Most men I can read, manipulate if I have to. But not you; none of you. Always you elude me. What are you thinking? Why are you the way you are? Foreigners dying for this land, this man, my husband?'
'We are what we are,’ Ryllans answered. ‘Who can say why?'
'You can,’ Nefron answered unequivocally. Ryllans did not reply.
Nefron blew out a long irritated breath, then shivered. She hunched her shoulders and pulled her cloak about her tightly. Involuntarily, Ryllans’ hand reached out to help her.
'Careful, Mantynnai,’ she said tartly, her lip curling. ‘That was a touch of humanity.'
There was a brief flash of terrible anger in Ryllans’ eyes. ‘You waste your life in this futile railing at your own pain, Nefron,’ he said, his voice quiet but very powerful. ‘You ask who I am, who we are, the Mantynnai. You should first ask who you are, before you concern yourself with others.'
Nefron's eyes widened at this unexpected rebuke and she drew herself up angrily. Before she could respond, however, Ryllans was standing in front of her with a knife in his hand. He had drawn it with a movement so swift and skilful that she had scarcely seen it.
Terror replaced the anger in her face, but the hand that came up was as defiant as it was defensive.
Ryllans grasped it forcefully and placed the knife in it, his own hand tightening her fingers around its hilt.
'Kill him,’ he said with a casual nod towards the sleeping Arwain that belied the immovability of his grip. ‘Have your heart's desire. The object of your endless scheming. Fulfil your darkest ambitions. I'll not hinder you, on my word.'
Nefron's lean, handsome face had become contorted with shock and bewilderment and she began to sway. Ryllans put a powerful arm around her and jerked her upright. ‘No, Nefron, there's no escape on the battlefield, you kill or you are killed,’ he said, his foreign accent suddenly strong. The hand holding the knife in hers pointed it towards Arwain.
'Kill him now,’ he said. ‘As you've always wanted. Destroy the product of your husband's divided, perhaps foolish, love; his few stolen couplings with your sister.’ He bent her forward. ‘What's a little more blood this day? It's soon done. I can show you how to do it. Show you where to plunge the point, turn the blade so as not to make too much mess, see…'
The knife was almost at Arwain's throat.
With a strangled cry and a prodigious effort, Nefron wrenched herself upright and stepped back. Calmly, Ryllans released her hand and stood staring at her.
She hurled the knife away with a mixture of fury and revulsion, then she turned on her unexpected tormentor. Her mouth was working, but no sounds came. A lesser woman, a mere Lord's wife, would have screamed and sobbed, protested about such unwarranted and brutal handling. But instead she managed to gasp out, after a long, agonizing struggle, ‘How did you know?'
Ryllans held her gaze. ‘Mud stains over the bloodstains on your elegant cloak. Fine-crafted shoes soiled beyond repair. Blood on your hands … and on your face.’ He pointed, and Nefron lifted a hand to her face, though she lowered it before it reached its destination. ‘You've been wandering this field, oblivious to where you were. Doubtless you rushed here on the pretext of comforting our wounded for some subtle, scheming reason of your own. Perhaps you even came as a mother anxious about Menedrion. Or perhaps you came to see if your long, wearisome vengeance had been wrought at last, and Arwain killed.’ Nefron could not turn away and Ryllans continued relentlessly. ‘But you've seen the dead and their fearful mutilations. Seen men's entrails and precious limbs scattered across the mountain turf, with birds and animals waiting to snuffle among them, but hopping and scuttling to one side as you approach; deferential, fearful in the presence of one of the great predators. You've seen the faces of the dead, with their shocked, unbelieving eyes. And you've seen the terrible, screaming wounds of the maimed.’ He leaned forward towards her. ‘But worst of all, you've seen into their eyes, and into the eyes of all the men who fought here.'
'How did you know?’ She mouthed the phrase distantly, as if it were all she had left to hold on to.
'It's in your eyes now,’ Ryllans said. ‘But I know because I myself am not yet returned from the raw, bloody edge of today's events. I'm still in the killing vein. Life, death, a flick of the wrist.’ He made the gesture in front of her face. ‘My sight is still too sharp, too clear. It sees into your soul and cannot do other than kill the monstrous folly it sees dwelling there.'
There was a long silence.
The noises of the crackling fire and of the camp eddied idly around the two motionless figures.
Then Nefron bowed her head slightly, and, without speaking, turned back towards the camp.
Ryllans watched her retreating figure until she was completely out of sight, then he sat down again, his face unreadable. His hands were shaking again.
Arwain slept.
Lying in the camp nearby, drifting in and out of sleep were Antyr, Tarrian, and Grayle. They had arrived with Menedrion somewhat the worse for wear: Antyr sore and weary through the long-sustained ride, Tarrian and Grayle footsore and thirsty with the relentless pace that Menedrion had set.
Despite his tiredness, however, Antyr's increasing sensitivity felt Arwain's sleeping thoughts and he was with him on the instant. The dreamselves of Tarrian and Grayle joined him almost as quickly.
Estaan, sitting near Antyr's rough bunk and idly flicking through a book, noted the change in the demeanour of the three sleeping figures. Increasingly familiar with the ways of the Dream Finder and his Companions, he knew that beneath the closed lids, Antyr's eyes would be black as night, like deep pits, while those of the two wolves would be yellow, wild, and all-seeing. Quietly he moved his chair to the entrance of the tent so as to prevent any incautious entry.
Arwain's sleep was slight and flimsy, and, like Ryllans, his sensitivities raw. In the mists he felt the presence of Antyr and the wolves and he grimaced inwardly. Discreet and intangible though it was, their attention felt intrusive. The all-too-real horrors of the day had driven the strange happenings of recent nights from his mind completely, and now that he was reminded of them in his shallow, twilight slumber, they seemed to have lost any semblance of significance.
'Leave me. No sleeping thoughts can harm me after today.'
'We are here by your father's will, and such a judgement is not yours to make.'
'Leave me!'
Silence.
'Leave me!'
'We cannot. Rest, lord, that we may rest also. This field is a distressing place for my Companions. Human barbarism frightens them at levels far beyond my comforting.'
Anger and disbelief. ‘Wolves, frightened by killing?'
Rasping scorn. ‘We kill to eat, lord. What do you kill for? You'd soon put a spear through my ribs if you found me eating your dead, but you made them thus, and you'd let them rot here.'
Arwain's mind filled with the complex maze of reasoning that he had struggled through during the day, but it foundered in the light of the wolves’ contempt. Not because it was flawed, but because it was human, and could not hope to stand against the deep wisdom and knowledge of these wild creatures.
Gently, Antyr's will stilled the wolves’ fears and they slipped to the boundaries of Arwain's thoughts, beyond even his most sensitive seeing.
Stillness.
Then, in the far, eyeless distance, he sensed the long mournful howl of the two wolves, rich and subtle in harmony and rhythm, rising and falling in accordance with some spirit unknowable by the listener.
In the dark stillness of his mind, Arwain looked at his image in the shining blade of his sword, now cleaned of the day's gore.
'I want to be home, at peace, with my wife, my friends. This is no way to be…'
Hesitation. ‘Yet not for anything would I have been anywhere other than here this day. Standing with my companions and holding the line. Fighting the demons in myself as well as the enemy beyond. Learning.'
The howling drifted further and further away, beautiful, longing, lost.
From under Arwain's closed lids, a tear emerged. It slid down his cheek, a bright, slender strand, cutting its way through the grime of battle that stained his face.
Then, far beyond even the wolves’ howling, he heard a faint, ground-shaking thunder …
He listened. It was important.
But it was gone.
Ivaroth's army moved relentlessly southward. Certain though he was of the absence of most of the Bethlarii menfolk from the northern regions, he did not proceed rashly. The sudden, unexpected, ferocity of Magret had reminded him vividly that these were a stern and warlike people, well steeped in the ways of combat, and that to trifle with them was to risk disaster.
Sooner or later, the knowledge of their arrival in the land would spread faster than they could move, but Ivaroth determined that this would be as late as possible, and that when, finally, major resistance was mounted against him, he would be operating from a territory extensive and secure enough to sustain his army without the need to rely on lines of supply through the mountains.
Accordingly, the land to be passed over was well scouted before the army moved forward. Small communities and isolated farms were destroyed without hesitation, as were lone travellers, or any other potential carriers of news who found themselves in Ivaroth's path.
Thus the city of Navra was taken completely by surprise. ‘It's many times bigger than the villages we've seen so far, with great buildings, taller than the highest trees,’ Ivaroth told his scouts as they prepared to leave. ‘And a great stone wall about the whole of it.’ They looked at him in respectful silence. The Mareth Hai's knowledge of this land and these people was as strange as it was accurate, but this wild oratory provoked some discreet sidelong glances from the scouts as they rode off.
'Ha!’ he laughed grimly as they returned, wide-eyed. ‘You took your Mareth Hai for a rambling storyteller when you left, didn't you? But tell us what you found.'
A flurry of anxious denials met this ominous rebuke, and details of the city with its great buildings and surrounding wall poured out over the amazed listeners.
'It is thus, I tell you. We all saw it. The Mareth Hai's sight is beyond understanding.'
Airily accepting this adulation, Ivaroth turned his officers’ minds to the practical problems of taking such a place.
From his travels through the dreams of the Bethlarii, he had learned a great deal about their art of war, and he knew that while it might be possible to lay siege to a city such as Navra, it would be difficult, and debilitating for his men. Further, it would tie down too much of the army and risk their premature discovery. Despite the ingenuity that had been shown in the passage through the mountains, he also had little faith in the ability of even his cleverest men to build siege towers and rock-throwing catapults.
No. The most effective way to take a city was by surprise, or treachery. He had no friends within the city who would open the gate, so he must ensure surprise.
And he did. A few men, posing as benighted travellers, gained access at one of the smaller gates and, quickly disposing of the unwary guards, threw the gate wide open.
There then followed a night of slaughter and terror as the citizens of Navra were awakened by the crackle and roar of burning buildings, the clatter of hooves galloping through their stone-flagged streets, and the screams of the dying mingling with the triumphant cries of their murderers.
The many men and women who snatched up swords and spear from their bedsides and dashed into the night to face this unheralded and nightmarish invasion, fell like wheat before the scythe under the hooves of Ivaroth's rampaging army. Sluggards and dreamers survived.
Those who managed to reach one of the gates found all of them sealed by these strange and savage mounted men who seemed to be without number.
Dawn came to a crushed people. Some resistance was being offered hither and thither, not least by a company of reservists, but their obliteration was merely a matter of time, and such of the city fathers as had survived the night accepted Ivaroth's terms …
'Kneel or die.'
A proud people, many of the citizens secretly denounced this spineless submission by the city's old men, but it did not take Ivaroth long to demonstrate that he was not only a man of his word, but one of instant execution. To deter opposition to his will, he had ten people chosen at random and then killed publicly, with the announcement that for every one of his men that was attacked, ten more would die.
With the city sealed and the invaders present in such overwhelming numbers, overt resistance ceased almost immediately. The Bethlarii were not a cowardly people but, apart from Ivaroth's ruthlessness, they were shocked almost to stupefaction by the sudden, hammer-blow occupation of their city.
And too, there was a quality about the old man who was Ivaroth's constant companion that chilled utterly those who came near him.
Then, as his forces quelled the immediately surrounding countryside, and the citizens began to recover, Ivaroth splintered any consensus against him by showing unexpected and arbitrary flashes of mercy and kindness: executing some of his own men for rape and for looting, and punishing others in various ways for lesser offences. He appointed a new council of citizens to advise him, and began recompensing some of the citizens who had suffered loss or bereavement during the invasion.
Also, many of the city's most respected priests, those too old to be with the army, began to speak of dreams which revealed to them that this seeming scourge was nothing less than the will of Ar-Hyrdyn and that the Bethlarii's true future lay with those who had the vision to see the true worth of this great and powerful leader from the cold plains beyond the mountains; this Mareth Hai.
'Who could have brought such an army through the mountains without the blessing of Ar-Hyrdyn?'
It was thus a completely subdued Navra that Ivaroth left behind when he set off with an army towards his next goal, the river town of Endir.
Nonetheless, he took a liberal sprinkling of hostages and left a substantial garrison to tend the city.
Ibris frowned a little at Feranc's news.
'The two men have left Serenstad and are believed to be going to Viernce.'
'You said they'd not be found if they didn't wish it, didn't you?’ Ibris said.
'They're not hiding, or they'd have disappeared without trace,’ Feranc replied. ‘They've been quite open and straightforward in their movements, the Liktors only missed them because of the confusion of the mobilization. I've sent messages on to Viernce asking for them to join us here. I'd be surprised if they didn't come.'
Ibris's irritation showed. ‘What the devil do they want in Viernce?’ he said angrily.
'Probably more information about the Mantynnai,’ Feranc answered. ‘From the reports I've had about them, that seems to be why they're here.'
Ibris slapped his hand on the table impatiently. ‘Damn it, I'm not prepared to have these strangers…’ He stopped and levelled a finger at Feranc. ‘Are you sure you're looking for these countrymen of yours properly?’ he demanded.
Unexpectedly, Feranc smiled and then chuckled in the face of this unwarranted reproach. ‘I am, sire,’ he said with some mild irony around the title. ‘But admittedly not with the urgency that I'm helping you prosecute this war.'
Ibris scowled by way of apology. ‘I feel the need to talk to them, Ciarll,’ he said, more soberly. ‘Particularly after this.’ He fingered a paper on the table in front of him. It was a message from Menedrion. The Bethlarii had decamped from Whendrak with scarcely a token resistance. ‘It makes no sense.'
Feranc gave a slight shrug. ‘They may have misjudged the size of the forces coming along the ridges,’ he said. ‘Arwain said that their dispositions around Whendrak and their general discipline showed a remarkable degree of negligence.'
'Maybe,’ Ibris replied. ‘But remember, according to what Antyr saw in the envoy's dream, Whendrak is the lure. They may be retreating to draw us forward, extend our lines and then cut them and encircle us, or begin their true offensive in another region.'
Feranc looked at Ibris, but offered no comment.
'Yes, I know,’ Ibris said into the silence. ‘We've been over this twenty times if we've been over it once, and all the precautions that can be taken have been taken, but…’ He blew out a long, unsettled breath and tapped the paper again. ‘The Bethlarii don't yield like this. It all seems too easy.'
Feranc's expression changed. ‘Not for Arwain and Ryllans it wasn't,’ he said sternly. ‘That was a rare stand they made.'
Ibris waved an apologetic hand. ‘Yes. But you understand what I mean.'
'I think you're too concerned,’ Feranc replied. ‘There's a limit to the amount of guessing and out-guessing an enemy that can be done sensibly. From what Arwain and his officers have said, my feeling is that in their rise to power, these priests have had to purge much of the army's officer elite and install their own people. Ignorance won't tolerate knowledge. And now the army's paying the price in incompetent leadership.'
'You're probably right, Ciarll,’ Ibris said. ‘But I'd like you to raise the search for these two men a little higher in your priorities, if you would.'
Over the following days, Ibris's army, reinforced by the force from Tellar, moved westward along the Whendrak valley towards Bethlarii territory. Reports reached him from all over the land about the progress of the full voluntary mobilization. Generally it was proceeding well, though not without opposition of varying degrees in certain cities.
'I notice that apathy increases with the distance from Bethlar,’ he said acidly, looking at two almost identical returns from opposite ends of the land, Torrenstad and Lorris. ‘And I see the Guilds are organizing marches against it in Lingren.’ He paused and then became abruptly angry. ‘These people aren't fit to be fought for! What chance would the Guilds have of surviving if Bethlar took control?’ His anger mounted explosively. ‘Ye gods, we've had good men killed already. Ciarll, send to Aaken, tell him to have the leaders of this opposition arrested and conscripted under whatever war regulation he can find. If they want the power and benefits of leadership, then they can earn them by leading from the front. And tell him to make the Sened's and Gythrin-Dy's displeasure well known in Torrenstad and Lorris…’ He sent a sheaf of papers scattering across the table. ‘And all the others who're dragging their feet and hiding behind our shields.'
Then, as suddenly as he had erupted, he became calm. ‘And send our thanks and congratulations to the others. Especially Crowhell.'
He smiled and shook his head. ‘They're rogues to a man down there, but they're realists. They know what Bethlar would do to their vaunted independence, not to mention their sea trade. They've done well. Money and men!'
Reports also reached him from Meck and Nestar and other cities along the border. Still no surprise Bethlarii incursions had occurred. Increasingly it seemed that they were gathering their forces somewhere west of Whendrak for a major battle.
Before moving the main part of his army past Whendrak, however, Ibris observed the letter of the treaty meticulously, going in person unarmed to the city gate with a small, flagged escort.
He was greeted by Haynar. The Maeran's face was drawn and weary, and his eyes were full of anger and bitterness.
Ibris had carefully memorized the formal greeting that was required of him in these circumstances, but when he looked at Haynar, he said simply, ‘If you will allow us, we will give you whatever aid you need to repair the damage that has been wrought on your city and your people, Maeran. And we will help you deal with your internal dissension if you wish.'
Haynar's angry look did not soften, but no anger reached his voice when he spoke. ‘Part of me would bring down a curse on both your camps for this horror, Duke,’ he said. ‘But I judge this was none, or little, of your doing, and I accept your help for our wounded and sick, with thanks. As for our … internal dissension … as you choose to call it, little now remains.’ His mouth became a hard line. ‘The instigators have been sent to their precious deity for his judgement in the matter. Whendrak can … and will … tend its own problems of government.’ Before Ibris could reply, Haynar went on. ‘You have our permission for your army to pass by the city.'
These were the words required of the treaty.
Ibris bowed, but instead of departing, he clicked his horse forward until he was by Haynar's side. Leaning forward, he laid a hand on the Maeran's arm.
Haynar met his gaze forcefully and a grim determination filled his face. ‘This will never be again, Ibris,’ he said. ‘This city has not survived this ordeal to risk being at any time again a pawn in the ancient madness between your two peoples. I give you due warning that we shall fortify our city and arm our people, and use every device at our disposal to increase our power and influence, until we become the third great power in this land.'
Ibris nodded. ‘This you told my son,’ he replied. ‘It is your right; your duty, even. And while your sword hangs by your Threshold and not at your belt, you'll have nothing other than friendship and help from Serenstad.'
'This your son told me,’ Haynar replied.
Eventually, the army reached the end of the valley, and Ibris found himself looking out over the fertile plains that marked the eastern extremity of Bethlarii territory.
There he waited until he received word about Hyndrak to the north. Hyndrak was a substantial garrison city, and divisions from the cities of Stor and Drew had been sent there directly to seal it and prevent any assault on Ibris's supply lines as he moved towards Bethlar. This action would also protect their own cities from any direct assaults by the Hyndrak regiments through the mountains.
'Hyndrak has been surrounded. There has been no resistance,’ the message said when it came, adding significantly, ‘We suspect that the Hyndrak regiment has decamped and that there are only reservists here.'
'Excellent,’ Ibris acknowledged flatly. ‘Send word to remind the commanders there that there's to be no attempt to take or subdue the city.'
Feranc bowed. ‘All is clear then,’ he said flatly.
Ibris pulled open the flap of the command tent, and looked out across the rolling Bethlarii pains.
'All is clear,’ he echoed.