The busy confusion of the large camp gradually grew quieter as the last light of the setting sun faded. Dark strands that had been staining the red and pink clouds stretched across the horizon, slowly spread to make them cold, grim and distant.
Stars began to appear in the purpling sky, while more homely lights were struck inside the rows of tents and wagons. Fires were stoked to help keep the chill of the coming night from bearing too hard on the many sentries posted about the camp.
Lamps, too, were lit in Ibris's command tent, reshaping its dull greyness with new and warmer shadows. Ibris was lounging back in a large chair while Menedrion, Arwain and Ryllans were sitting to one side of him. Ciarll Feranc, silhouetted against a particularly bright lamp, was bending over a table, examining a map. A large fire burned in the centre of the tent, its fumes rising into a decorated cowl that carried them out into the night.
The group's deliberations were interrupted discreetly by an announcement from the guard at the door, and Antyr entered accompanied by Estaan. They brought with them a brief swirl of cold air, and the fire flared up momentarily, releasing a soft puff of smoke into the tent. Menedrion scowled at the decorated cowl and then leaned forward to strike it with the flat of his hand.
Behind Antyr and Estaan came Pandra, his posture a little self-conscious, as it invariably was in the Duke's presence.
Ibris motioned them all to sit down then stroked the heads of Tarrian and Grayle which appeared suddenly on his knees. As usual the two wolves flopped down across his feet.
'To continue, gentlemen,’ Ibris said. ‘It seems that we're ready to begin our march towards Bethlar. Politically, the attack on Whendrak gives us the right under the terms of the treaty. Militarily, our force is large enough and growing daily and we've received no indication that the Bethlarii are using this as a diversion while they mount a major attack elsewhere. Morally…’ He shrugged sadly. ‘Who can say? We've lost two of the three heralds we sent out with messages for the Hanestra asking for a meeting, and the third only escaped because someone shot at him prematurely.’ He paused and shook his head slowly. ‘It's unbelievable,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Killing heralds now…'
Then he let out a sharp breath and pressed on. ‘All the evidence that our advance patrols are bringing back confirms that the Bethlarii seem to be mobilizing the entire people. In theory we could just wait, fight a defensive war until their country collapses about them, but we may be more vulnerable than they are to such a sustained drain of men and women from their normal lives. Besides which if we let them finish their mobilization we'll be facing a truly huge army. Attack now is no more than self-defence…'
His doubt hung heavy in the air, but no one spoke.
He dispelled it himself. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he sat upright abruptly, disturbing Tarrian and Grayle.
'How are things on our second front?’ he asked Antyr.
Antyr hesitated briefly before replying. ‘Nothing untoward has happened recently, sire.'
Ibris's eyes narrowed. ‘But …?’ he asked, catching a doubt in the Dream Finder's voice.
Antyr hesitated again and looked round awkwardly at the listening group. ‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘Nothing has happened, but there's an unease in the…’ He moved his hands vaguely.
'In the what?’ Ibris asked, before Antyr could continue.
'In the mingling of the dream ways … the … night thoughts … over the camp … it's difficult to explain,’ Antyr answered. ‘It's as if a great storm were going on somewhere … or were about to arrive. The atmosphere's jagged, tense…'
'Several thousand men expecting to march to war soon are hardly going to be at their most relaxed, Antyr,’ Ibris said.
'No,’ Antyr said, shaking his head. ‘That's disturbing but not unexpected, as you say. But this is beneath and beyond. Faint and distant, but all-pervasive. I can't say what it is or what it means, I've never felt anything like it before. It worries me.'
Ibris frowned and turned to Pandra. ‘Have you noticed this strange … atmosphere … pervading the, whatever they are, the night thoughts?’ he asked.
'I feel nothing but the doubts and fear that you yourself described,’ Pandra replied. ‘But I don't have either Antyr's skill or his sensitivity. My not noticing something doesn't mean it isn't there.'
Ibris's frown deepened. ‘Wolf?’ he said in some irritation.
'Listen to Antyr, pack leader,’ Tarrian replied. ‘And don't be so angry just because you didn't get the answer you wanted. You hired him to do a job and he's doing it.'
'I appointed him,’ Ibris interjected sharply, thrown off-balance by Tarrian's offhand manner.
'Oh, so that's why Aaken's so slow paying his wages? It's an honorarium? Prompt payment isn't dignified. I understand now. Very complicated, humans.'
Despite the grimness of the moment, Ibris found his irritation evaporating at Tarrian's tone. He chuckled softly.
'I'm sorry, Antyr,’ he said after a moment. ‘I wouldn't rail at a messenger because he couldn't see through a mountain, so I should have listened and thought before I spoke. Tell me what you can, however vague. I'm still concerned about the warning that Whendrak is the lure. I see no military traps waiting for us so I'm waiting for some other revelation.'
Antyr's forehead furrowed with effort. ‘I've no reason for saying this,’ he said softly. ‘No logic, no observed sightings, intercepted messages. But I can't help but feel that the trap, whatever it is, is already beginning to close.'
All eyes turned to him. Even Ciarll Feranc inclined his head towards him as he maintained his scrutiny of the map on the table.
'Somewhere, something dire is happening,’ he went on before anyone could speak. ‘But it's not here. Here you must do what you can see to do. Wherever this trap lies, it's beyond your finding for the moment. I … we … will watch the dreamways and give you what warning we can, and what protection we can.'
Ibris leaned back, his face anxious. ‘I'm at a loss,’ he said. ‘You tell me to go to battle with the Bethlarii while some other ambush is under way. What am I to make of that?'
Antyr met his gaze. ‘Just that, sire,’ he said, his voice quiet but unequivocal. ‘You've an enemy that you can see. Fight him with all your skill or you'll be defeated. You've also an enemy you can't see.’ He waved a hand across Pandra and the two wolves. ‘We will watch for him, and advise you as well as we're able. Until that time, you can do nothing about him. Nothing!'
'Your mind is clear enough about that, I see,’ Ibris replied. He looked round at the watching faces.
'Do any of you wish to add anything to this advice?’ he asked.
Ryllans indicated Estaan. ‘We've been constantly on the alert for … strange … happenings ever since Antyr's encounter with the Dream Finder Nyriall, but we've felt nothing.'
Ibris glanced at Feranc. ‘I've sent further messengers to Viernce,’ he said, without looking up from the map.
'Enough of all this,’ Menedrion burst out impatiently. ‘We're all agreed about this dream nonsense, and we're wasting time pursuing it further. Nothing's happened so far, and if something's about to then we can't do anything else but wait and rely on…’ He waved vaguely at Antyr and Pandra.
'More importantly…’ The vague gesture became positive, and pointed in the general direction of Bethlar. ‘There's an army of lunatics out there, growing day by day, and if we don't deal with them very soon, we'll none of us have any dreams to worry about in future.’ He leaned forward, clenching his fist to make his point. ‘We should move against them immediately. Hit them hard, hit them fast, hit them now! Then, we can fret about our dreams at our ease.'
'Succinctly summarized, Irfan,’ Ibris said, smiling to take the edge off the irony in his voice. ‘Anyone else got anything to say?'
There was no reply.
'Very well, gentlemen,’ he said, standing up. ‘We march tomorrow.'
Captain Larnss yawned mightily. Ye gods, this was a boring job. Nursemaiding all these volunteers and reservists at the back of beyond on the off-chance that the Bethlarii might spring a sneak attack across the northern border while the army was looking for them at Whendrak. Some hopes!
He was beginning to wish they would. Anything was better than this trial by tedium.
'A good career move for you, Larnss,’ he had been told. ‘Not many captains of your age get such a responsibility.'
'Career move,’ he had retorted, somewhat indiscreetly. ‘I'm hardly going to cover myself in glory in front of the Duke while I'm up there, am I?'
'Men in the right place can prevent a battle, captain, and staying alive is glory enough for most people in a war. Besides, the Duke knows the value of those who wait prepared at the edge of the conflict.'
'That's very poetic. But I'd rather have my present responsibility and be in one of the divisions marching to Whendrak.'
'Here are your orders, captain. Safe posting.'
As if it could be anything else up here. Rendd, of all places. Serenstad's most northerly ally. Sheep, sheep, more sheep, and a goat. Give him city life any day. An up-and-coming officer already moving into the fringes of court life, he shouldn't have been dumped up here. Not for the first time since his arrival he began to search through the names of his superiors for the most likely culprit.
'Companies one to five ready to commence patrol, sir.’ The voice made him turn a further yawn into a taut-lipped expression of acknowledgement and, fastening up his tunic, he stepped out of his tent to examine his charges.
Companies indeed! They were scarcely more than glorified platoons. As he walked along the waiting ranks, he tried to work up a sneer for these local volunteers, gathered traditionally into companies by family and district. But they'd been reliable and conscientious so far, and more than anxious to oblige this young fellow from the city. He could not deny that it made a refreshing change from the ambitious back-biting that often typified life in the Serenstad force.
They're not such a bad lot really, he admitted grudgingly. Just farmers and artisans looking to do their bit. Not exactly the legendary warriors of heroic saga, but they were his to make what he could of. It could've been worse. He could have been sent to Farlan and been given the job of trying to organize sailors and fishermen into a fighting unit.
He was about to take his horse from a waiting groom, when, on a whim, he dismissed the man. Be prepared to do as your men do. That much he'd learned from studying Ibris and Menedrion. This patrol was to be a comparatively short one and was to be made on foot, so he too, would walk. It would do him no harm. Indeed, the walking might help him shake off the lethargy that the slow pace of this place seemed to be inducing in him.
The Rendd reservists set off on their patrol.
Once or twice during the day, Larnss regretted his decision to walk, as the locals, used to the hilly terrain, maintained a very commendable pace. It took him some effort to keep his discomfort from showing in his face.
The patrol was, of course, uneventful and they began pitching camp beside a wide, boisterous stream, just before sunset.
While the work was proceeding, Larnss walked up a nearby hill and surveyed the countryside. There was little to be seen except rolling hills in every direction, although to the north-north-east? — he fancied that the sky seemed red. Endir was it, over there? He could not remember, and without giving the matter any further thought he turned back towards the camp. A fine drizzle started to fall.
As he strode down the hill, he frowned in a mixture of irritation and dismay. Before him lay a rambling string of tents spanning across a sharp bend in the stream.
Orders from Serenstad had been quite explicit: all camps in border areas were to be laid out with a defensible perimeter, and appropriate sentries mounted.
Managing to control his initial response he took the officer responsible on one side and explained to him the inadequacy of his response to orders that might well have been initiated by no less a person than the Duke himself.
'Letting the men put their tents up where they want, won't do,’ he concluded. ‘Apart from the standing orders, this is a border area. What if there's a sudden attack?'
'Sudden attack, sir? Here?’ the man interrupted, laughing good-naturedly.
Larnss’ face hardened and he levelled a finger at the suddenly solemn officer. ‘Yes, a sudden attack, here,’ he said angrily. ‘We're at war, for your information. It's not for us to decide what might happen, it's for us to behave like soldiers and be ready for whatever does happen. Groups like us are spread out all along the border in case of some Bethlarii treachery.’ He modified his own commandant's words. ‘The Duke knows the importance of those who wait prepared at the edge of the conflict, that's why I've been sent all the way from Serenstad.’ He glanced up into the increasing rain. He'd had enough doing as the men did for one day, and he certainly didn't intend to get soaked with them while they re-pitched the camp. However, the matter couldn't be let lie …
'Now you can go back to the men and tell them that as our perimeter's been doubled, so has sentry duty. Perhaps then, tomorrow, they'll appreciate the value of observing the Duke's orders and lay the camp out as a proper defensible enclave. And if there's any complaining, we'll put stakes around it … or a ditch … or both. Dismiss.'
Do them no harm, he thought later, as he extinguished the lamp and lay back in his blankets. In fact, it had been very useful; given him a chance to display his authority quite legitimately. And he'd done it quite well, he decided.
He toyed with the idea of waking early and making a spot inspection of the doubtless negligent sentries, but his aching legs and admittedly not unpleasant fatigue told him that this was little more than idle dreaming.
He yawned and stretched, then closed his eyes. The blankets were warm and though the ground was hard, he was both too weary and too contented to care. This might not be such a bad posting after all.
The sound of the rain on the canvas was oddly comforting and, as he drifted off to sleep, its steady drumming rose to fill his mind and displace all other … sounds … distractions … thoughts …
Drumming, drumming.
Drumming.
Grey wakefulness slowly penetrated into the sound.
And more!
Shouting!
Larnss leapt up, suddenly wide awake, just as the flap of his tent was torn open by a wide-eyed and breathless reservist.
Larnss did not wait for him to find his voice, but pushed past him and out into the dawn.
For an instant he thought he was dreaming. Pouring around the broad shoulder of the hill, and making for the camp at full gallop, was a vast horde of horsemen. The drumming hooves filled the air, almost drowning the shrill cries of the sentries dashing through the camp desperately rousing their companions.
Larnss’ mouth dropped open. He had seen the Serenstad cavalry at practice and that was a formidable sight, but this …
This was unbelievable.
But it was there! And it would be on them in minutes. Stark reality swept aside Larnss’ initial shock.
Drawing his sword, he ran through the straggling camp, slashing open tents and brutally kicking awake any who had not already been wakened.
'To me! To me! Spears and shields! Form up, as you value your worthless lives. Form up!'
His junior officers frantically following his lead, the five companies attempted to form a line across the bend in the stream, but the speed of the approaching horsemen and the size of the widespread camp resulted in their only having time to form three ragged squares: two against the banks of the curving stream, and the third in between them.
Larnss, in one of the outer squares, was petrified. Questions flooded into his head. Who were these attackers? Bethlarii surely. But with such a huge cavalry force? He squinted into the approaching mass, but he could see none of the characteristic markings that he had been told typified the Bethlarii regiments.
And how could he and his men hope to stand against such a force? Their position was surely impossible against such numbers. The horsemen could move through the gaps between the squares and surround them almost completely. And the stream, though quite fast and deep, was certainly fordable and of little real defensive value.
'Hold!’ he shouted, trying to beat down his terror.
Then, to his horror, he saw the centre square waver ominously.
He had a vision of them scattering and splashing through the stream, to flee across the countryside while the great tide of riders surged through the opening they had left.
Without thinking, he forced his way through the uncertain shield wall of his own square and dashed across the gap towards the centre one.
Matching the speed of his arrival at the centre with shouts of encouragement interspersed with imprecations, curses, and blows, he stilled the mounting panic.
'Hold or die. It's that simple!'
Then, suddenly. ‘Look, they're slowing.'
Somehow he managed to make this sound like an angry reproach to his quavering men rather than the cry of surprise that it actually was. A glance around, however, showed him the cause of the riders’ loss of momentum.
They were charging into a narrowing field. Already, he noticed, some of the side riders were drawing back to avoid being edged into the stream, while the remainder were having to rearrange themselves to avoid collisions with each other.
The Rendd reservists, Larnss’ first command, had been given a little time.
Larnss seized two men. ‘You, left flank at the double. You, right. Anyone who's got a bow there is to defend the gaps. Shoot for the horses. The more we bring down, the less room they have for manoeuvre. Move!'
The two men needed no encouragement and scurried across the gaps as the few in the centre square who had bows began stringing them and preparing to implement Larnss’ shouted instruction before he ordered them to.
'Shoot when you're ready,’ he shouted. ‘Targets of discretion. Aim at the horses.'
There was a brief lull as the archers waited for the riders to come within effective range.
Larnss gripped his sword until his hand throbbed.
Then the archers began to shoot. Almost immediately, the front riders in the charge, already in some disarray, began to break up. The relentless thunder of the horses’ hooves faltered and the air began to fill with the sounds of men cursing and horses screaming in terror and pain as the iron-tipped arrows struck home.
Many stumbled, bringing down their riders, while many others reared high, forelegs flailing in an attempt to flee this cruel assault.
Larnss watched this unexpected enemy carefully. Who were they? he asked himself again. There were flags flying among the host, but still he could see nothing he recognized. And the horses were sturdier and slightly smaller than those used by either the Bethlarii or the Serens. But, most bewildering of all, was the sheer number of riders, and, he noted, watching the line disentangle itself, brilliant riders at that, for all that their formation discipline was not particularly good.
He'd heard of a land beyond the mountains in the far north which was said to be populated by wild tribes of horsemen, but surely …?
'Fast!’ he shouted to the archers as the great charge came to a shambling and chaotic halt, with the front riders turning to retreat running into those at the rear who were still advancing. ‘Fast, damn it! Save your arrows for when they're advancing, not retreating.'
At the top of the hill, Ivaroth and his senior officers watched in dismay and disbelief as the charge squeezed itself to a halt in the corner formed by the stream, and then began to retreat raggedly under the arrow-fire from the three squares.
Angrily, Ivaroth seized the reins of his horse and braced himself to charge down among his men. A hand reached out and caught his arm. He turned angrily. It was Endryn. His reaction had been automatic and he was about to express the concern that arrows were no respecters of person when wiser inner counsels prevailed. ‘They've spent too long fighting women and old men,’ he said softly so that only Ivaroth could hear. ‘It's time they were reminded how dangerous these people can be and what a journey lies ahead to the fulfilment of your vision.'
Ivaroth's jaw worked agitatedly for a moment, then he nodded grimly. ‘You're right, Endryn,’ he said. ‘A few dead will be a salutary lesson.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And it'll save me the trouble of executing some of those blockheads myself,’ he added.
Despite this routinely cavalier attitude towards his followers however, anxious, more conservative thoughts were increasingly occupying him. Effectively empty of fighting men, Endir, like Navra, had been subdued with ease, and now stood occupied by his army. The army too patrolled the river that ran between the mountains and Endir so that, as far as he knew, no clear news of his invasion had passed westward. Thus he was now in a position to move down into the territory of Serenstad, taking first the small city of Rendd and then the much larger city of Viernce.
There was no reason why the tactics of careful scouting and surprise that had worked so well at Navra and Endir, and indeed, at all the smaller settlements they had encountered, should not work on Rendd and Viernce also.
Yet it unsettled him that his knowledge of Serenstad was only a mixture of travellers’ tales, tribal lore, and such as he had been able to learn from the Bethlarii whose dreams he had ravaged. He would have preferred to have taken emotional possession of the Serenstad leadership as he had the Bethlarii, but his few attempts had been oddly unsuccessful. Further, they had shown him, albeit briefly, a vision of a people whose society was far more complex and diverse than that of the Bethlarii, and one much harder to control through the fear and superstition of a few leaders.
Thus, with an increasing part of his army being left behind to control the conquered territory, and with a more uncertain foe and therefore the most dangerous part of the invasion before him, Ivaroth was concerned by the seeming incompetence of his men now attacking the camp below.
Rendd, small and sleepy, from what he had heard, should present little or no problem, but Viernce was different. Large, walled and almost certainly garrisoned, it had loomed large in Bethlarii minds as the source of a great defeat brought about by an unexpected resistance on the part of a few brave and ferocious soldiers. It would therefore have to be approached and taken with the utmost skill and speed. But taken it must be. Taken and crushed so that no vestige of resistance lay in its people and so that it could be maintained thus by a comparatively small force. He would need every one of his men to complete the most important stage of his conquest of these rich and lush southern lands, for only when Viernce was quelled would he be able to venture safely westwards towards Whendrak to annihilate whichever battle-weary army had survived the war that he and the blind man had so painstakingly engineered. After that, the pacification of the rest of the country could confidently be left in the hands of his officers while he turned his mind to the running of his new kingdom.
The culmination of his long-planned ambition rising before him dispelled the momentary anxiety that Ivaroth had felt at the folly of his men in attacking so incompetently this small force they had come upon. Endryn was right, they'd been too long fighting women and old men. He'd bang a few heads together later, and that, coupled with the casualties these southerners were inflicting on them, would soon give them their edge again.
Even so, came the persistent cautionary note, he must keep a careful eye on what was happening. Good horses were good horses and too valuable to be casually thrown away. The local horses were no good.
Unaware of the brooding presence of the creator of his troubles, Larnss moved restlessly about the square, doing what he could to keep up the heart of his men.
'Hold firm. No horse is going to charge a solid spear line. They're not as stupid as men. Archers, save your arrows for the leading horses. Take your time. Don't miss!'
But if every arrow killed a dozen horses and a dozen men, it would be to no avail, he realized, as the brief interlude following the first charge gave his training an opportunity to exert itself and he did a quick estimate of the massive force ranged against them. It was a chilling deduction. The attackers, whoever they were, seemed to have neither archers nor infantry with which to soften up the squares, but it was asking a lot of even the finest foot soldiers to stand firm against charge after charge.
'You can't suppress the flesh,’ someone had once told him when he argued the impossibility of cavalry breaking up disciplined infantry. ‘You wait until you've stood there holding your pike with a line of horses charging at you. It's a matter of whose nerve goes first.'
And there was no question about whose nerve would go first here.
Nevertheless, the only protection that his company had was to stand as long as they could, and to use their few archers to break up any charges while their arrows lasted. Then …
The question was replaced by another before he could form the grim answer. What were these people doing here? This was clearly Serenstad territory and they had attacked his force without any semblance of warning. They must be what the Duke had feared when he ordered full voluntary mobilization and alerted all border cities and towns to watch for surprise attacks.
Rendd!
The vision of the little city-his responsibility-being overwhelmed by these invaders suddenly filled his mind. With a large part of its defending force tied down here, Rendd could not hope to stand against such an army.
He must get a warning to them.
Scarcely had the thought occurred to him than a darker one formed. Viernce! After Rendd this must surely be the destination of these riders. And from there …!
He cursed himself for not bringing his horse.
A cry drew his attention back to the riders. They had regrouped and were starting to gallop forward again. This time they were coming in two wide columns, presumably with the intention of sweeping through the gaps between the squares and wheeling to attack on all sides.
It was an awesome sight and Larnss felt the panic mounting in the men around him.
'First man to falter, I kill,’ he roared spitting out his own terror into the words. ‘They're riders, not cavalrymen. Look at them! A mob! Archers, take those leading horses! Bring them down! If any get through seize the horses, we must get a message back to Rendd.'
Roughly he yanked a junior trooper from the rear ranks. ‘You can ride, I've seen you,’ he shouted into the young man's frightened face to make himself heard above the mounting din. ‘If we can get a horse, you're to ride to Rendd and tell them…’ He looked around desperately. Rendd was too big to evacuate and too small to stand against this invader. ‘Tell them what's happened here and to make whatever peace they can with these people, delaying them as much as they can. Then get a fresh horse and get to Viernce and warn the garrison there.'
The trooper nodded vaguely, but the approaching horsemen now drew all attention.
As much by coincidence as by intent, several archers from the three squares loosed their arrows at the same time and a dozen or more horses at the head of each column came crashing down, unseating their riders violently and bringing down several of the horses immediately behind them.
Nevertheless, many riders leapt over-or moved around the chaos and reached the squares. There was a brief savage interlude as the reservists wielded their spears frantically, unhorsing many of the riders and killing or injuring several others.
The squares held again, but only just, and the riders began to retreat in disorder once more. Dragging the trooper with him, Larnss pushed through the shield wall and seized the bridle of a riderless horse.
'Get on it and go!’ he roared. ‘Rendd and Viernce! As you've never ridden before!’ The young man hesitated, then leapt into the saddle when he saw the fury rising in Larnss’ face.
Larnss slapped the horse and, with an awkward salute, the trooper spurred it forward towards the stream.
'They're coming again!’ came the cry.
Larnss, however, was watching the receding rider, now guiding his horse into the hectic stream. Then to his horror, he saw two riders splashing down the stream after him. An arrow took one of them, but the other continued.
The young trooper saw the impending danger and tried to urge his horse on, but it slipped and stumbled, unseating him.
Without thinking, Larnss sheathed his sword and set off down the slight slope at full tilt. Both horse and trooper had regained their feet and, with one hand clasping the horse's reins, the trooper was struggling to draw his sword to defend himself against the approaching attacker when Larnss hurled himself from the bank of the stream and brought both horse and rider crashing down heavily in a flurry of spray and flailing limbs.
Holding his victim's head under the water, Larnss shouted to the trooper who was wading towards him.
'Go, man! Take this horse as well, and go!'
The trooper obeyed, at some speed.
Then, still holding the struggling rider under water with one hand, Larnss drew his sword and thrust it into the submerged body. There was a brief, bloodstained thrashing, then stillness. He relinquished his charge and the current caught it and carried it a few paces downstream before it wedged on a rock.
Larnss paused and looked for a moment at the first man he had ever killed. He felt numb.
But the commotion of the greater battle asserted itself over his own needs almost immediately.
'No!’ he cried out desperately as he looked back towards his beleaguered command. His precipitate flight to help the messenger had been misunderstood and panic had struck the middle square even before the riders had. Now they were scattered and fleeing, with triumphant horsemen pursuing them, cutting them down with swords and axes, and skewering them on lances. The other squares, now heavily beset, were crumbling also.
Larnss staggered out of the steam and ran towards his tent nearby. Outside it stood the flag of the Rendd reservists. He seized it and held it high.
'To me! To me!’ he roared.
A rider emerged from behind a tent and, with a malevolent grin, answered his call by levelling a lance at him. Hardly aware of what he was doing, but possessed by a terrible anger, Larnss held his ground until the last moment and then stepped to one side, at the same time bringing the standard down on the lance. Its point dipped and then plunged into the soft earth and the rider was hurled over the top of it to land several paces away with a sickening thud.
Larnss, wrenching the spear from the ground, heard both the wind and the life go out of the man, but it was of no more interest to him than the knowledge the grass on which he stood was green. All that mattered was the next attacker.
He was impaled on his comrade's weapon as Larnss again stepped aside and thrust the spear straight up under his chin and then released it. He heard, sharp and clear in his now profound awareness, the clink of the point striking the inside of the man's helmet as it passed through his skull.
'To me! To me!'
Another rider fell, this time to a savage sword cut that almost severed his arm.
Fleeing men gravitated to Larnss’ powerful call and the waving standard. He looked around. The camp was a sea of galloping horsemen, swords rising and falling, strange, alien flags fluttering. Here and there were islands of men standing in groups, in pairs, alone, hacking and fighting.
And the noise: the shouting, the screaming; a great paean of hatred and terror and pain.
You are finer men than any legendary warriors of heroic saga, Larnss thought, as he slashed at the face of a nearby horse. And you deserved a better leader.
The injured horse reared in panic and threw its rider, but its flailing hoof caught the Rendd reservists’ acting commander in the face and killed him instantly.
High on the hill, Endryn and the others watched the massacre enviously.
Endryn nodded appreciatively. ‘They fought well, these southlanders,’ he said. ‘No cowardice at the end. They fell like stones, each man in his place.'
He turned to Ivaroth. The Mareth Hai, however, was in no mood for singing the praises of a gallant foe. His face was livid. Endryn involuntarily edged away from him.
'Stop him,’ Ivaroth was saying, his trembling hand pointing towards the retreating figure of Larnss’ messenger. ‘Stop him.'
'We can't. He's too far away,’ Endryn exclaimed, immediately wishing he had simply galloped off on the futile errand instead and bracing himself for a savage rebuke, if not worse, for his folly.
But Ivaroth was not talking to him, he was talking to the old man standing by his saddle. The old man, his face hooded, looked up at him and slowly shook his head.
Ivaroth bent down and hissed at him. ‘If he reaches Rendd, then the news of our coming reaches Viernce also. And you see how these people fight. Without Viernce secure at our back we can't move to destroy whoever's left at Whendrak and all fails. Stop him.'
Still the old man did not move.
Ivaroth lowered his voice further, his black eyes peering relentlessly into the dark void of the hood. ‘If we do not win this land, then my own kind will kill me, let alone the enemy. And without me, you'll not be able to reach the places beyond or the other place you're so anxious to find.'
The blind man seemed to ponder for a moment, then he looked up and turned towards the fleeing messenger. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his hands, as if reaching out to him.
A low rumbling filled the air, and the riders at the top of the hill found themselves struggling to control their mounts as the ground beneath them began to shake.
The rumbling faded, or rather, retreated. Watching the distant rider, Ivaroth saw a swathe of destruction following after him. Soil and turf, shrubs and plants were torn up and thrown bodily aside as if by some unseen giant hand. The messenger reached the top of a small incline and looked over his shoulder briefly.
Then he disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Ivaroth's eyes shone with satisfaction.
'Mareth Hai!'
Ivaroth turned round sharply at the alarm in the voice, but before he noted the speaker, he felt the old man leaning against his leg.
Then the mentor and dark angel, who had brought him this far, slithered to the ground.