Marris’s first prayer was not answered. After a long night of desperate planning, his body had overcome the frantic workings of his mind and he had slumped, fully clothed, on to his bed and fallen asleep immediately. When he woke, only a little while later, it was to a bright spring day. For a brief moment he luxuriated in the warm sunshine washing into his room, then, with a sickening jolt, he remembered where he was and what was happening. Despair and bitter anger flooded through him and his hands rose to cover his face as if to hide him from the outside world for ever. It was but a fleeting gesture, and the momentum of years of service and responsibility carried him through it, distressed but unhurt.
Not that it brought any true solace – merely an element of objectivity. He could see the Gevethen’s army drying out and resting under this same sun, recovering its morale. He could see mountain peaks clear and sharp to the farthest horizons. It was not good. He knew well enough that a solitary arrow hissing unseen out of a damp mist held far greater terrors than even a dozen arrows flying from distant but all-too-visible figures halfway up a hillside. And, just as the defenders would be clearly exposed, so too would the full extent of the attacking army, with all that implied for the defenders’ morale.
At the touch of this joyous spring sun, most of the carefully considered plans of the previous night withered and, even as he rose from his bed, he saw that only one of the few remaining could be realistically implemented. He stood for a few moments breathing slowly and deeply. It was a wise act, for had he emerged immediately into the village, his reproachful thoughts would have been read from his face as clearly as if he had bellowed them at the top of his voice. Why had Ibryen abandoned him to face this horrific onslaught – their worst nightmare come true? Why had Ibryen not considered it more seriously as a probable occurrence and made plans accordingly? Who was that damned Traveller? Was he, after all, an agent of the Gevethen? These and many other questions tumbled uncontrollably through his mind, battering him brutally and, for a little while threatening to gain dominance.
Though it was difficult, he pursued none of them, nor wasted anything other than the smallest mental effort in arguing the injustice in them. He had lost enough good friends in his life to recognize his own responses when faced with that which could not be faced. Such thoughts must be allowed to escape, or, like swallowed vomit, they would wreak untold harm later. Like vomiting also, their passing left him trembling and a little light-headed and, as they gradually faded, he remained motionless, composing his features and filling the aching emptiness inside him with the resolve that he knew he must ruthlessly impose on the rest of the community today if they were to survive.
As he stepped through the door of his private quarters, he almost tripped over Hynard sitting across the threshold.
‘Why didn’t you wake me earlier?’ he said sternly.
Hynard glared at him. ‘You’ve only been asleep a couple of hours or so,’ he replied bluntly. ‘And you needed it. I’d have woken you fast enough if it’d been necessary.’ He pointed at the bright, clear sky. ‘What are we going to do?’
Marris strode forward, motioning Hynard to follow. ‘Attack the army from the Greskilva Valley to draw them away, and evacuate the entire village to the south, along whatever route Ibryen’s taken.’
Hynard halted. ‘What?’
Marris ignored the exclamation and continued walking. ‘What’s the latest news from the look-outs?’ he demanded, over his shoulder.
Hynard caught up with him. ‘Mainly bad,’ he said. This time it was Marris who stopped.
‘Mainly bad?’ he echoed inquiringly. ‘You mean, there’s some good?’
‘Not much,’ Hynard replied unhappily. ‘Troops are pouring into the mountains. What we can see of the road is still choked with them. But a lot of them are in a bad way. And there seems to be virtually no organization.’
Marris’s brow furrowed in bewilderment and frustration. ‘What’s happened?’ he said, clenching his fists and looking up at the surrounding peaks as if the answer might come echoing back to him. ‘It makes no sense. The Gevethen are nothing if not patient and cunning. Yet more and more this has all the earmarks of the entire army being scratched together at a moment’s notice. I wonder if Ibryen’s…’
He left the question unasked. The answer to it could perhaps be vital, but as it was not available the question was irrelevant. He set off again, checking the obvious with Hynard.
‘Even so, there are enough in good fettle and order to find and destroy us if they’re prepared to pay the price?’
‘Yes,’ Hynard answered coldly. ‘And they’re prepared to pay the price. They’re already paying it. People are collapsing from exhaustion and being left where they fall. There’ve been countless accidents, and there might even have been actual mutinies in places.’
‘But?’
‘But not enough to stop the incursion,’ Hynard confirmed.
They were at the Council Hall. Several of the Company Leaders with whom he had been talking through most of the night had remained there, snatching such sleep as they could, sprawled across benches and tables. They converged on Marris as soon as he entered, but he allowed no debate, simply announcing his decision.
‘The Greskilva Valley is well to the east of us. Making a stand there will start to pull the army away from where they are now, which is far too close. It’s also very narrow and steep-sided and can be defended by a small group who’ll be able to escape along it during the dark, when need arises.’
No one could argue with Marris’s brief tactical summary, but the order to evacuate the village provoked more contention. He dealt with it as if he were explaining nothing more serious than the sowing of the year’s crops.
‘All the naturally defensible valleys like the Greskilva are, by virtue of that fact, uninhabitable. And all the habitable valleys, like this, can’t be made impregnable. This you know. We’ve always relied predominantly on secrecy for our safety. If that army finds out where we are – and they may well – we’re utterly lost. We can’t hope to stand against such numbers, however disorganized they are. They’ll wear us down by attrition if nothing else.’ He looked round at his listeners; men and women he had known and trusted for many years, and several of whom he had turned from being ordinary, quiet citizens, into skilled fighters. Now the value of his training, and Ibryen’s leadership, would be tested to the full. ‘You all know this too. Time we spend debating it will be wasted.’
Again his reasoning could not be faulted and, reluctantly, the discussion turned to the practicalities of the task. ‘Anything that’s not essential will have to be left and everyone will have to carry something,’ Marris declared. ‘Most of our supplies are already well hidden. With a little good luck they’ll be too busy destroying our buildings and might not find them.’ He could not forbear frowning at the thought but he did not pursue it.
‘It’s not going to be easy. With scouting patrols all over the ridges, we’ll almost certainly be seen,’ someone said.
Marris shook his head and frowned determinedly. ‘No. This is to be an orderly withdrawal. Normal movement discipline will apply more than ever. And if attention’s being drawn to Greskilva, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t move out unnoticed.’ He answered the next question before it was asked. ‘And even if we are seen, we still have the advantage. We’ll be a comparatively small group, well-fed, well-equipped, disciplined, and bound by a common cause. We can move far faster than they can.’
‘We won’t know where we’re going.’
‘Nor will they,’ Marris said forcefully. ‘But we’ve enough portable supplies to sustain us for quite a long time, and we’ll be heading towards Ibryen, while they’ll be moving even further from their precious leaders and stretching their supply lines and communications to the limit within two or three days.’
Despite himself, his bewilderment at the Gevethen’s actions found voice. ‘If they have any supply lines,’ he burst out, ‘which I’m beginning to doubt. From a military point of view, what they’re doing is insane.’ He waved his hand apologetically to dismiss the topic. The last thing he needed now was to unleash general speculation about why this attack was being made. ‘We retreat as far as we have to until the first rush of their attack is spent. They can’t sustain what they’re doing for long, and when they withdraw we’ll re-establish ourselves.’ He sought to deal with another unasked question. ‘We’ve done it before and we can do it again, this time using all the experience we’ve gained over the years.’
He was only partially successful. He and Ibryen had trained their people to think for themselves too well.
‘We’ll never defeat them from further in the mountains.’ The statement was unequivocal, although Marris noted with some relief that it was free from bitterness. He found it heartening too, that the speaker was still thinking in terms of defeating the Gevethen despite what was happening. He acknowledged her.
‘Nor they us,’ he replied, his face resolute and menacing. The power of his intent shook through the very depths of his long anger against the Gevethen. ‘And consequences that we can’t begin to foresee will follow from what the Gevethen are doing. A largely conscripted army, returning exhausted and demoralized, and unsuccessful! Returning to towns, cities, borders that have all been left unguarded. Dust blowing in the wind. Consequences.’ He nodded to himself then, clearing his throat brusquely, he allocated duties and sent the Company Leaders on their way.
A feint in the Greskilva Valley was a sound strategy, he thought, as he watched them leave; Ibryen would have approved of it. With a little good fortune they could emerge from this not only unscathed, but with the Gevethen perhaps fatally undermined.
In a strange reflection of the actions of the Gevethen themselves, Marris and the others began mobilizing their entire community. It was a dismal task and though there was little questioning of his decision, Marris was acutely aware of the gazes that followed him wherever he went: frightened, wide-eyed children; anxious mothers and mothers-to-be; fretful boys and girls, too young to fight, too old to be easily reassured; old people made angry by their failing faculties. Yet perhaps worst of all were some of the everyday sights he glimpsed in passing: a cottage door being gently locked; a child stooping to pick up a dropped toy then nursing it. The very ordinariness of such events carried them past the armour of activity he was sheltering behind and bit deep into him.
Once or twice the cry arose, ‘We can’t defeat the entire army! We should surrender, ask for mercy!’
Marris was strongly inclined to crush such appeals cruelly, but instead he yielded to them. ‘The Gevethen drive others before them, Count Ibryen leads those who wish to follow. Anyone who wants to go down to the army is free to do so. All I ask is that you wait until the rest of us are gone.’ The call did not take root.
Satisfied that preparations were well under way, Marris strode up the short grassy slope to join Hynard. ‘Are you all ready?’ he asked, indicating the men waiting nearby.
‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ Hynard replied.
Marris nodded. The task of the men mounting the diversion in the Greskilva Valley was going to be difficult. Combat in the mountains normally consisted of swift and terrifying attacks followed by equally swift withdrawals, bow and sword being the principal weapons. Now however, once the enemy had been engaged, Hynard’s fighters would have to hold their ground for several hours in the narrow valley as though making a final, desperate stand. Unusually therefore, they were carrying large shields and long, makeshift pikes in addition to their other weapons.
There had been no shortage of volunteers for this expedition, but the men Hynard had chosen had all served in the army or the Citadel Guards under Ibryen. Nevertheless, ‘You don’t need me to tell you that this isn’t going to be easy,’ Marris said to them. ‘We’re all lucky enough never to have fought in a major battle so the only experience of this kind of fighting any of us have had has been on the training field.’ He pointed in the direction of the Greskilva Valley. ‘However, they don’t even have that. You’re going to have to get there at the double so you’ll be tired when you arrive, but they’ll be tired, frightened, driven, and facing a well-defended position. Keep your shield and pike wall tight and high. Protect your heads. Archers, wound as many as you can, and anything they throw at you, throw back harder. Engage the enemy as soon as you arrive. We’ll go as far up the slopes as we can as soon as we’re ready, but I don’t want to start moving along the ridges until it’s dark. You hold as long as you can, but take no unnecessary risks. We should be able…’
Suddenly, Hynard seized his arm and pointed. Someone was running towards them at great speed. Though he could not make out who it was, Marris could feel the runner’s desperate urgency. His stomach turned.
When the runner arrived he was gasping for breath and could scarcely speak, but his fearful eyes and pointing hand were eloquent enough to confirm Marris’s worst fears. Supporting the exhausted man, he glanced towards the village and the people gathering there in the bright spring sunlight. At another time they might have been waiting for the start of a festival.
‘Very slowly,’ he said to the runner, with a gentleness so controlled that it almost frightened him. ‘Very slowly. Give me your message.’
The runner gulped violently and spoke between explosions of breath. ‘They found the bodies. They’re coming up from the lower valley. All of them.’
Marris closed his eyes and bowed his head. When he opened them, it was to see Hynard’s face, pale and full of the agony of self-reproach. He knew that his own was the same.
‘They’d have come looking for them anyway,’ he said weakly, knowing that the statement was as unhelpful as it was accurate.
Hynard’s men had gathered around them. Marris straightened up. ‘Change of plan, gentlemen,’ he said quietly. ‘It seems the enemy are on their way. If they reach the Valley proper we’ll never stop them. Same plan. Do what you can. I’ll send reinforcements after you immediately and start moving out those who can’t fight.’
Helsarn’s horse stumbled again, almost unseating him. He swore and swung down from the animal. It would carry him no further up the slope to the Valley where the bodies had been found. He looked back. His men were a considerable way behind. Vintre also dismounted, and joined him. It was Helsarn who had sent Vintre out with a patrol to find the four missing men. Not from any great concern but because they were under his direct command and he feared they might have deserted, a matter which would have reflected on him personally. When Vintre returned with the news that they had been killed, Helsarn displayed the grim resolve for vengeance that was expected of him but inwardly he was elated – this was the first clear sign of the enemy’s presence.
Unable to contact any of the other Commanders because of the general confusion, he had taken the risk of asking the Gevethen themselves for permission to send a company to reconnoitre the valley. His request had been received with a cold silence, the Gevethen and their many images moving their heads from side to side as if scenting the air for Ibryen’s presence. Then, colder than ever:
‘Do as you must, Commander. Find Ibryen at all costs…’
‘… at all costs.’
The mirror-bearers had folded about them and Helsarn suddenly found himself faced with a row of travel-stained Commanders. The memory of the gloomy tent, so like the Watching Chamber, lingered with him even in the sunlight as he clambered over the rocks.
‘Do you think this is wise?’ Vintre broke into his thoughts. He was glancing around nervously.
‘Ibryen’s many things, but stupid isn’t one,’ Helsarn replied. ‘He’s not going to ambush a force this size.’
‘He might ambush us.’
Helsarn paused and wiped his hand across his brow. He shook his head. ‘Ibryen’s people never leave bodies where they’ve been killed. They panicked. And our men must have stumbled on to something important to get themselves killed so close to the main force.’ He secured his horse to a spur of rock and started off again. ‘There’ll be no one here now – they’ll have run like rabbits. And they’ll have left tracks. There had to be at least eight of them to kill those four like that.’
Vintre gave a grudging grunt but loosened his sword in its sheath. In common with almost everyone else there, he did not like the mountains, such was the reputation of Ibryen’s followers, but Helsarn’s judgement was usually sound and there was no denying that if this trail took them to Ibryen’s camp then the rewards would be considerable. They were certainly worth taking risks for. Also, this sortie was taking them away from the chaos of the main force and keeping most of their own men about them, which was no bad thing. The mood of the army was wildly uncertain. Old scores were already being settled in the confusion and once Ibryen was located and engaged, the opportunities would increase manyfold. At least Helsarn had always ensured that his companies were securely bound by ties of self-interest.
They moved on in silence until they came to the top of the slope and the valley began to open in front of them. They soon moved out of sight of their men as the slope levelled out.
‘Where did you find the bodies?’ Helsarn asked. Vintre pointed. Then the two of them swore simultaneously. Still some distance away but moving towards them, and moving quickly, was a large body of armed men.
First success in the battle fell to Hynard, his men reaching the top of the slope before Helsarn’s. He did not have enough men to form a shield wall as solid as that intended for the Greskilva Valley, but it was adequate and it gave them a command of the high ground.
Helsarn had descended to his men with commendable restraint, knowing that, loyal or not, the sight of Vintre and himself charging over the skyline could well send his men tumbling back to camp in panic. As it was, they formed up in as good an order as the rocky terrain would allow, and moved up the slope cautiously to establish a line opposite Hynard’s. Messengers were sent back to the base camp with express orders to take the news only to the Gevethen in person, while Vintre was sent to commandeer whichever unit was nearest for the purposes of making an initial attack. Helsarn had no intention of risking his own forces unless it proved absolutely necessary.
Hynard was glad of the delay. It enabled his men to recover from the pounding run they had made from the village. He watched Helsarn’s Guards forming their line almost with amusement. The need for hunting in the mountains had, over the years, given Ibryen’s forces more powerful bows than those carried by the army and the Guards, and Helsarn’s line was well within arrow-shot. Hynard refrained from demonstrating the point however. It would be more effective if the Gevethen’s men learned about it the hard way.
But despite his initial advantage, Hynard was far from complacent. He had a limited number of arrows and his men would be able to fight only so long before fatigue took its toll. And the same would apply to whatever reinforcements Marris sent. Worse, he knew that it would take only a moderate military thinker to realize that they could be out-flanked, even encircled, by a movement from neighbouring valleys.
He could certainly last this day out and, quite possibly, tomorrow. But after that, or if an attack was sustained through the night…?
From Helsarn’s point of view, Vintre was most fortunate in the first army unit he came to and the two men exchanged knowing glances as he gave the order to open the line and allow the soldiers through. Their blustering captain, who was, ‘Going to show these Guards how these things are done,’ was struck down by a heavy-bladed pike that suddenly appeared between two shields as he charged the defenders’ wall. Several of his men went the same way, while others, breathless from the uphill dash, fell to swords and axes before the rest retreated. Hynard’s line was undisturbed. In the lull that followed he sent out some of his men to retrieve the dead men’s weapons.
The next dash fared little better and, in the end, the soldiers retreated, leaderless and cowed, behind Helsarn’s line.
Gradually the slope up from the lower valley began to fill with a mixture of Guards and soldiers drawn there from the main force by a bizarre combination of confusion and curiosity. Helsarn searched for some time to see if there was any semblance of order in what was happening before he finally took command himself.
‘Ibryen is to be found at all costs,’the Gevethen had said, and he would get precious little thanks if he just waited aimlessly for a more senior Commander to arrive.
Thus, in the fading light, Hynard found his line increasingly pressed as Helsarn sent wave after wave of men against it. Screams and shouts and the clash of arms echoed down the rocky slope, and bodies began to pile up in front of the shield wall. It did not concern Helsarn that the attackers were little more than disordered mobs and that casualties were appalling, it mattered only that he was in command and that the defence was slowly weakening.
‘For the Gevethen! For the Gevethen!’ he shouted as he urged men forward up the slope. ‘Bring the traitor Ibryen to justice!’
Hynard soon began to understand Helsarn’s tactics. Reinforcements had arrived as Marris had promised, but even with them he knew that his men could not stand long against such reckless assaults. And once the wall was breached, all would be lost.
Then it was dark.
Hynard had little doubt that the attacks would continue through the night and he knew for certain that even if his force managed to survive that long, they would be destroyed the following day. They had no choice but to withdraw if they were to be able to act as a rearguard to the fleeing villagers. Hynard stared down the slope, alive with torches and lanterns. Above the general clamour of the people gathered there, he could hear Helsarn’s voice shouting orders. Another attack would be coming soon. He reached a decision.
Helsarn learned of it shortly afterwards when a wind-rushing sound presaged a hail of arrows. One snagged in his cloak and, in terror, he dropped the lantern he was carrying. It shattered and burst into flames. It was not the only one and, for a moment, by countless dancing lights, he seemed to see the whole slope alive with bright arrows, falling like streaking snow; with screaming men; with wild eyes and terrified faces; with flailing arms and manic shadows; as all around him the flight down the treacherous slope began. He heard himself cursing and swearing at the fleeing men then something struck him and sent him sprawling. As he struggled to his feet, another sound reached him out of the darkness ahead.
‘For Ibryen! Death to the Gevethen! CHARGE!’
A clamorous din filled with roaring and angry cries rolled after it. And above it all came the sound of yet more arrows! As he turned to flee after his routed command, Helsarn lost his footing and tumbled into the darkness.
Hynard’s men stopped shouting and beating their shields. They had not moved from their original line. Hynard stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of flight and self-destruction rising up the slope, then he whispered a command. His men turned and moved silently off into the night.
Helsarn had no measure of the time he lay on the ground, but his mind was alert and working before his body despite the distress it was in. There was noise about him but he could not identify it nor, from where he was lying, see what was causing it. Had Ibryen’s people been more numerous than he had thought? Had they actually charged down the slope, sweeping the Guards and soldiers back down on to the main force? Fearful questions.
Yet there was no indication that he was in the midst of a triumphant army. As quietly as he could, he moved his arms and legs, testing them for injury. His head was aching, but after a little while he decided that he was whole except for some bruising. When he cautiously pushed himself into a sitting position to look around, the discomfort in his ribs told him that he had only been winded when he fell. It could have been worse, he supposed. His relief was short-lived, for as his vision began to clear, the vague shifting shapes about him became bodies; the bodies of the men he had commanded, strewn over the rocky slope in postures of death and awful injury. The flickering lights of dropped torches and spilled lanterns gave an awful, twitching vitality even to those who were motionless. And the sounds he had been hearing became the groans and cries of injured men.
From deep within, a primitive fear rose up to fill him. Had he been slain in that panic-filled gorge and sent to some ominous netherworld for Judgement? He started trembling uncontrollably. With an effort he levered himself into a kneeling position. In the distance he could make out a pool of garish light. It seemed to be pulsating, resonating to his pounding heart. He shook his head to clear his vision completely.
As his eyes came properly into focus, his trembling began to ease. The light was the main army far below. For a moment he was tempted to run towards it and safety, but even as the impulse came to him, other considerations made themselves felt. He picked up a still-burning torch and looked around. Not only was there no sign of any triumphant army about him, such bodies as he could see were all either soldiers or Guards. He felt suddenly cold. Ibryen’s men had never charged! They had unleashed their arrow storm, thrown up a great shout and… Helsarn’s grip tightened about the torch in rage… fled into the darkness. Most of the damage he was standing in had been self-inflicted.
Almost immediately, a newer fear rose to displace the fading remains of the superstitious one that had just possessed him. It was no less awful. Whatever had happened here, it was a direct consequence of the disordered way the whole expedition had been mounted, but he would be blamed for it unless he could find a demonstrably plausible explanation.
A movement nearby startled him. Drawing his sword, he spun around. Holding both sword and torch in front of him he saw one of his Guards, arm raised to shade his eyes against the light. He was bloodstained and barely able to stand. The idea of deserting to avoid retribution had been forming in Helsarn’s mind, but the sight of the Guard brought another one.
‘Where’s your sword?’ he demanded.
The Guard looked at him vacantly
‘Where’s your sword, man?’ Helsarn shouted.
‘I… I think I dropped it,’ the man stammered.
Helsarn sheathed his own and, taking the man’s arm, shook him powerfully. ‘Find another, quickly. Get a torch and get everyone on their feet who can stand. Do you understand? We must re-form the line and get to the top of the slope.’
Then, in an act of genuine leadership, Helsarn was moving through the carnage, dragging to their feet all who were capable of standing, and filling the shocked and wounded with his determination. Vintre, also only bruised and winded, was retrieved from under the body of a large soldier behind whom he had sheltered when he heard the second arrow storm being released.
‘We withstood the enemy’s charge, counter-attacked and beat them back,’ Helsarn told him urgently. ‘We stopped at the top to regroup and to prevent the advancing army from being ambushed.’ The message was passed rapidly to the others – few were naive enough to question it. Most understood the Gevethen well enough to know that the choice facing them was that of being wounded heroes or executed cowards. The knowledge proved a better goad by far than any cursing, and Helsarn and Vintre soon found themselves herding their rump command up the slope like willing sheep.
On the way, Helsarn paused by a body to smear his sword and face with blood. As he did so he looked back down at the lights of the main army. Something was moving there but, not being able to make it out clearly, he turned and pressed on upwards.
The top was deserted as he had surmised. He had his ‘gallant survivors’ spread out a picket of torches then withdrew some way behind it. There could still be solitary archers out in the darkness and there was no point in taking unnecessary risks.
‘Swords drawn, eyes front,’ he ordered.
He and Vintre exchanged glances. The line of exhausted and wounded men looked good. That, and their story might do much more than save their necks.
Helsarn looked back but the lights of the army were no longer visible due to the curve of the slope. He wondered how far the panic had spread, and what appalling damage had been done by the mass flight down the rocks. What a mess. What had possessed the Gevethen to mount this insane expedition?
He glanced back again.
The primitive fear that had seized him when he first recovered, returned in full terrifying force. Shapeless, shifting, and blacker than the night itself, a huge shadow was moving towards him.