‘You’re a better rider than I imagined, Hylland,’ Sylvriss said, as they trotted steadily along the valley towards Narsindalvak.
Hylland bowed his head. ‘I merely follow your ex-ample, Majesty,’ he said.
Sylvriss looked at him sideways. ‘Your saddleside manner is more courtly than your bedside one,’ she said, smiling.
Hylland nodded sagely. ‘Ah, Majesty,’ he said. ‘Here I bask in the presence of my beautiful and honoured Queen. Elsewhere I often have to deal with wilfully obstreperous and difficult patients.’
Sylvriss laughed, and the sound mingled with that of the clattering hooves to echo along the towering rock face they were passing.
The valley was a harsh place, full of lowering crags, made all the darker by the grey, sullen sky, but Sylvriss found herself immune to such influences. She reached forward and patted Serian’s head. It was a strange experience to ride such an animal, both exhilarating and quietening. He responded unhesitatingly to her will, yet was quite beyond and above it. She knew that sooner or later, at a time of his own choosing, he would go on his own way in search of Hawklan but that now he was hers as utterly as he would be Hawklan’s.
On one occasion she became aware that she was riding with a stillness and awareness that she had never known before. It came to her suddenly that Serian was teaching her how to ride, teaching her lessons that only someone who was a consummate rider could have the humility to understand and accept.
The experience brought tears flooding to her eyes.
Hylland saw the tears but sensed also their cause, albeit dimly, and kept his peace. Later he offered her a kerchief which she accepted, and for a good way they rode on, sharing a deep companionable silence.
As they neared the tower, a group of horsemen rode out to meet them. At their head was Lord Oremson, an old and trusted friend of Eldric’s who had earned the odium of Dan-Tor for his passive obstructiveness following the suspension of the Geadrol and who had been imprisoned for a while after Eldric’s ill-fated attempt to demand an accounting of the Ffyrst.
‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t believe the messages we were receiving. You shouldn’t be riding out here, it’s far too dangerous. And with your baby too.’
Sylvriss smiled at the Lord’s fatherly manner. ‘Come now, Lord. The danger lies beyond Narsindalvak not before it,’ she said. ‘And how can I be in any danger with your look-outs and signallers watching my every step?’ She smiled again and waved her hand along the high ridges above.
Oremson made to speak again, but she stopped him gently.
‘Hylland and I will stay at the tower tonight, then we must leave to catch up with the army at daybreak,’ she said.
Oremson’s mouth dropped open. ‘Majesty, I can’t allow… ’
‘Can’t, Lord?’ she said, before he could continue. ‘This is my intention, not a proposition to debate. Have no fear. I shall choose a suitable escort, and I’m not without some resource myself.’ Her smile had faded and her whole manner was unequivocal.
Oremson’s gaze went from his Queen’s resolute face to the baby slung about her shoulders and thence to the sword and staff hanging by her side. With an effort and a reproachful look at Hylland, who shrugged a wordless disclaimer, he managed a fretful acknowledgement of his Commander’s will.
‘And I want no ceremony, Lord,’ Sylvriss added as they rode forward again. ‘I’m here as your Commander and I wish to know the state of the war.’
When she arrived at the tower, however, Sylvriss found that a formal welcoming escort and a large cheering crowd were already waiting for her. The sight made her relent a little and she allowed herself a happy entry to the grim fortress.
The evening was spent as she had promised, and the would-be revellers found themselves closeted with their Commander and poring over the messages and reports that had been sent back by the advancing army.
The following morning, Oremson had almost given up all attempts at dissuading his Queen from her journey. Apart from her own determination, she would have an escort that would be more than adequate: a company of mounted High Guards routinely going to reinforce the forts, and a squadron of Muster riders who had followed late in the wake of their Ffyrst. He fought to the end, however.
‘Majesty, you’ve studied all the reports and mes-sages,’ he pleaded. ‘There have been regular harrying attacks on the army. And serious assaults on at least two forts. I beg of you, reconsider, if only for your baby son.’
Sylvriss looked down at her baby and then at Orem-son’s anxious face. ‘Lord,’ she said. ‘I’m travelling on an errand that’s simply not of my choosing. When it’s completed I’ll return, and gladly. But in the meantime I’m bound by duties as you are; duty to my crown and duty to my son.’
Oremson yielded reluctantly. ‘We shall be watching you for as long as we can, Majesty,’ he said. ‘And I’ll have men stand by to come to your aid immediately if need arises.’
Sylvriss smiled and saluted. Then, mounting Serian, she gave the order to advance.
She did not look back as she rode down the valley away from the tower.
‘Sit down, Lord, you look tired,’ Loman said as Eldric entered the tent.
Eldric accepted the offer and flopped into a nearby chair noisily. ‘After we escaped from the Westerclave, I swore I’d never again complain about creature discom-forts,’ he said. ‘But this place is just as bad as I remember it. It’s as if even the air is tainted in some way.’ He gazed up at the roof of the tent. ‘I’m haunted by the thought of my favourite chair, and the carvings around my room, peaceful and homely in the light of the radiant stones.’
He fell silent and continued staring at the floor for some time, then, with a sigh of self-reproach, he sat upright again.
‘Sorry,’ he said brusquely.
Loman smiled. ‘I should think so, Lord. Any more of that and you’d have been on a charge for spreading despondency amongst the ranks.’
‘No, no,’ Eldric said. ‘There’s insufficient evidence for a charge. I’m only spreading my despondency to you. I’m quite hearty out there.’
Any further debate was ended by the arrival of Arinndier, Hreldar and Darek.
‘A good day’s progress,’ Arinndier said.
Loman nodded off-handedly. ‘Have you checked the perimeter fence?’ he asked.
‘Twice,’ Arinndier replied. ‘And there’s no shortage of volunteers for guard duty these nights.’
Loman frowned. Would that it were otherwise, but Mandroc raids during the night were becoming almost routine and while they had little effect, they could not be ignored. On the first few occasions they had caused great alarm, the Mandrocs showing a reckless wildness which, for the Orthlundyn, was quite different from the ferocity of the Morlider and, for the veteran Fyordyn, quite different from such few encounters as they might have had when riding the Watch.
Morale had wavered initially, but the perimeter fortifications which had been built each night with much grumbling had demonstrated their worth admirably, and Loman and the Lords had been able to change these strangely desperate forays by the enemy into valuable training exercises.
As a result, the Mandrocs suffered heavy casualties with little to show for their pains. Yet, despite the losses, the attacks continued and, in fact, they were becoming progressively more severe as the army moved further northwards. Such determination and such an indiffer-ence to life on the part of the enemy was a grim portent, and one which was burdening Loman profoundly. Looking at his companions, he raised this concern with them for the first time.
There was an odd silence when he had finished and Loman had the feeling that these four foreigners were communing with one another in some silent fashion.
‘Urthryn doesn’t like his people manning the fences. He’s bursting to go after the Mandrocs during the day on reprisal raids. And the Helyadin want to find their camps and attack them pre-emptively,’ Hreldar said eventually. ‘Give them their head.’
There was a note in Hreldar’s voice which Loman could not identify at first. Then, quite suddenly, his foreboding was gone; despite themselves, and perhaps even unknowingly, these four old friends were anxious about this outlander commanding their army.
‘No,’ he said unequivocally. ‘If we send people out into this country we’ll be giving the enemy an advan-tage. They might find the odd camp and do some damage, but at what cost?’ He looked around at the four Lords. ‘We’ve agreed that it’s highly probable we’ve been drawn into this conflict so that Sumeral could fight a defensive war and destroy His most powerful enemies with one single campaign. We march knowing that. If now He chooses to attack and allow us the advantage of defence, then that’s fine-we’ll make the most of that advantage.’
He grimaced as the next words formed in his mind but, increasingly now, he knew that he must deliberately detach himself from the personal agonies of the individual soldiers and the price they must pay for this horror both now and in their future lives. He must concern himself with the broader cruel realities that those same soldiers demanded of him to ensure that they would have a future. Further, he must separate himself a little from these four stalwart leaders if he was to obtain their total support.
He went on, speaking as he knew Hawklan would. ‘The simple fact is that every Mandroc that dies here can’t fight us again. And, to be blunt, it’s important that our troops get plenty of practice at hand to hand killing, and winning; the Muster not least. That’s why I’ve got them manning the perimeter. After what happened in Riddin they’ve been wearing their sense of failure like a wet cloak and it’s been destroying their morale.’
The atmosphere in the tent eased perceptibly.
Loman moved in to finish his task. ‘I don’t mind your doubts about me, Lords,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly stern. ‘I take them as a sign of trust and affection. And, despite the opinion of your Queen and Hawklan, leaders of men such as yourselves would be rare fools not to be concerned about a bumpkin horse shoer from sleepy Orthlund suddenly given charge of this vast army. But in future, do as I do, speak your doubts to me as they occur. I knew I could speak freely to you here of the vague darkness looming in my mind, and that I would be heard and helped. In such manner we will win this war.’
Eldric lowered his gaze and there was an uncom-fortable silence in the tent for some time.
‘I’m sorry-we’re sorry,’ he said when he looked up. ‘You shame us.’
Loman waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, Lords,’ he said. ‘Sometimes doubts come because you are seeing the uncertainties more clearly, and there’s no shame to be had in seeing the truth, and accepting it.’
He leaned forward before any of them could reply. ‘Know this truth, Lords,’ he said, quietly, but with chilling force. ‘As we near this creature’s lair and as we pile up His soldiers dead by the wayside, I am set on our original intention more strongly than ever. We march straight forward, to His very throne, and through His corrupt heart. If anything chooses to stand in our way we will crush it as completely as we can and at as little cost to ourselves as our combined wits and ingenuity can allow. This is no more than His intention for us, and nothing less on our part will suffice.’
Flat on his stomach at the top of a small rise, Hawklan looked at the distant clutter of buildings, colourless and drab in the grey dawn. ‘I didn’t think your people lived in villages,’ he said to Byroc.
Byroc shook his head. ‘That is one of His slave places,’ he said. ‘Where weapons and other things are made. We must pass by carefully. There will be many black ones there and probably stinking Dowynai Vraen priests.’ Hawklan shot him a sidelong glance. The Mandroc was trembling with rage and it seemed that at any moment he might leap up and charge into the camp to wreak what slaughter he could before he perished. It was a response he would have to watch for carefully.
‘Control your anger, Byroc,’ he said, his voice like ice. ‘Or go your own way, now.’
Byroc’s eyes narrowed viciously. ‘You do not under-stand,’ he growled after a moment.
‘I, above all, understand the loss of a people,’ Hawk-lan replied. ‘Save your anger for the true creator of your ills.’
Dacu interrupted. ‘Do you want me to find a way round?’ he asked.
Hawklan nodded, but Byroc grunted. ‘I know the way,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ And, without waiting for any debate, he wriggled backwards down the slope until he could stand without being seen from the slave camp. Hawklan and the others followed.
For some time they followed a wide circular route around the camp which took them through increasingly wet ground. After they had jumped over several rancid-smelling ditches, Byroc stopped, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘This place has changed,’ he said. ‘And it stinks of His work. We must turn back.’
Hawklan looked down at the unpleasant mud cling-ing to his boots. It was black, with streaks of white running through it, and it was unlike anything he had ever seen before.
‘Let’s go a little further,’ he said. ‘It may be drier up ahead.’
Reluctantly Byroc agreed, and the party moved off again. They were soon brought to a halt, however, as they suddenly found themselves at the edge of a vast swamp-like area, flooded to a large extent by a black liquid. Several areas of tufted vegetation stood above the liquid but they were blackened as if they had been scorched, and the few trees that could be seen were not only leafless and stunted, but also a ghastly white.
‘They’re like the hands of drowned men,’ someone said into the sudden silence.
Hawklan bent down and looked out over the silent black surface. It was alive with shimmering iridescence.
Cautiously he moved forward, but he had gone scarcely four paces when his foot sank into the ground and suddenly he stumbled.
Several hands seized him immediately and dragged him back before he could fall. The ground released his foot with a noisy lingering slither and a foul smell rose into the air.
Coughing and choking, the group retreated in dis-order. When they stopped, Hawklan’s flesh was crawling. ‘What is that?’ he said, turning to Andawyr wide-eyed.
The Cadwanwr shook his head but nodded towards Byroc. ‘His work,’ he said, echoing the Mandroc’s remark. ‘Keep away from it.’
It was an unnecessary warning. Everyone was pale-faced and shocked. ‘It’s an obscenity,’ Athyr said, holding his stomach uncertainly. ‘Who could do such a thing, even to a benighted countryside like this?’
Byroc answered. ‘This is the Groundshakers’ work,’ he said. ‘It comes from what they do at the slave-place. In other parts it is very bad.’
‘Worse than that?’ Athyr said, aghast.
‘Outside His bigger slave-places, yes,’ Byroc replied. ‘The air burns and the waters glow in the night. Even the wind from such will tear the throat and blind the eyes-sometimes forever.’ His upper lip curled savagely to reveal his massive teeth. ‘It bends and destroys even the unborn.’
Hawklan turned away from the Mandroc’s pain.
‘Let’s get well away, then,’ he said, setting off again. ‘We’ll have to find a way round the other side of this slave-place, however difficult it is.’
‘That might mean waiting until night-time,’ Dacu said, looking up the small slope that was hiding them from the camp.
Hawklan scowled. ‘We can’t spend the whole day sitting about waiting. Time’s against us here,’ he said. ‘And in any case I’ve no great desire to go wandering about in the dark with surprises like that waiting to be fallen into. We’ll get around today if we have to crawl around on our bellies.’
They moved back along the route they had been following, cautiously helping one another over the ditches they had earlier jumped quite casually. Eventu-ally the ground became drier and the air fresher, though to Hawklan it still carried a strange taint, and all of them found it difficult to rid themselves of the stench that had risen from the poisonous quagmire.
They crawled slowly to the top of the slope until they could see the camp again.
‘It looks deserted,’ Isloman said after a while.
Hawklan looked at Byroc. ‘How many people would there be in a place that size?’ he asked.
Byroc slapped his muscular hands together rapidly in a scissoring action. ‘A few tens of tens,’ he said. ‘And much noise, smoke, and stink.’
‘I can see no one,’ Isloman said.
‘Trust Gavor to wander off when he’s needed,’ Tirke said.
‘He’ll be here when he’s needed,’ Hawklan said sharply. ‘I think we can reconnoitre a place like this on our own. Isloman, crawl forward. Dacu, go with him.’
Without comment, the two men set off.
Despite his bulk, it was the big carver, with his Goraidin training and his subtle shadow lore, who disappeared from view first. There was a soft whistle of appreciation from one of the watchers.
Then there was a long nervous pause as the group waited for a signal from the now invisible scouts, or a desperate alarm from the camp.
‘They’re there,’ Yrain said abruptly, pointing. Peer-ing between the long rough grass, Hawklan followed her hand to see the two men edging into the camp, shadows against the grey buildings.
What are they doing? he thought, in some alarm, but he said nothing out loud. Then they were gone, out of sight amid the buildings somewhere, and there was another long period of tense, silent waiting for the watchers.
Eventually they both reappeared, beckoning the others forward.
Despite the reassuring signals, however, Hawklan and the others ran low and crouching across the intervening open ground until they reached the camp.
‘It’s completely deserted,’ Isloman said, before Hawklan could ask. ‘I don’t think anyone’s been here for several days.’
Hawklan turned to Byroc questioningly, but the Mandroc looked bewildered and nervous. ‘This is a bad place,’ he said. ‘All His places are. We mustn’t linger.’
‘These buildings are like those monstrosities that Dan-Tor built outside Vakloss,’ Yatsu said.
Hawklan looked around at the drab grey buildings. They were obviously not old, but they had a worn, neglected look which was peculiarly depressing. Further, he found that his inability to see into the distance all around was disconcerting.
‘Let’s move out,’ he said. ‘My instincts are with By-roc’s, and we’ve wasted enough time here already.’
They moved through the eerily silent camp quickly and quietly, splitting into two groups and trotting down either side of the long street that ran through it. At its centre was a building with what appeared to be a watch-tower on top of it. As they passed it, Byroc paused and growled. ‘Stinking priest hole,’ but offered no further amplification of the remark when Hawklan looked at him.
They passed through the remainder of the camp without incident but as they reached the last buildings, Gavor came swooping along the street behind them. ‘Look out… ’ he began, but his message was ended by the sudden appearance of a rider out of the scrubland that bounded the road where it left the camp.
He was a Mathidrin, and at his heels was a troop of some twenty of more Mandrocs.
‘Whoops,’ Gavor said as he landed on Hawklan’s shoulder briefly and then took off again.
‘Slave gatherers from the mines,’ Byroc said. ‘They will be looking for those who escaped.’
‘Yatsu, Lorac, Tel-Odrel, move to the sides and look as if you’re in charge,’ Hawklan said urgently. ‘The rest of you look beaten. Those at the back, string your bows discreetly. We’ll have to go through this lot whether we like it or not, and we’ll have to bring down as many as we can before they close with us.’
‘They’ll hardly take you for slaves, carrying swords and bows,’ Yatsu said as he and the others moved to the side of the group and assumed the typical arrogant pose of Mathidrin officers.
‘Your Mathidrin uniforms and Byroc here will con-fuse them for long enough,’ Hawklan replied. ‘Are you ready at the back?’
There was grunted confirmation.
‘On my command, come forward and start firing. Don’t worry about the man, he’ll be no problem. Take the Mandrocs, they’re an unknown quantity. The rest of you string up as quickly as you can once the action starts.’ He glanced at Andawyr. ‘When they close with us, stay together. Andawyr is to be protected at all costs.’
He caught a glimpse of Dacu’s hand signal, ‘And Hawklan, too.’
‘Yes, and me too,’ he confirmed reluctantly.
Andawyr touched his arm. ‘Don’t use the sword or the bow, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘I doubt I can keep that from Him.’
Hawklan frowned. ‘I understand,’ he said.
Suddenly Byroc froze, and his mouth curled up into a horrifying gape. ‘Dowynai Vraen!’ he snarled savagely.
Hawklan felt the intention of the Mandroc and reached out to dissuade him, but Byroc evaded his grip and with an angry cry, broke ranks; not to run forward at the approaching patrol, but to disappear into a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
A flicker of surprise passed through Hawklan’s mind at this apparent cowardice, but there was no time to dwell on it. The sudden movement galvanized the hesitant patrol and the Mathidrin barked out an order. At the same time, so also did Hawklan. As the Mandrocs began running forward, Tirke, Jaldaric, Jenna and Yrain strode past their companions and released their four arrows. Three of them struck home, and even as the Mandrocs were falling, the four archers were firing again and the remainder of the group were preparing to fire.
For an instant the advancing Mandrocs faltered, then with a great cry of ‘Amrahl! Amrahl!’ they renewed their charge, seemingly oblivious to the hail of arrows being laid down by the archers.
The mindless ferocity of the attack took the defend-ers completely by surprise and they had barely chance to discard their bows and draw their swords before the Mandrocs struck. Several of the chanting creatures were already mortally wounded but the force of the charge scattered the group before it could form a defensive line.
Hawklan dragged Andawyr aside roughly and, push-ing him against the wall of a building, stood in front of him.
A Mandroc charged at him, sword extended. Hawk-lan stepped forward and sideways outside the line of the attack. His right hand gripped the extended wrist and deflected the blade across his opponent causing him to turn. At the same time his left hand reached up to rest almost gently on the back of the Mandroc’s neck. Then, effortlessly, he lowered the hand and the Mandroc crashed heavily to the ground.
Hawklan followed him down and killed him in-stantly with a single crushing blow, at the same time seizing his sword.
It felt crude and ungainly in his hand, but its lack of finesse did not prevent him impaling a second Mandroc with a powerful upward blow as he rose to his feet.
He wrenched the sword free and thrust the dying creature into a third one who, catching the dreadful light in Hawklan’s green eyes, suddenly stopped his chanting and turned to flee. The impact of Hawklan’s hurled sword in his back sent him sprawling face downwards on to the hard stone ground.
Quickly Hawklan took in the condition of the others. He noted with a mixture of exhilaration and profound sadness that the beautiful and terrible fighting skills of the Helyadin and Goraidin were being practiced with a ferocity that equalled the Mandroc’s own. Weaving and turning, his companions were cutting and stabbing their way through their wild, chanting enemy, while thread-ing through the scene moved the black shape of Gavor, bloodstained Mandrocs falling in his wake.
The dull grey street rang with the battle fury of the men and women who had chosen to join him in opposing Sumeral and who knew that to do so they must freely follow His way and accept the consequences that flowed from it.
As Hawklan paused, a blow in the back pushed him forward. Turning, he saw Andawyr delivering a powerful kick to the groin of a huge Mandroc who, less noisy and more experienced than the rest, had moved silently and swiftly along the side of the building. The creature looked more surprised than hurt at the blow, but as Hawklan made to attack him, Dar-volci emerged from behind Andawyr and clambered rapidly up to the hesitating Mandroc.
Hawklan was only half turned as the felci’s rock-crushing teeth closed on the Mandroc’s throat.
Then another sound rose above the din. It was a high-pitched, almost demented screaming. Alarmed at the prospect of perhaps some new and terrible foe, Hawklan instinctively reached for his sword. Andawyr’s hand gripped his wrist as the cause of the noise soon became apparent. It was Byroc. He came charging out from between two of the buildings wielding a large metal bar. The object of his attack, however, was not the body of the fray, but two Mandrocs who were standing aloof from it. They wore robes and strange headdresses as opposed to the rough leather tunics of the others.
Both of them held up their hands and made authori-tative and haughty gestures at the approaching apparition but this, if anything, roused the demented Byroc even more and with a series of swift and terrifying blows, he dispatched both of them bloodily. He paused briefly and let out a great howl then, discarding the bar, he took out his sword and fell upon the remaining fighters.
Almost abruptly, the battle was over. The last two Mandrocs slithered to the ground and the victors stood motionless amid the gaping wounds and hacked limbs of their enemy.
Only the raucous sound of heavy breathing could be heard.
The silence was only momentary, however.
‘The rider. The Mathidrin. Where is he?’ Hawklan’s voice was strained as he ran forward into the middle of the street. ‘Gavor, find him’
But even as Gavor rose up into the air, Dacu had snatched up his bow and was running to the end of the street. Hawklan and the others ran after him.
As they reached him, he was drawing the bow back to fire. Galloping rapidly into the distance was the Mathidrin officer.
‘You’ll never… ’ someone began.
Hawklan’s hands shot out, fingers extended, impos-ing an absolute silence and stillness on the spectators.
Dacu, bloodstained and still panting, became sud-denly very still. Then to Hawklan it seemed that the entire world was filled with the sound of the release of the arrow.
No sooner had the arrow left the bow, however, than a light of knowledge came into Dacu’s eyes; the shot was imperfect. Without a flicker of self-reproach or the least pause in his flowing movement, Dacu took a second arrow, nocked it on to the bow string, drew it and, slowly closing his eyes, released it.
The whole incident had been so rapid that the two arrows could be clearly seen arcing after the retreating Mathidrin like a pair of hunting hounds.
Not one of the watchers breathed.
The first arrow struck the horse, but before it stum-bled, the second struck the rider. As both horse and rider crashed to the ground, Gavor dropped out of the sky on to them.
There was a brief flapping and thrashing, then he rose back into the air and headed towards the watchers.
Gently, Hawklan laid a hand on Dacu’s shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly. Dacu was standing very still. He did not reply.
Turning to the others, Hawklan asked. ‘Is anybody hurt?’
So close still to the fighting, and with most of the company covered in blood, there was some doubt about this at first, but a little careful testing showed that no serious injuries had been suffered.
‘Good,’ Hawklan said. ‘You did well. Let’s hide these bodies somewhere and then get out of here. Someone will come looking for them eventually and it’s better they’re thought lost than slaughtered by an enemy.’
A little later, the joyless task completed, they were moving out of sight of the camp and following Byroc across the harsh countryside.
‘Were those two His priests?’ Hawklan asked the Mandroc.
Byroc snarled and made a gesture mimicking that made by the two Mandrocs he had smashed down. ‘Priests!’ he said viciously. ‘Dowynai Vraen. Too foul to blunt my blade on. We should have destroyed them generations ago.’
Hawklan frowned uncertainly, but Andawyr caught his eye and shook his head slightly. This was some deep tribal matter that would probably be beyond his true understanding. Suffice it that the Mandroc had fought with them, and fiercely at that.
He glanced at the others. They were in various de-grees of shock; the younger ones, with the exception of Jaldaric, being the most subdued.
He could give no subtle counsel. ‘That was unfortu-nate,’ he said. ‘But you fought well and we survived with nothing more than some cuts and bruises. I won’t tell you to forget it, but remember that you had no choice, and that your full attention belongs here, now, if we’re to survive further. Remember also that the creatures charge on, fighting, even as they’re dying.’
‘Don’t fret,’ Isloman said to him later. ‘Gulda and Loman have trained them properly. They have clear sight.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Perhaps I was speaking for my sake, not theirs,’ he said. ‘But I am a little concerned about Jaldaric. He seems almost elated.’
‘He is,’ Isloman replied simply. ‘His burdens are being eased.’
Hawklan frowned.
Softly, Isloman enumerated Jaldaric’s problems. ‘He broke his High Guard’s Oath when he kidnapped Tirilen; was captured in his own tent by only three of us; faced with a Mandroc patrol.’ He looked significantly at Hawklan. ‘Remember what a shock that was for us let alone him. Then he was downed by that Mathidrin… ’ He searched for the name. ‘… Aelang. Thrown in jail without trial, and threatened with execution. And when all that was over and he was working to find himself again, he had to stand by and watch while Aelang and the militia massacred the villagers at Ledvrin.’
Hawklan put his hand to his head briefly and let out a long breath. ‘I think I’ll take up carving when we get back to Orthlund,’ he said. ‘You can do the healing.’
Isloman smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Even I can’t see a rock that’s in front of me sometimes. Besides, you’ve helped him more than you know, as have Anderras Darion and Gulda and the Helyadin training.’
‘I’ll watch him more carefully in future,’ the healer said, while the warrior inside him coldly assessed the value of the young man’s torment as a goad to his fighting skill. The ambivalence no longer distressed him, however; both healer and warrior knew their roles and their worth.
He dropped back a little, thoughtfully, and found himself walking by Andawyr. The sight of the Cadwanwr with Dar-volci scuttling along beside him made him smile despite himself. The little man was scruffier than ever after their long journey and it was almost impossi-ble to imagine him as their sole defence against the searching awareness of the terrible foe they were marching to meet.
Andawyr caught the scrutiny and returned it. Hawk-lan’s smile widened and Andawyr’s scowl deepened in proportion.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hawklan said. ‘I was just remembering you kicking that Mandroc. I’d no idea you were so… physical.’ Andawyr’s frown turned into the teacher’s look of exasperated despair such as Hawklan had seen so often on Gulda’s face. He quailed a little in anticipa-tion of the coming rebuke.
Andawyr snorted and lifted his hand to his broken nose. ‘Some sight you have, healer,’ he said. ‘How did you think I got this?’
Aelang looked down at the fidgeting Mandroc and counselled himself to be patient. It was difficult. Of all the Mandrocs he loathed, these slobbering dimwitted trackers and their keepers were the worst.
The sight of them made him look up. The moun-tains lowered above the patrol, dark and grim, and the funeral pyre of the mines still belched forth a dense black smoke. At night it became a mass of leaping flames. It had been like a beacon for the latter part of the journey and now it streamed overhead like a great finger pointing to the north.
Arriving at the mines, Aelang had found them com-pletely destroyed. Judging from what information he could obtain from the few surviving members of the garrison, the attacking force had been very large, but his own conclusion was that it had merely been well organized and ruthless. Judging too from the smoke and the flames pouring unabated from every known shaft and adit, and no small number of hitherto unknown ones, he presumed that that obscenity of a creature and its birds down in the depths had also been destroyed.
No great loss there, he thought again as he turned from the mountains to look again at the Mandroc tracker. What that creature did to people was only entertaining to a point, even for him, and there was always the lingering doubt that he too could go the same way if Dan-Tor judged it worthwhile. He suppressed a shudder and returned to the matter of the moment.
Having discovered that the attackers had fled south towards Fyorlund, Aelang had abandoned any thought of pursuing them. What was the point? Their whole army was moving into Narsindal anyway. Why go looking for trouble, pursuing what were presumably elite troops through dangerous mountain terrain?
He had intended to return to Dan-Tor with the news and then go to join the army waiting for the Fyordyn and their allies, but now this snivelling tracker had caught wind of something and was creating a stir. He had a powerful urge to kick the half-witted creature, but he restrained it, knowing that such a deed against one of their ‘sighted ones’ could well override the Mandrocs’ otherwise dominant fear of Amrahl’s black-clad servants.
‘What does it want?’ he snapped at the tracker’s keeper. ‘We haven’t time to waste chasing slaves.’
‘He says some went this way,’ the keeper replied. ‘Very little spoor. Not slaves. Soft movers.’
Aelang frowned. Soft movers. It was an unusual expression; one the Mandrocs used about either particularly elusive game or their most skilled hunters.
‘How many?’ Aelang asked.
The keeper spoke to the tracker who grunted some unintelligible reply.
‘One cum two tens,’ the keeper said scissoring his hands together. ‘All soft movers.’
About fifteen ‘skilled hunters’! Aelang’s attention sprang to life. That was no small force. The departure of a force over the mountains must have been a feint. Perhaps the whole raid had been a feint. It was such a silent, behind-the-lines, attack that had cost them Vakloss, and with it all of Fyorlund.
He smiled, his pronounced canines predatory. Dan-Tor had told him to destroy any of the attacking force that had escaped to the north, but that had been in anticipation of their being random stragglers. Whoever these people were, they were certainly not that. But they would not have the speed of this patrol, nor be able to offer any effective resistance against such numbers. It occurred to him that the Ffyrst would appreciate having such a group captured alive for his later amusement, and that with the war about to be won and a distribution of the wealth of Fyorlund, Orthlund and Riddin imminent, the favour of Dan-Tor was well worth maintaining.
‘Bring the other trackers up,’ he ordered his Sirshi-ant. ‘Tell them we’re going after these "soft movers". They’re to be captured for the Groundshaker.’