Loman started at the sound of the alarm. The Mandroc night raids had continued steadily, becoming, if anything, worse, and certainly not abating despite the fearful casualties the Mandrocs were suffering. It was as if Sumeral were saying, ‘I have such resources here that you may slay until you fall with fatigue and it will avail you nothing.’ But surely they would not attack so early in the evening, when there was still sufficient light left for the Muster to pursue them with ease and make their casualties total?
He went to the entrance of his tent and looked out, but even as he did so the tone of the alarm changed. ‘Friends approaching,’ it said.
One of the sentries nearby signalled to him.
‘Muster riders.’
Loman’s concerned expression changed to a smile. Thanks to Sylvriss’s endeavours many more squadrons had ridden to join Urthryn than he had started with after the retreat of the Morlider, but part of him was still concerned about the turmoil amongst his own people that he had left behind unresolved. He made no great stir about it, but if more of his countrymen were now arriving then it would undoubtedly hearten him. Loman set off enthusiastically towards the south gate to receive the new arrivals.
As he walked through the busy camp the noise ahead of him changed; people were cheering.
Puzzled, he ran the last part of the way and arrived just as the gate was being opened to admit the riders.
The cause of the cheering became immediately ap-parent. At the head of the riders was Sylvriss, her baby son hung about her neck in its simple sling and supported by one hand while with the other Sylvriss acknowledged the cheers of Fyordyn and Riddinvolk alike.
Loman strode forward as she dismounted, his face betraying a mixture of several emotions. Wherever Sylvriss was, affection dominated, but still…
‘Lady… what… what are you doing here?’ he burst out. ‘And with your baby?’
‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, Commander,’ Sylvriss replied, raising her eyebrows as if surprised by this unexpected greeting.
Loman stuttered as he searched for a new begin-ning, but Sylvriss released him. ‘Just a spot harness check, Commander,’ she said, smiling. ‘Nothing sinister.’
‘We didn’t even know you were coming,’ Loman said, recovering somewhat.
Sylvriss nodded, more serious now. ‘I told Lord Oremson to send no word,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want any messenger jeopardized on an unessential errand, and also I didn’t want to risk the enemy finding out about my journey.’
Loman nodded appreciatively but reverted immedi-ately to his original question. ‘Lady, why have you come. It’s… ’
The question faded on his lips as his gaze drifted casually over her mount.
His eyes widened and his voice fell to an almost terrified whisper. ‘That’s Serian,’ he said, stepping close and taking her arm urgently. ‘Hawklan’s horse. What… ’
‘Later, Loman,’ Sylvriss said firmly. ‘All things in their time. Let me tend him’-she wrinkled her nose and looked down at her offspring-‘and his most royal and pungent majesty, then we’ll talk.’
The tending of both horse and heir did not take long, but when Sylvriss entered the Command Tent, it was to face the grim, concerned expression of her Commander and her four senior Lords.
She smiled disarmingly. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Why so fretful? I’ve only been changing the baby, not giving birth to it.’
The sally, however, produced more exasperation than mirth but it disorganized her opponents’ united protest long enough for her to sit down.
‘Majesty, what are you doing here? And with Hawk-lan’s horse?’ Loman managed eventually.
‘I don’t know,’ Sylvriss replied, suddenly almost solemn. ‘The horse turned up at the Palace dirty and hungry, and needing my help. It carried me here. Now I’ve released it and told the guards to let it pass if it wishes.’
Loman shook his head, as if he were expecting to wake up. A swirling mass of questions fought for priority, but before any could be spoken, Eldric laid a hand on his arm.
‘Forgive me, Loman,’ he said gently. ‘But set your questions aside. You’re not truly familiar with our ways. What you’ve just heard is all that her Majesty knows.’ He looked at the Queen, who bowed in acknowledge-ment. ‘If you ponder a little you’ll see.’
Loman gazed at him intently, the Queen’s few words echoing through his mind. He knew that the four Lords must be as bewildered as he about such a strange tale, but he knew too that they would be asking their own endless probing questions if they thought the Queen would be able to answer them. They were as fine craftsmen in such matters as he was with iron, or Isloman with stone. He must accept their judgement; it would be sound.
As he reached that decision, small fragments tum-bled into position. By now, whatever route Hawklan had taken, he would be in Narsindal. And now the Queen seemingly at the horse’s behest, had released Serian too into Narsindal.
It was a portentous event and more than sufficient to remind him that forces were at work in this conflict which were beyond even his discovering, let alone his understanding. It reminded him too that he must commit himself totally to what lay within his ability to affect.
‘Thank you, Lord,’ he replied. ‘I won’t pretend it’s easy, but I do understand and accept what you say. This is some happening which is beyond us and we’ll waste our time pursuing it. All we can do now is be happy that the Queen and her son have arrived safely, and concern ourselves with how we can have them escorted back to Narsindalvak.’
‘We’ll make a Gatherer of you yet, Loman,’ Darek said with a chuckle.
‘There’ll be no need to consider my return, gentle-men,’ Sylvriss said, cutting across this slight levity. ‘I fear the way back will be too dangerous. I read your reports at Narsindalvak and have to tell you that matters to the rear were deteriorating even as we rode. The forts are hard pressed each night and twice we were attacked by Mandrocs on the road and saw bands of them in the mist, keeping station with us.’ The men exchanged concerned glances. ‘We suffered no serious casualties,’ she added reassuringly. ‘But we were a large force. I’d send no lightly escorted messengers back to the forts now. Nor look for any aid from that quarter. They seem confident that they can hold, but I suspect that any force plying between them will be assailed. The way is only forward now, for all of us.’ Sylvriss looked down at the crib by her side. ‘It isn’t what I’d intended or hoped for, but I’d no alternative than to do what I did. The horse demanded it. And now we’re both trapped here.’
The Queen’s news and her conclusion were chilling. A sudden commotion outside, however, forestalled any discussion, and suddenly the entrance to the tent was thrown open to reveal Urthryn. Bobbing in his wake came Oslang.
The Ffyrst made no ceremony, but ploughed across the tent until he reached the crib. There, with an almost incongruous delicacy, he peered into it and, with a gentle finger, eased back a sheet to examine the face of his sleeping grandson. He smiled and nodded, then transferred his wide-eyed gaze to his daughter. ‘Well, well,’ he said slowly. ‘Who’s a clever girl then?’
Sylvriss stood up, and father and daughter em-braced each other warmly. Urthryn shook his head reflectively as they parted. ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am,’ he said. ‘Your mother would’ve been… ’ The remark faded, and his eyes became momentarily distant. Then he was businesslike.
‘But what in the world possessed you to come here, child?’ he demanded. ‘We’ll have to get you both back out of danger as soon as possible.’ He looked round at the others for confirmation of this intention.
‘Sit down, father,’ Sylvriss said, laying a hand on his arm and indicating a nearby chair.
Though gentle, something in her manner brooked no argument and Urthryn did as he was bidden without comment.
Sylvriss told her tale again. Urthryn listened in si-lence. He took the news about Serian with scarcely a flicker of surprise, nodding understandingly, but he turned to Loman in disbelief when he heard about the daylight Mandroc attacks on the escort.
‘Let me send a few squadrons back,’ he said clench-ing his fist. ‘We’ll teach them to show their dog faces in daylight. My people are raring to go. They’re weary of fighting these creatures from behind a fence.’
‘No!’ Loman said brusquely. ‘The Mandrocs don’t care whether they live or die, and whoever’s organizing them cares even less. You could lose any number of squadrons against such an enemy to gain nothing but two piles of dead.’
Urthryn opened his mouth to rebut this claim but Loman stopped him. ‘You know it’s true, Ffyrst,’ he went on. ‘They’re possessed by some unholy force. You’ve seen them fight. As have your people. That’s one of the reasons I’ve given them such a liberal share of the night duties. There’s no defence against an enemy so reckless and uncaring for their own lives, except to kill them before they get too close… ’
‘Or to kill whoever’s leading them,’ Oslang inter-rupted.
Loman nodded in acknowledgement. ‘We’ll do both,’ Loman said. ‘And I intend to lose no one in the process.’
‘You may well fall short of that intention,’ Eldric said, anxious at this extravagant ambition.
‘I know,’ Loman said quietly. ‘But nonetheless, that’s what we’ll all aspire to. To aspire to save a few, is to lose more, and I refuse to be cavalier with the lives of our people just for the want of our strong will.’
Loman’s presence seemed to fill the tent and no one spoke as he looked round at his listeners.
‘We have bows, pikes, and above all discipline,’ he went on. ‘We’ll use all three to their maximum effect to try to avoid the need to use our swords and sinews against these creatures in close combat.’
‘I don’t dispute any of that, Loman,’ Urthryn said. ‘We’ve discussed it before at some length. But we can’t afford to let the enemy cut off our supply lines and take possession of the rear.’
Loman leaned forward. ‘So goes the tradition,’ he said. ‘But my feeling-my growing feeling-is that we’ll best husband our resources by staying together and pressing on to strike at the heart of all this, than by draining ourselves trying to defend an ever-lengthening supply line. I think the more forces we commit to such a strategy, the more He’ll harry us until we’re spread out like a shaft with no spearhead. Very soon, I suspect, He’ll look to meet us in the field, and we must be at our full strength then. When we defeat Him, I suspect the opposition to our withdrawal will be minimal.’
‘It’s not what we intended at the outset,’ Eldric said. ‘But I agree, we hadn’t envisaged such continuing and reckless assaults. It goes against the grain not to defend a supply line, but I fear you’re right.’
‘There will be another advantage,’ Loman said.
‘Everyone will know that there’s no chance of retreat except through total victory.’ Hreldar’s voice was cold.
Loman nodded. ‘If we allow Sumeral to cut us off then we limit all our options and He’ll find out only too clearly just how well we’ve learned His lessons.’
The tent fell silent at this grim remark.
The baby stirred, then it opened its eyes and began to cry. Sylvriss picked it up. The child’s innocent helplessness contrasted vividly with the stern faces of the gathered adults. Sylvriss smiled. ‘You’re very young to be mixing with such bad company,’ she said, cradling it comfortingly in her arms. Alter a while it fell silent.
Urthryn looked from his grandchild back to Loman, his face anxious but controlled. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said, unconsciously resting his hand on his sword hilt. ‘But being cut off is one thing, having a force come up behind us is another.’
Loman nodded. ‘The Queen and her baby will have a special bodyguard,’ he said, answering Urthryn’s unspoken concern. ‘And the Goraidin and Helyadin will watch for any major gathering of forces behind us. Depending on what they report we’ll arrange our battle order accordingly when He finally takes to the field. A rear attack is only dangerous when you don’t expect it.’
A trumpet call interrupted their discussion. Sylvriss started slightly. ‘Just the night guards being set, Lady,’ Loman said reassuringly. Then to the others, ‘Duty calls, gentlemen. To your rounds.’
When Urthryn and the Lords had left, Loman turned to Oslang. ‘What do you feel in the air, Cadwanwr?’ he asked.
‘Him,’ Oslang replied. ‘His presence pervades every-thing increasingly. Those dank forests we passed through, the rivers we crossed, this damp, wretched wilderness we’ve reached.’
‘But He doesn’t assail us,’ Loman said.
Oslang shook his head. ‘Nor do the Uhriel,’ he said. ‘But they’re merely waiting. We think as you do. He’ll look to crush us all with one blow.’
Unexpectedly, Loman smiled. ‘That, at least, is not a matter of His choosing,’ he said. ‘That much, we determine, by not responding to his harrying of our lines and by moving inexorably towards His lair. If He chooses not to stand there, then we’ll take it down stone by stone.’
Oslang waved an anxious hand. ‘That rhetoric’s fine for the troops, Loman,’ he said. ‘But don’t begin to believe it yourself. I agree with what you’re doing. If we dawdle and fumble about here, of all places, He’ll destroy us piecemeal just with His army, but if we threaten Derras Ustramel, be under no illusions, He’ll set forth His power and if Ethriss isn’t there to shield us, then we’ll die-or worse.’
Loman dropped into a chair. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s as I said about the casualties. What we aspire to we tend to fall short of. I must have this image in my heart of Him under my sword, and His castle being tumbled into that lake. That way we’ll go further than if I see us just fighting His army, and waiting for Hawklan to… ’ He faltered. He had almost blurted out the truth about Hawklan’s mission. ‘… to waken Ethriss and save us all.’
Oslang caught the stumble. ‘I haven’t asked before,’ he said. ‘But just where have Hawklan and Andawyr gone on this search for Ethriss?’
‘You know as much as I do,’ Loman lied. ‘They told no one of their intentions so that no one would inadvertently betray them.’
Oslang seemed doubtful. ‘If we knew, it’s possible that we could help them in some way.’
Loman looked at him squarely. ‘Your task is to pro-tect the army against the Uhriel,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on that and that alone. I suspect it’ll take your every resource in due time-you lost one man facing Creost, as I recall. Let me attend to the fighting, and Hawklan and Andawyr to their tasks, wherever they are. I know nothing of the Power you wield, but I suspect you’ll do more harm than good if you go using it indiscriminately in His land.’
Oslang bowed. ‘I accept the rebuke,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I… we… seem to be doing so little. And His presence is so strong. I’m… ’ He paused.
‘You’re afraid,’ Loman said, not unkindly.
Oslang blinked owlishly. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I am afraid.’
Loman smiled and reached up to pat the Cad-wanwr’s arm. ‘Let me tell you what you already know, Oslang,’ he said. ‘Say it out loud to yourself every now and then. It won’t make you less afraid, but it’ll make you less afraid of your fear.’
Oslang’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m suppose to be the wise one around here, soldier,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ Loman said unapologetically. ‘Go and talk with your friends. They’re probably all feeling the same way. This place is depressing enough for us so I shudder to think what it feels like to you. Tell them to sharpen whatever it is you people use for swords; it won’t be long now.’
‘I see I chose a good Commander,’ Sylvriss said to Loman after Oslang had left.
Loman looked at her. ‘Just tell me if you find I’m enjoying the work,’ he said.
Sylvriss returned his gaze. ‘Let me tell you what you already know then, wise one,’ she said, her tone half serious, half mocking. ‘You do, and should, enjoy the work, grim though it is and worse though it’s going to be. You have the opportunity to use your considerable skills to protect the less fortunate and the weak and defenceless from a foe who would not only destroy them, but every precious thing that exists in our three countries, and beyond. Take it and relish it, man.’
Loman just managed to stop his mouth dropping open. ‘Yes, Lady,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Good,’ Sylvriss said. ‘Now, where’s Gulda?’
A messenger entered. His eyes flickered from Lo-man to the Queen and back again. Loman nodded.
‘The horse has wandered off from the stables, Maj-esty,’ the man said.
Unexpectedly, Sylvriss turned away quickly and began putting her baby into its carrying sling. Loman watched her. It came to him suddenly that she did not want her face to be seen.
‘See that my orders are clearly understood,’ she said, her hands toying busily but ineffectually with the straps to the sling. ‘The horse is to be allowed to wander as it wishes, unhindered. If it seeks to leave then the gates are to be opened. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Majesty,’ the messenger said, and with a bow, he left.
Sylvriss turned round, her eyes shining wet in the torchlight. Loman looked at her helplessly, taken aback by this unexpected display of distress.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small stone disc. ‘Your brother carved this for me when we were in Eldric’s stronghold,’ she said. Loman looked at it. It was Hawklan riding Serian and it was unmistakably Isloman’s handiwork. Sylvriss’s hand was trembling. ‘Crude, he called it. But tell me, Loman,’ she said. ‘How does an Orthlundyn carver know more about the true nature of a horse than the Riddinvolk do?’
She wanted no answer, however, and waited for none. She took back the small carving. ‘Where’s Gulda?’ she asked again, before Loman could speak. ‘Why isn’t she here, keeping you all in order?’
Loman floundered slightly then cleared his throat. ‘She’ll be in her tent,’ he said. ‘She’s become… strange… lately. Withdrawn. As if she wasn’t needed anymore. I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time… ’
‘I’ll go and see her,’ Sylvriss said, carefully position-ing the baby’s sling around her neck. ‘Just show me the way, I need no escort.’
Following Loman’s directions, Sylvriss made her way through the hectic, darkening camp. Despite the lights about her and the familiar Fyordyn and Riddin accents that she could hear, it was an oddly unpleasant place. There was an unhealthy dampness in the air which made her hold her baby tightly to her, and even the ground she walked on seemed to cling lingeringly to her feet.
After a few minutes she came to a small tent, stand-ing slightly apart from the others. As she approached it, the entrance opened and the characteristic silhouette of Gulda stood back against the torchlight.
‘Come in, my dear,’ she said.
It seemed to Sylvriss that as she entered the tent the aura of Narsindal fell away, and was replaced by one which she realized after a moment was like that she had felt around the sleeping Hawklan.
She took in the neat, simple quarters, with a single glance and sat down on the offered chair. Gulda sat opposite her and immediately reached out to take the baby. Sylvriss smiled and carefully handed the infant to her.
Gulda’s arms enfolded it protectively and Sylvriss felt a strange, reassuring peace as she looked at the tiny form swaddled in its white sheets against the deep blackness of Gulda’s robe.
Its eyes opened and it looked up at Gulda curiously. Then its mouth wrinkled into a smile and it released an indelicate belch. Sylvriss moued guiltily and Gulda laughed softly. She lifted her hand to chuck the child’s chin gently.
Sylvriss looked at Gulda’s hands. They were quite large, but very feminine-more like the hands of a young woman than an old one, Sylvriss thought. And yet despite their gentleness they seemed also to be muscular and powerful.
‘So the line of the Lords of the Iron Ring runs still,’ Gulda said, significantly.
Sylvriss raised a wry eyebrow. ‘This is Rgoric’s son, without a doubt,’ she said. ‘But before him, who can say who got in amongst the mares.’
The two women chuckled conspiratorially.
‘Why are you here, and not helping guide this army, Memsa?’ Sylvriss asked.
Gulda did not look up from the child. ‘My help isn’t needed for that any more,’ she said. ‘The Lords and your father are more than capable of doing what’s necessary with Loman’s Orthlundyn sight to guide them. I just potter about the hospital tent helping Tirilen and lusting after the young men.’
Sylvriss burst out laughing and for a moment could not reply. ‘You’ve obviously got too little to do,’ she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But you don’t deceive me, Memsa Gulda, you’re hiding from me and I can see you, whoever you are.’
The tears were suddenly a mixture of laughter and bewildered sadness.
‘Why are you here, Queen?’ Gulda asked blandly, ignoring the comment. ‘In this awful land, and with Fyorlund’s heir?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sylvriss answered. ‘Hawklan’s horse needed to be here. Why I brought… ’
Gulda looked up. ‘Serian brought you?’ she said without waiting for Sylvriss to finish.
Sylvriss nodded and briefly volunteered the story of the horse’s mysterious appearance at the Palace and their subsequent journey into Narsindal.
‘Well, well,’ Gulda said incuriously when she had finished. ‘How odd.’
She handed the baby back to Sylvriss with a smile. ‘He’s a fine child,’ she said. ‘I’m truly happy for you.’ Then, abruptly, she began ushering Sylvriss gently towards the entrance of the tent. ‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me now, my dear, I’m afraid all this marching has made me rather tired, and I’ll need to catch some sleep. We’ll be breaking camp early tomorrow as usual.’
As she held open the entrance, she looked intently at Sylvriss. ‘You did well to trust the horse, girl!’ she said. ‘But have the armourer fit mail around this.’ She fingered the sling. ‘And sleep in your boots and riding clothes, and with your sword by your side, until this is over. We’re nearly there, but we’ve all got harsh and dangerous times ahead.’
Closing the entrance behind the Queen, Gulda turned round pensively. Then she moved towards a long chest by her bed and producing a key from her gown, unlocked it.
As Sylvriss walked away from the tent, four large men emerged discreetly from the shadows. ‘Majesty, Loman has asked us to protect you,’ one of them said. For an instant Sylvriss considered protesting, but apart from the fact that she had the child to protect she knew that if she had no bodyguard then a far greater number of her subjects and countrymen than four would be distracted from their duties by fulfilling the role secretly.
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said. ‘That would be most reassuring.’
The Mandroc attack that night was worse than usual, and Sylvriss was glad of the four silent figures about her tent as the air began to fill with the relentless chanting of the Mandrocs and the shouted commands of the defenders. Eventually, though the baby seemed undisturbed by the noise, she took it from its crib and lay with it in her arms, staring up at the roof of the tent lit by the soft torchlight, and listening to the furore outside until it merged into her dreams like the sound of a distant, pounding, ocean. Somewhere in them floated the faint memory of an awed remark she had once heard: ‘The Memsa never sleeps.’
Aelang dismounted and looked around at the deserted slave camp. He needed no trackers to tell him there had been a battle here. The area had been cleared, but the dark skeins criss-crossing the stone streets were unmistakably bloodstains. Besides, it stank of it in some way.
‘Find the bodies,’ he said. ‘Let’s see how good these people really are.’
Within minutes the bodies of the ill-fated Mandroc patrol had been discovered in a windowless room in one of the buildings. Aelang showed a little surprise at the number but then examined them dispassionately. ‘Slave gatherers from the mines,’ he said. ‘Out-shot and out-fought by the look of it. Skilled hunters indeed, our quarry-we must be careful of ambush.’
As he turned to leave, the Mandroc standing next to him let out a piercing yell. Mindful of his last remark, Aelang spun round, drawing his sword as he did, and bracing himself for an attack.
But there was no attack. The Mandroc was pointing at the pile of bodies. Aelang frowned; what was it howling about? They’d all seen and done worse than this to their own kind themselves.
Then he saw the bodies of the two priests killed by Byroc, their heads crushed in. He swore to himself. That was a heretic Mandroc killing and it could drive even his elite troops here into an uncontrollable frenzy if he didn’t act quickly.
The Mandroc was beginning to roll its eyes and stamp its feet. Without hesitation, Aelang killed it with a single thrust of his sword. As he withdrew the blade he pushed the body so that it fell on top of the dead priests, then he turned round furiously on the other Mandrocs.
‘Get out and form up!’ he thundered offering them the smoking blade menacingly.
There was no debate. Aelang’s savage and arbitrary discipline was as legendary amongst the Mandrocs as it was amongst the Mathidrin. No explanation would be given for his conduct; the Mandroc had offended in some way and been duly punished. To question the Commander’s action would be to incur the same punishment.
Aelang slammed the doors behind him and set off towards the edge of the camp. He signalled to the trackers to move ahead.
Within a few minutes, however, they returned to him. ‘They continue north, towards His Citadel, Great is His name, His will be done.’
Aelang finished wiping his sword. He cast away the small bruised sheaf of harsh grass then looked north and smiled, his canine teeth sharp in the grey daylight. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we need only go to the west.’
Sylvriss surveyed the destruction the next day as the camp was being broken. Outside the rudimentary palisade lay scores of dead Mandrocs, and fatigue details were hauling them away and recovering arrows and spears. Occasionally a knife was drawn to dispatch some badly wounded individual. Sylvriss started forward the first time she saw this, but Loman laid a hand on her arm.
‘We can’t tend them,’ he said sadly. ‘We tried at first, but once they gain the least strength, they’ll try to kill anything that comes near.’
Sylvriss grimaced but made no comment. It was an unpleasant enough task for those involved without her displeasure adding to it.
She mounted her hitherto favourite horse. The ani-mal had galloped faithfully behind with the remounts while she had ridden from Vakloss on Serian and now it reacted with pleasure as she settled into the saddle. Sylvriss felt like a faithless lover as she stroked its neck affectionately, for though the affection was genuine, her mind was full of the mystery of riding Hawklan’s now vanished black horse.
Initially, with well-disguised reluctance, she took her place with the baggage train, Hylland and her four bodyguards riding escort. After a while however, she was trotting up and down the huge column, talking, laughing, encouraging.
Loman turned and smiled as she approached. ‘Lady,’ he said. ‘You’re the only thing so far that’s managed to bring some lightness into this weary land. Just look at it.’
Sylvriss looked around. As ever, the mist obscured the horizons, but it held none of the mellowing haziness that might be expected. Sometimes it would be sparse, grey, and chill, fading coldly into the dull sky; at others it would be dense and white or, worse, yellow and clinging to the ground as if trying to suffocate it or obscure some approaching menace. And it seemed to shift and change to some eerie law of its own, tendrils seeping forward and then retreating, or reaching up into the sky like eyeless spies.
The terrain itself was harsh and uneven, littered with rocks and boulders, stagnant lakes and sluggish rivers, and here and there pocked by ragged areas of discolouration as if something had lain there that had slain the ground for ever.
Trees and shrubs grew in watchful malevolent clus-ters as though fearful of attack, and even the grass seemed to cower.
‘It’s an ill land these creatures possess,’ Sylvriss said. ‘Perhaps if we’d looked to them more… ’
She left the sentence unfinished. Oslang looked at her. ‘Our whole journey here is littered with "ifs", lady,’ he said. ‘Perhaps in the future we might pay more heed to them.’
‘Concern yourself with the present, Cadwanwr,’ Loman said gently. ‘Or there’ll be no future for us.’
It started to rain. Cold, vertical, rain. Loman wiped his hand across his mouth. Even the rain seemed to be oily and tainted. He pulled up his hood.
Ahead, the large scattered groups of infantry who were acting as scouts started to disappear from view as the rain formed its own mist. Loman turned and looked back down the main column. That too was disappearing.
‘Go back to the baggage train, Lady,’ he said to Sylvriss. ‘This is ambush weather.’
Sylvriss nodded and turned about.
When she had gone, Loman motioned to Oslang, and the two of them rode over to Eldric.
‘Will we reach the central plain before nightfall?’ Loman asked.
Eldric nodded tentatively. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘It must be generations since anyone rode the Watch this far north, but our old maps have been quite reasonable so far… ’
Loman allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Except for a few rivers and forests,’ he said.
‘I was about to say, with regard to the major fea-tures,’ Eldric added defensively. ‘If that remains the case then we should reach the edges of the plain well before dark. After that, I must admit, the maps become too vague to be of real value.’
Before Loman could reply, a rider drew up beside him. It was Fyndal, one of the Helyadin who had been sent out to assess the threat to the supply route following Sylvriss’s observations. Despite the cold rain, both he and his horse were sweating.
‘There are large groups of Mandrocs to our rear,’ he said to Loman immediately. ‘It’ll take a substantial force to get through them. We’re cut off from Narsindalvak unless we want to head back and make a fight of it.’
‘I understand,’ Loman said, then he cocked his head on one side as a faint whistling reached him. It was a relayed message from up ahead.
‘It’s the Goraidin coming back,’ he said, urging his horse forward. ‘Let’s see what lies ahead of us now that we know what lies behind.’
Yengar, Olvric and Tel-Mindor looked substantially worse than Fyndal. They were tired and dishevelled, and their horses too were steaming in the steady rain. They had been riding hard for some time and it needed no subtle eye to see they brought ill news.
‘Speak then rest, Goraidin,’ Loman said simply, by way of greeting.
‘There’s an army camped on the plain two days’ march away,’ Yengar said.
‘Mandrocs led by Mathidrin?’ Loman asked.
Yengar nodded.
‘How big is it?’ Loman went on.
Yengar glanced briefly at his companions. ‘Bigger than we are by far,’ he said. Then, hesitantly, ‘Three, perhaps four times our number.’