Hawklan looked down at the piece of meat on Dacu’s knife. He pulled it off and began chewing it, trying to look appreciative.
‘You’re not hungry enough yet,’ Dacu said, chuck-ling a little.
Gavor was less discreet. ‘Eat it up, or you’ll get it for your breakfast,’ he said, mimicking Gulda, and laughing raucously.
Hawklan glowered at him. ‘Thank you, Dacu,’ he said graciously. ‘And you Byroc, for your hunting.’ Gavor continued to laugh.
‘Indeed, Byroc,’ Dacu seconded Hawklan’s remark. ‘I’ve never seen such wary game. We’d have been waiting a lot longer for food if you hadn’t helped.’
Byroc grunted. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are a good hunter. Very quiet. You will soon learn.’
‘Aren’t there any herbs and roots we can eat round here?’ Hawklan asked almost plaintively.
‘If you wish to die, yes,’ Byroc said. ‘This is a bad place.’ He waved a half-chewed bone at Hawklan. ‘Full of His poisons. Nothing wholesome grows. Even this. We eat this now because we must, but we must not eat too often.’
Hawklan looked at the remnant he was holding, then began chewing it again. He was no great meat eater, but he knew that the Mandroc was speaking no more than the truth. He had examined some of the vegetation that surrounded them and it had a distinctly unpleasant aura. He looked at Byroc. The Mandroc had been an invaluable ally and his knowledge of the country had enabled them to make far more progress than they would have been able to make alone.
‘How much further to Lake Kedrieth?’ Hawklan asked.
Byroc looked at him. ‘We cannot go further this way,’ he said. ‘We must move to the road now.’
He became the focus of attention for everyone in the shelter. ‘North are marshes,’ he said. ‘They move. There is no way through them.’
The road, however, seemed a bleak defenceless proposition.
‘Can’t we make a raft of some kind?’ Tirke offered.
Byroc crunched a bone noisily. ‘Everything sinks in the mud,’ he said. ‘Everything. Byroc knows. Black ones, stinking Dowynai Vraen.’ He made an ominous slurping sound. ‘They all sink. And the water flames, and the air burns and chokes. If you want to enter His place, you must use His road.’
There was a long silence. On their journey they had passed several deserted slave camps and on the occasions that they had seen the road it had apparently been deserted. It was as if the whole of Narsindal had been emptied of everyone save themselves. But still, they had encountered one patrol, and there must surely be others. The road was too exposed. The risk of discovery while using it was far too high.
But now Byroc left them no choice.
Hawklan looked around at the group. They were none of them in the best condition. Andawyr, being the oldest and least fit, was suffering the most, not least because he seemed to be bearing some kind of increas-ing burden as they moved nearer to Derras Ustramel. The others were suffering mainly from fatigue brought on by a combination of reduced, and dubious, rations, their long journeying, and the grim, depressing terrain. Time was against them.
‘We must move soon, too,’ Andawyr said unexpect-edly, his words echoing Hawklan’s thoughts. ‘Something is happening.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hawklan asked, concerned at some note in the Cadwanwr’s tone.
Andawyr screwed up his eyes and craned forward as if he were trying to hear some solitary voice amid a babble. ‘Forces are gathering,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ Hawklan repeated.
Andawyr shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘His Will is… moving now… I think perhaps the army is drawing near.’ He looked at Hawklan intently. ‘We must destroy Him soon, very soon. Or He will destroy everyone. We must leave now.’
Hawklan felt Andawyr’s bright eyes burning deep into him and it seemed that the path before him was becoming narrower and narrower.
‘Very well,’ he said slowly. ‘This is no more than you’re all trained for. We must truly be Helyadin and Goraidin. We must move through the midst of our enemies without them seeing us, and slay Him in His own lair.’
Byroc drew the Mathidrin sword he had taken dur-ing the fighting at the mines, and squinted along its edge. ‘Amrahl is mine,’ he said. ‘If He would be chief of all the tribes, then He must face me.’
One or two were about to reply, but Hawklan shook his head at them. ‘Whoever reaches Him must slay Him,’ he said. ‘Who can say what part we’ll all play at the end? But use my Sword to do it. Use your own weapons for our lesser enemies.’ He held out a beckoning hand towards Byroc’s sword. The Mandroc looked at him for a moment, and then handed it to him. Hawklan passed it to Isloman, indicating its turned and chipped edge.
Isloman nodded, and drew out a sharpening stone. Within minutes, the edge glinted and shone in the low torchlight, and so did Byroc’s eyes as he received it back. As he hefted it menacingly, he bared his teeth in a predatory grimace.
‘Almost as good as Loman could do with such poor metal,’ Isloman said. ‘Even though I shouldn’t say it. Anyone else?’
When the party broke camp, there was not an edged weapon amongst them that did not bear the touch that had sharpened the chisels of Orthlund’s master carver.
They abandoned the shelter and everything else that was unnecessary and, still following Byroc’s lead, set off silently into the damp, grey, mist.
It was a cold, grey morning that dawned on the allies’ camp two days after the Goraidin had brought the news about the army waiting for them. They had reached the central plain that same day and marched across it through the next. Except for occasional flurries of spiky, thorn-laden vegetation, it was featureless and drab terrain and, despite its openness, it offered no relief from the dank atmosphere that had pervaded their journey so far.
‘Another reason for speed,’ Loman mused to Eldric. ‘A long campaign in this place would sap the morale of even the finest soldiers.’
Eldric agreed. ‘It took no great subversion by Dan-Tor to engineer the abandonment of the Watch,’ he said ruefully.
There were no Mandroc attacks during the two nights they camped on the plain, though in the latter part of the second a long line of twinkling lights appeared on the northern horizon.
Eldric drew in a long hissing breath as he watched them. Yengar’s words kept returning to him. ‘Three, perhaps four times our number.’ One purpose of the Mandroc raids became clear to him. Hitherto, they had been creatures of terror in legend. Now they had been shown to be just such, in real flesh and blood. Oslang had pronounced that their reckless disregard for their own lives was probably due to their being possessed by some unholy religious fervour but that did nothing to allay the terrifying prospect of facing them in open combat. And so many of them!
Worse, lurking in the mists of Eldric’s thoughts, was the question: how many more of the enemy might be lurking in the mists of this benighted land?
Wilfully he repeated to himself Loman’s words to Urthryn. ‘We have bows, pikes and, above all, disci-pline.’ For a while before the dawn, his mood oscillated between fearful depression and exhilaration until, seemingly by accident, his hand touched the small carving that Isloman had given him as he and Sylvriss had prepared to leave his mountain stronghold.
He sat down and looked at it quietly in the subdued torchlight of his tent. It had such depth and, as he moved it slightly, so the image of Hawklan riding Serian seemed to move, or rather, to become alive. And yet it was only a few scratches on a piece of stone. In his mind he saw again Isloman astride Serian, supporting the unconscious Hawklan. ‘… and I only had my knifepoint… ’ the carver had said.
A few scratches, yet… so much; the wisdom and skill of generations.
He slipped the disc back into his pocket and found his mind full of the battle for Vakloss; how the army had force marched across Fyorlund to travel to the heart of its enemy like an arrow, and how, like the point of that arrow, he and his cavalry had crashed through the broken militia straight towards the distant figure of Dan-Tor.
His wavering concerns vanished and, though still fearful, he became calmer. Stepping outside his tent he went to join Loman on a small watch-tower. Together they stood staring out at the lights filling the distant horizon.
Then Loman turned to him. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked simply.
Eldric nodded and took out the carving. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve just won the hardest part of my battle. Now we go straight for their heart.’
Loman took the disc and looked at it for a long moment.
‘One day, I think my brother may look at this, and the one he gave the Queen, and say that for all their simplicity, they’re his finest works,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘But then, as he’d doubtless remind me, I’m no great judge of carving,’ he said mocking himself gently. ‘Suffice it that he tells us now that he’s here with us, and Hawklan, and Serian.’
Then the camp was alive with activity.
The Goraidin and Helyadin came and went with their information about the enemy behind and the enemy ahead.
The cavalry-Muster, High Guard and Orthlundyn-checked their weapons and their horses and became one-more or less.
Tirilen walked among the healers in the hospital tent and, from somewhere, found a quietness to help them face the bloody ordeal that must come. Gavor’s feather, wilted and worn now, still adorned her green gown.
Quartermasters looked harassed.
Engineers checked the palisade and earthworks around the camp.
Bows were strung and tested, spare strings stowed safely, supplies of arrows confirmed with the runners. Slingers loosened their wrists and pocketed, ‘… just a few extra shot, Sirshiant.’ Cautiously, countless cold thumbs tested countless sharp edges-swords, knifes, axes. Long pikes were hefted and grips bound and rebound. Shield straps were adjusted, armours were wriggled into some degree of comfort.
Some ate, some did not. Some sat silent, some swore, some wept-briefly. Some laughed-too much. Some checked their equipment-yet again.
All were afraid, but all would go forward.
Loman stood for a long time with Eldric on the watch-tower, watching the commotion. Relentlessly he willed his spirit into the vast gathering. And indeed, through all the ranks ran many of his words: ‘Remember your drills… your orders… watch, listen… keep your wits about you, and use them… discipline and trust in your neighbour will win us the day… discipline and trust in your neighbour will sustain you even if your courage falters for the moment… don’t be afraid to be afraid, it’ll keep you alive… it’ll fire your anger… ’
He wondered as he watched. The Riddinvolk and the Fyordyn had their military traditions, yet somehow it was the Orthlundyn and their unforeseen new aptitude that formed the heart of the army. An army whose members could fight as one, or in groups, or as individuals. An army whose every member knew why he or she was there.
This is a fine tool you’ve made, smith, he thought, both sincerely and with bitter irony. Now use it as you must; as it deserves to be used.
Eventually he moved to the Command Tent and the final tactics of the day were agreed in the light of the information brought by the Goraidin and the Helyadin. They needed little debate; tactics had been discussed and rehearsed endlessly and were understood at every level throughout the army. There could be no other way; communication across the battlefield, however well considered in advance, would almost certainly be disrupted once battle proper was joined; leaders and officers might be killed, or companies separated. ‘Use your judgement as need arises. Have no fear, it’ll be the same as mine,’ Eldric had said before the battle for Vakloss. Now Loman echoed it.
As the various officers left, Loman turned his atten-tion to the gathered Cadwanwr.
‘Are you prepared, my friends?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Oslang replied quietly.
Loman shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m at a loss to know what to say to you,’ he said. ‘We’ll protect you from the fray, as far as we can protect ourselves, but… ’ He shrugged again.
‘Thank you,’ Oslang replied. ‘That’s all you can do for us and it’s important to us.’ He smiled and put his hand on Loman’s shoulder with unexpected purposeful-ness. ‘Have no fear for us,’ he said. ‘Like the Orthlundyn, we’re not what we were but months ago. We’re soldiers now, also. And we’ve every intention of both defeating our foe and coming away alive.’
Loman smiled in return, and echoed their earlier conversation. ‘I’m supposed to be the warrior here, wise man,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ Oslang replied unapologetically, and the two men burst out laughing.
Finally, Loman, with Sylvriss and her father and the Lords, rode along the length of the army. It took them some time and when they returned to the centre, the damp, unpleasant air of Narsindal rang to the sound of cheering-a sound the like of which it had not heard in countless generations.
As the Queen and her son returned to the camp with her escort, Loman pulled on a grim helm, and began to ride slowly forward.
Commands echoed along the line and the great army began to move after him.
It began to rain again.
Serian craned forward and examined the armoured figure in front of him intently, then he pranced a little, uncertain.
‘Will you carry me?’ the figure asked.
Serian pranced again, then bowed his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, knowing that the figure would hear him truly.
From the shelter of a cluster of gnarled and dying trees, Isloman gazed from side to side along the road. Then he moved from his hiding place and walked on to the road and looked again.
Satisfied, he signalled and, stealthily, the others ran forward to join him.
‘At least the mist is on our side now,’ he said as they set off.
Hawklan and Andawyr exchanged glances. From now, their whole venture would be balanced more finely than a sword standing on its point. They had moved along by the side of the road for as long as they could, but the ground had become increasingly marshy and now they had no alternative but to use the road itself. Yatsu, Tel-Odrel and Lorac had salvaged what they could of their Mathidrin uniforms and Hawklan had donned that of the Captain they had killed.
‘You are slave gatherers from the mines,’ Byroc told them, tapping an insignia on Hawklan’s uniform.
‘Which means you’re not highly thought of, as far as we can tell, but at least you’re a Captain,’ Yatsu added.
Hawklan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, adding needlessly, ‘Stay aware, all of you.’
As they walked, the road widened considerably, and twice it gave them the opportunity to hide rather than test their crude disguises. On both occasions a group of mounted Mathidrin trotted out of the mist, to be followed by a large column of armed Mandrocs. Hawklan and the others, having heard the approach, lay flat at the foot of the wide shallow embankments that led down from the road.
The exercise demonstrated the correctness of By-roc’s advice as they found themselves lying immediately adjacent to what appeared to be a field of lush, tufted vegetation which extended away from them into the mist. A single step however, disabused them of any thoughts of travelling along this seemingly solid turf, as it yielded immediately with clinging relish, and emitted an appalling stench.
The smell of decay indeed pervaded everything, and occasionally the mist thinned out to show beyond the vegetation a dark glistening surface which seemed to be both still and uneasily mobile. In the distance, faint flickering lights could sometimes be seem, and from time to time, strange noises came softly out of the encompassing greyness; splashing, slithering, bubbling.
Indeed, Hawklan frequently felt live things reaching out to him, but there was a quality about them so unnatural that he could do no other than turn away.
‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman asked him at one point, but Hawklan just shook his head. ‘Corruption,’ he answered. ‘Beyond any help I can offer.’
Then a dense mist, barely waist-high, spilled over on to the road so that for a while they seemed to be wading through a shallow lake.
‘Walk slowly. Do not disturb it,’ Byroc said, without amplification.
After a while, it seemed to Hawklan that although the road was flat, he was straining up some great slope.
‘How much further?’ Hawklan asked Byroc.
‘Not far,’ came the reply, but it was from Andawyr not the Mandroc. Hawklan turned round to look at him. The Cadwanwr’s face was grey with strain.
Hawklan signalled the group to stop and put his arm around Andawyr to support him. Andawyr however, waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘It’s just that His presence is more appalling than I could have imagined.’ His face lightened momentarily. ‘But His Will is elsewhere. We must hurry. We must take Him while His attention is towards the army.’
‘Allow us then to escort you to His presence.’
The voice was harsh and cold, and came out of the mist ahead.