That winter in Anthor was severe. For three months the North wind swept across the plains, freezing everything that lay unprotected in its path. Meyathal was sheltered from the worst of it, located as it was in the valley. The cattle were herded off the higher country into the low lands. Even though they enjoyed a winter covering of heavy fur they were only too pleased to leave the wind to ravage the ridges and the wide plains further north. Many of the northerners migrated south for this season, though the toughest simply waited it out. None of the Relanese caravans ventured north of the Lansheral before spring.
It was a time for craft and handiwork for the Anthorians rather than the hectic raiding and herding of the summer. Raiding was legal in winter, but few had the inclination. There was enough to do inside, a hundred repairs and alterations to make to the herdsmen’s equipment, and new gear to fashion. Everyone had to have something new for the spring games, and this year it was to be a real battle rather than just games. Hides and fleeces had been stored over the summer in anticipation of this confinement. Wool was spun and woven into blankets and clothing. New weapons were made. The smithy was a popular place to meet because it was always warm and always busy.
It was also a time for tales and song. Those veterans who had fought beside Menish forty years ago were in constant demand. Many of them had been haranguing people with their accounts of the battle for years, but now they were listened to avidly. People wanted to know what the men of Gashan looked like. Did they use curved swords like the Anthorians or the straight swords of the Vorthenki? Did they ride horses? Did they wear armour? What cattle did they have that could be raided once they were vanquished?
Keashil was also in great demand, for she knew more songs about the battle than anyone had heard before. Menish gave into requests for those songs that exaggerated his victory. It gave them hope and they needed to hope. But he became more and more grim. He knew they were expecting a glorified cattle raid, not the destruction of Anthor and probably Relanor as well. But how could he tell them? There was no hope in battle except for a brave death. Even Vorish with his sticks for armies arranged on a board would have no answer to that evil Eye he had seen in the city of the Gashans.
As for Kiveli, Adhara told him afterwards that none of the women at the rite expected it to be effective. He had simply made a fool of himself, and for some reason most of the women had disliked him ever since. So much for giving them hope. And Azkun and Althak had gone chasing after dragons when they could have offered something they could use against Gashan.
Keashil’s songs did cheer him a little. Although she, herself, was often seen to be downcast when she thought she was alone, she was always cheerful when she spoke to Menish. It was as if she did not wish her personal fears to be the concern of anyone else. She was also intelligent and he began including her in the discussions he had with Adhara, Bolythak, Neathy and Drinagish. Once, after one of their meetings, he asked her if anything was troubling her. Was she uncomfortable in Hrangil’s old chamber? It was nothing, she said. When he asked Olcish the boy told her his mother missed Althak.
But winter did not last forever. The North wind grew less bitter, the cattle became less careful of their sheltered valleys. The days began to grow longer again and the land took on a green mantle as spring grass pushed through the warming earth. The clan leaders arrived, as was their custom, to meet with Menish before the spring games.
With spring also came Vorish.
The Emperor had set out a month before with his cavalry. The baggage train had been travelling much longer, but he had caught up with it at the Lansheral as planned and travelled with it to Meyathal. It had taken them several days to cross the river at Kronithal. Holdarish and Mora had shown their son-in-law hospitality while his troops made the crossing.
They were first seen by a rider who was checking one of Menish’s herds to the south of Meyathal, everyone knew the Emperor would arrive any day now. He galloped into Meyathal calling his news to anyone who would hear. The Emperor was coming with his armies, they covered the whole plain like the shadow of a storm cloud. The wealth in horses alone had left the man dazed.
Menish organised an escort to ride out to meet Vorish. He took Adhara and Drinagish with him of course, and Neathy carried his standard since Althak was no longer with them. Menish noticed the pride in Neathy as she rode with the standard unfurled above her. She was one who had liked Althak so she would not be gloating over his fall from favour. But Menish wished he still had Althak to carry his standard again. He was growing more certain that he would die in this battle, and Althak who had rescued him a dozen times would not be there. He missed the Vorthenki’s garish armour, and he missed his ready smile in these grim days.
By the time he reached Vorish he was quite morbid, rather than pleased as he should have been. Even the sight of Vorish’s vast army did nothing to cheer him. But the others of his escort gasped at the size of the Emperor’s army. They had no way of estimating the actual size, though Menish told them there were approximately five thousand heavy cavalry and another ten thousand more lightly armed horsemen, as well as a huge number of wagons light enough to negotiate the Anthorian roads.
Few of the Anthorians had ever seen heavy cavalry before. Their own fighting methods, developing from raiding, required lightly armed horseman who could move quickly. But the Relanese had always used large horses capable of carrying a warrior covered in armour. When they charged they made the ground shake.
Vorish’s forces looked to be under the command of four Drinols, judging by the standards displayed, and Vorish had brought his personal guard with him as well. It was a humbling experience for Menish, reminding him that he was but a vassal to Vorish. Any of his Drinols were as powerful as the King of Anthor judging by the size of the force they could muster.
But none of his Drinols were the Emperor’s father. He could not help looking at Vorish afresh. Was there a resemblance? Vorish’s eyes were like his own, or he thought so. He could not remember exactly what Vorish looked like now. His nose was like Drinagish’s, but that was nonsense. Drinagish was only related to Menish through Adhara.
Vorish greeted him warmly, but his smile quickly faded. “You went to Gashan in spite of my orders.”
“I had no choice, you know that.”
“All would have been lost if you'd died there. Althak said you almost did.”
“He almost did. I expect to live a little longer.”
Menish signalled his escort to fall in with Vorish’s personal guard while he and Adhara rode beside the Emperor.
“Did Holdarish and Mora treat you well?”
“Yes, they made me very welcome. Mora was not so warm, but she tried to hide her thoughts from me.”
“She'd like to see Sonalish again.”
“And she will not go to Atonir. Sonalish will not go to Kronithal either. Anthorian women are so stubborn!” Vorish laughed. “Perhaps I can arrange for them to meet at the Lansheral. They could clasp hands through the gate in the wall, neither leaving their own lands.”
“Are they coming to the battle?”
“Holdarish and Mora? I think so. Holdarish would prefer to stay and count his wealth, Mora wants to kill Gashans.”
“Sonalish didn't want to come?” asked Adhara.
“No, Relanese women don't fight,” said the Emperor.
“What if Atonir is attacked?”
“It's well defended. Angoth remains in charge of twelve thousand men there. Let's hope they will not have to fight Gashan at their walls.”
“You have hope?” asked Menish. “Surely you're not waiting for Azkun’s dragons.”
“No, neither am I waiting for help from Kiveli.” He grinned at Adhara and Menish realised that he had even gained access to the secrets of the women of Anthor. Was anything hidden from him? “I didn't bring all these with me to watch dragons or whatever defeat our enemies for us.”
“But the Gashans have the Eye.”
He shrugged and they rode towards Meyathal.
Vorish’s men set up a vast camp on the flat area on the other side of the river from Meyathal. Their tents intrigued the Anthorians. They were made of canvas rather than felt, and they were square, which was absurd. These Relanese or Vorthenki, or whatever they were, did not know how to make a tent that would survive a northern winter. Did they really know how to fight? There were comments about their horsemanship, how they did not sit properly, and why did that one scowl at everyone?
But Menish was, as always, impressed with Vorish’s tight organisation. Tents were going up everywhere, but there was a disciplined pattern to it all. Those that were not setting up tents were unpacking wagons, starting cooking fires and digging latrines. Oxen were being slaughtered for the evening meal down by the river. All was going smoothly, with hardly an order given.
It was not until that evening that Menish learned more of Vorish’s plans. A council of Vorish’s Drinols and Menish’s clan chiefs was arranged to meet in Vorish’s tent.
Menish was surprised when he entered the council tent. He had lived in similar tents during the campaign against Thealum and he expected them to be Spartan inside. But Vorish had every luxury. There were bright hangings on the walls, rich floor coverings scattered with embroidered cushions and low tables of wood inlaid with shell. There were also wrought bronze candle holders suspended from the roof and their flickering candles set shadows dancing on the walls.
Vorish’s Drinols, Treath, Athun, Theyul of Kromere and Haramath of Azmere, were already seated when Menish entered with his clan chiefs. Treath and Athun Menish knew well. Haramath looked familiar, and he was polite enough to greet Menish as ‘Sire’. He looked about Darven’s age so he had probably been in the war with Thealum. Theyul was younger, probably too young for Menish to have met before. He seemed very Relanese in his dress. Where Haramath wore finely worked bracelets and embroidered trousers, Theyul wore little jewellery and the flowing court robes of the Relanese.
The clan chiefs, of course, were old friends, and old enemies, of Menish. He met them every year before the spring games where they discussed disputes between the clans, of which there were many. Sometimes the debate was amicable. Sometimes it was not. Menish had authority over them, but only because they permitted it. Often he thought they only allowed him to be King so that they could pass their most difficult disputes to him. There were five clan chiefs. Barvolin of Elarybol, Oramol of Gratha and Amralen of Rithyhir were all men a little younger than Menish. Barvolin had fought in the last battle with Gashan in Menish’s company. Yarva of Thonyar was too young to have fought, but she claimed she remembered the battle. Krithyol of Romeryhil had taken up his chieftainship two years before and Menish still did not know him well.
As well as the clan chiefs Menish had also brought Adhara, Drinagish, Bolythak and Neathy. As he looked around the table he reflected that Hrangil, Grath and Althak would have been here. But they were dead. Grath and Hrangil were, definitely. And Althak probably was by now. No one had ever returned from searching for the dragon isle. It made him weary. They were planning the battle he would die in, and many of his old friends were already dead.
He shook off these morbid thoughts. He still had Adhara. He still had Vorish. He was pleased with Drinagish, he would make a passable king, perhaps even a good one when he was used to it. But there might not be an Anthor for him to be king of, even if he survived the battle.
“Welcome, all of you,” said Vorish. “Please sit down. Have something to drink and there is food. Talking is hungry work.”
A servant poured wine or ambroth, as requested, and the ambroth was good, not the usual rough variety one took on journeys.
The food, however, was dried, except for the fresh meat. Even the Emperor could not arrange for fresh fruit on a spring journey. Menish resolved to see if he could find something better for Vorish’s table tomorrow.
“It's good to be in Anthor again, though I'd rather it was not for battle. I'd rather attend your spring games but,” he shrugged, “I'm always too busy. I used to delight in them in my youth, although I usually lost whatever I wagered.” Menish did not miss the casual way he reminded the clan chiefs that Anthor had once been his home.
“I've given this battle much thought, but no doubt so have you. What do the clan chiefs say?” He already knew what Menish thought.
“I fought Gashans last time, by Menish’s side,” said Barvolin. He was the most relaxed in the Emperor’s presence of the clan chiefs. Barvolin had been initiated into the Sons of Gilish at about the same time Menish had, and he had been a great friend of Hrangil. “There are two problems, they can throw fire and they have the Eye of Duzral. But we beat them last time. We can do it again.”
“We can do it by ourselves,” said Krithyol. “Anthorians are brave fighters.”
“Yes, I agree,” said Yarva. “You need not have brought all this.” She gestured vaguely to the tent, presumably indicating the army outside.
“Amralen? Oramol? What are your thoughts?” asked Vorish.
Amralen shifted on his cushion. He looked uncomfortable.
“Anthorians are brave, but to fight fire we have to be more than brave. I wasn't at the last battle, but everything I've heard says it was not just bravery that won. Menish was brave, everyone who fought there was brave. But Menish was clever. To win this battle we have to be both brave and clever. It's like a duel where the two fighters are matched. One will win because he knows a throw or a twist of the sword the other doesn't. When the fighters are not matched, the smaller one will sometimes know a trick the larger one doesn't.”
“I agree with Amralen,” nodded Oramol. “We have to be clever.”
“And we have to be brave, “ said Vorish. “I also agree with Amralen.”
“But you've brought your army,” said Krithyol.
“I brought a few men, they may be of use. Barvolin wisely mentioned that the Gashans can throw fire. This is what I've been thinking about most.”
“We're not afraid of fire,” said Yarva.
“Of course not. I know Anthorians well enough. You're afraid of nothing,” said Vorish. He sounded as though he meant it. Menish said nothing. He saw what Vorish was doing. “But as Amralen said, to beat them we'll have to be clever.”
“You mean think of some strategy?” asked Barvolin. “That won't help us much. Remember that our people like to meet their enemies head on. We don't have trumpet calls that each is trained to obey like the old Relanese did.”
“The Relanese still do use trumpet calls,” said Menish. “Vorish’s army is trained to understand them.”
“That's true,” said Vorish. “It may be useful. But this battle must be fought in the Anthorian way. It's your fight. I've only come to see if I can help.” He had disarmed their fears now. “I keep thinking about this fire they throw. The thing that I keep thinking about is how surprised they would be if we could throw fire back at them.”
“They certainly would,” said Amralen. “We would drive them before us like dogs. Chase them into the lake!”
“Yes, but we can't throw fire at them, can we?” asked Drinagish. Menish was pleased he had spoken up, but he wondered what Vorish was leading to.
“Of course we can't,” said Vorish. “But I wish we could. If we could just let them think we could throw it.”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” said Yarva. “It might make no difference if we could actually throw it or not. The panic we would cause would be enough.”
“Yes, imagine it,” said Athun, speaking for the first time. “Poor devils seeing a horde of Anthorians charging at them and throwing fire. I would run for my life!”
There was a murmur of laughter.
“But this is idleness,” said Adhara. “We can't convince them we can throw fire unless we can actually do it. And we know we can't.”
“Well, how could we convince them we were throwing fire?” asked Vorish. “What does this fire look like when it's thrown?”
“It's difficult to describe,” said Menish. He had told him this often enough before. Why was he asking again? Vorish never forgot anything. “You see the ground burst into flame in front of you. One moment there's nothing there, the next there's a great fire.”
“Do you see anything before it flames?”
“The Gashans had some strange devices with them, I wondered if they were part of the magic. Once I thought I saw flame flying through the air before it struck. But I had other things to think about.”
“I remember it,” said Barvolin. “It was just like that. Nothing, and then whoosh! A huge flame where there was nothing.”
Vorish nodded.
“If we could make one of those explode in front of the Gashans we would terrify them. How could we make one?”
“Something that burns quickly…” said Theyul. He trailed off hesitantly.
“Drinagish, you must have some idea.”
“Something planted in their path?” said Drinagish. “We could use pitch, that burns well.”
Vorish’s eyes gleamed.
“Yes, that's what we need! A bucket of pitch in their path. If that burst alight just as they approached it we'd have them frightened.”
“Yes, they would think it was us throwing it,” said Yarva, excited at the idea.
“And we would drive them before us!” said Krithyol.
“Into the lake!” laughed Vorish. But Menish thought it was not going to be that easy. The clan chiefs were still thinking of cattle raids, not battles. And what was Vorish thinking of? “Here, let me show you this.” He lifted a board onto the table. It was painted with strange designs, but Menish recognised it. It was a plan of the battlefield. “I had this made in Atonir by questioning people who were in the last battle. It's a picture of the battlefield as if you were a bird flying high above. This is the river, see? And here is the lake away down here. This area is the battle plain and there are wooded hills either side here and here.” The clan chiefs crowded around it, Menish noticed the Drinols did not. They had seen this before.
“What's it for?” asked Neathy.
“It is a tool for planning battles, Neathy. I'll show you.” How did he always remember everyone’s name? “If we say that Gashan is this marker,” he produced a tiny figure of a man and stood it upright on the board. “Gashan will advance from the lake up the valley. Anthor is this marker.” Another figure, this one larger, was placed at the other end of the valley. “If Drinagish's fire is set here, perhaps, and Anthor charges, Gashan will retreat back to here.” Vorish made the movements with the markers.
“But what if they scatter into the woods?” asked Drinagish. “They might be able to fight us off from there.”
Vorish was obviously pleased with Drinagish’s question.
“Perhaps that's where I can help,” he said. “If I put some of my people in the woods ready to ambush them and drive them back to you they'll have no hope.”
“There's something I am not sure about,” said Oramol. He was known as one who said little but thought deeply. “How will we light this fire of Drinagish’s?”
“Oh I'm sure something can be worked out,” Vorish assured him. “I've with me a team of engineers. Some people say they're wizards, but they've no magic. They're just clever, like Menish.” He smiled. “They'll devise a way to light Drinagish’s fire. We'll probably have to work out some signal so that the fire is lit during your charge, not after or before. Then we'll put the fear of Anthor into those Gashans!”
Menish saw it all. Not just the battle, but the way he had manoeuvred the clan chiefs. They were prepared to be intimidated by the Emperor’s army, to demand that they fight their own battle in their own way. Vorish had ensured that the strategy he had already planned appeared to be an idea of Drinagish’s as well as letting them charge head on into Gashan. But Menish saw himself at the head of that charge, dying.
“What about the Eye of Duzral?” asked Barvolin. “Menish said they still had the Eye.”
“I'm relying on Anthor’s courage there. We don't know how well they can use the Eye. I suspect they'll forget quickly when our plan begins to work-”
There was a commotion and the clash of steel among the tents outside. A woman’s cry rang out, not of pain but of outrage. They heard the thud of fist on mail.
No orders were passed but Athun and Treath rushed outside while Vorish coolly sipped some of his wine while he waited. There were more sounds of fighting but they returned a few moments later with two of Vorish’s blue surcoated guards who hauled an Anthorian woman between them; one of Vorish’s infantrymen followed, prodded along by Athun. Treath carried a curved sword that was smeared with blood and dust. There was a fresh gash in the infantryman’s leg and he was limping. The woman struggled and kicked. She tried to bite the men who held her and, with some clever footwork, she almost tripped one. All the while she kept up a torrent of abuse which only stopped when she saw Menish and the clan chiefs.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Sire! I've been insulted, and these brutes have interrupted a death duel!”
“Let the King of Anthor judge this matter,” said Vorish, formally giving Menish charge of the situation. It was no good the Emperor trying to dispense justice to an Anthorian woman.
“Release the woman,” said Menish. The guards released her as if she were a viper; and she glared venom at them. “Let the injured party speak first.”
The infantryman stumbled forward. There was also a graze on his arm, which turned into a cut where it met a bracelet, and a swelling on his face. He looked to Vorish first, but Vorish gestured towards Menish.
“M’Lord, this woman told me I'd pitched my tent wrongly. I told her it was correctly pitched. At that she drew her sword and tried to kill me. I only had my shield to defend myself and I'd be dead now if I'd not been rescued.”
Menish had been making an effort to recognise the woman. Althak would have remembered her name easily but Althak was not here. This time, however, he managed to recall her face. She was of the Thonyar clan, visiting Meyathal until they travelled to Gildenthal. He thought she was quite wealthy.
“Mara,” he fervently hoped that was her name, “is this true?”
“This barbarian had pitched his tent with the door facing east rather than south. Knowing them to be ignorant brutes and feeling pity for them I politely pointed out the error.” Menish could guess how politely. “In return he insulted me.”
“What words were used?” he asked the infantryman. “How did she tell you your tent was set wrongly?”
“She said, ‘You barbarians have the manners and knowledge of horse dung. The door must be on the south side, but you're as ignorant as the flies that hover about you.’” Menish noticed Drinagish grinning, threw a glance at Adhara who nudged him to a respectfully concerned expression.
“And what did he say in reply?” Menish asked Mara.
“Sire, I can't foul my lips to repeat it. Let him say it again and I'll tell you if it's the truth. After that I'll take pleasure in hacking out his tongue!”
Menish turned to the man. He assumed he would evade the question but he did not.
“All I said was, ‘a woman’s place is to keep her mouth shut and her legs open.’”
There was an outcry among the clan chiefs. Yarva began to draw her sword but Menish said “Wait!”
“That's near enough to it,” said Mara, her eyes flashing with rage.
“Flame of Aton! How are we going to work together against Gashan if we squabble amongst ourselves? You were wrong to attack him, Mara. This was no death duel. This was attempted murder. He did not have a sword.”
“He should have thought of that before he insulted me.”
“You must understand, their customs are different from ours,” Menish spoke to her in Anthorian, hoping she would follow suit rather than aggravating the situation with further abuse.
“Yes, and their customs are foul. Do you want us to supply them with maidens to slaughter?”
“They do not sacrifice maidens in Relanor.”
“They still buy and sell their women like cattle.”
“They're not buying and selling women now, Mara. You've wounded this man. I judge that you have had your honour satisfied. Leave the camp and cause no more trouble.”
The clan chiefs looked uneasy. Vorish’s man had delivered a grievous insult, but they saw Menish’s difficulty. Mara’s anger blazed to new heights.
“You find against me? What evil is this? Treachery from our own King before a council of clan chiefs! To what depths has Anthor sunk? But I'm not the first to feel the sting of your faithlessness, Son of Kizish. Your father would rise from the dead and cut you down if he knew. Your whoring in Relanor has got you an Emperor of your flesh, and now you bring him and his Vorthenki filth to rape our lands!”
She would have lunged at him but the guards grabbed at her and held her back.
“Who's hurling insults now?” stormed Barvolin, rising to his feet. His face flushed with anger. Menish was too shocked to speak. “How dare you insult our King before our visitors, before the Emperor himself? Are you trying to force a death duel with the King? Sire, I offer my own sword to settle this on your behalf.”
“Let him deny it,” spat Mara. “I only repeat what any woman knows who has been at Meyathal for the last few weeks.”
The Drinols had been looking confused for the last few minutes. They did not understand the Anthorian tongue well enough to follow what was being said. But all of the Anthorians, and Vorish, had understood perfectly. They looked at Yarva, Neathy and Adhara for confirmation. Adhara stared at her knees. Her hands covered most of her face. Neathy looked frightened. It was Yarva who spoke.
“She speaks the truth, though she still insults the King.”
“It's the truth,” said Vorish. “Menish is my father.”
“You knew?” said Menish aghast. “How did you know?”
Vorish shrugged, “It was something that became obvious to me years ago.”
“And you told them?”
“I didn't tell them.” Vorish looked past Menish, and Menish followed his gaze.
“I told them,” said Adhara.