Sylvriss rode forward and led her mount delicately out to the edge of a rocky outcrop. Her cloak was wrapped tight about her but her hood was thrown back and her face was flushed, as much with exhilaration at the progress they had made over the last few days as with the chilly air.
She looked out over the northern plains of Riddin. Home, at last, after all these years and so much turmoil. Admittedly, Dremark was far to the south, and the north of Riddin was sparsely populated, but soon she would be down there with her escort, and it would be only a matter of time before they encountered a patrol from one of the Muster lines.
Yengar joined her. ‘Your country, Majesty,’ he said, part question, part statement, his breath steaming.
Sylvriss nodded. ‘Ties of birth and family bind tightly, Yengar,’ she said. ‘But so do those of marriage and the loyalty of the Fyordyn, my people.’ She turned to him as she emphasized the word ‘my’.
‘I belong to both Fyorlund and Riddin now,’ she said. ‘Dan-Tor brought me and Rgoric together for his own unseeable ends amp;mdashprobably to corrupt Riddin as he has corrupted Fyorlund amp;mdashbut it was an error, and we’ll give him full measure of it before we’re through.’
The mention of Fyorlund drew her eyes to the dis-tant snow-covered peaks behind which that country now lay. The snow had caught them unawares, slowing their progress and making the journey difficult and laborious, but, being past the highest peaks when it arrived, they had encountered no special dangers.
Yengar followed her gaze and spoke her thoughts. ‘The snow’s early, Majesty,’ he said. ‘I fear that it’s the beginning of a long winter. I doubt there’ll be any way back to Fyorlund before the spring, except for hardy souls.’
Sylvriss looked at him, her mind full of thoughts of Eldric and the other Lords, facing the unknown power of Dan-Tor and ignorant of the fate of her and of Hawklan and Isloman.
‘Messages could be sent?’ she asked tentatively.
The Goraidin looked at the mountains again. ‘Oh yes,’ he said quietly after a moment. ‘But not easily and not without considerable risk. But troops?’ He shook his head. ‘Not in any worthwhile number.’
Sylvriss nodded. The harsh reality of the Goraidin’s simple comment briefly dimmed the joy of seeing her home at last.
Still, she thought, there would be plenty of time for debating tactics and strategy when they got to Dremark. And at least Eldric and the others were preparing for war. They were not sitting in their castles in guileless innocence anymore.
She looked again at the land spread out below her. ‘Come on,’ she said, easing her horse back from the edge. ‘Let’s go and find the Muster.’
They had to spend one more night camped in the mountains, but the following day saw them leaving the last of the great crags, and venturing out over the empty, rolling countryside.
During the whole of the day the group moved stead-ily southwards. Although the weather was cold and overcast, they were all happy to have left the difficult mountain terrain behind and, for the most part, their progress was at the trot.
Towards evening the sinking sun broke through a gap in the distant clouds, and for a while the landscape was flooded with a brilliant yellow light, peculiarly at odds with the greyness of the low clouds overhead. The riders’ shadows stretched and wavered, long across the short harsh grass.
‘We’ve seen no one all day, Majesty,’ Yengar said. ‘It’s really quite eerie. I seem to recall that Riddin was quite a bustling place.’
Sylvriss smiled. ‘The last time you were here, you were fighting a war,’ she said. ‘There were all manner of temporary camps here then. But this isn’t a very fertile region. It’s scarcely worth settling. And, as I remember, the war blighted what little settlement there was. Such villages as were here had to be abandoned or were simply destroyed. I’m happy to be here now, but it’s not a happy place for the Riddinvolk generally. Too barren, and too many bad memories.’
Yengar nodded. Bad memories he could understand. That was why the place seemed eerie, he realized.
But Sylvriss had been a young messenger in those days and knew of the region’s condition only from the words of her father and his advisers. The countryside itself touched no old wounds in her. If anything, it reminded her of times of bright and youthful excitement when she had thundered, invulnerable, hither and thither from camp to camp at the behest of the line leaders.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, turning to Yengar and laugh-ing a little. ‘There’ll be people enough as we get nearer the River Endamar. And once we’ve been seen, the news will be known all the way to Dremark almost within the day. I hope you weren’t intending to reach there quietly.’
Yengar shook his head. ‘No, Majesty,’ he said. ‘The bigger the escort the better, as far as I’m concerned. I doubt we need to protect you here.’
A fine drizzle was falling when they finally halted and made camp for the night. As she had done through-out the journey, Sylvriss tended the horses while the men erected the shelters, then she joined them for their meal.
Relieved to be away from the constant concern that had necessarily pervaded their journey through the mountains, the group were soon in high spirits, their laughter ringing out into the damp darkness like a celebratory carillon.
Abruptly, the entrance to the shelter was torn open.
The group’s good spirits tempered their immediate surprise.
‘It’s the Muster!’ Sylvriss exclaimed delightedly, struggling to get to her feet in the confined space. But Yengar laid a restraining hand on her arm. He was watching Olvric’s hand.
Nearest to the entrance, Olvric was peering out at the unexpected visitor. He was smiling, but his hand, behind his back, was signalling.
‘It’s armed men, but it’s not the Muster,’ Yengar whispered urgently to Sylvriss. ‘Follow Olvric’s lead until we find out who they are and what’s happening.’
Sylvriss’s face went white but she controlled her expression and nodded. Her thoughts were suddenly in a turmoil. Armed men, but not the Muster? It was unlikely that Olvric would be wrong. But who could they be? Surely Dan-Tor’s treacherous arm couldn’t have reached this far?
Olvric stepped out of the shelter and looked at the newcomers. As one of them made to speak, Olvric raised a hand in apology and looking up into the rain, bent down to the entrance again.
‘Pass my cloak, please,’ he said waving his hand towards it. Marek handed it to him.
Sylvriss heard Yengar catch his breath. ‘Morlider!’ he hissed, almost in disbelief. ‘At least twelve of them.’
Sylvriss felt her stomach turn over, and for an in-terminable, dreadful, moment, she thought she was going to faint. But sterner resolves buoyed her up as her mind cut through the questions about how and why the Morlider should be there, to the certainty that she had not battled alone against Dan-Tor for so long, to become a squealing victim to any fish-stinking brigands.
Yengar caught the light in her eye, and motioned her to silence.
‘Be discreet, but keep your hands by your weapons,’ he whispered to the others as, with wilful awkwardness, he struggled to his feet. ‘Look pleasant and watch for commands.’ Then, crouching, he stepped through the entrance to join Olvric.
‘It’s the Muster,’ Olvric said to him brightly, then turning to the semi-circle of watching men, ‘You gave us quite a fright,’ he said. ‘We haven’t seen anyone all day. We were beginning to think that the Muster didn’t patrol this far north.’
A large, bearded individual holding an axe stepped forward. He was a little taller than Olvric but considera-bly heavier and his whole demeanour was menacing. He seemed, however, a little taken aback by Olvric’s affability.
‘The Muster patrol here, have no fear,’ he said. ‘But who are you, and what are you doing here?’ His voice was as rough as his weather-beaten face and his accent confirmed his origins.
‘We’re travellers from Fyorlund,’ Olvric said, affect-ing to ignore the drawn weapons. ‘To be honest, I’m afraid we’re a little bit lost. We were hoping we’d run into you,’ he added confidentially, wiping the rain from his face, and pulling his hood forward.
The man scowled and knocked back Olvric’s hood roughly. ‘No need to be afraid of the water,’ he said. ‘Let’s see your face.’ Olvric stepped back a little and contrived to look bewildered, but otherwise made no response. Then the man pushed him to one side and, bending forward, peered into the shelter.
Following Yengar’s order, the four High Guards managed to return his gaze with interested courtesy, but Sylvriss, her face flushed, kept her head bowed.
A second, younger man stepped forward. There was a curl to his mouth which, combined with his blond hair matted wet across his forehead, conspired to give him a vicious, unstable presence.
‘Anything worthwhile, Drago?’ he asked.
The bearded man did not answer, but pointed to Sylvriss. ‘You,’ he said roughly. ‘Woman. Here. The rest of you stay where you are!’
Despite her best endeavours, Sylvriss’s feelings showed briefly in her expression as she stood up.
‘Don’t look at me like that, woman, unless you want your face reshaping,’ Drago said, raising a ham of a fist towards her. ‘Come here.’
Olvric stepped forward. ‘Now look… ’ he began, but the blonde man turned suddenly and, with a spectacular flourish, produced a large knife. He placed the point under Olvric’s chin. ‘We are looking,’ he said, his face expectant.
Olvric, looking alarmed, turned as if in appeal to the others standing around. Yengar watched the manoeu-vre: his comrade was assessing the extent and strength of the force ranged against them. While Sylvriss and Olvric had been attracting attention he had surrepti-tiously done the same, forcing discipline and experience to master the familiar fear and self-reproach that were even now tearing his stomach with griping pains and making his whole body shake. He was glad Olvric was there. Both deliberately and instinctively he began to relax his body, to free it for movement.
As Olvric had signalled originally, there were at least twelve of them, all with weapons drawn; too many to be tackled at the moment, without putting the Queen at risk. In addition, there was no telling how many more might be out in the darkness awaiting events. They were a mixture of young and middle-aged men and unmis-takably Morlider both in their features and their random array of clothing and arms. Yengar noted, however, that those who were not hooded had a driven, harassed look about them.
They’re running and hiding, he thought. But this revelation told him little else. What was such a small group doing so far from the coast? In the war, the Morlider had sent deep penetration groups inland to gather information, but this couldn’t be the case here. These were making no attempt to disguise themselves, and had refused to accept the pretence of being Muster riders that Olvric had offered them.
A more chilling thought occurred to him. Had they been separated from an army in some battle? It seemed ridiculous. If the Morlider had returned in force again, some message would surely have reached Fyorlund? But it could have, he realized. The normal route for messengers from Riddin to Fyorlund was further south and led into the estates of the southern Lords amp;mdashwhose loyalty was unknown! The fear in his stomach twisted again amp;mdashthey could have led their Queen into the middle of a war!
These conjectures flooded through Yengar’s mind in the brief moments it took Sylvriss to step out of the shelter and face the man Drago. Other thoughts came even more quickly. What was to be their fate? Prisoners? Hostages? No. Twelve men would not burden themselves with six and a woman. Victims? Possibly. Some Morlider had a reputation for a rudimentary chivalry and a sense of honour; others hadn’t. Yet these were talking; had their intent been purely murder, they would have waited until the camp was asleep. He looked at them again. Bedraggled and dispirited, they were beyond doubt hunted, but they were far from defeated. They probably just wanted supplies, he decided cautiously. Here was a bargaining space. The only serious problem would be Sylvriss. What danger was she in? Still…
Yengar noted that his fear had changed. The trem-bling that had been his initial response had diffused itself through his entire body, and he knew that he was now free to respond immediately to whatever threat presented itself. Two stray thoughts fluttered momen-tarily across his mind: one, that he was too old for this kind of thing; the other, that he was now wholly himself and had never been better equipped. He ignored both, and stepped forward.
‘Commander Drago,’ he said. ‘Is this the way the Muster treat strangers? Weapons and threats?’
Drago ignored him. He looked Sylvriss up and down appraisingly.
‘Fyordyn, eh?’ he said to Olvric, without taking his gaze from Sylvriss.
‘Yes,’ Olvric said nervously. ‘We’re only servants, sir. On our way to join our Lord down here, but the snows caught us in the mountains and… ’
‘Servants?’ said Drago, showing his teeth and reach-ing out to grip Sylvriss’s cloak. ‘In clothes like these?’
Olvric looked surprised. ‘We have a kind and gener-ous Lord. He looks after us well,’ he said.
Drago turned to him scornfully, then threw open Sylvriss’s cloak. ‘A very kind Lord indeed,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Who expects a pregnant "maid" to drag herself over the mountains to tend to him.’
Eyes blazing, Sylvriss wrenched herself free and pulled her cloak about her.
Olvric retreated from his story hastily before the Queen could speak. ‘It’s his child,’ he said confidentially, man to man, but looking suitably contrite at the exposure of his deception. ‘We’re taking her to friends in Riddin to get her away from his wife.’
This version provoked some obscene laughter from the watching men, and even Drago chuckled. ‘Well, she’s ours now. And the kid,’ he added, almost reluctantly, Yengar thought. ‘Still, we’ve no time to play the fool with you, whoever you are,’ Drago went on. ‘We need horses and food.’ He swung his finger between Yengar and Olvric, at the same time pointing his axe into the shelter. ‘Don’t give us any trouble and you’ll not get hurt.’
The blond man turned sharply. ‘Are you crazy, Drago?’ he burst out. ‘We can’t leave them alive. They’ll tell the Muster we’ve been here.’
Drago shook his head. ‘The Muster probably know near enough where we are,’ he rasped. ‘If they find corpses, they’ll be out in real force and we’ll have no chance. Do as you’re told. Get the horses.’
‘We could hide the bodies… ’
‘Do as you’re told, Symm,’ Drago erupted suddenly and furiously. ‘You and that stinking knife will get us all killed yet.’
The blond man’s face contorted with anger, and he turned the blade towards Drago.
Drago looked at him icily. ‘Use it or put it away. Count of three,’ he said softly but without hesitation. The hand holding the axe went behind his back, leaving his front seemingly defenceless.
‘One.’
Yengar and Olvric watched intently. Symm did not move.
‘Two.’
Symm’s eyes flickered over the watchers, most of whom had taken a pace backwards. He swallowed nervously.
Drago formed the word ‘three’, but Symm’s left hand went out before he could speak it. ‘Peace,’ he said, his voice hoarse and bitter. Drago did not move.
Slowly Symm replaced the knife in its scabbard, his jaw working.
‘My friendship for your father won’t save you if you do anything like that again,’ Drago said angrily. ‘You give me one more problem, Symm, and the Muster’ll find your corpse. Now get those horses and start looking for food.’
The blond man nodded to some of the others, and they wandered off into the darkness.
Drago took hold of Sylvriss’s arm. ‘You’re ours now, woman,’ he said. ‘Don’t be frightened. No one’s going to hurt you if you behave.’ His tone was incongruously paternal.
Sylvriss caught Yengar’s eye and in response to his urgent appeal she remained silent.
‘If you’re running from the Muster, you don’t want her with you,’ Yengar said. ‘She rides like a duck and has to stop and rest every two minutes. That’s why the snows caught us. She’ll hold you back.’
Drago looked at Sylvriss uncertainly. ‘She doesn’t look like the complaining type to me,’ he said. Then, taking her chin roughly, he turned her face so that the torchlight from the entrance to the shelter fell on it. A tremor went through her body and Drago tightened his grip as if he were shaking a wilful dog.
‘No,’ he said confidently. ‘Look at those eyes. This one doesn’t complain. She’s more likely to knife you in your sleep.’
‘Either way,’ said Yengar with a shrug. ‘She’s a prob-lem.’
Drago looked inclined to agree, but, ‘It’s the new Chief’s law,’ he said resignedly. ‘It’s more than my neck’s worth not to, especially as she’s pregnant. We need the breeding stock.’ He dismissed his hesitation. ‘Anyway,’ he said scornfully, ‘I don’t need advice on how to handle women from some Fyordyn servant who can’t even find his way across dry land. I’ve not met a woman yet that couldn’t be brought to heel with a whipping if need arose. You save your concern for yourselves. It’s a long way to anywhere from here.’
Yengar was about to reply when there was a crash nearby, followed by a series of colourful curses. Suddenly a brilliant light flared up. Yengar turned away quickly, but not until he had caught a glimpse of a man picking himself up off the ground while another, holding the unusually brilliant torch, was reaching down to help him. Various other individuals were struggling to harness the now startled horses.
‘Put that out,’ Drago thundered. ‘It’ll be seen miles away.’
The light dimmed, then vanished and a reproachful voice came out of the darkness. ‘Drago, we can’t see a damn thing out here,’ it said.
Drago was unsympathetic. ‘Neither can I now, you fish head,’ he said angrily, screwing up his eyes. ‘Just get those horses here.’
Yengar and Olvric exchanged glances. That torch…?
But that would have to be considered later. Now, other thoughts were more pressing. Losing the horses would be bad enough, but the Morlider couldn’t be allowed to take the Queen.
Yengar took a chance. ‘How long is your ship going to wait for you, Drago?’ he said. ‘If the Muster know you’re here, they’ll be patrolling the coast for it. Can you really afford to burden yourself with this?’ He nodded towards Sylvriss.
Drago’s eyes narrowed.
‘I was a cadet runner at the end of the war,’ Yengar said, answering the unspoken question. ‘And I’ve got kin in Riddin. I know something about your people and I know how the Muster work. It’s an ill tide that’s brought you here, but if you’ve not hurt anyone there’s a fair chance that even now they’ll let you reach your ship and leave. But if they see you’ve taken a woman… ’ He looked significantly at Drago and pitched his voice in the tone of a friendly adviser. ‘I don’t know what law obliges you to take her, but I’d put the law of survival above it if I were you.’
Drago looked uncertain again, but before he could speak, Symm and the others returned with the horses. Their appearance seemed to decide him.
He looked distastefully at the horses. ‘I don’t like these things,’ he said. ‘But they’ll be quicker than walking and might even confuse the Muster at a distance if they think we’re still on foot.’
He thrust his axe into his belt, and took Sylvriss by the arm. ‘You’d better ride with me,’ he said, pulling her forward. Then, turning to her, ‘I don’t know how you behave with these minnows here, lady, but you give me any trouble and you’ll travel unconscious across my lap.’ He offered her his fist again in token of this promise. ‘It’s your choice. Now mount up.’
Head bowed, Sylvriss walked to her horse and, with elaborate clumsiness, hoisted herself into the saddle. Yengar noticed her whispering to the horse in the process.
Drago reached up and prepared to join her, but as he did so, Sylvriss cried out and tugged on the reins. Screaming, the horse reared and spun round several times, knocking Drago to the ground and scattering both men and horses. Then she was gone, the sound of her horse pounding into the night.
Yengar had expected the Queen to take some action once she was mounted, but even so, the suddenness of her response left him gaping momentarily.
Angry roaring from Drago brought Yengar back to the present. There would be no more debate now. He swung round and struck the nearest man in the face with the edge of his clenched fist. The blow did little harm but it stunned the man sufficiently for Yengar to seize the large knife that was thrust in his belt.
Olvric was less considerate. Symm’s eyes lit up sav-agely at the change in temper of his leader and he strode towards Olvric, purposefully reaching for his knife. He drew it with the same elaborate flourish he had used before. It was obviously a habit he had cultivated for the purpose of intimidating his victims, and as such it was a mistake, as Olvric demonstrated by delivering a brutal blow to his jaw in the middle of the performance. The impact sent Symm sprawling face downwards on the ground and there was a quality in the sound of it which told Yengar that Olvric had used his iron knuckle protectors.
Instinctively, the two Goraidin moved back to back, but they were joined almost immediately by the four High Guards who had tumbled out of the shelter as soon as the first blow was struck.
Swords were handed hastily to the two Goraidin, and the six men formed themselves into a close circle.
Recovering quickly, the Morlider formed a larger, more hesitant circle around them.
‘You’re High Guards, all of you,’ Drago snarled con-temptuously. ‘I should’ve smelt it.’
He pointed to Yengar. ‘Cadet runner.’ He spat. ‘If you were anything, you were one of Rgoric’s infantry. I should’ve cut you all down when you crawled out of your hole.’
Yengar made no sign.
Drago’s fist opened and closed. ‘I lost kin and friends at the hands of your people,’ he said.
‘As did I at the hands of yours, Morlider,’ Yengar replied, unable to keep his own anger from his voice but still searching for a peaceful conclusion to the confron-tation. ‘Do you want us both to lose more here? You shouldn’t have come then, and you shouldn’t have come now. Take the horses and go while you’ve the chance.’
‘Not until I’ve settled my debts,’ Drago replied, heft-ing his axe. ‘Old and new.’
‘That woman you manhandled was no Fyordyn Lord’s plaything,’ Yengar said. ‘She’s a Muster officer and the daughter of one of Riddin’s most respected homes. She also knows the country round here amp;mdashshe’ll have the Muster down on you within hours. Run while you can.’
Most of the Morlider seemed inclined to agree, but Yengar knew that having been humiliated by a woman, Drago would have to make some mark on his adversar-ies, no matter what the consequences. The questions was, what?
The answer became immediately apparent as the big man drew his axe and pushed aside the man to his right to leave a space in which he could swing it. Yengar knew that when he threw it, he couldn’t fail to bring someone down.
‘You should’ve brought your shields, High Guard,’ Drago said.
Olvric spoke in the battle language. ‘Yengar, feint straight at him, then take the man on his right. I’ll feint left and then deal with him when you move across. When we go, the rest of you keep together, charge the opposite side of the circle. Get out into the darkness and hide until they’ve gone. No stupid heroics. Your duty’s to the Queen. Find her and get her to Dremark.’
The four Guards acknowledged the order.
Drago grimaced at the meaningless chatter, but said nothing. His arm started its upward journey, the honed edge of his axe damp and glinting in the rain-streaked torchlight. Yengar felt the movement, as well as saw it, and he knew that Olvric would be responding the same way. Just before the axe reached its zenith, the two of them would surge forward across the treacherous wet ground, to strike at both Drago and the man to his right who was preparing to follow his leader’s example. There would not be even the briefest hesitation, nor any pity; that could mean their deaths. The man had committed himself to this path and had thus placed his own life as forfeit in the game.
The arm and its lethal burden seemed to continue upward for an eternity. Though Yengar knew he would be giving no outward sign, he felt both his body and his mind tilting towards the balance point.
Then it was there!
‘Stop!’ A powerful voice cut through the intensity.
Drago faltered, and the moment was gone.
Yengar almost lurched forward, then he turned in dismay. The voice was Sylvriss’s. What’s she doing? he thought desperately. She’ll get us all killed and herself taken for sure.
Slowly Sylvriss emerged out of the darkness and stood at the edge of the torchlight, horse and rider a strange shadowed vision.
‘Drago,’ she said. ‘I’m Sylvriss, Queen of Fyorlund, and daughter of Urthryn, Ffyrst of Riddin. I will excuse your offence against my person because you know little better, but your presence here offends against our laws, and I cannot excuse that. I command you and your men to lay down your weapons.’
For a moment, Drago stared at her, seemingly awed. But that moment, too, passed.
‘Woman,’ he said, ‘all I can see is a fool on a horse. You should’ve kept on riding. When we’ve dealt with your "servants" here, we’ll deal with you, Muster wench or no.’
Sylvriss rode forward, more fully into the light. She raised her hand.
The Goraidin and the High Guards saw it first; torches flickering into life out in the surrounding darkness. Yengar looked round quickly. The lights were all around them, each swaying from side to side gently.
Drago followed his gaze, then spun round, his face both fearful and livid. His massive hands twitched around the shaft of his axe.
‘Lay down your weapon, Morlider,’ the Queen said again. ‘Unless you want a dozen arrows in you.’
The lights moved nearer to each other. The circle was closing.
Yengar had seen the Muster in action, both as mass cavalry and individual skirmishers. Their speed, manoeuvrability and discipline were awe-inspiring, and in his mind they were always associated with pounding irresistible power. But subsequently his memory of them would come to be dominated by their silent approach out of the Riddin darkness that night; strange, towering shapes shifting and changing in the swaying torchlight. Yengar felt primitive childlike fears stirring inside him faintly at the sight of these eerie, menacing night creatures advancing unhurriedly but relentlessly towards him.
Whether Drago felt the same is a matter of conjec-ture, but with an oath he threw down his axe. Following his example, his companions threw down their weapons also.
As they did so, the circle closed and the Morlider found themselves torchlit and exposed, between the words of the High Guards and an impassable wall of silent riders.
Drago looked at Sylvriss. ‘I knew you were trouble as soon as I looked at you, woman,’ he said.
‘Watch your tongue, sea thief,’ came a voice from just behind Sylvriss. The speaker edged his horse forward. His cloak glistened with rain, and the torch-light threw grim shadows on an already gaunt face.
Drago stared at him, unrelenting. ‘For now, horse rider,’ he said unrepentantly. ‘But our time’s coming soon.’
Sylvriss raised her hand and spoke to Drago again.
‘The line leader tells me you have indeed hurt no one during your… visit,’ she said. ‘We will therefore escort you to your ship and allow you to leave.’ She looked at the still motionless figure of Symm, and at the man Yengar had struck, now gingerly checking his nose and teeth and wiping away the blood that still flowed from his nose periodically. ‘We’ll tend to your injured for you, as well,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Olvric sharply. ‘They mustn’t be allowed to leave. They must be kept here.’
Yengar nodded in agreement.
The man by Sylvriss leaned forward. His face showed his fatigue. ‘You’re free with your orders, Fyordyn,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s not our way to feed and house these scoundrels. And it seems you’re as disre-gardful of your Queen’s will as you are of her safety.’
Olvric’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Yengar laid a hand on his arm gently. ‘That’s a fair reproach, line leader,’ Olvric said after a moment. ‘We were remiss in our guard and will account for it to our superiors in due course. But we’d not expected to find Morlider wander-ing loose, least of all so far inland when the Muster patrol the coast so thoroughly.’
His tone was acid and the line leader’s jaw twitched angrily.
His horse took half a pace forward.
‘Enough,’ Sylvriss said severely. ‘I don’t intend to hold a debate in the pouring rain, and in the middle of the night. We’re all tired and cold. With your permis-sion, line leader, I suggest we make camp unless there’s any pressing reason why we should be elsewhere. We’ll have time enough to talk tomorrow.’
Still glowering at Olvric, the line leader reined his horse back. ‘As you wish, ma’am,’ he said.
The following day dawned to a clearer sky but a chill wind blew down out of the snow-covered mountains and rattled the tents and shelters of the hastily rigged camp.
Their immediate task completed with the capture of the Morlider, the Muster was effectively stood down and the line leader made no effort to rouse his riders early following their recent prolonged riding.
Pulling his cloak about him he left the tent which housed the captives and walked towards the Fyordyn’s small shelter.
Discreetly he eased back the entrance flap and, crouching down, peered inside. As he did so, a hand moved quickly in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a knife but, before he could react, the blade was resting against the side of his neck, and the edge of the hand pressing against his throat. The contact of the hand had a purposeful reality in it more awful than the cold blade, and while he sensed no real danger, he knew that an unpleasant death could be less than a breath away.
‘Don’t move,’ said a soft voice needlessly.
Without turning his head, the line leader cast a sideways glance at his captor. ‘I was coming to apologize anyway, Goraidin,’ he said. ‘A night’s sleep makes a difference.’
The knife disappeared and Olvric laughed.
‘It does indeed,’ he said. ‘The Morlider caught us both by surprise, I suspect.’
The line leader nodded his head in agreement, then shook it to decline Olvric’s beckoned invitation to enter.
‘We must talk,’ he said simply. ‘Will you join me for a meagre portion of cold field rations?’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Yengar, sitting up. ‘Too long in the saddle eh, line? Does that mean it’s going to be short commons all the way to Dremark?’
The line leader looked appreciative. The Fyordyn would decline to eat well while their rescuers fasted; it was a heartening gesture.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Perhaps only for a day. I’ve sent mes-sengers out with the news of the capture of the Morlider and asking for more supplies. I told them to make no mention of your arrival. I thought that best until I’d spoken with you. The unexpected arrival of the Ffyrst’s daughter with such a small escort obviously betokens trouble somewhere.’
Olvric nodded.
‘Be quiet and shut the door,’ someone said sleepily.
The two Goraidin exchanged a glance and then joined the line leader outside. Before leaving however, they folded back the entire front of the shelter.
As the three walked through the wakening camp, the line leader introduced himself. ‘I’m Girvan,’ he said. ‘Girvan Girvasson, brother to Girven, head of the third house of Orness in the Decmill of Westryn, cousin to Rannag, daughter of… ’
Yengar laid a hand on his arm. ‘Please forgive us,’ he said. ‘But Riddin lineages bewilder us Fyordyn at the best of times and, to be honest, both Olvric and I have difficulty beyond our own first cousins. Girvan will suffice.’
Girvan looked at him uncertainly for a moment, then he nodded significantly. ‘I take no offence,’ he said. ‘I seem to remember some such problem with Fyordyn in the past.’ He wrinkled his forehead in concern. ‘It must make your lives very difficult,’ he added.
‘We manage, Girvan,’ Yengar said. ‘We manage.’
Girvan led them to one of several large tents. Inside was a scene of modest chaos as its occupants were rousing themselves and preparing for the day with varying degrees of stoicism and dignity. They all stopped and stared as the two Goraidin were ushered in, but the brief unease passed as Girvan appeared behind them.
‘Riders,’ Girvan called out. ‘I need to talk to our friends.’
Without debate a space cleared around what Yengar took to be Girvan’s sleeping area. Girvan beckoned to a young woman nearby. ‘Lennar,’ he said. ‘Could you fetch us whatever the cook’s managed to scrape together this morning?’ He held up three fingers.
The woman nodded and smiled, and pushed past them to reach the entrance. As she passed Yengar, she looked him up and down curiously. Yengar smiled uncertainly then started, as with a resounding thwack her hand landed on his behind. It was followed by some laughter and applause from the other Riddinvolk. Yengar felt himself blushing.
‘Lennar!’ Girvan said with stern paternalism, then reassuringly to Yengar. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘She’s just skittish. You’ll have no problem while we’re in camp. Sit down, sit down.’
Yengar did so, quickly.
Girvan came straight to the point. ‘Why are you here, Fyordyn?’ he asked. ‘With the Ffyrst’s daughter amp;mdashyour Queen. And why do you ask us to keep these Morlider amp;mdashsomething we’ve never done.’
Yengar looked around the tent. People were coming and going, stowing their equipment and generally preparing to break camp. None seemed curious about their line leader’s private conference. He realized it was a protective habit that the Riddinvolk must have developed through spending much of their lives in such communal quarters.
He turned back to Girvan. ‘We can’t tell you why we’re here,’ he said. ‘At least, not yet. The Queen must tell her father first.’
Girvan frowned. ‘Yes, I forgot about your… elabo-rate… ways of discussing things,’ he said. ‘But I asked for a reason. I’ve patrolled here for years and seen little more than the odd soul who’s lost his way from the Gretmearc. Now, within a few days of one another, one of the old men from the Caves comes and tells us he has an important message for Urthryn; Morlider land for the first time since the war; and you appear, presumably out of some little used route through the mountains, escorting your Queen, no less.’ He looked intently at each of the two men. ‘The lines of the house of Orness are responsible for patrolling the northern borders,’ he said. ‘I want no precious secrets, but I need to know what trouble is following you so that I can dispose the lines properly to meet it.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Yengar said. His Goraidin train-ing told him he must give this man the information he needed to answer these legitimate concerns. ‘As far as we know, no danger follows the route we took. Certainly no army, especially now the snows have arrived. It might perhaps not go amiss if you increase your vigilance of the more usual routes from Fyorlund, but again, I doubt any force will be coming. As for your old man and the Morlider, I know nothing.’
Lennar appeared with food. Girvan looked at her severely and she contented herself with accidentally brushing against Yengar as she reached across to hand a plate to Olvric.
Clearing his throat, Yengar answered Girvan’s other question.
‘We asked you to keep the Morlider because they too raised questions which should be answered,’ he said. ‘For one thing, they were too far inland for such a small raiding party.’
Girvan coughed, and pulled at his ear. ‘That was my mistake,’ he said awkwardly. ‘We delayed because we didn’t believe the first reports we got, then we acciden-tally cut them off and drove them this far in. It was fortunate for us all that Sylvriss ran into us when she did otherwise we might have ridden past and lost them for days.’
‘That’s one problem dealt with,’ Yengar said, look-ing relieved. ‘Their appearance here made no sense at all. But there are other matters. Their leader, Drago… spoke of a new chief; of wanting… breeding stock.’ He wrinkled his face in distaste at the expression. ‘Of their time coming soon,’ he concluded.
Girvan shrugged. ‘Words,’ he said. ‘Rhetoric. He was blowing air in front of his men. Probably didn’t like Sylvriss getting the better of him amp;mdashthey’ve some very strange ideas about women, you know.’
Both the Goraidin shook their heads and said ‘No,’ simultaneously. Olvric spoke. ‘You’re a veteran, if I’m any judge, Girvan,’ he said. ‘Why did your country ask for help twenty years ago?’
Girvan looked at him, but there was no accusation or offence in Olvric’s manner.
‘There were too many of them,’ he answered simply.
Olvric nodded. ‘Far too many,’ he said. ‘And from what we know about them, their islands are crowded with people. They can want breeding stock for one thing only. Fighters. Armies.’
Girvan looked uncertain. Olvric leaned forward. ‘Drago knew he probably wouldn’t reach the coast undiscovered, yet he was so concerned about his new Chief, that he was prepared to slow himself down and also risk being punished by you by taking a pregnant woman with him.’ He reached out and took the line leader’s arm. ‘And they have a torch, the like of which we thought existed only in Fyorlund, and which betokens no good. We have to question these people, Girvan. Find out what’s going on. I fear that our troubles and yours may be the same.’
Girvan looked from Olvric to Yengar and reached his decision. ‘I’ll have the watch on the coast increased,’ he said. ‘And give orders that Morlider are to be captured and taken to Dremark.’