Urssain was almost jubilant. ‘It worked, Ffyrst,’ he exclaimed. ‘Exactly as you said it would. But even more quickly.’
Dan-Tor turned from the window and examined the unexpectedly enthusiastic Mathidrin.
‘They come to break themselves against the spears and shields of our troops,’ Urssain continued. ‘If they keep up their present pace they’ll be exhausted when they arrive. Within the week they’ll be finished and there’ll be none to oppose you. All the other Lords will fight to kneel at your feet when they see what happens to your enemies.’
Dan-Tor nodded slowly. ‘Indeed, Urssain. Com-mander Aelang is to be commended on the effectiveness with which he provoked the Lords,’ he said.
The news was heartening. Soon the residue of this tiresome resistance would be crushed. Yet, when he first heard it, something had stirred somewhere deep within him; a faint tremor of unease. You move too quickly, Lords, it said; even to avenge such a deed. I would have expected you to dither, dawdle and debate a little more before you ventured forth; instead you charge out like so many enraged bulls.
Now, responding to his Commander’s confidence, the unease returned to Dan-Tor. To still it, he calculated back from the moment when an exhausted messenger had slithered from his foaming horse with the news of the unexpected appearance of a large army moving rapidly towards Vakloss. The Lords must have started late in the day and marched through the night to cover such a distance. Accepting this, Urssain’s estimate of their pace was reasonable and, if they maintained it, the Lords would indeed arrive in well under a week. And yet, at such a pace they must surely be exhausted when they arrived? The Lords’ actions seemed to bear the hallmarks of an uncharacteristic impetuosity.
Dan-Tor tried to set this inconsistency aside, but from it a single thought rose to dominate his mind.
Who fires your resolve, Lords?
The name Hawklan floated inexorably in its wake. Had that green-eyed abomination indeed survived and rejoined the Lords? Was he once more hunting him? Using the Lords now as once he had used the people of Vakloss? Would he be there, at the head of their ranks, spurring on the High Guards, or would he be skulking in the rear, plotting some more devious assault?
Dan-Tor found himself quailing at the thought of Ethriss’s sword flashing and singing again in the forefront of battle, cutting swathes through his warriors. It was only with a great effort that he set the vision aside. That image, though it returned vividly, even after the countless millennia of darkness, did not portray the true danger of Hawklan. No single man, however ferocious, could swell the ranks of the Lords’ army to the size of the army that would greet and crush them. And there was always a random arrow or a whirling axe to end their riot. The true danger lay in just such assaults on Hawklan’s person. If the terrible clamour of battle did not awaken the dormant Ethriss, the impend-ing death of his mortal frame surely would.
Dan-Tor’s concern deepened abruptly. The die was cast utterly now. At his instigation, the Lords had launched their army towards Vakloss. Nothing now could prevent a major battle. And if Hawklan were there, in its midst…
For a moment, he felt as he had felt at Eldric’s ac-counting: trapped. There he had been faced with the risk of having to use the Old Power to quell the crowd at the revelation of the use of Mandrocs in Orthlund, though, ironically, Eldric’s own commanding presence had actually saved him. Now, he could not prevent any lethal physical assault on Hawklan occurring if he were anywhere within the Lords’ army. Had he made yet another error? Pedhavin, Eldric’s accounting, and now this?
Dan-Tor turned back to the window and looked to the north.
Or had he been manipulated by some subtle hand into ensuring the waking of Ethriss?
The thought chilled even the black heart of his Uhriel’s soul.
And yet…
It couldn’t be. If Ethriss had such awareness, such dormant skill, he would surely have directed it to guiding the Cadwanol, his ancient servants. They could have wakened him. He would not have jeopardized the lives of thousands of men in battle…
The thought came like a sudden wind blowing away a stifling mist.
Nor would Ethriss have wantonly provoked the Old Power at Eldric’s accounting when so many innocents must inevitably have died.
How could he not have seen it? People had died for Ethriss in their hundreds of thousands, but Ethriss would not sacrifice a single unknowing soul for any end!
Hawklan could not be Ethriss!
Who he was and how he came to possess the key to Anderras Darion and Ethriss’s black sword and bow were enigmas, but their solutions could perhaps be untangled at some other time. What mattered now was that he was not Ethriss. He was a mortal man; gifted in some strange way, and indisputably dangerous, but a mere man!
Dan-Tor closed his eyes and felt the burden of Hawklan at last pass from him. If the creature was in this army he would probably be slain with it, leaving Anderras Darion tenantless, and the sword and bow in His possession. If not, he could be hunted freely, and bound, or slain later. It was no longer of any conse-quence.
A white smile greeted Urssain as Dan-Tor turned back to him.
‘What action have you taken, Commander?’ he said, knowing the answer. Urssain’s speed in galvanizing the defence of the City was to his credit.
Urssain feared his master’s smiles more than his frowns but this seemed to be devoid of menace. He responded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve sent out messengers to all the companies between here and the Lords, ordering them to pull back to Vakloss as soon as the Lords reach them,’ he replied.
Dan-Tor looked at his protege. ‘Withdraw?’ he said with wilful uncertainty.
Urssain nodded. ‘Yes, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘The reports we have say that the Lords are coming in full force amp;mdashEldric’s High Guards, Arinndier’s, Hreldar’s and Darek’s, plus their civilian reserves, the remains of Evison’s High Guards and quite a lot of deserters from the other Lords… ’
Dan-Tor raised a hand to stem this flow. ‘Did you manage to ensure that some of your people were with the deserters?’ he asked, again knowing the answer from his own endeavours to obtain information from the east.
Urssain’s enthusiasm faltered. ‘No, Ffyrst,’ he re-plied. ‘We sent several in with plausible enough tales, but none returned. Nor have we received any messages from them. Not that that’s proved significant. The Lords never disguised their intentions or their activities, and now they’re actually flaunting their strength. We need no secret intelligence to find their measure.’
A fortunate quirk of circumstance, Dan-Tor replied inwardly, a conspicuous foe just when we’re blind. But after the Lords had been defeated he must travel to Derras Ustramel and tell Him of the growing hazards of such blindness, not least the Cadwanol. The birds must be freed if His work is not to be so hampered again; but let Him determine that.
With a flick of his hand, he returned Urssain to the mainstream of his telling. ‘Why are you withdrawing your forces, Commander?’ he asked pointedly. ‘Why aren’t you opposing them at every step.’
Briefly, fear welled up inside Urssain’s stomach but, riding high, he ignored it and plunged on.
‘They’ve committed their every resource, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘To oppose them with individual companies would be to lose men, materials and morale for no useful purpose.’
‘You doubt the courage of your men, Commander?’ Dan-Tor asked.
‘No, Ffyrst,’ Urssain replied, surprised at his own spontaneous faith in the Mathidrin troopers. ‘They’re afraid of nothing. Remember the Mandroc tribes they subdued when we first moved out of your estates and into Narsindal? I doubt the High Guards are expecting such ferocity. But courage is no match for overwhelming odds. If our men stand and fight in small companies they’ll be destroyed, and probably without inflicting any serious harm on the enemy. But if they withdraw, they’ll be here fresh and ready for action alongside all the other companies, and… ’ He smiled knowingly. ‘… they’ll tempt the Lords into maintaining their present pace in anticipation of an equally easy final victory.’
Dan-Tor stood silent for some time. Involuntarily Urssain licked his lips.
‘Good,’ said his tormentor eventually. Urssain breathed out, discreetly.
‘I’ve also recalled some of the companies in the south and west,’ Urssain added. ‘Those from the estates of our friendlier Lords, though I doubt they’ll arrive in time.’
Dan-Tor nodded. ‘And in the City?’ he asked.
‘The City’s sealed, and under curfew,’ Urssain re-plied briskly. ‘All food supplies have been commandeered, the Militia and all the auxiliaries have been fully mobilized, and the main Mathidrin compa-nies are moving to their defensive stations on the eastern approaches.’
‘Good,’ Dan-Tor said again. ‘And how are the people responding?’
Urssain shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say. We imposed a full curfew immediately we had definite news, so there’s been little chance for any rumours to start. I think a simple public announcement will end what little speculation there is. The Youth Corps can make it, they’re already patrolling the streets to ensure the curfew’s being maintained. I don’t think the people are going to be any problem.’
Dan-Tor stood silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Have two of the reserve Mathidrin companies stationed in the Palace, Commander. We may have no spies in the enemy’s camp, but they’ll have many in ours for sure, and they’ve shown in the past they’re quite capable of reaching into our very midst.’
Urssain hesitated.
‘Just because they’ve turned to face us at last, Com-mander, doesn’t mean they’re above treachery,’ Dan-Tor said coldly. ‘There are many new faces in the City amp;mdashin the Palace itself, since my… accession. We mustn’t become careless when such a major victory is within our grasp. Attend to it right away.’
When Urssain had left, Dan-Tor returned to the window and resumed his vigil. For some time he stood silently staring towards the hazy northern horizon. Then he turned away and moved through a nearby door.
A long winding stairway took him high up one of the palace towers until eventually he reached a narrow landing. Opening a door, he stepped out onto a broad observation balcony.
In the streets far below the weather was a cool, rather dank autumn. Around the high balcony, however, a wind blew always, and now it was cold and raw. But Dan-Tor was unaffected. Standing motionless, he stared out towards the east.
Now were all his years of silent toil bearing fruit. Not in the manner he had envisaged, admittedly, but far sooner. Briefly the image came to him of a spring flower bursting suddenly into bloom after a long dark winter, but it was distasteful and his head twitched involuntar-ily to free him of it.
And yet the past months had been a strange, turbu-lent period, full of change and struggle and mystery: he himself deceived by the aura of that sinkhole Anderras Darion into imagining he had found, and could bind, Ethriss; Rgoric slipping his leash and running amok after almost twenty years of carefully sustained decline; and that horse witch weaning him back to normality and strength. Even getting herself pregnant, if rumour was to be believed. At the thought of Sylvriss, Dan-Tor’s lip curled back to reveal his clenched teeth, white and predatory.
But it had all been salutary: a timely reminder that these creatures were, after all, Ethriss’s creation, flawed and dangerous. And, too, the Cadwanol had appeared on the fringes of events. That was of major importance. Perhaps in reality they lay nearer the centre than appearances indicated. They were not a force to be lightly ignored. When this was over, He would doubtless look to have them sought out and crushed before their infection spread.
The cold wind tugged at Dan-Tor’s robe. He laid his conjectures aside. Soon, very soon, there would be time for a retrenchment, a quietening of the turmoil and a new beginning. When his army had crushed the Lords he could divide an acquiescent Fyorlund amongst his senior Commanders and turn his mind to the gradual destruction of Orthlund and Riddin; back, if possible, to slow corruption by stealth and smiling deception.
And of course, to lighten these tasks, there would be the hunting of Hawklan.
It was an agreeable prospect, Dan-Tor mused. Vio-lence and war had their uses, but they were too hazardous; too uncontrollable and unpredictable. They represented the very pinnacle of humanity’s flawed and inconsistent nature. They were not his favourite tools, though admittedly he wielded them with some relish when need arose.
Even now, there was risk. Small forces had routed larger before now. The thought was haunting and persistent, but he set it aside. Aelang had done his work well; the Lords were moving in anger; an emotion that would have wasted their energies utterly by the time they reached Vakloss to face the vastly superior numbers of the Mathidrin and the Militia.
Granted, the Militia were of uncertain value, but they would burden the Guards in many ways, leaving them the wearier when they finally hacked their way through to the Mathidrin.
He smiled as the thought came to him that the loss of so many Fyordyn men would cause great social upheaval and ease the subsequent governing of the land. It was an advantage he had not considered before.
He brought his mind back to the present. Below him, the City was unnaturally silent; its stillness disturbed only by the Youth Corps’ patrols and the occasional rider or runner. In the distance he could see some of the activity as his troops transformed the eastern edge of the City into a defensive enclave.
Slowly he stilled his mind and set forth his power. Out to the north under his own extensive estates to touch the comforting roots of the cold dark mountains that separated Fyorlund from Narsindal. Tentatively to the south where it shied away from the ominous shadow of Orthlund. Then east, out under the bustling prepara-tions of his own army until eventually it felt the purposeful tread of the advancing High Guards.
Ever guarded, Oklar mused. How easily you could be destroyed, in your pathetic strutting arrogance, without the protection of forces you know nothing of. Once it would have been Ethriss or Theowart, or some cadre of potent Cadwanwr, now He Himself guards you from my wrath.
As a reminder of this protection, Hawklan’s arrow hung heavy in his side; a terrible, waiting presence. He knew no hurt would return to him while his Power was quiescent and watching, but should he use it…
Oklar withdrew his Power lest the nearness and vulnerability of his enemies tested his patience too far. To strike them thus would be to shatter his own mortal body.
Let these creatures hack and hew each other, he thought. It is the way it always was and in itself would be a passing amusement for him. It would also be a valuable exercise for the Mathidrin; it was a long time since they’d faced angry, armed opposition. It would thin out their weaker fry and leave him with a battle-hardened nucleus around which could be built His real army.
Briefly he felt a wave of weariness pass over him, but he ignored it. It was just another remnant of his own erstwhile humanity. His eternal solace lay in the knowledge that one day these flawed and erratic creatures would be no more, and he would stand by His side in a world of perfection; shaped by Him and peopled by His creations. It was a heady thought, and he allowed it to soar freely.
Eldric was tired after the day’s marching and riding, but he had spent the evening walking around the camp: talking to the sentries slowly pacing the perimeter; talking to cadet runners, excited and anxious, homesick yet glad to be there; talking to troopers and officers alike in their tents and shelters, resting after the day’s rapid march; talking to grooms and ostlers, tending the cavalry horses and remounts, and the great draught horses that were hauling the supply and baggage wagons in relays to keep pace with the swiftly moving army. Talking… and listening. Answering questions. Asking questions. Lifting up the jaded and fearful, calming the over-heated.
Though a soft and hazy mist filled the camp and the surrounding countryside, the stars above shone sharp and clear. He looked up at them.
I envy you your cold clarity, your certainty, he thought. Silver and aloof in your rich purple darkness.
Then he cleared his throat self-consciously as if he had inadvertently spoken this poetic sentiment out loud.
Two passing troopers saluted him.
He returned the salute and wished them goodnight as they faded into the darkness.
Around him was the dwindling hubbub of the quiet-ening camp. Torches and shadowy figures moved hither and thither, though without menace; snatches of conversation, laughter, even some singing, floated to him. Then a dog barked somewhere and, far in the opposite direction, a horse neighed. Standing alone in the darkness he felt as though he were one strand in a huge moving tapestry of sound and quietly bustling life.
He had stood thus many times before, during the Morlider War, and even, occasionally, when on the Watch in Narsindal, though there had always been an indefinable unpleasantness about that place and a different quality of tension had pervaded the Watch camps. Now at least he knew why.
This is a good place to be, he thought. The quiet unity of purpose, the caring companionship of fellows in arms. A good place. Would that it could last. Would that this time it might not end in horror. Other familiar thoughts returned to him unbidden. Armed conflict was an obscenity; a loathsome catharsis, like vomiting, but infinitely worse. Infected, the nation fretted and fumed in discomfort, then in pain, then it retched and heaved until, uncontrollably, in a terrible spasm, it shed the offence, leaving itself exhausted but perhaps renewed amid stench and degradation. The analogy pursued itself. Sometimes it was not an end, but a beginning; even a presager of death.
Eldric let the thoughts pass him unhindered. They held nothing new for him. It grieved him deeply that he and his companions were now the seeming aggressors, but he took solace from the knowledge that if an acceptable alternative presented itself at any time they would take it, and gladly.
He drew in a deep breath of the cool autumn air. It was scented with dampness and browning leaves, dying in preparation for the cold winter and the distant spring.
This is a good place to be, he thought again, then, pulling his cloak about him, he set off for his own tent.
It was indistinguishable from all the other tents except for the standard that hung motionless in the stillness. The Lords and people were never far apart in Fyorlund but both tradition and experience dictated that more than ever they should share both favour and hardship in such difficult times.
Arinndier rose as Eldric entered.
‘I’m sorry, Arin,’ Eldric said. ‘I’m a little late. I’m afraid I was… ’
‘Talking.’ Arinndier finished his apology for him with a wry smile.
Eldric conceded. ‘Talking,’ he admitted. ‘And think-ing.’
Arinndier raised a mocking eyebrow.
Eldric ignored the taunt. ‘The others are ready?’ he asked, affecting a briskness he did not feel.
‘In the command tent,’ Arinndier replied, indicating the entrance through which Eldric had just passed.
Darek and Hreldar were sprawled out in their chairs when Eldric and Arinndier joined them in the command tent. Both confined their welcomes to a cursory nod.
Eldric smiled broadly. ‘A good day’s march, gentle-men,’ he said.
‘No heartiness, please, Eldric,’ Darek replied. ‘Save that for the men. It’s been a good day and night’s march, and you’re as tired as we are.’
Eldric pulled a wry face and sat down by his col-leagues. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’re none of us as young as we were.’
‘No cliches either,’ Hreldar said.
Eldric eyed him uncertainly for a moment, then, unexpectedly, a smile surfaced on Hreldar’s grim face and he chuckled.
‘It’s as well we all agreed to this forced march,’ he said. ‘Otherwise one of us would be unbearably self-righteous now.’
The fatigue-born unease in the tent faded and, lean-ing back, Eldric rested his arm on a nearby table. ‘How’s morale among your men?’ he asked, looking round at each of his companions.
Excellent, was the consensus. The Lords and their officers had always presumed that apart from Dan-Tor coming personally to use his power against them it was unlikely they would be assailed on their own territory. With regret, they recognized that if Fyorlund was to be freed from Dan-Tor and restored to its old ways, they would have to take the offensive and move on Vakloss.
The timing of such a venture, however, had proved to be a considerable problem. Their ranks grew daily as High Guards from other Lords joined them; some independently, some with the strong, if covert, blessings of their Lords. Yet with each new individual came the extra burden on food and resources and it soon became apparent that too long a delay might tip the balance inexorably in Dan-Tor’s favour; the Mathidrin and this new Militia would presumably be more prepared, and the natural momentum of the daily lives of the people would inevitably make them more amenable to their new leader, while the Lords would be increasingly burdened by a growing, expensive and probably fretful standing army.
Fearing this, and the consequent decline in morale, most of the senior High Guards’ officers had argued for a swift and powerful strike against Vakloss. Arguments that had been intensified by the appearance of early snow on the distant mountain peaks indicating perhaps a severe winter. However, despite the unusual fighting tactics they were devising, the fear of Dan-Tor’s terrible power, combined with the natural reluctance of the Lords to be seen as open aggressors, had outweighed all other considerations, and a degree of frustration had never been far below the surface.
The slaughter at Ledvrin had, however, materially changed these concerns. An attack by the Lords could now clearly be seen as not only a legitimate, but a necessary, response, and, more importantly, there was the substantial doubt about the ability, or willingness, of Dan-Tor to wield his power. Given these changes and the now raging anger of the men, there was little left to debate.
‘Hawklan would have told us to excise the diseased tissue as quickly as possible, before its infection spreads and destroys us all,’ Yatsu said at one meeting.
The men were in good fettle and it was debatable whether training through the winter, pending a spring offensive, would materially improve them.
Supplies were good; morale was good. Both were at risk if there was a delay amp;mdashparticularly the latter.
The discussion had not taken long. Nor had its logi-cal consequence. A swift attack meant swift amp;mdash‘Hit them hard and fast, before they really know what’s happening’ amp;mdashand that, in turn, meant forced marching. Each man would carry his own arms and two week’s field rations to ensure greater speed by dint of independence from the baggage and supply train, while this in its turn would be smaller and swifter. Normal practice on forced march exercises was for the men to carry a month’s field rations, and the reduction to two weeks was greeted at first by mocking applause, though this turned rapidly to laughter and cheering when its implications became clear amp;mdashwithin two weeks this business would be over!
Eldric stretched his legs. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve made the right decision. My men seem to be thriving on it after so long with no clear end in sight.’ He pulled himself upright in his chair. ‘However, now we’re on the point of leaving Garieth’s estate, we’ll have to face the problem we’ve avoided so far amp;mdashthe loyalties of the other Lords between here and Vakloss. They’re uncertain, to say the least.’
It had been a strange irony that the four Lords knew more of what was happening in Vakloss than they did of the minds of their former friends and colleagues. With the Mathidrin patrolling far and wide, and normal movement between villages and estates being greatly reduced as the country watched and waited, it was easier for the Goraidin to be inconspicuous on the more populous roads in and around Vakloss than on the quieter byways which filigreed the countryside. The seeming ease with which they moved across country belied utterly the considerable difficulty and danger of the journey.
Eldric ignored the unhappy expressions on his friends’ faces and ploughed on. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘But between here and Vakloss there’s only Irian, Tel-Amreo, Valen and perhaps Shalmson within striking distance of our route, who have amp;mdashor had amp;mdashHigh Guards of any worth.’
No one demurred from this observation.
‘We need to find out whose side they’re on before we leave them to our rear,’ Eldric continued.
‘Irian and Tel-Amreo would probably be with us,’ Hreldar said after a brief silence. ‘But Valen and Shalmson were always in Dan-Tor’s pocket. And Valen’s Guards were a rough lot at the best of times.’
‘They were supposed to disband their High Guards,’ Arinndier said tentatively, stifling an unexpected yawn that conveyed both his fatigue and his reluctance to be discussing this topic.
Hreldar looked at him sideways. ‘Valen’s men could be wearing black liveries by now,’ he said bitterly. ‘Shalmson’s amp;mdashthat’s difficult. I don’t know amp;mdashbut I wouldn’t trust him too far; he was always gullible and greedy.’
Arinndier grimaced at Hreldar’s tone. He would have liked to have protested at the idea of Valen’s High Guards joining the Mathidrin, but he knew there was a strong possibility that that could well be true. ‘Well,’ he said, almost impatiently, ‘there’s no point equivocating now. We can’t afford delay and we can’t afford to tie down too many men guarding our backs. Send a couple of cavalry squadrons to their castle gates, tell them what Dan-Tor’s done, what we’re doing, and ask them to join us.’
‘Subtle,’ Darek said wryly.
Arinndier took the comment at face value. ‘Subtlety takes time, Darek,’ he said. ‘We avoided the issue so far only because we knew the answer. We’ll just have to barge in. One of us can go and make a judgement on the spot.’
Eldric nodded. ‘It’s as good an idea as any,’ he said. ‘We really don’t have the time for sending scouts, messengers and all the niceties. The sudden appearance of a large "friendly" force should provoke a fairly genuine response.’
Darek chuckled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I can hear Irian now.’ Then, more seriously: ‘But I agree, Valen and Shalmson could be problematical. That said, I can’t see that either Irian or Tel-Amreo would have settled easily for some bland neutrality. Their High Guards will probably still exist in one form or another, and that could be useful; but by the same token, Dan-Tor will have reached the same conclusion and their estates could be infested with Mathidrin. What do we do then?’
Arinndier shook off the remains of his reluctance. ‘As agreed at the outset,’ he said sternly. ‘If we encoun-ter any Mathidrin, we engage without warning.’ He drove his fist into his hand with a resounding smack. ‘Every one we can deal with in the countryside is one we won’t have to deal with at Vakloss. That’s why I said send two squadrons. No one amp;mdashMathidrin or turncoat Lord amp;mdashis going to have that many men routinely mobilized.’
Darek raised a placatory hand. ‘And Shalmson? Valen? What if they have changed sides? I can’t see them asking their men to consult their consciences. They’ll have had little say in the matter. And rough though they might be they’re entitled to a choice. We can’t just attack them without warning.’
Eldric and Hreldar looked at Arinndier. He pulled an uncertain face. ‘If that’s the case,’ he said, quietly, ‘then I suppose we’d better offer them an opportunity to remember their Oath of Loyalty before we engage.’
Darek’s comment reminded all of them that soon they would be facing many of their own countrymen in pitched battle, and the atmosphere in the tent became gloomier.
‘Not our choosing,’ Eldric said after a short silence, answering the unspoken doubts that hung in the air. ‘But it’s all we can do. Admittedly this attack is our will, but it’s also the King’s last command. Let’s hope speed and ferocity will lessen the resistance.’
Darek acknowledged the remark, but returned to his concern. ‘And if Valen or Shalmson stay in their castles?’ he said. ‘What then? We’ve no siege train with us.’
‘If we move fast enough, I don’t think that’s likely,’ Arinndier replied. ‘They might know in Vakloss that we’re coming by now, but I doubt anyone’s bothered to detour across country to tell anyone else.’ He shrugged. ‘But if it does happen, then we will have to tie down some of our men in blockade. It’ll take fewer to do that than it will to defend our backs.’
Darek nodded resignedly, and the tent became si-lent.
Eldric looked round at his friends. ‘Are we all agreed then?’ he asked.
Each of the three Lords signalled his agreement in the manner of the Geadrol; a simple horizontal move-ment of the right hand. The silent, familiar gesture brought a lump into Eldric’s throat unexpectedly. ‘Good,’ he managed awkwardly. ‘We’ll work out the details the first thing tomorrow. Now let’s get some sleep.’
Urssain walked out of his ornate command post and strode past the saluting sentries. A few strides took him towards the edge of a rocky outcrop that overlooked the intended battleground.
The night was still, but there was a cold, wintry sharpness underlying the autumnal calm. Below, spreading far ahead of him and extensively to both the right and the left, were countless scattered lights: globes, campfires, radiant stones, blazing torches amp;mdasheven some of the old-fashioned torches that the Ffyrst’s globes had replaced. It was almost as though the stars of a bright summer night’s sky had fallen to the ground.
Around him rose a sound like waves pounding a distant shoreline. It was the noise of the army; people even more numerous than the myriad lights. Some would be on duty, guarding the perimeters to prevent desertions, checking and moving arms and supplies, pitching tents, tending the horses, attending to newly arrived companies, and the countless other tasks that the serving of an army demanded. Others would simply be waiting; waiting for their next duty, waiting for sleep, for morning, for them.
And all invisible in the darkness that separated these fallen stars, Urssain thought.
Suddenly he felt alone and very small, daunted by the realization that this vast flickering sea of lights was but a fraction of the true energy and power that lay spread out before him; the greater part of it was quite invisible.
A chilling thought came to him. Is it always thus? Do we only ever see just such a shimmering, deceptive, outline of reality, while knives and malign intent lurk in the darkness?
He stood motionless, momentarily disoriented by this unexpected and disconcerting vision, and not knowing how to respond to it. Then the thought and the shadow were gone, like some passing twinge of pain; gone and almost immediately forgotten except for a faint, lingering after-image of uncertainty.
Nerves, he thought reassuringly. He should recog-nize them by now, he’d been in enough battles, hadn’t he? Though admittedly, none had been as big and ordered as this, and he had never held so exalted a position. His certainty returned and his brief unease was replaced by excitement.
Even the news that the Lords’ cavalry had suddenly attacked the local garrisons billeted at Irian’s and Tel-Amreo’s estates did not concern him too much. It had always been assumed that those two Lords would turn on the new regime when an opportunity presented itself and it came as no great surprise when a messenger, having run headlong into the retreating Mathidrin, returned with the news that many of the High Guards of the two Lords had mysteriously ‘reappeared’ to help with the rout. All that had been allowed for and the Ffyrst’s army would still be greatly superior in numbers to that of the attacking Lords.
Although he had been able to gain no direct infor-mation about the strength of the Lords’ army prior to the attack, Urssain, with Dan-Tor’s guidance, had estimated it, including a liberal allowance for volunteers from the High Guards of other Lords. Now, the reports he had received bore out this calculation very closely, including the contribution made by Irian’s and Tel-Amreo’s Guards.
In a couple of days, the Lords would arrive, ex-hausted after their protracted forced march, to find themselves facing an army at least twice the size of their own. An army rested and waiting, and which had but to hold its defensive line until the attackers were so debilitated that they could be crushed with ease. It would be both interesting and instructive to stand by Dan-Tor and watch him crush, once and for all, this irritating residue of Rgoric’s old regime.
Looking again at the vast camp spread out in front of him, Urssain tried to visualize the scene.
There would be row upon row of infantry, cavalry, archers, as far as the eye could see. And opposite them would be the Lords and their pathetic entourage.
He smiled to himself. It would be a considerable learning indeed.
The only real cause for concern was not the ap-proaching enemy, but his fellow officers. The time before battle was, almost traditionally, a dangerous time in the Mathidrin. The break in normal routines and the pending mayhem provided opportunities for the settling of old scores and the clearing of ambitious pathways which could not be passed by. Various individuals, mainly lone sentries, had already been found murdered and it was unlikely there would be time to inquire into these deaths fully, especially as they involved only troopers.
Urssain wondered briefly if any of the officers were considering attempting to remove him in order to enhance their promotion prospects.
On balance he thought it was less likely than usual. Aelang was his greatest threat, but his pact with the erstwhile Commander of Narsindalvak still held, to their mutual benefit, and between them they offered any usurper a daunting target. In addition they had the indirect but substantial protection of Dan-Tor. He tolerated the internecine feuding that pervaded the Mathidrin, even using it on occasions to fulfil ends of his own, but whenever it reached such a pitch that it might materially impair the efficiency of his troops he would act swiftly and mercilessly to stamp it out, albeit temporarily.
Urssain knew that after the battle, when Dan-Tor shared out Fyorlund amongst his senior aides, there might possibly be some trouble, but that would have to be dealt with as and when it arose. The immediate danger now lay in some half-witted clown misreading the situation and attempting to avenge some old injustice, real or imagined.
As the thought recurred, he wriggled his shoulders a little as if easing tension. In reality, however, he was feeling the weight of the mail coat underneath his livery; it was so light that he had developed this almost nervous twitch to remind himself he was wearing it.
Ironically, the wearing of the coat contained other tinges of betrayal than a distrust of his own men, as it was not one made recently in Dan-Tor’s workshops, but an older one made by one of the Guild Armourers before their craft had gone into such a rapid decline. It was lighter, more flexible and, above all, finer and stronger than those made by the Ffyrst’s workmen. It would take the worst of a sword blow and would stop any knife thrust beyond doubt. It had been an expensive purchase but, in matters of personal defence, Urssain was quite clear in his priorities and not given to making petty economies.
Out in the darkness, circling wide round the lights that fringed the eastern edge of Vakloss, a small group of men moved silent and unseen across the unguarded fields.