Darkburn Book 2: Winter by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

But Rubila, her head cocked on one side, heard something in that nothing. “Ah,” she said,

“better come in and tell us all about it.” Patting Yaret’s arm, she turned and began to walk crablike back towards her doorway. Considering that Rubila could see neither door nor path, she moved quickly. Yaret hurriedly rummaged in her pack for a pair of candles before she ran to catch her up. The Fiordal people had no use for candles and kept none.

Inside the groundhouse, she had to crouch in order not to bang her head on the passage roof. Her grandfather had always come away from here with a variety of scrapes and scratches on his balding scalp; and Yaret, though not so tall as him, was still taller than most of the Fiordal. The walls and floor of the tunnel were hacked out of a gritty sandstone that was rough against her fingers. However, her candles were not needed, for as her eyes adjusted to the dark a faint glow from the fire-room turned the walls to orange-brown shadow, providing just enough light for her to see her way.

When she emerged into the fire-room itself, a square-sided chamber carved out of the rock, it was like stepping into a wide, low-ceilinged cellar – a warm one, however; much warmer than the cellars she had left behind. Although the fire in one wall was burning low beneath its narrow chimney, the stoves on either side emitted trickles of steam and smells of baking.

Many racks of drying clothes curtained the far end of the room. From behind them, Rubila’s family emerged: all five of them, no longer children now, although none had yet married and set up their own house. Yaret thought, with a pang, that maybe there were too few others for them to choose from – too few potential partners in the groundhouses. And if this place could not manage to regenerate, with its forty houses, how could Obandiro with its mere half a dozen?

But when the common door beside the fireplace was pushed open, with a “Can we come in?” she realised that maybe she’d been too pessimistic. For a couple of the newcomers, stocky young men, were immediately hailed by Rubila’s daughters. Despite their blindness they confidently crossed the room, walking over to exchange fond hugs before they turned to give Yaret a gentle greeting.

Then more of the Fiordal came hurrying in by the same common door, which linked Rubila’s house by tunnels with a dozen other groundhouses – all the ones within this mound.

But Rubila’s had the biggest fire-room. Before long there were over thirty people nestled in the kitchen, sitting on low benches or standing round the edges of the room: perhaps a quarter of the Fiordal.

Only two of them were children. Igolo and Brula ran up to her and stroked her gently up and down before clasping her hands.

“You’ve got older,” said Igolo. Yaret knew her hands were rough and chapped from the winter’s work.

“And you’ve got taller,” she told them both.

Although she was smiling, the Fiordal must somehow have realised that all was not well, for they immediately took charge of her. Rubila sat her on the bench and gave her a bowl of soup to warm her hands on. Blankets were brought in – rugs of her grandfather’s and her own weaving – and were wrapped around her until she was, if anything, too warm.

Even more warming than either soup or rugs were the children who snuggled up to her on either side, keen to hear her story. They all were keen to hear it; their only news from outside came from occasional wandering traders like herself. But the adults’ sombre faces showed their apprehension that her news would not be good.

And it was not easy news to tell. Yaret found herself stumbling over the words as she tried to describe the destruction of Obandiro and her grandparents’ farm, but in shielded terms that would not distress the children overmuch.

Igolo and Brula were agog but stayed undistressed. It was the adults – those who had known her grandfather for many years – who wept openly. The children squeezed her arms and patted her shoulders. “There, there,” said Igolo.

“And these people were called stonemen?” asked old Hubilo, tears running down his face from his dark eyes – seemingly all pupil – into his stubbly grey beard.

“Yes. Have you seen any–” Yaret caught herself in time to rephrase the question. “Have you heard any sounds of marching men coming through here lately? Or smelt anything strange?” For they would have seen nothing – at most a hint of a movement, a stir of shadow; she understood that their vision extended no further than the distinction between light and dark.

They had always lived this way, Rubila had once told her. Blind was a word not in their vocabulary. They found it difficult to grasp what Yaret meant by seeing. Shapes they understood, for they could touch them; but they could not see them in their minds.

However, if darkburns had passed this way, she thought, the villagers would undoubtedly have registered their deathly stink. And if stonemen had marched past they would have felt and heard them even deep within the groundhouses. She was relieved when the Fiordal shook their heads, murmuring their incomprehension of such people.

Then they fed her more soup while she spoke of how things were at present in Obandiro. It was as if they hoped that warmth and food could ward off sorrow. So she tried to tell them that the situation were not altogether dark – although she refuted the use of that word. Dark.

Why should dark be evil, be terrible? Night had always been her friend. And the stonemen had brought hideous fire and killing heat, not darkness. To the Fiordal, too, light was the enemy – sunlight, anyway, which hurt their eyes.

“But what do they want, these men who plant stones in their heads?” asked Hubilo.

“To conquer. To destroy. I don’t know. It’s not as if they care about the land. They steal livestock but just leave the farms and towns abandoned if they don’t set them on fire.”

“Yet they must have a purpose.”

“I suppose so. Or their leader must, at least. But I don’t know what it is.”

There were baffled murmurings and much shaking of heads. The concept that some people might cause destruction just for the thrill of power, the will for domination, or love of other people’s pain, seemed not to occur to them.

Yet it was something she had reflected on through the long cold winter nights. She could only liken it to the destructive urge of a thwarted toddler. But a toddler had excuses, not least its ignorance of consequences. Whoever ordered the firing of Obandiro, she thought, could have no true reason. No excuse.

Rubila wriggled off the bench. “Come,” she said, “now if ever is the time for sooth-saying.”

“No, thank you,” answered Yaret politely. On every visit to the Fiordal people, they made this same offer of sooth-saying. She had no idea what it involved and did not wish to find out.

Her grandfather had once, years ago, given in to their insistence that he should have his fortune told. “Very odd,” was all that he would say about it afterwards.

“Don’t be scared,” Rubila told her now. “The sooth-saying predicts no deaths. That’s not what it’s about.”

“Thank you anyway, but no.”

“Yes,” said Hubilo, standing up also. Brula and Igolo next to her began to pull at her hands to drag her to her feet. She resisted. What use could she make of any sort of sooth-

saying? If it was bad, she would only worry in case it should come true: if it was good, it might make her complacent. Unguarded.

“We will go together to the Fioronhall,” announced Rubila, “and there you can decide.”

“Go on, go on,” Brula urged. “It’s fun.”

“It is not fun,” said Rubila reprovingly.

“Yes, it is.”

“Hmph,” said Rubila. “Well, come along anyway.”

It couldn’t be all that serious if a child thought it was fun. The two children were both tugging at her. So Yaret did not resist those small warm hands, but laughingly allowed herself to be pulled up and dragged towards the common door.

She had never been through this way before, and when she saw how dark it was beyond she said, “Wait: I need to light a candle or I’ll bang my head.”

They waited patiently while she retrieved her two candles and lit them at the fire. With them flickering in the bronze candle-holder – a sole find in an otherwise empty cellar – she followed Rubila through the door and down the sandstone passage. In places she had to squirm to avoid being scraped along the tunnel’s sides.

This place was not as old as Obandiro had been, she thought, but old enough. At least, being underground, the people ought to be much safer from attack and fire… She sighed.

“Don’t worry,” said Rubila just ahead of her. “If you really don’t want to hear anything in the Fioronhall, then you won’t.”

In that case she would hear nothing, Yaret decided.

The twining passage seemed to lead into the middle of the hill. The Fiordal before her and behind her walked more easily than she did, without ducking or twisting, hardly even putting out a finger to check where they were. Perhaps they could discern the walls’ presence by the movement of the air.

And now she herself could feel the air move. A moment later they emerged into a cavern.

A big cavern – as big as the Gyr cave, no, bigger; although this space was very different.

Unlike the Gyr, it bore no marks of mining. This chamber was not hand-worked as the tunnels and the fire-room had been. Her candles lit up walls shaped smoothly into wave-like hollows, and striped with bands of greeny-gold and copper, rust-reds and pinks and browns, like drifting layers of sand all petrified by time. At its far edge columns rose to meet the roof, twined with the same soft colours. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

Half a dozen of the adults, as well as the two children, had followed her in. She wished that they could behold it as she did, glowing faintly in the candlelight: that they could see the huge banded waves that seemed to move and drift and turn like some vast slow sea created out of stone. Presumably it was water that had worked these undulating walls, long centuries ago.

Despite their blindness the Fiordal were smiling as if they too could see the marvellous sight. Surefootedly, Rubila led them forward until she stood in the middle of the cavern; there she turned around a few times before nodding.

“Here,” she said. Her voice echoed softly. As the others gathered around her with heads slightly tilted Yaret realised that they were listening. All became very still. Even their breathing became muted. Not a movement, not a rustle, not a whisper now escaped them, the children no less silent than the adults.

Such a vast space, thought Yaret; beautiful, it’s true, yet as hollow as the home I’ve left behind, as empty as my life that now is gone. I feel the void inside myself as great as in this cavern.

None the less. Respect your hosts. Pretend, at least. Do as they do. So listen.

At first she thought that she heard nothing. Then she realised that somewhere far away there was a faint ringing, like a distant bell. It came and went. She closed her eyes to hear the

better. Some movement of unseen water caused it, maybe: drips falling on one of those twisted columns, or on some sheet of stone, tapping it like a muted cymbal or a chime.

After a while the sound seemed to grow, not fade. More water? She stopped puzzling over the mechanism of it and merely listened, letting the faintly ringing notes wash over her, coming and going, their echoes seeming to revolve all round her as if she were caught in some languorous whirlpool of eddying sound. It was strangely relaxing.

And also strange was the fact that gradually within the sound she began to hear words.

Someone was speaking to her through the waves, the waterfall, the swirling toll of many distant bells or one. Was it a male voice, or female? She couldn’t tell. It was probably her own mind struggling to find meaning in the unfamiliar, trying to turn the sound to words.

Yet a word was clearly there, whether conjured by her own mind or not.

Horse.

No surprise. She thought of Poda, grazing patiently outside, the bow and quiver still strapped to the saddle. A great gift.

The word transmuted, changed its shape .

Hunters, hunters.

Or was it huntress? Either way, no surprise, again. She remembered the patient hours spent waiting for a deer; the crackle and snap before the bear had emerged from its thicket.

Listen.

Yes. She should have listened better then. So listen now. The chiming whispers encircled her but did not make her feel hemmed in. They gave her rather a sensation of huge space, as limitless as the sky. She listened to their ebb and flow as they regrew around her.

Home is where you are.

The emphasis was on the you. Who is you? she wondered. Is my home here with the Fiordal? Or simply where I am? That was one to think about. But later on. For now, just listen.

The waves washed over her.

Oh, my dear.

Oh... That surely was her mother’s voice, which she did not remember ever hearing.

Oh, my dear. My dear.

Such love was in it. Yaret caught at the sounds and let them settle in her heart which seemed to be turning over and over. Oh, my dear. Oh, my mother.

But now it was repeated, seemingly by different voices, from all sides of the cavern. My dear. One or two of the voices seemed familiar. Was that her father speaking, a vague memory of smiling tallness? Her grandmother? Someone else?

Or all of them. A whole dead town, she thought, all those former friends and neighbours who stand now at my shoulders; and her eyes flew open, in case they might be standing there around her, their eyes fixed on hers.

But there were only the Fiordal, listening rapt and silent in the candlelight. She wondered if they heard the same words she did. Or did their minds create their own meanings from the whispering stone?

My mind is merciful, she thought: it has given me the words that tell me what I need to hear. That in spite of everything I have a home. That I have been beloved.

She closed her eyes and listened once again.

But now there were no words for her to hear, only the shivering chime and hush of pulsing waves, as if the banded cave held some great shivering gong. The murmurings swept over and around her, time after time, in an endless drift and flow and eddy; and it came to her that

– although she had never heard it in her life – what rolled and whispered past her, wordless now, was the long sound of the sea.

Chapter 19

“You’re determined to go on to battle, then?”

Yaret paused in loading baggage on to Poda. “Yes, I am.”

Rubila sucked her teeth. “Did the cave not advise you against it?”

“No. It said nothing about battles.”

Rubila waited, her head a little on one side. She was obviously hoping for more information about what the cave had said – for Yaret had told her the previous evening only that she had indeed heard several words. She had added, “It was very odd,” and that was all.

Nor did she feel that she was willing to tell Rubila now the phrases she had heard, in case the other woman placed some unwelcome interpretation on them. Even so she did not want to hurt Rubila’s feelings. So she said placatingly,

“There was nothing about death in the words, as you assured me. Nothing for me to fear.”

“Then perhaps there will be no battle after all,” said Rubila, “and you are riding all that way for nothing. You can always stay on here with us, you know.”

Home is where you are... She could decide that it meant the Fiordal. It was tempting to remain here, so cocooned and cared for. But if she were to abandon this journey, it ought to be to Obandiro that she returned.

“Thank you, but no,” she said, and to appease Rubila she added, “After the words, I thought I heard the sea.”

“The sea?” repeated Rubila blankly. Of course she had never been there either. “The sea!

Ah, well. If that’s what you heard, I expect that’s what you need to go and find. But be safe and come back soon.”

Yaret had just begun to explain that she did not intend to search for the sea, when Igolo and Brula came running out – they had no fear of falling, those children – and thrust towards her little bags of offerings to add to the tough dried roots and plums that Rubila had already given her, refusing any payment.

She opened one bag. Inside, wrapped in leaves, were a dozen cherries stickily preserved in honey. She was touched, for this was a real treat given up by Igolo on her behalf. Brula’s bag held five glossy hard-boiled pigeon eggs.

“Thank you,” she said, and bowed, even though they could not see her. But they would hear the bow as she went on, “I will visit you again next year, no doubt. When you will be still taller.”

“Come back before that!” said Igolo. Brula hugged her and they ran off together.

Yaret bent to kiss Rubila’s wrinkled cheek before she mounted Poda. This was a good home, but it was not hers. All the same, an unexpected feeling of regret pulled at her as she rode away.

My dear. Did she take those dead with her? She imagined them still standing in the whispering stone hall, like eternal statues.

But they had no more reason to remain there than she did. So out of the Uin-Buin she rode determinedly, away from the murmuring waves hidden beneath the earth, past the mounds and across the many streamlets.

The landscape here was just awakening into green and gold. The air smelt fresh – for the first few hours, at least. In was several hours later, when she reached the next stretch of farmland, that the scent of smoke began to taint the air, and grew thicker as she rode.

Soon there were more signs of burning: hayricks, spinneys, one whole wood of coppiced willow, many acres razed to black with no sign of new growth. This felt worse than the countryside around Obandiro, which had largely escaped the fire, and Yaret began to canter through it as fast as Poda would allow. She continued to ride as night fell, hearing the

hoofbeats pound rhythmically across the moonlit desert. The same frantic thudding she had heard down by the Darkburn, before Poda had burst through the undergrowth, riderless and snorting... Now that heartbeat seemed to be the only sound in all this land.

When finally she halted and lay down to sleep beside the burnt, cold remnants of a hayrick, the smell of smoke immersing her like an unwelcome extra cloak, she asked the Farwth, whispering through the ground, What has happened here?

She neither expected nor got any answer. But the land felt somehow paralysed with shock.

It made her think of Eled, that gentle, dazed young man. She hoped he was still safe in Farwithiel – and that Farwithiel itself was safe. Surely it must be, given the power of the Farwth to dispel intruders.

As she lay huddled on the smoky ground her mind turned to the other Riders of the Vonn, remembering how they had rested in that huge hollow tree. Back in Obandiro she had seldom allowed herself to think about the Riders except during the telling of her evening tale. Only now and then would she pull out memories to give her information, or simply comfort. She rationed herself, because it had seemed so unlikely that she would ever see them again. And she wanted to see them again: she admitted that now. They seemed to beckon her from some obscure horizon.

“Parthenal,” she murmured to the smoky darkness, aware that it sounded like an incantation, or a prayer. “Rothir. Tiburé. Maeneb.”

She might have put too much faith in those memories, she thought. She might have made of the Riders more than they actually were. Parthenal, after all, was slightly dazzling: more than slightly. Maeneb’s gift had fascinated her, although she’d been careful not to show her curiosity. Tiburé had commanded her respect.

And Rothir. He had saved her life. No, she had not put too much faith in them. She owed it to the Riders to show equal courage, if she could, in the fight against the stonemen.

“Give me fortitude,” she whispered to the moon. “Show me the way.”

Yet she had no notion where the Riders were right now. Hundreds of miles south, most probably, in that mysterious place called Thield, or with that equally mysterious person called Huldarion. Intent on their own tasks. What a fool she was to try and make herself into a Rider... So much to get wrong.

Last night, in the warm shelter of Rubila’s fire-room, she had slept dreamlessly; but tonight her sleep was full of rumbling hooves and wailing wolves and worse. She woke to a clatter of spears that dissolved into the silence of the smoke-stained dawn.

I heard the voices of the cave, she thought as she arose, half-dazed, but the whole world is my cavern now; the vast bowl of the sky can send me echoes from anywhere it wills. So listen. And observe.

She ate her tough dried plums and then three honeyed cherries, before she mounted Poda and set out again.

At the next junction of paths she found the tracks of many feet and cart-wheels crossing her path. They were heading north-west on the old Tuatha, an ancient and in places sunken road which was little used except by farmers and small traders.

And now, stonemen. They seemed to be long gone. She followed their trail along this road that was almost half-submerged in earth, so steep were the banks on either side: she knew that it led to the north of Outer Kelvha, where she was heading too. But she saw no other sign of the stoneman army’s passing, until in the distance ahead a black blotch appeared in the middle of the road.

Yaret stopped dead and studied it intently. It did not move. It was inanimate: a square.

As she cautiously approached, the square resolved itself into an iron cage, lying broken and rusting beside the burnt-out remnants of a wooden cart. When she touched it, it was cold.

When she put her head inside the broken cage she found no clues. An unexplained wreck in a silent land.

A few miles further along the Tuatha road, she saw the smoke, hanging over a strip of woodland. This was more than just the general haze – and much more than the thin trickle that might signify a campfire. It was a wide thick pall which she had learnt was never a good sign. The trees themselves did not appear to be burnt; but behind them, she knew, was a hamlet where she’d previously done business, and her heart began to beat a little faster in dismay.

Climbing out of the sunken Tuatha, she rode towards the wood. Although the smell of smoke was strong, the trees had not been touched by fire; so she continued through them to the far side. There she saw between the trunks a dull red glow.

Yaret dismounted and commanded Poda, in Vonnish, to stay where she was. Then taking up her bow she cautiously progressed on foot, creeping to the margin of the trees to see what lay beyond.

Not cold and black, this one. The farmstead just ahead of her seemed made of embers. It was not ablaze, yet all its innards were red-hot, as if it were some huge just-slaughtered animal spilling out its guts and blood. No life was visible: no farmers, and no stonemen either. The pasture was devoid of animals. No birds flew. The heavy drifting smoke was the only thing that moved.

With a sense of growing dread, Yaret left the shelter of the trees to walk warily towards the smouldering wreck. There was smoke everywhere: it even seemed to be coming out of the ground itself.

Half way to the farm, she slowed. It was not an illusion. The smoke was seeping from the ground ahead of her. Was it burning peat? No, more than that...

The feeling hit her at the same time as the smell. Darkburn.

She stopped abruptly. The stench was almost familiar now, the stink of every rank and bitter rotting thing she could imagine. But the feeling… Without realising it, she’d already felt it as she approached; but now, full on, it was a horror that made her weak.

She wanted to run straight back to Poda. Instead she tensed her limbs against the weakness and made herself observe. No darkburn was in sight. No blot of darkness rushed towards her.

Perhaps the thing was trapped somewhere: so no need to run away just yet.

What was she feeling? She remembered the ferocity and hatred created by the creeping darkburn in the forest, so many months ago. The start of everything; although at the time it had felt like the end of everything. That first darkburn had been full of fury. This was different, for here too was fury – but what she mostly felt was fear. Worse than fear: despair.

Gritting her teeth against it she continued walking through its rising tide. Only a few paces on, she saw the pit that had been dug across the track, narrow but long and deep –

deeper than a man’s height. Perhaps it had been originally intended as a drainage ditch. But it had been dug recently enough for the earthen sides to be still sharp and free of weeds. And it contained the darkburn.

Yaret could barely breathe when she looked in. The fear was suffocating, drowning her, a horror out of all proportion to the ditch’s mundane appearance. At its base she saw a huddle of shadow, moving rapidly – not towards her, but to the far end of the pit. The darkburn hurled itself against the end wall; she was reminded of the lonely stoneman dashing his head against the tower.

It was trying to get away from her. Of course – one of the stones was in her pocket. The other was with Poda in the saddlebag.

The darkburn threw itself against the wall again as if it would like to burrow its way into the earth. But that feat seemed beyond it; and evidently it could not climb out either. The pit

was smoking where the peat had dried sufficiently to smoulder. How long had the thing been trapped in here?

The dread and fear were clouding her thoughts. They told her to lie down and die. So she retreated, walked back to the trees to fetch Poda, and sat down at the woodland’s margin while she waited for her head to clear. Then she pieced facts together.

The hotly glowing farmhouse... The fields that were littered with drying cowpats, but no cattle. So the stonemen who had passed this way had stolen livestock, but at the same time had lost their darkburn from the overturned cart. A cage would be the only way to carry it; but evidently not a safe way.

Perhaps they had fired the farmhouse, or the escaped darkburn had done it independently.

If the stonemen had been unable to catch it – and it would be a difficult thing to catch once loose – they might simply have moved on; especially if they had other darkburns. She had seen the tracks of many carts.

But the pit had done what the stonemen could not, and had caught the darkburn. Then what? Where were the ditch’s diggers? Maybe they lay dead in that inferno of a farmhouse, or had run away. Even without the fire, the darkburn’s presence would be too oppressive for anyone to hang around the place for long.

Even at this distance she could feel it. But although Poda stamped once or twice, uneasily, at least she was not panicking. Perhaps the horse was becoming accustomed to the fear.

So I ought to be able to accustom myself too, thought Yaret. I should acclimatise myself while I have a captive darkburn close to hand. I really don’t want to, but I should.

Taking the stone from her pocket, she tucked it into Poda’s saddle-bag. “Stay here,” she told the horse in Vonnish. “You’ll be fine.” Then, while she walked towards the pit once more, she analysed the feelings as they grew.

Don’t take them personally. Just observe them. Fear. Yes. Horror. Yes. Sorrow; grief.

Anger. Abandonment. Misery. Loneliness. The end of everything. Just die.

She had to stop.

Were these her feelings, amplified, or the darkburn’s own? Was it putting sensations in her head to weaken her, or was she simply feeling what it felt? The Riders of the Vonn would say the former: they had told her that the darkburns manufactured horror purely to disable and disarm.

Slowly she moved forward again. Pain. There was some sort of pain here – something that would not stop, that would not go away. Something that removed all hope. At the bottom of the pit was a concentration of despair.

She was looking down into the pit, and now that she no longer had the stone, the darkburn was not trying to climb its walls to get away but was rushing back along its length towards her. She pulled back, tugging against the horror that was like a heavy rope, a weight, a leaden anchor trying to pull her down and in.

But the darkburn could not pull her in. And it could not get out. Nonetheless as it reached her end of the pit the heat grew so intense that she had to withdraw a few steps until she was shielded by the earth. Then she sat down before she fell. Still the dread and horror surged through her in a sickening tide.

Shuffling a little further back, she waited for the feelings to recede before she tried again.

Making herself stand up, she walked towards the pit.

The darkburn’s indistinct body was pressed against the earth as if it wished to tunnel through to get to her. It threw pain and terror at her in great waves. And the heat. Such heat, attacking both brain and body…

Again she retreated, sat down, forced herself to breathe. Then she braced herself, and wrapping her cloak around her as some poor defence against the heat, she advanced towards the pit a third time.

It became no easier. But perhaps the feelings were a little more distinct. They grasped at her. The darkburn wanted her; or it wanted something she could give it.

What could it want? What could she give it?

Rescue, she thought. But she couldn’t rescue it. If it were free of the pit the darkburn would rush at her and burn her up within a moment. So it must want her for fuel – for food.

Yet hunger was not one of the emotions that she felt. Instead there was a sense of pulling; almost pleading. Like Brula tugging at her hand. Or like Brael, the lonely stoneman, begging her for athelid, then for a knife.

As the horror mounted she staggered back again to the refuge of the tussocky grass and sat down with her head upon her knees. This was dreadful. But not unbearable, as it had seemed at first. Not quite. One more attempt, then she would stop.

So, reluctantly, after a few minutes she forced herself back to the pit’s edge, kneeling down so that she could not tumble in. The heat instantly engulfed her.

“I don't understand,” she said aloud. “Tell me what it is you want.”

Of course it didn’t understand either. It had no words. There was only raging heat, and the feelings, so agonised, so fierce, so desperately begging in their need that she had to crawl right away this time, thinking no, I was wrong, it is unbearable; and then it took a while before she had the strength to struggle to her feet and stumble, trembling, back to Poda. Once out of the darkburn’s range she clung to the horse and gasped, until gradually the fear and desperation receded from her mind.

Well, she’d got as close to a darkburn as she could without dying. If it had rushed at her on level ground, when she didn’t have the protection of the stones, would she be able to stand and fight it?

She didn’t think so. Not like the Riders. She remembered Parthenal and Rothir on the cliffs above the Thore, slashing at the darkburn with the waters roaring far below.

That darkburn had fallen over the cliff edge... and then she’d followed it, hurtling through the rushing air. Without warning she found herself reliving the moment of the fall. This still happened quite a lot. Gripping Poda’s bridle, she waited for the memory to fade, as the darkburn’s dread had faded: although it was a vivid shock of recall quite different to the darkburn’s stifling fear.

When the fall had happened, there’d been no time for fear. There’d been no time for anything except surprise; and then the tree had caught her, and then the other tree, and finally the river.

She’d been lucky. But, she thought now, imagine a longer fall – a fall that went on for hours, for days, for weeks, in full consciousness of falling. What would she feel then?

Something like the darkburn.

Beyond imagining. Yaret shook her head, and then shook her whole body to try and rid herself of those appalling feelings. Over in the pit the darkburn raged and stank and smouldered but she would not go close to it again. As she walked over to collect Poda, she glanced back at the pit and saw the lin.

It was near the edge. When she stared harder, it was just a tussock. All the same she said the lin’s grace aloud before she swung herself up on to Poda. She’d had enough of darkburns: enough of sickening despair and grief and that dreadful feeling of abandonment.

As she set Poda moving she had the strangest sense that she was abandoning the darkburn.

Yet what else could she do? The only thing that she could give it was her life. That must be what it wanted: death. Because to get too close to it – unless she became a much stronger and more skilful fighter than she was now – would mean instant and inevitable death by burning.

For relief she turned her mind towards the thought of lins, the opposite of darkburns. To see a lin brought not despair and rage, but something lighter, something hard to analyse. It

was like a reminder: a small jolt of some partly-known awareness. A half-remembered dream. It was always pleasant, if disconcerting, to see a lin.

What had a lin been doing there, by the ditch? Just chance, no doubt. Before she rode too far she looked back over her shoulder.

There were more lin: maybe half a dozen of them, grouped around the pit.

No, that couldn’t be right. Half a dozen? She’d never in her life seen more than one lin at a time.

Turning Poda, she began to ride towards them even though it meant returning to the darkburn. She stopped again, because they now were merely clumps of grass. Maybe they always had been.

Or maybe not. Was the darkburn drawing lins towards it somehow? That worried her, until she reflected that it couldn’t hurt them – not least because they probably weren’t really there.

In weary bafflement, she said the lin’s grace again before she finally rode away.

She reflected that since she and Charo had returned from their trip north, they had seen hardly any lin. Dil had commented on it more than once: she remembered him mourning the lack of the school hob. He had felt abandoned by it.

Unexpectedly she found her eyes were wet. And Dil has been abandoned now by me, she thought. But I’m going away to fight for them. So better make sure I do. This trip needs to be worth it.

No crying: stop the tears. Ride on.

Chapter 20

One day, and then another, passed in cloud-wreathed gloom. Yaret, alarmed by the finding of the darkburn, and fearing to come across more broken carts, left the Tuatha and the stonemen’s trail to trek directly west. This route took her across sad boggy pastures, punctuated by small prickly bushes. No majestic hutila trees here. It was all redthorn, greythorn, winterthorn, every sort of thorn.

Nevertheless, she had always liked these unobtrusive wildlands, the birdsong that had bubbled from the spiky thickets, the slinking glimpses of small secret animals. But this time the region seemed too quiet: immobile, full of dark foreboding, so that she felt her solitude as she never had before. Nobody stood at her shoulders, no dead, no living, no-one. She tried to sing: a travelling song, part Madeo’s, part her own. The sound of her own voice wavering in the emptiness merely made her solitude seem all the greater.

On the third day the distant sight of Gostard on Outer Kelvha’s fringes brought a disproportionate relief. Here, romping on green meadows, were flocks of sheep and shaggy goats along with their wobbly-legged young; here were fields lately ploughed and sown, as normal, even if there were fewer people to be seen than she would normally expect.

When she called at one of her usual farmhouse stops she found it deserted. A little closer to the town, at the Gostard Mill, she was greeted by an unknown apprentice who squinted at her askance before shutting the door firmly in her face. But the mere sound of human voices raised her spirits, as did the evidence that no darkburn had laid waste to this land.

So she made her way down the road to the Gostard Inn, ready to spend some of her carefully hidden silver on a decent bed and a hot meal. She wouldn’t mind a little company in the parlour. Some music would be a treat.

The inn was quiet. No carts or horses stood in the stableyard except her own. But when she stepped inside the gloomy, almost empty parlour, Rud the innkeeper was still standing in his long stained apron behind the equally stained counter, as if he’d never moved since her visit there last year.

“Yaret! What are you doing here?” He stared at her before breaking into his slow smile. “I wasn’t expecting you for a few more months yet, if at all.”

“But here I am. How goes it, Rud?”

He answered with a grimace. “Well… Not so good, as you can see.”

“I can see it’s quiet. Have you got any food on? Egg pie?”

“No pie. We’ve got eggs.”

She ordered eggs. Once they were fried and set before her with the bread and pickles and hot sauce, she asked him, “So, Rud, what’s been going on since I was here last?”

Leaning on the counter, he began to tell her. It was a confused and confusing account.

Over the last few months, he said, raids and fires and robberies had afflicted several areas nearby. Strange violent brigands from the south had reportedly been crossing the region, some as close as an hour’s ride away; but no closer, and he was vague about the details.

Then sad streams of country people had started trickling through Gostard, saying they were fleeing the raiders. While Rud expressed sympathy for some of these refugees, he blamed others for thefts in the town, and was sceptical about their testimony. He had little idea of what the stonemen were like, and did not even mention darkburns except as a nasty distant rumour of firestorms and magic.

Yaret did not enlighten him because she suspected he would disbelieve her too. Instead she asked, “How long since those raiders passed through the area?”

“A load of them went north before the winter set in, and more have followed recently, by all accounts. Practically an army. I’ve heard that there were several thousands altogether

though I can’t vouch for that. Some people blame Kelvha for all the trouble,” he said, shaking his head.

“Kelvha? Why? These raiders aren’t from Kelvha, are they?”

“Well, it’s true they don’t sound like your average Kelvhan soldiers. No cavalry for a start.

But on the other hand, Kelvha have done nothing to stop them, have they? After all we’ve done for Kelvha,” – which was little enough, thought Yaret, except supplying beer and barley

– “they’ve sent no troops up here to help us out. Some folks think Kelvha know all about what’s going on and are content to let it happen. They say they’re in league with those invaders – what did you call them?”

“Stonemen. So none have come to Gostard?”

“No, thank goodness. They sound like a dodgy lot. But people round here have been alarmed enough to take up arms. I’m too old to be much use, but a group of Gostard men have ridden off to Melmet to join forces with the Baron of the Broc, if he’ll allow. He’s closer to us than Kelvha and a better ally. They want to get the Baron to hunt these raiders down before they can come here.”

“When did that group leave for Melmet?”

“Two days ago. So what’s been going on in Obandiro, then, Yaret?”

Obandiro is burnt down to the ground was ready on her tongue. But she felt obscurely that it would be unwise to admit the town’s vulnerability, even to stout old Rud, and despite the fact that it was such a long way off. So she told Rud only a small portion of the truth: that her grandfather’s house had been attacked by stonemen while she was away, and both grandparents killed.

He shook his head, appearing deeply affected by the news. “A fine old man,” he kept saying.

“In many respects,” said Yaret. “So here I am, looking for information as much as anything. Rud – have you heard of a people called the Vonn? The Riders of the Vonn.”

“The Vonn? I may have.” Although his head went up in recognition, he was cautious.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh… just because I met a couple of them on my journeyings last year. I gathered they were hunting down these stonemen.”

Rud picked up a grubby cloth and pushed it around the counter, not quite casually enough.

“Do you know the names of any of those Riders?”

“I didn’t ask,” she said, which happened to be true. She had the sense that she and Rud were circling round each other as if unsure of how much they could say. Yet she had always thought of Rud as a man that she could trust.

So trust him now, she thought.

“Those Riders saved my life,” she said, “when we were on the same road and a group of stonemen ambushed us. I owe them a great debt. Their leader was called Tiburé. If they’re fighting stonemen, maybe a messenger could be sent to tell them about the army marching through these parts.”

“I think they already know.”

“What makes you say that?”

Rud leant on the counter with his chin on his hands, ruminating.

“I’ve met a few Riders of the Vonn from time to time,” he said at last. “None called Tiburé. But we had a couple of them stop here a few weeks ago. Don’t know if they were hunting stonemen; it seems quite likely to me now, although they didn’t say. They don’t talk about their business, though everyone knows it’s usually wolves up this end of the world, especially in winter. One of them was the wolf-hunter.”

“A wolf-hunter?”

“Name of Veron. Small dark man in a wolfskin cloak. You know him?”

“No.”

“Now there’s a man I wouldn’t tangle with. No trouble, mind you, pays his bill. Polite enough. But.” He shook his head. “Well, this time he had a younger rider with him who got into a fight.”

“What about?”

“It was all to do with Kelvha and those stonemen, as you call them. Veron’s companion didn’t like Kelvha being bad-mouthed. One of my regulars had had a bit too much to drink and starting cursing Kelvha, saying they’re encouraging these stonemen to come up here and run riot. It’s only what lots of people have been saying, but this young Rider didn’t like it. He put down his fork and told Abrel he was an idiot. Well, he was right there: Abrel’s generally an idiot, but I don’t like fighting in my inn.”

“Who won?”

“The young Rider. It didn’t take him long to deck Abrel. Nobody else got involved –

Abrel isn’t much liked. I saw Veron watching and waiting just in case he needed to step in.

He didn’t, though, and Abrel can be thankful for it. That would have been more likely to end with a knife in the throat than a punch on the nose.”

“Where did they go afterwards? The two Riders, I mean?”

“South. That’s all I know.”

“Not to Melmet, then.”

“Who knows? They get around.”

“You don’t know where they’re based?” The name of Thield was on her lips, but she did not speak it.

“South,” repeated Rud. “That’s all I know.” He compressed his mouth as if he’d said more than he’d intended. He didn’t move away, however, so after polishing her plate with the last piece of bread, she ventured to ask one more thing.

“Rud. What about Leori? The wizard that you told me about last time I was here. Could he help fend off these stonemen?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Leori? You didn’t meet him on your travels too, did you?”

“I’ve never set eyes on him as far as I know. It’s just that being here reminded me of last year, when you talked about him.”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t have,” said Rud, and this time he did move away and had a desultory go at cleaning tables. There was nothing more to be got out of him that evening, so she went to her room. The bed felt damp and unused.

When she came down the next morning, however, the landlord was a little friendlier again.

Perhaps the sight of her silver helped, when she settled up the bill.

“Leori,” he said, counting coins. “I’ve been thinking about him. Why exactly did you mention him yesterday, Yaret?”

“Like I said, I just remembered some remark you made last year. And a wizard could be really useful now.”

“Maybe Leori would be useful – if he could be persuaded to do magic. He wouldn’t do any for me, when I asked him to seal my roof after a storm. I offered him good money, too.”

“Perhaps roof-sealing isn’t in his line of work,” said Yaret, faintly amused.

“Magic’s magic, though, isn’t it? It wouldn’t have been hard for him to do. You’d think he should be able to turn his hand to anything. His brother can, they say.”

Now she stared at him. “What brother?”

“Adon.” Rud divided the coins carefully into little piles. “Now Adon’s the real deal by all accounts. Lightning bolts and rivers of molten rock. He can tear the earth apart, apparently.”

“And can he mend it afterwards?”

Rud laughed. “Unknown. Have you heard of Adon?”

“Never.”

“I think he’s had other names. So has Leori. He’s no friend of Leori, though.”

“So which of them would you trust?” she asked.

“I’d trust Leori, even if he wouldn’t mend my roof,” Rud said without hesitation. He was serious again; solemn, even. “But Adon has his supporters. Some people round here who don’t like Kelvha seem to think Adon will have the answer to their problems.”

“And will he?”

“I doubt it. But it sounds as if he’s been stirring things up – or someone has, on his behalf.

I don’t know where he is, himself. But it’s all a bit strange.” Then he looked directly at her.

“You’re not the least strange part of this,” he said abruptly. “Yaret, what are you really doing here? You haven’t ridden a hundred miles and more just to gather news. You’ve brought no samples and no donkeys. You’re asking about Leori and the Vonn. You’ve put a high-bred war-horse in my stables if ever I saw one. And you’re carrying a sword. So where did that come from?”

“From our forge in Obandiro.” There seemed no point in hiding this part of the truth. “I’ve come here because I want to fight. I’m going to follow that group that went to Melmet, if that’s where the fighting is. I want to stop the stonemen from doing to anyone else what they did to – to my grandparents. Rud, their farm was nothing but ash.”

“You want to fight,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking it too. I’m only one person, and a female at that, with a sword I’ve never used except to chop up roots. All the same, if there’s any fighting to be done, I want to be there.”

As he gazed at her she could see the wheels of slow thought turning behind his deep-set eyes. He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Jerred the carpenter organised the group that went off to Melmet,” he said eventually.

“I know Jerred. He bought a cloak off us every other year. I used to stop there for a meal.”

“Then you’ll know that he’s an honourable man. Look for him in Melmet and he might let you join his little troop. I can’t promise. It might be up to the Baron – what’s his name?”

“The Baron of the Broc? Grusald, I think.”

“That’s the one.” Rud heaved a deep sigh and pushed three of the silver coins back over the counter to her. “You might need those.”

“But so do you, Rud.”

“Take them,” he said heavily. “I’m too unfit and too much of a coward to go and fight. If I were a better man I’d come with you. Take the money.”

“Thank you, Rud,” she said, and took it.

Then she led Poda from the empty stables. Was her steed so obviously a high-bred war-horse? Yes; undoubtedly. Poda was conspicuous – far more so than Yaret was herself.

Whether that was a good thing or not, only time would tell.

Chapter 21

The road north to Melmet was strangely empty. No traders joined her, no pedlars, no journeymen laden with toolbags or laughing groups of women carrying wicker boxes full of chickens. Where had everybody gone?

Gone to fight, thought Yaret, or else gone into hiding. She urged Poda on fast all day and by the time she reached the rolling borderlands she was tired and aching. All the same she took the trouble to rub the horse down properly before she slept in a deserted cow-byre.

Next day she rode into Melmet town. She had travelled this way several times, and although she had not stopped for long she had always liked the look of the place. It was not too far from her grandmother’s homeland of Ioben, which was further north again, and both places shared the same old-fashioned feel. Melmet town was solidly built, yet its builders had been fond of curves: arches and domes and roofs that undulated with a gentle smile. There were even a few antique roundhouses, though not so many as Ioben held. The streets used to have a tranquil, muted air, hoofbeats muffled on the earthen roads.

Now the tranquillity was gone. There were sentries set along the wall and she was stopped by armed men at the gates. When she told them she was looking for a group from Gostard they nodded and told her to try the Broc, before letting her ride through. They were on guard for armies, not solitary horsemen.

And here Yaret needed to be a horseman, not a horsewoman. She tried to think herself back into the male mode which had not been required in the wilderness, nor at the Gostard Inn. It was difficult to put on the assurance. Every right to be here, she told herself. A touch of swagger. Look severe, preoccupied. That wasn’t difficult.

The town was much busier than Gostard had been; crudely-armed men roamed the streets in purposeful groups. Many looked at her with narrow-eyed attention and she quickly realised that their interest was raised not so much by her as by the horse. Most of the horses she saw here were small and rough-haired, some hardly more than ponies, and Poda was conspicuous indeed.

As Yaret rode her war-horse through the town, at the far end of the main street she saw the Broc rise up before her like another sentry. A squat circular fortress whose defensive function had been symbolic for many years, it was now once more the mustering place for soldiers. A couple of hundred men were gathered within the Broc’s outer wall – which was no more than two feet high, having been used as a source of building-stone for centuries – and she quickly spotted the burly, balding figure of Jerred with his companions. There seemed to be about twelve or fifteen in the group from Gostard, some of whom she recognised.

Jerred didn’t recognise her at first, however. It was the horse that drew his gaze as she approached the group. Not until she dismounted did his eyes widen in realisation.

“Yaret the weaver! What the stars are you doing here? And on that horse?”

“Jerred. How goes it? I’ve been searching for you.” Then she explained her mission briefly, in the terms that she had used to Rud: her grandparents killed, the farm burnt down.

“So I’ve come here to fight. I’d like to join your troop here, if you’ll let me,” she finished.

“You came alone? Nobody else here with you from Obandiro?”

She shrugged. “I’m used to travelling alone. Others may follow, I suppose.”

Thankfully, despite a disapproving shake of his head, Jerred didn’t question that. No doubt he put her decision down to female wrong-headedness.

But the femaleness, she saw immediately, was a problem. When she repeated her request to join his group, his expression told her that he was going to say no. The other men who knew her and her grandfather also looked surprised and wary. Although they’d been on friendly terms over the past years, this was a different time; a different situation.

She nodded to them. “Bred. Hansod. Morad. Good to see you. I hope your families are well?” A couple of them smiled, which was a start. “I understand your reservations about me joining you,” she went on. “But I’m here to avenge my grandfather Ilo. I have no doubt that he’d approve of what I’m doing. He’d have wanted to have come here to fight himself, bad hip and all.”

“He was a fine old man,” Bred offered.

“Indeed. If I join you, I’ll give you less trouble than Ilo would have. I’ll make no special demands or hold you up on the march. I’ll look after myself and I don’t expect anyone to look after me.”

“We all look after each other here,” said Morad; he was the miller whose apprentice had given her such a surly rebuff back at the Gostard mill. Morad himself was not surly, but seemed undecided. “We’re grateful for all the men we can get. But…” He grimaced.

“But not women? The thing is, I’ve come here to fight the stonemen, and fight I will, one way or another, but I think I’ll be safer amongst you than with men that I don’t know.”

They all looked at Jerred.

“Nice horse,” he said. “Yours?”

“Yes.” She wondered if he coveted Poda: if that would be the price for her admission to his troop. She did not feel inclined to pay it, for Poda had been a precious gift and she did not want to give her up.

Jerred ran his hand across his stubbly head, still frowning at the horse.

“We’ll take a vote,” he said. “In favour?” Seven hands went up, six of them men she knew. “Against?” There were three. Three had not voted. Jerred nodded. “Very well. That’s in your favour. But ultimately it’s not my decision – I’ll have to put it to Grusald. He’s in charge.”

“The Baron? Where is he?” She had never seen the Baron of the Broc in person.

“That’s him over there.” Jerred pointed to a short, grizzled man standing fifty yards away.

With a weathered face and a determined set to his jaw, he was busy giving orders to the surrounding men. He looked like an old soldier, which was mildly reassuring.

“I’ll go and have a word with him,” continued Jerred. “He’s labelled me official captain of our group. And he looks as happy right now as he ever does, which isn’t a whole lot. Come with me. Bring the horse. Stand next to it and don’t say anything unless you’re asked. And as little as possible then.”

So she followed Jerred. As the men around the Baron parted to let them through, she heard murmurs about the horse and speculation about herself. Had the peasant stolen it? Found it strayed? Or won it in a bet?

The Baron himself eyed her with cold scepticism, while Jerred bowed and muttered in his ear. She could not hear any of the words that were exchanged until Grusald said,

“Step forward.”

She did so.

“I’m told you are a pedlar from the east and that you wish to join us. But you are… a stranger to us. We do not know if you can fight.”

“I do not know if I can fight,” said Yaret. “But I can try.”

“Sword skills?”

“Rudimentary.”

“Archery? I see you have a bow.”

“Fair. I hunt. I don’t draw a great deal of weight, but I’m accurate.”

“Have you any experience of warfare?”

In answer she drew her sword and stabbed at her false leg with its point.

“This is wood,” she said. “A stoneman’s axe cut off my foot last year. I’d like the chance to take revenge.”

That made Grusald pause – and not just Grusald. Jerred looked taken aback too. The Baron studied her a little harder, and then frowned at Poda.

“Where did you get the horse?” he demanded. “That’s not a pedlar’s steed.”

“It was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“From someone whom I rescued, after he was pursued by a darkburn.”

“A darkburn.”

“By one of the creatures that set the fires–”

“I know what they are,” cut in Grusald, “but I have not heard many people call them by that name.” He considered: she waited.

“I’m not against your joining us,” he said eventually, “so long as you keep your foreign ways to yourself. You understand me?”

“Yes.”

“You may enlist in my service as an archer. But the horse is a problem. It is unsuitable for an enlisted man. That is a commander’s horse.”

“Ah.” Now she understood the price that would be paid: not to Jerred, but to the Baron.

“We’ll make an exchange. Devald here will find you a horse more suitable for your rank.”

Grusald beckoned to the man next to him, giving him instructions.

Yaret bowed, although she felt slightly sickened at the realisation that she would have to give up Poda. But it was necessary. She followed Devald round the Broc to the stables at the back, and there unloaded Poda of her gear.

“Leave the saddle,” Devald told her, so she merely stroked Poda for the last time and murmured words of thanks to her. Meanwhile Devald untethered a horse and walked it over.

“You can have this one,” he said. “I’ll get you a saddle that’ll fit her.”

This certainly wasn’t one of Grusald’s horses; the Baron would never have ridden this scruffy mare with her patchy coat and ragged ear. Yaret felt down the mare’s legs and looked in her mouth. She was old. On the other hand, she was docile.

“Her name’s Helba. She’s only shedding because it’s spring,” said Devald.

“What’s her wind like?”

“Oh, she’s sound enough. Just don’t expect to do too much galloping.”

“All right,” said Yaret, since she didn’t seem to have much choice. Resignedly she led Helba away to where the Gostard horses were corralled. Helba looked scruffy even in comparison to them.

But now she was in, that was the main thing: she was accepted. And she had got here just in time. For now she learned that the next day they would all march west to fight.

Chapter 22

“Good balance,” said Parthenal. He held out the sword at arm’s length and tested it with a few sibilant strokes through the air. Then he put the point to the ground and flexed the blade.

“Not too much give.”

“I don’t like too much give. That one’s my best attempt so far,” said Rothir. “Took me a full day to forge. Not sure whether to trust it in battle, though. I’ll keep it as a spare.”

Parthenal carefully sheathed the sword – which was sharp enough to slice a hair lengthwise – and passed it back to his friend.

“If it proves itself, you can make me one,” he said. “A touch longer maybe. Same weight.

Longer hilt. Who did the leatherwork? Not you.”

“Olbeth. The decoration’s not quite worthy of Kelvha, but it’s good strong stitching.”

“I don’t think any of our battle-gear will shine compared to Kelvha’s,” commented Parthenal.

“It will do the job. We’ll find out soon enough how it compares.”

Parthenal looked at his friend and smiled. “We’ll find out soon enough how we compare.

Your gear may not be shiny, dwarf, but I think you’ll stand comparison with the best Kelvha has to offer. You’ve put more muscle on those brawny arms. Weren’t you wide enough?”

“That’s what three months of blacksmithing does,” said Rothir soberly.

Parthenal shook his head. The prospect of battle energised him. In contrast, it made Rothir grim and grave. He confessed to not enjoying killing even stonemen. Parthenal felt differently. To him, stonemen were just moving targets; highly aggressive but often singularly stupid ones.

“We’ll soon know where we’re going, at least,” he said. “My money’s on the north. What do you think?”

“I think we’ll find out in a minute,” said Rothir, standing up. Thoronal had emerged from the largest of the tents and was summoning them impatiently. Not just them: two dozen of the senior Riders were lingering amongst the tents of Thield, waiting for instructions. Now they filed into the main tent past the sentry.

Once they were all gathered Huldarion scanned the faces.

“The reports are in,” he said.

There had been a change in Huldarion these last few weeks, thought Parthenal. He was still the friend that he had ever been, but there was something newly formal and austere about his manner; as if he were preparing to be king. It was a difficult balance to be both friend and ruler. Parthenal had felt that difficulty himself, at a lower level, when commanding men whom he knew well. He did not doubt his own ability, yet he hesitated to impose his will on others and create a gap between them – even when he knew the gap was necessary.

Was Huldarion feeling the same ambivalence? There was something in his look that Parthenal had not seen before; and he had spent years trying, surreptitiously, to read that scarred, almost immobile face.

“There is movement in the north,” said Huldarion in his measured voice, its slight huskiness a heritage of his burns. “Veron sends word that over two thousand stonemen have lately fired their winter quarters in Erbulet and are heading west. Twenty-five darkburns. He thinks some thousands more of stonemen will soon follow – or are already following – from other bases in the east. There is no sign of movement yet from the Outland Forts; but we can sure that it will not be long.”

He looked around at them all. “I myself and Uld will join Veron in the north, where we will meet with General Istard from West Vale. We have been informed that Kelvha will dispatch their own troops and commanders there to join us. We will take with us three

hundred Riders. Unfortunately I can appoint no women as captains in this campaign: it would be unacceptable to the Kelvhans to find themselves fighting alongside women in positions of authority. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is for now.”

Delgeb, the most senior of the women present, nodded. “Understood,” she said.

“Within the troops, however, it’s a different matter. Kelvha will have to put up with you there. Delgeb, you and Hilbré will ride north with us and take your place within the troops alongside other female riders. You will not be named as captains but none the less I look to you for captaincy in battle.”

Again Delgeb nodded.

“Additionally,” said Huldarion. “Leor is to be up there with us.”

“What?” exclaimed Thoronal. Obviously this was news to him. “What’s Leor going to be doing?”

“Assisting us in any way he can,” replied Huldarion.

“Assisting us with what? He’s refusing to do wizardry, according to Bruilde. So what possible use can he be?”

“I’m useful with a sword as well as other weapons. And I hope that I can be of some use in advising you.” Saying this, the tall sentry at the door strode forward into the middle of the group.

Parthenal frowned in surprise and suspicion. How could he have missed seeing Leor when he entered the tent? His height made the wizard stand out; and the red hair was unmistakable even if Leor had changed his long robes for drab riding gear. Glancing at Rothir, he saw the same puzzlement in his eyes.

“Pardon me,” he said, addressing Leor courteously, for he had always liked the man although he did not understand him. “But did you not use wizardry to escape our notice till just now?”

“I did not use it to change my appearance,” answered Leor, equally courteously.

“That’s not quite a complete answer,” rumbled Rothir. Leor merely bowed.

“Pardon me,” said Thoronal, less courteously than Parthenal, “but a wizard who forswears wizardry is useless. A wizard who pretends to forswear wizardry and then uses it to suit himself is worse than useless – he is dangerous.”

“I only use it where it cannot make a difference,” said Leor mildly.

“Then what’s the point?”

Huldarion made a gesture of impatience. “Enough! Leor is our friend, and has a considerable fund of knowledge for us to draw on.”

“Not about darkburns,” said Thoronal. Huldarion gave him a long look, until Thoronal turned his head aside.

“If it must be, it must,” he muttered.

“So much for the north,” said Huldarion. “A small detachment under Solon will be sent further west of the Outland Forts to monitor activity. For the rest of you, Thoronal will be your commander–” at this news, Parthenal groaned inwardly – “and you will be riding the other way, east and south. Reports have just come in from a new direction. A further army is emerging from the Darkburn Forest.”

He paused, and in the stillness Parthenal enquired, “How many?”

“A mere six hundred so far; but doubtless many more to follow.”

“Where?” asked Ebril.

“The forest’s southern edge.” Huldarion pointed to the map. “From here, it’s less than two days’ swift ride. Everyone has their gear prepared, I trust? Very well. These are the captains.”

He named eight men including Parthenal and Rothir, and, for the first time, Sashel. Of Sashel’s twin, Gordal, there was no mention.

“Again, no women captains,” Huldarion continued. “I regret it, but it’s possible that a company may come from Kelvha to assist you. We have requested this of them, not because I think you need their help, but because I would like Kelvha to become involved. So far I have had no answer. But if they do arrive then you shall show them how we fight.”

And then they all drew round the map and discussed their possibilities in more detail, Parthenal joining in but thinking, I had rather go north and fight beside Huldarion.

“One weapon that the stonemen do not know we have,” said Huldarion, “is the knowledge of the stones and their effect. It’s clear that they repel the darkburns. Why, or whether all will work in the same way, we don’t yet know; but it is useful knowledge none the less.”

“Can we get hold of any stones?” asked Rothir.

“Veron has some, and will try their use in battle in the north. Otherwise, we have none yet.

Maeneb and a junior Rider have been back to the Gyr cave, where you left several dead stonemen, but without success. The bodies had already had their stones harvested – which is interesting.”

“The stonemen may be aware that we’ve found out their secret,” Rothir said.

“I’m not sure how they could have found that out,” replied Huldarion, “except from you, during your expedition chasing after Arguril.” Ouch, thought Parthenal.

Leor said peaceably, “Whether they know it now or not, they will find it out soon enough.”

“So, any stoneman bodies that we come across,” said Sashel, “we extract the stones if possible?”

“Yes. You will be issued tools for the purpose. An unpleasant task, and difficult to carry out on the battlefield itself, but necessary afterwards. Gather all the stones you can.”

“To catch a stoneman or two before the battle would be useful,” said Parthenal.

“It would. But take no excessive risks.”

At the end of the discussion Huldarion looked round all their faces searchingly.

“I value you all equally,” he said. “If any one of you is not happy with my choice for this campaign, come to me afterwards and we can talk it through.”

Did his gaze linger on Parthenal’s face? Did Huldarion guess how strongly he desired to go north? Parthenal knew that he would not ask to discuss it. For what could he say? I want to be with you. To defend you, to fight for you, to die for you if necessary.

For now, at last, the time had come for which they had waited twelve long years. That was the meaning of the change in Huldarion’s scarred face: it was a sharpening of purpose, a honing of intent. And Parthenal knew he would only hinder that intent by asking for some special treatment. His part was what it always had been and would always be – to serve Huldarion in any way that he was asked.

So he saluted wordlessly and left the tent with the others, to gather those who would fight under his captaincy, and bid them pack their gear.

They had three hours, but all the Riders were ready before that. Huldarion came up to salute them before they rode out of the camp.

“After you have disposed of this stoneman army, you will be needed in the north,” he told them. “You will have to ride speedily to join me there, and be ready to do battle at short notice.”

“And when will Kelvha deign to join in, do you think?” That was Thoronal.

“As soon as they see the danger encroaching on their borders. Tiburé reports that they are already mustering their troops ready to march north and west.”

“Not east? So we’ll have to go it alone after all,” said Thoronal.

“Possibly. But that is why I have chosen so many of my best people for this task,” replied Huldarion. “Remember our watchwords: honour, care, fidelity. Your care and fidelity must be to each other. Ride fast, fight well, and bring honour to the name of the Vonn.”

Saying that, he looked each of them in the face, in turn, and spoke their names. Parthenal’s heart leapt in his chest. To hear his name spoken, by that voice, still shook him.

He hoped that Huldarion had not guessed at his brief liaison with the infantryman up by the Outland Forts. The other man had been lean and scarred and while they gasped and thrust against each other he had allowed himself, for a moment, to imagine that he was with Huldarion. It was always ecstasy for a moment and it was always a mistake. He forgot the infantryman almost as soon as they parted, yet that imaginary melding with Huldarion still glowed painfully in his mind. He trusted that it did not show.

Then Huldarion nodded, and they all rode away and left him standing by the tents.

“So, an easy task, then,” said Parthenal, trying to be casual. The farewell affected him more than the knowledge of the fight to come.

Rothir merely nodded and checked the train behind them, speaking briefly to the men and women under his command. They took no provision carts: the spare horses carried food and gear. It gave them better speed.

Once they were away from the trees and on the open ground they were able to urge the horses to a gallop. The miles rolled past beneath their feet, wet pasture turning to dry moorland that as yet showed little sign of spring. Parthenal was aware of the thudding of two thousand hooves that shook the ground like a travelling earthquake, a wave of force and thunder heading swiftly east. His horse Alba was strong and eager, and now that he was on the move Parthenal felt the same way. He wanted to get there fast and do the job. Do what he was good at.

Soon they came to the high edge of an escarpment; beneath it lay more plains, and like a reaching hand, a dark and ominous mass of trees that disappeared into a distant haze. It looked endless. He glanced over at Rothir, a few yards away.

“That’s the edge of the Darkburn forest down below, isn’t it?” he yelled over the wind.

“I’ve not been to this spot before.”

“I have,” said Rothir, gazing down upon the place where the infant Darkburn river plunged in between the trees. That was all he said.

But Parthenal had the sense that Rothir, like Huldarion, was reforging his own spirit –

placing it upon the anvil to harden it, as he would a blade: tempering and honing himself in preparation for the battlefield ahead.

Chapter 23

They made good progress and camped that evening with only half a day’s ride still to go.

Rothir compelled himself to sleep: he had learnt the trick of it many years ago on his first campaign. Pretend you were asleep, that was the thing, and after a while your mind forgot to tell the difference. Although it hadn’t always worked well for him lately, tonight it did.

However, neither he nor his fifty men and women needed any rousing in the morning. He spoke a few words to each of them, for he knew them all at least slightly, and some well: Calenir, for instance, the young man from Olbeth’s farm, and Naileb who had left her milking-parlour to ride out with the Vonn. Rothir was heartily glad that Olbeth was no longer riding. That would have been a burden of responsibility he could do without.

But he had a good strong company, a stalwart second-in-command in Theol, and good horses. Narba was sleekly well-fed after a lazy winter; he galloped as swiftly and as willingly as ever along the southern border of the Darkburn forest. This was the route Bruilde had taken, although they would not need to travel nearly so far as she had. They would not glimpse Caervonn.

Before long they did glimpse something: a line of stonemen marching along the forest edge towards them. Thoronal called a halt and quickly they assessed the ground. Here it was flat and soft, but a little further on, a small rise would give them an advantage.

“What’s to say they won’t just wait for us to come down to their level?” Sashel asked.

“They don’t care about that,” said Parthenal. “They’ll fight anywhere.”

Rothir was inclined to agree. The stonemen, in his experience, did not use tactics other than attack and ambush – and of course the darkburns, which they sent ahead to sow terror and confusion in their enemies. They’ll find they are relying on their darkburns too much, he thought grimly.

However, the Riders had, as yet, no defence against the darkburns but their swords. There would be no opportunity to carry out any ambush of their own, and they had come across no stray stonemen to be caught and slaughtered for their stones. That harvesting of stones would have to wait.

Like the others, Rothir now strapped on his armour. The toughened leather cuirass and gorget were almost as effective as plate armour, especially with their metal banding, but were lighter and more comfortable. While not altogether proof against a heavy axe-blow, they would protect against a sword slash – and importantly, they would not heat up in proximity to a darkburn, as metal armour would.

Full leather armour had been Veron’s suggestion, apparently, although Rothir doubted if Veron himself would have the patience to wear the lot. He donned the leather helmet and the arm guards, but did without the leg guards. They hampered movement; and speed was of the essence when fighting darkburns.

They rode onward to the rise knowing that the enemy was watching them. Below, the stonemen had begun to draw up in a crude battle formation: carts were being pulled to the front on long ropes or chains. Five of them. The stonemen were shouting – whether to alarm their opponents, or simply as a means of communication, Rothir did not know. He could make out no words.

By contrast, the Riders were almost silent as they collected the horses together on the far side of the rise. Rothir was aware that if a darkburn got too close there would be no controlling them; so the Riders would fight on foot. At present, however, the horses were calm and steady. He returned to his company: a nod, a signal of the hand, was all they needed to take their agreed positions.

“Now we wait,” commanded Thoronal.

So Rothir waited, alongside the other captains and a selection of the soldiers – those with the most experience of darkburns, who were to take the lead. The others stood behind. In Thoronal’s troop he saw that Maeneb had moved up to the front: Durba stayed further back.

On either wing of their small army a dozen archers took up their stance. Arrows would have no effect against the darkburns, however. They were for the stonemen.

While he waited, Rothir felt no fear of battle or of death; that would be what it was. What he chiefly feared was fear. He feared to let down his companions, to be unmanned by the dread and horror that emanated from the darkburns. Now as he waited he readied himself, girding up his will against them.

The carts were opened. He heard the metallic clatter from below, and louder shouts as if to drive the darkburns out. But they required no driving. Within seconds the darkburns were rushing towards the Riders faster than a man could run. Two large, three small; the stench was bad, but not as bad as the horror that came in a wave ahead of the indistinct dark figures.

Behind him someone moaned.

“Hold steady!” he shouted. “Hold up your swords!” And he held up his although it made his muscles quiver with the effort of defying the powerful urge to drop it, turn and run.

Darkburns take no account of swords or armour, he thought. Do they see us?

Well, I see you: and with that, Rothir leapt forward to strike the nearest darkburn as it rushed towards him.

It was like hitting a tree. How could such an indistinct thing be so solid? Part of it flew off into the air, and when he smote again, another fragment did the same.

But his leather shield could not give him full protection from the heat that radiated from the darkburn. He had to leap back and let Theol take his place. Two strokes, and Theol had to fall back, giving way for Ebril.

Now the darkburn was in their midst and they had to all withdraw from its incinerating heat, slashing as it came close and then running. It was near-chaos; he was vaguely aware that much the same thing was happening in the companies on either side.

And this was the moment that the stonemen chose to charge.

“Hold your ground!” he roared, and jumped forward to strike the darkburn yet again, three times, ignoring the burning of his hands and legs. Finally it fell, crumbling into many pieces at his feet.

At the same time a flight of arrows hissed overhead towards the stonemen. A few of them toppled over – but too few, and then their fellows trampled heedlessly over the injured men in their advance. Immediately the first line of the stoneman army was upon him, shouting and flourishing their swords and battle-axes. No sign of fear.

Yet this was easier than fighting darkburns. Many of the stonemen were unskilled with a sword, although the battle-axes could be lethal even when wielded unhandily. But with a curved sword in one hand and an axe in the other, there was no space for a shield. The few that carried shields bore them bumping on their backs. Rothir had an idea that stonemen regarded shields as cowardly.

Well, that was fine by him. He hacked his way through the first line without receiving more than a glancing blow on his helmet. Some of the stonemen had no more protection than their tunics, and although a few – those with more stones – wore chain mail, even so their necks and limbs were vulnerable; so that was his first area of attack. The trick was not to think of them as people. He was not a person to the stonemen, after all.

Before long he had accounted for three dead and several injured, while Ebril and Theol on either side were fighting strongly too. The air was full of the dreadful sounds of battle: though there was little breath for shouting now, and not even the screams of wounded men were so audible as the whistling scream of swords and the thunk of axe on leather or worse.

Rothir yelled encouragement at his troop, who were holding firm under the onslaught. At the same time he noticed that Sashel’s people were in trouble.

A darkburn had run riot through them and two Riders lay contorted on the ground. The stonemen held back while the darkburn did its work, flinging itself at one Rider after another as they tried vainly to destroy it. He saw Sashel, who had lost his helmet, jump forward in attack and retreat with his hair briefly flaming. Kalbe doused the fire with her cloak.

Rothir turned to meet another stoneman running at him. Parrying the sword-thrust, he took the heavy blow from the axe on his shield and while the man was still trying to pull it free he let the shield drop. Then swinging his own sword in a long arc with both hands he swiped the stoneman’s head off cleanly.

It fell near his feet. He grabbed it by the ears and flung it, raining blood, into the midst of the shouting melee around Sashel. There was a dreadful noise that might have emanated from the darkburn: he couldn’t tell. At any rate the darkburn spun and flung itself away from the rolling head, hurtling out of the affray and down the hill in the opposite direction to the stoneman army.

“Get ready!” shouted Rothir, for even as the darkburn fled, the stonemen began to run at Sashel’s troop. Sashel turned to meet the nearest with a fierce blow of his sword. A second later Rothir had to attend to his own attackers again, cutting and hacking with grim concentration until there was a brief lull in the fighting.

Then he paused to take a quick survey of his position. He had five injured, no fatalities.

Could be much worse. A scatter of dead stonemen lay around; they would keep darkburns at bay. Down the hill, the remaining ranks of stonemen had gathered together and were noisily consulting. Rothir did not expect them to retreat. His sword was badly notched. He leant on it and tried to catch his breath while he was able.

But behind him came a warning shout of “Mind the horses!” He saw that the runaway darkburn, having zig-zagged to and fro, was veering towards the group of increasingly restless horses. If it got much closer they’d stampede.

Quickly he hacked with his sword at the nearest corpse; this time the damaged blade took three attempts to sever the head. Rothir picked it up and ran with it towards the horses, hurling it so that it rolled amongst their feet. Like some dreadful game of bowls, he thought, watching the darkburn swerve away and veer off again on a random path. It seemed to have no plan.

He grabbed his spare, homemade sword from Narba’s saddle before he ran back to the front. It was clear that, unlike the darkburn, the stonemen did have some sort of a plan. Most of them were again beginning to advance, while a smaller group moved backwards to the forest margin. He wondered why. As the heavier force of the enemy surged forward in this fresh attack, it became clear that they were trying to push the Riders back sufficiently to stop them gaining any protection from the corpses with their stones.

“Oh no, you don’t,” said Rothir, and with a shout of “Don’t retreat!” he led the charge again.

This time the fight was long and bitter. Over to his left he glimpsed Parthenal laying about him with his sword, but had no time to see how he was doing. The stonemen in this second wave were tougher and more wily fighters than those of the earlier attack. They sent in the disposables first, but these ones have more stones, so higher rank, he thought, as he took a blow on his cuirass and stabbed the man who’d done it.

“Over here!” he yelled to Sashel. “Re-form!” His group and Sashel’s moved together to combine into one unit, with several injured Riders lying within their protective crescent.

The Riders were holding their ground, but only just. Rothir was growing tired. Knowing that his enemy would be tired too, he urged his troop on, shouting praise of every strong blow of a Rider’s sword and trying to encourage those who were faltering.

Suddenly the stonemen all fell back.

“What?” said Rothir.

“They’re giving up. We’ve done it,” panted Theol. “Shall we charge them?”

“No! Wait. Something’s going on.” Rothir did not trust this abrupt retreat. Glancing over at Parthenal on his left, he saw him hesitate as well, holding back his own company with his outstretched sword.

But to his right, Thoronal was grinning in triumph. “Forward! Attack!” he shouted. “We have them on the back foot!” He led the charge at a run, with his company following at his heels.

“Wait!” bellowed Rothir. The shout went unheeded. Thoronal’s troop were racing down the hill towards the stonemen, who made no attempt to fight, but rapidly withdrew towards the forest. Rothir saw Maeneb standing in their midst, holding back whilst Riders ran past her with their swords upraised.

And then they all came to a sudden, stumbling halt.

“What in the name of all the stars is that?” muttered Ebril beside him.

For out of the shadow of the trees, herded by the second group of stonemen, something was emerging: something long and low and creeping, but creeping fast. This was different to any previous foe.

Although it was as charcoaled as a darkburn it was bigger than any that he had come across before; and more distinct – no formless whirl of smoke, but a solid, clawed, yet almost headless shape. Some spur-like objects on its back might be rudimentary wings.

What was more, the malice and hatred that emanated from it were far greater than any he had felt from any darkburn hitherto. The fury. The relentless loathing. The inner voice commanding him to die.

He felt his muscles turn to milk and his limbs begin to tremble. This was what he had feared. When he tried to grip his sword firmly he could barely feel its hilt, let alone raise it.

The darkburn was glowing. Somewhere in the centre of it there was fire. So this was what Bruilde had seen; and Eled. It was nothing like the wonderful creature of the old tales –

nothing at all. It was a monster, hideous. Nevertheless, there it was, implacably advancing.

“It’s a firedrake,” he said hoarsely: and then he again bellowed at Thoronal’s troop.

“Firedrake! Get back! Get back!”

They needed no telling. Some of them had fallen to their knees in shock and feebleness: others were already turning and starting to stagger back on collapsing legs as the firedrake opened its mouth – or what would have been a mouth, had it not been burnt away.

Inside it was a furnace. From the furnace leapt a stream of flame.

He could feel it from where he stood. It was like the forge multiplied by a hundred. One of Thoronal’s men, unable to run, was caught in the blast. He pitched forward: and an instant later the companion who turned back to help him fell likewise, writhing in the flames.

Thoronal was shouting at them in a gasping voice, but the words were indistinguishable.

Rothir yelled again. “Get back behind the stonemen!” He meant the line of fallen foes, whose stones would offer them protection. They did not seem to understand. He ran forward, beckoning his company to follow: they grabbed those of Thoronal’s troop who were close enough, and dragged them forcibly back across the line.

But not far enough back. The stones were not sufficient protection from this enemy.

Although the firedrake halted ten yards away, its blunt head slowly swinging, its heat carried far beyond the line of corpses. Inside his leather armour, Rothir felt himself begin to cook.

“Back! Back!” he shouted. The Riders were still moving further back when the firedrake opened its mouth a second time.

“Get down!” He flung himself to the ground as the searing burst of flame poured over him.

Several Riders were caught, their screams adding to the horror. It was overwhelming him.

But he would not let it. As the firedrake closed its mouth again he scrambled to his feet, trying to push away every thought but the need to work out what to do.

Surely all they could do was to keep retreating. But that would not help for long: for a few stonemen were starting to run in a wide arc round the firedrake to pull the nearest corpses out of the way. When one of them got too close and caught fire his comrades made no attempt to help him.

Still the firedrake stood squatting on its short bowed legs, facing them, if that blunt lump of charcoal could be called a face. With its charred stumps of wings it was a grotesque, ruined thing. Heat pulsed from it: and now it lifted its head for a third assault.

We have to run or die, thought Rothir. Or both. Might as well run this way, then.

He dropped his sword and shield and picked up the two nearest stoneman corpses, seizing one in each hand by the back of their tunics. Holding them in front of him he ran, staggering, towards the firedrake. He couldn’t see beyond the stonemen’s lolling heads. But he could feel the firedrake’s burning – even with his human shield, it was close to unbearable.

It’s no worse than the forge, he told himself, you’re used to that. It’s just the forge.

He had to get still closer before the next surge of flame. So on he ran, half-blind, into the heat, into the furnace. He heard the roar as the darkburn sent out its third stream of fire. He heard the cries of agony.

But this time the cries came from in front of him. The firedrake had turned half away from the corpses that he carried, its head swivelling, so that its fire had hit the stoneman army. It seemed that it did not discriminate between friend and foe.

As long as it can hate and kill, he thought, it doesn’t matter who. Although he felt almost on fire himself, Rothir kept lumbering towards it with his bloody burden. And now the firedrake turned fully round from him to face the stonemen in its path.

Instead of advancing to make it move away, the stonemen panicked and began to run.

Those in the rear took the full blast of the firedrake’s fourth attack: several went up in yellow flames like beacons.

Rothir’s human shield was now steaming and sizzling, and he could go no closer.

Thrusting the corpses away from him towards the firedrake, he ran back to rejoin his troop.

By the time he reached them the firedrake had set out on a new path, creeping fast and low towards the fleeing stonemen, sending wave on wave of fire after them.

As the Riders watched, the surviving stonemen fled into the forest, the firedrake crawling behind them as fast as they could run. It left behind a blackened trail of burning grass and burning men beneath a cloud of smoke.

Then it too lurched into the forest. They saw sudden leaping flames and billows of black smoke mark its progress through the trees. Soon it had disappeared entirely: the only enemies in sight were dead ones. Before them lay an abandoned scene of mud and fire and devastation.

Chapter 24

Maeneb gazed around, trying to penetrate the shadowy knots of undergrowth beneath the trees. The path that the firedrake had taken through the Darkburn forest was easy to distinguish: a track had obviously been cleared earlier by the stonemen, and the point at which the firedrake had plunged across it was marked by scorched tree-trunks and ripped branches. Had it been the height of a dry summer, half the forest could have been on fire by now. Luckily it was the end of a wet winter, so that only the new, tender buds were burnt.

There was neither sight nor sound of the firedrake or the stonemen. When Thoronal asked her, “How close now?” she tested for them again in her mind.

“Two miles away at least.”

He nodded soberly. Even though each of the Riders in the forest held a protective stone –

prised quickly and unceremoniously from various corpses – nobody showed any inclination to go deeper into the trees in pursuit of the enemy.

“All right,” said Thoronal. “That’ll do. Let’s get back to the others.”

Maeneb thought that he ought not to have come down here in the first place, not when at least six of his troop were dead and two dozen badly burnt or wounded. He should have stayed back up on the hill with them. Although she could sense his shame and confusion, she felt little sympathy. He’d been too ready to assume the stonemen were retreating – and he should have led his own retreat as soon as the firedrake appeared. It was only because she had held back that she hadn’t ended up burnt herself.

She knew that retreat was not in Thoronal’s nature. He hated to be worsted in any conflict, verbal or actual. She also knew that he had burns all down one arm and was trying to ignore them. Pain was easy to detect.

And when they trekked back out of the forest to the others, there was too much pain there, waiting. As well as the six Riders of Thoronal’s troop, Sashel had lost three and Orbrel two.

About forty were severely hurt, enough to put them out of action. Many of the remainder had minor burns or wounds.

The lesser wounded were now tending the more badly hurt close to the battlefield. On the field itself, Theol and a dozen others worked grimly at prising stones from the skulls of the dead enemy. Maeneb tried to estimate the number of the dead: more than a hundred, maybe two. She felt no triumph.

Walking over to where Rothir sat on the ground, being tended by Parthenal, she squatted down a yard or two away to talk. She was fully aware that Rothir had saved the Riders by his actions, while Thoronal’s rash charge had almost caused disaster.

“The enemy are at least two miles away,” she said. “And still withdrawing. There’s no advantage in trying to pursue them any further through the forest. But there’s no knowing how quickly they’ll regain control of the firedrake.”

Rothir nodded. “We need to move before that happens.”

“Hold still,” said Parthenal, who was tying up a gash in Rothir’s thigh with a curved needle and thread. Rothir held still and winced while the wound was packed with star-moss, and a rough bandage applied.

“You should have worn the leg guards,” Parthenal told him curtly.

“They slow me down. It’s not too bad.” Although Rothir’s legs were red, the burns were superficial – unlike those of poor Calenir, who lay and moaned nearby as two Riders tried to alleviate his pain. His part in this campaign was over.

Thoronal walked up and stood over the group. He’s spent the last half hour working himself up to this, thought Maeneb, as she waited silently for him to speak.

“I got that wrong,” he said after a moment. “Well fought, Rothir.”

“We were lucky it worked,” said Rothir. “No guarantees. How many stones are we likely to get?”

“Theol estimates at least four hundred. No guarantees of them either, of course; we can’t be sure that all the stones will have the same effect. But a good haul.” He looked at Parthenal.

“Well fought also, Parthenal.” Maeneb could tell that it cost him an effort to say that too.

“All the Riders fought well,” said Parthenal coolly, securing the bandage around Rothir’s leg. He himself was practically unscathed despite having been in the thick of battle.

Untouched in his emotions, she thought, as well as in his body. In all her dozen years’

experience of warfare, Maeneb had come across no fighter so ruthlessly efficient as Parthenal

– except, perhaps, Veron.

“Did you see we had observers?” Parthenal went on, pointing over to a rise where two horses stood. Even at a distance the riders’ gear glinted profusely in the sun.

“Oh,” said Thoronal heavily. “Kelvha, I presume. No, I hadn’t noticed them.”

“Nice of them to come and help,” said Parthenal.

“I suppose I’d better go and talk to them,” said Thoronal. “Not that it’ll make any difference to the report that they’ll send back.”

“It should be a good enough report,” said Maeneb.

“In parts, maybe.” Thoronal trudged off towards the pair of horsemen. He had not gone very far when they wheeled their horses round and rode away.

“Friendly,” commented Parthenal.

“They’ll have their orders. You know that,” said Rothir. He rubbed at his head and a handful of burnt hair came off in his fingers. His leather helmet sat beside him on the grass, its crown burnt through.

“Don’t worry, it suits you having half a head of hair,” Parthenal assured him. “Next time, just hold your stonemen to the left, and it’ll even up.”

Maeneb wished she knew how to make a joke. Rothir looked as if he needed cheering. She tried to think of something positive to say.

“At least we’ll get one good night’s sleep in Thield before we have to set off north,” she offered. And at that he laughed.

“Yes, that’ll be a luxury, won’t it? That’ll do, Parthenal, thanks. You don’t need to help me up.”

But Parthenal shook his head as he pulled Rothir to his feet. “I do. You’re creaking like an old man, dwarf. Your home-made sword proved its worth today, though, didn’t it?”

“It did the job,” said Rothir, immediately serious again. He laid his hand on the sword’s blood-stained hilt as if on the supporting arm of a friend.

“Remember that I’ve ordered one just like it from you.”

“When I get the chance,” said Rothir. “That could be a while.”

Maeneb left them and went to check on the wounded members of her own troop. Durba was one of those acting as nurse, applying star-moss to Felba’s head. She looked up as Maeneb arrived. Still that happiness… it was disturbing, especially after such a battle.

Maeneb could not understand it.

Or rather, she didn’t want to understand it. What did it mean if Durba was becoming attached to her? What did Durba expect? She herself wanted no relationship with anybody, physical or emotional, male or female. She quite liked Durba for her reticence but that was as far as it went.

“It was a good win in the end,” said Durba eagerly, “wasn’t it? At least we killed several darkburns and half the stonemen. And we put the others to flight.”

“The firedrake put the stonemen to flight. And we killed less than half. And one of the darkburns is still roaming around somewhere.”

“But we’ll be all right now we’ve got the stones.” Durba seemed quite confident.

“They weren’t a good defence against the firedrake,” Maeneb pointed out. “The reach of its flames was too long.”

“Well, if we can collect enough stones we can just throw them, and repel a firedrake that way. In any case, I don’t think they’ll be able to take a firedrake all the way up north, will they? I imagine it’s too big for a cart, and much harder to control than the usual darkburns.

The stonemen could easily get roasted.”

“True,” admitted Maeneb sombrely. “They would certainly be hard to drive.”

“How many firedrakes do you think there are? Bruilde said that she’d seen two.”

“So at least two, then.”

“I never thought a firedrake would look like that,” said Durba. She was irritatingly talkative and enthusiastic, quite unlike the taciturn companion of the journey to the Gyr. “I thought they would be scaly with huge wings.”

“They should be, by all accounts.” Maeneb thought about the firedrake. The horror and dread of it had almost paralysed her at first; but at the same time, in the middle of that horror, she had reached out with her mind towards it, searching.

And, as with the darkburns, she had found almost nothing there. Or rather, what was there was on a different level to her own mind; as if it was a sound too low for her to hear, or a colour that she could not see…

How could she teach herself to see that colour, to hear that sound – to feel the darkburns?

It would be so useful. But she had no idea where to start. She knew it was a failure and it depressed her.

“You’ll do now, Felba,” said Durba, patting her patient on the shoulder before she looked up again at Maeneb. “Your turn now. Your face looks burnt.”

“It’s not bad.” She moved away, but Durba stood up and followed her.

“It may not be bad, but it looks sore. Let me tend it, Maeneb.”

“Leave it,” she said sharply. “You know that I don’t like to be touched. By anybody.”

“Maybe that could change,” said Durba.

“Maybe it couldn’t.”

“Well, all right, but if you’re wounded–”

“I’m not wounded.”

“A bit of star-moss would just soothe–”

“Stop it, Durba. Why are you talking so much?”

“Am I?”

“The battle excited you.”

“I suppose so. Yes, I think it did. You see, it’s the first time I ever–”

“And you didn’t mind it? Killing people? Seeing people dying?”

“Well, of course I mind it,” Durba said, “but they’re stonemen, after all, and I didn’t really know the Riders who died. I mean, I’m sorry for them, obviously.”

Maeneb looked at her long and hard. “You’re very young.”

“I’m twenty. Not all that young. So am I supposed to fall apart on the battlefield? That wouldn’t be very useful, would it? I thought I coped quite well with the darkburn feelings. I knew that they weren’t real.”

“But the deaths are real. You ought to care about the people you are fighting alongside.”

“I do,” said Durba. “Of course I do. But all the ones I care about are fine. And it is exciting, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a game,” said Maeneb.

“But it is an adventure.”

Maeneb sighed. Time would probably teach Durba, so why should she try to disillusion her? All the same, battle ought to mean more to her than this. Even Parthenal, she knew, had never taken killing lightly. Both his skill and ruthlessness had developed over many years.

And here was Durba, to whom this first horrific fight was nothing but a big adventure. For all Maeneb’s insight into the inner lives of other people, this was something that she couldn’t understand.

Chapter 25

Yaret’s first battle was against neither darkburns nor the stonemen, but one of her own troop.

She was saddling up the scruffy horse at daybreak, when she felt a hand come round behind her and go down her breeches. She tried to pull it out but the hand was insistent. The arm it was attached to was stronger than hers.

So Yaret pulled out her knife instead; at which the hand stopped its unpleasant fondling and withdrew. She turned round and saw that it belonged to Inthed, one of the men who had voted against her joining the Gostard troop.

“If you do that again,” she said, “I’ll kill you.”

His hand shot out to grip hers round the wrist and forced the knife up towards her own throat.

“I’d like to see you try,” he said.

Although she felt the urge to spit in his face she decided that it wouldn’t help. So she attempted to wrestle with him, which of course was useless: he was at least one and a half times her weight, and stronger in proportion. She let the knife fall because it would only cause trouble, and instead twisted and writhed and tried to hit him. He seemed to be enjoying it until she kicked him in the shin and scraped her boot down his leg to stamp on his foot, hard, with her wooden one.

That did it. He loosened his grip enough for her to pull free.

“Ow! That hurt! You little…”

“Cut it out, turnip-head,” she said. “I’ve got to fight next to you tomorrow. When a stoneman rushes towards you with his axe upraised, do you want me to shoot him down or not?”

By this time Jerred and a couple of the others had wandered over to see what the scuffle was about. This made her feel a little safer, but not entirely.

“What’s going on?”

“He stuck his hand down my breeches uninvited,” said Yaret.

“It’s only a bit of fun,” said Inthed.

“I don’t enjoy it.”

“Well, I didn’t hurt you, did I? No need to pull a knife on me. She said she’d kill me, Jerred!”

Jerred looked at her. She could tell he really didn’t want to sort this out.

“All right, I over-reacted,” she said. “Next time I’ll merely maim you.”

“You did maim me,” complained Inthed. “I think you broke my foot!”

“Don’t go damaging him,” said Jerred wearily.

“Sorry. That was the wooden leg. I just forgot.”

“The what?” Inthed stopped wincing and rubbing his shin to stare at her. She picked up the knife and stabbed her own leg at the ankle.

“This one’s wooden. Surely you knew? I showed to the Baron. Didn’t Jerred tell you?”

She looked at Jerred, who shrugged.

“I told them. I expect he wasn’t listening,” he said.

“If I’d known you had a wooden leg, I wouldn’t have touched you,” declared Inthed, not with remorse but with disgust.

“Oh, good. It has some advantages, then.”

“Stop the bickering. We’re leaving in five minutes,” said Jerred shortly.

“I’ll be ready.” Sticking her knife back in its sheath, she turned to Helba. The horse had stood unmoved throughout the wrestling and commotion. Impressive. It might do all right in battle.

The others went away to see to their own horses, apart from Inthed. He hung around to ask, “What happened to your leg, then?”

“A stoneman with an axe.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “So no-one shot that stoneman for you first, then.”

“No.” She tightened Helba’s girth-straps. “There was no time to react. We were ambushed.”

“Who’s we?”

“Some people I was travelling with, who rescued me afterwards.”

“So who were they?”

“Riders of the Vonn.” She expected another So who were they? When there was only silence she glanced round at him.

He looked, if anything, afraid. “Was Veron one of them?”

“No. I haven’t met Veron. I’ve heard about him, though. Why do you ask?”

Now Inthed seemed decidedly uncomfortable. “You know that it was only a bit of fun before, don’t you?”

“Not fun for me,” she said.

“It won’t happen again.”

“Well, of course it won’t,” she said. “Wooden leg, remember? It’s a great prophylactic.”

“A great what?”

“Forget it. Come on, they’re leaving.” She swung herself up onto Helba’s back, while Inthed hurried to mount his own horse.

They rode west in a long train behind the Baron’s entourage. The Baron sat aloof and straight on Poda, who held herself as proudly as the queen of horses. No wonder everybody looked at me when I arrived, thought Yaret. The lead soldiers soon broke into a canter, but after the first flush of enthusiasm they slowed to a sedate walk, and she had time to think.

It seemed unfair that she should need to be wary of her fellow-soldiers as well as of the enemy. Still, at least the wooden foot would give her some protection from Inthed.

Ondro hadn’t minded it, and she felt even more grateful to him now. But she felt also some dismay, because she guessed that Inthed would not be unique in his revulsion. That didn’t matter at the moment; but it might in future. Even her old lover Dalko might have flinched from a wooden leg. He would have found it hard to joke about, although in this case, joking would actually have helped.

Meanwhile, she felt ashamed that she had to rely for her safety on a wooden leg – that, and the mysterious power of Veron’s name. She wanted to ask the others more about Veron, but was unwilling to betray her ignorance.

So on she rode, keeping close to Morad and Jerred; for she felt that she could trust those two, to some extent at least.

By now they were passing alongside and at times through the fringes of the great forests of the north: huge, close-packed stands of spruce and pine and gring and selver, and others that she did not recognise. The ground beneath Helba’s hooves was soft with needles and scattered with huge cones. Some were as big as her fist and many a horse stumbled on them.

Helba, however, seemed nimble for an elderly mare. Yaret tried to catch another glimpse of Poda; but the Baron and his company were too far ahead in the trees now to be seen.

When they stopped and camped, she felt as if the rest of the army could be miles away. In here the air was still: the forest muffled every sound and made her little group seem cut off, adrift on an island of pine needles amidst huge waves of twilight green.

As she ate her rations and prepared to sleep, Yaret was surprised to hear some of the men complain about the meagre food, the hard ground, and the cold. She had no problem with any of those. It made her realise just how accustomed she had grown to hunger and discomfort

over the long months of winter in Obandiro. She missed her little pot of salt, but that was all.

The pine needles that she lay on felt luxurious after the knobbly sacks down in the cellar. She said a small Thanks in her head; and then Oveyn, because she had forgotten it the last two nights. And she must not forget any of it.

That night she dreamt of home – of where had once been home and now was gone.

Children ran through empty streets and screamed for parents who did not reply. Instead, the Guardians lay stiff and mute on every corner. All she could do was watch as the wall of flames engulfed the town. It was a familiar dream and by now she knew both that she was dreaming and also that it was real.

In the morning she made sure to perform Haedath and did not care who watched her do it.

She would fight for Obandiro, and nobody would stop her. It was not only the individuals that she mourned – for many of them, after all, she had not known, or had known only by sight –

but the town itself, as though Obandiro were a living entity. A long-suffering one: for centuries it had endured blight, famine, fever, summer storms and bitter winters. Ill-fortune had seemed at times to pour upon it. Yet always it had managed to survive – till now.

Again she wondered, should I be there? Or here?

She listened for the dead standing at her shoulder. Here, they murmured, for there must be no more Obandiros. Whether or not it was the dead that spoke, or merely her own wish, she had no choice left to her now, because they were setting off again.

For half the day the woods marched past them on the right-hand side unchangingly; and then suddenly, without warning or preparation, they were in the thick of battle.

Yaret could not work out what had happened. Nobody seemed to know. Only later did she learn that a dozen darkburns had rushed out simultaneously from the treeline all along the ranks. Such a small number – yet they created such a huge amount of havoc.

At first she only heard wild shrieks and saw the horses just ahead of her begin to bolt.

Then the smell hit her, and the cloud of fear as thick as smoke. So she knew at once what she needed to look out for.

The nearest darkburn had already rushed on a group of Melmet men about thirty yards away. One man lay twitching on the ground, in flames. Another ran to his aid – only for the darkburn to whirl upon him too, so that he immediately blazed up in a sheet of fire. The screams and smell of burning flesh were sickening.

One of the stones was in her pocket: she could drive the darkburn away, if the stone worked. But she couldn’t risk riding Helba so close. Even the stolid old mare would surely panic at a darkburn.

So Yaret jumped down from the horse, and ran towards the huddle of fire and darkness that still lingered by the burning men, crouching on the bodies, a smoking shadow in the flames. She had to push through a throng of frantic horses and bewildered soldiers – some cowering and moaning, some shouting, but none knowing what to do. None of them could get close to the darkburn for the heat and fear.

As she approached she pushed the fear down. I could bear it before, so I can now, she thought, as she felt her face and hands begin to burn.

And then the darkburn rose up from the prone and smoking bodies, which thankfully had fallen silent; only the flames spoke their own dry laughing language. When she was less than ten yards from it the darkburn began to move away from her. It seemed to be longer and thinner than either the one she’d met above the empty town of Erbulet, or the one she’d found down in the pit; although she could not tell how many legs it had, or whether they were legs at all. It was mostly cloud and darkness.

But the stone that she carried worked. As she got closer the darkburn began to rush away from her more speedily. It hurtled back towards the forest of great pines it had emerged from

– just as a stoneman force came charging out.

The darkburn was caught between her and the attacking stonemen. It swerved across the space between the two armies – which was rapidly narrowing – while Yaret ran parallel to it, along the line of Melmet men, trying to keep it away from her own side.

But the force of the stonemen and their many stones must have been too great for it to bear. The darkburn spun through the scattering ranks of the Broc, not pausing to attack any of the frantically shouting men, and raced straight out the other side. Then it careered off across the empty land towards the south, and showed no sign of turning back.

Yaret gave up the chase and stopped to pant. She hadn’t run so fast for months: the last time she remembered running was to her tardy donkeys, south of the Thore, and her leg was throbbing. But the stonemen were already almost on them, so she had to run again, this time back to Helba.

She reached the horse just as the first wave of the enemy hit the Melmet troops. Pulling her bow from its saddle-holster she swung round, nocking an arrow to the bowstring: fire, nock, fire, nock, fire…

But all at once there was no time to nock another arrow, because the stonemen were too close, so she had to drop the bow, snatch up her sword, slap Helba on her rump and send her running off to anywhere she would.

Ignore the shouts and screams. Prepare. Observe. Now. Nearest stoneman. He’s big. But legs, throat, armpits all exposed. Aim there.

Yet she was fully aware that she was exposed too – for none of her group wore any armour, unlike the Baron and his followers in their chain mail. Most of the Gostard men were not even equipped with shields. So she would have to get in first with her blow. Luckily this stoneman was an even worse swordsman than she was: clumsy, no defence. He had only four stones round his head…

Yaret shut out the thought of the stoneman she had slain in the deserted town up north, and sliced desperately with her sword at his unprotected throat. A lot of blood happened. He began staggering: another stroke, and he fell over. She was shocked. She had just killed a man – one who had not wished to die – and a lightning bolt of some acute sensation ran through her and froze her for a moment.

Unfreeze, she told herself. All right. I can do this. One down. Where’s the next?

The next was on her before she could think, and then thought must have stopped altogether for a while. There was nothing but instinct and automatic reaction as she parried and hacked and slashed at one stoneman after another without any time to plan her moves.

Blood was running down her face and into her eyes, although she had no idea how much of it was hers. There seemed to be blood everywhere, and the shivering clash of metal mixed with groans and grunts – not much shouting now, nobody had the energy to spare – while around her she saw fallen bodies slowly accumulating.

As she tired and slowed, Morad rescued her from being felled by an onrushing foe, getting his sword-stab in first; a little later she thought she might have rescued him in turn, when a stoneman who was about to swing his axe down on to Morad’s head crumpled underneath her blow. Morad seized the axe from the stonemen’s hand to use it on his neck, several times. Yet more blood. When she wiped it from her face she could taste it, metallic, sticky, horrible.

But then, behind Morad, there was a space. A blessed emptiness. A few last stonemen were running back into the trees.

Yaret leant on her sword and gasped for breath. A moment later, since it seemed the stonemen really had retreated, she sat down heavily on the ground. She felt almost unable to move.

Others knelt or sat around her. There was cheering somewhere, though not much. She said Oveyn automatically. But all she could think was, Well, that was a mess.

So much blood. Its sour iron taint reeked even through the smoke. And such hard work, this fighting! She had thought that she was fit after a winter of digging and hard labour: yet her arms were trembling with the effort, and her back and shoulders ached. How did people do it for more than a few minutes?

But she had no idea how long the fight had lasted. Half an hour, perhaps? An hour? Inthed and some of the others were clapping each other on the back as if they’d won a whole war.

Yet she knew that this was just the start. A mere skirmish. And it had almost done for her. If the stonemen had not been so untrained and un-nimble, she’d be dead. She thought again of Brael up in the burnt, deserted town, and this time the memory would not go away.

Jerred was of her way of thinking, it appeared: there were no cheers from him. He had a sharp word with Inthed, commanding him to stop the celebrations and help to drag away the wounded. Yaret thought to check her limbs to see if she was one of them. It seemed not.

And then a soldier in the Baron’s livery rode up and demanded words with all of them.

“That was Yaret,” she heard Inthed say. “She’s over there.”

“She?” the messenger exclaimed with outraged surprise.

“He,” said Jerred, in exasperation. “You’ve had one too many blows on the head, Inthed.”

As the messenger turned towards her she saw Jerred give Inthed another blow on the head, with the back of his hand, for good measure.

“The Baron commands your presence,” said the messenger to her coldly.

Well, she had known that this would happen. So she staggered to her feet.

“I’m coming,” she said to him. “Just let me get my horse. There’s a reason why.”

“I’m coming too,” said Jerred. “Seeing as he’s in my troop.” Once she had retrieved Helba

– who was calm enough, and had not strayed far, who in fact was already walking back to her

– they traipsed along the line of tired soldiers to the Baron. “What happened there?” hissed Jerred. “When you ran at the darkburn and it ran away. Was that wizardry?”

“Maybe.” She was aching all over now, not just her shoulders, but legs, arms, everything; and tried to straighten up before she faced the Baron. How did the Riders do this? They must be made of iron. Whereas she was made of twigs and grass.

Baron Grusald was another man of iron, from the sight of him – both in his full-body armour and in his steely, cold, suspicious gaze. As the messenger bowed, murmuring to the Baron and his group of headmen, they all looked at her askance.

Inwardly she cursed Inthed for giving away her gender. She strongly suspected that the Baron had been informed of it by Jerred at the start, and perhaps Inthed’s slip hadn’t been deliberate; but she would have preferred it if the whole Melmet army didn’t know she was a female.

“It’s reported that you charged a darkburn and it ran away from you,” announced the Baron’s spokesman, Devald, with supercilious disapproval. “Explain.”

Yaret bowed and touched the side of her hand to her forehead in the archer’s salute. Then she held out her other hand to Grusald and opened it to show the stone lying in her palm.

“I had this,” she said, “from a stoneman’s head. A past incident had given me the idea that the stones might somehow control the darkburns, but I had no opportunity to try it until now.

It seemed to work. I would say it repelled the darkburn at a distance of some yards.”

Grusald nodded to Devald, who plucked the stone from her outstretched palm. Grusald studied it but did not touch.

“Why did you not tell me this before?” he said levelly.

“Because I had no certainty that it would work.”

“And where did you get this one from?”

“From a lone stoneman up north. He’d been left behind when the army marched out.”

“I assume he didn’t offer it to you.”

“No. I killed him.”

“And I assume he did not have one stone only?” said Grusald.

“He had only two.”

“Where is the other one?”

“In my saddle-bag.”

“Find it.”

She went over to Helba and retrieved the second stone.

“I trust my horse Poda has served you well,” she said as she handed it over; because it wouldn’t hurt to remind him.

“Your former horse,” said Devald, and she bowed.

Grusald was frowning at her. “I suppose you think you won that battle for us,” he growled.

“No. I think the skirmish was won, but not because of me. It was because of all your men who fought so valiantly. However, in the battles to come we may be able to deal more easily with the darkburns if all these stones work in the same way. I can’t be sure that they do. Even if they repel the darkburns, we would have to be careful about exactly where we drive the darkburns to. Ideally you’d herd them into a river that could carry them away, or perhaps into a pit dug beforehand to trap them. Otherwise they’ll just be roaming around.”

Grusald gazed at her for a little longer, still frowning, before he said abruptly,

“Very well. Orders will be given to pluck out stones from the dead foemen. I shall then decide how best they may be used. Well? What are you waiting for? Go back to your company. Jerred? Stay a moment.”

She led Helba away, aware that she was being stared at. The meeting had a large audience.

So much for the anonymity she had hoped for…

And when Jerred returned ten minutes later, he said with a wry shrug, “Well, the Baron can’t ignore the fact that you’re a female now, thanks to thick-head there.” He jerked his head towards Inthed. “Sorry about that. I know you wanted to stay secret. But the messenger protested about having a female in the ranks.”

Her heart sank. “What did Grusald say? Have I got to leave?” she asked.

“No. He doesn’t take kindly to advice from messengers, as he made quite clear. And I pointed out that our troop doesn’t belong to him. Although we’re allied for the purposes of war, Gostard isn’t under his dominion.”

“So he won’t kick me out?”

Jerred shook his head. “I reminded him of a couple of things: your wooden leg, and your desire for revenge. That’s something he can appreciate.”

“Well. Thank you.” She reflected bleakly that as word spread, all the army would soon be calling her a peg-leg. Useless female peg-leg. Still, that might not be a bad thing, if it put everyone off as effectively as it had Inthed.

“The horse helped too,” said Jerred with a half-smile. “And of course your connection with Veron. I told him about that as well. It didn’t hurt.”

“But I don’t have a connection with Veron. I don’t even know him. Why does everybody up here talk about Veron?”

“They’re afraid of him,” said Jerred.

“Why? Is Veron so dangerous?”

“Oh, yes. Not to his friends, and Melmet is his friend. But they’re still afraid of him, quite rightly,” answered Jerred, sombre now. “And not just him: his wife.”

Chapter 26

Yaret was right about the Peg-leg tag. She heard it called out in mirth several times that evening, and by the next day half her own troop had adopted Peg-leg as her new name. She didn’t mind that. It made her feel slightly more accepted.

She felt more or less accepted by most of them now, anyway. Her own views of them had also changed over the last day or two. Jerred was a much tougher and more ruthless leader than she would have thought from her previous brief contacts with him. Morad, on the other hand, seemed more soft-hearted than he had been in his role as Gostard’s miller.

And thankfully none of them followed Inthed’s example, although admittedly there was little time for horseplay of that sort. They were all set to work by the Baron: those who weren’t tending the wounded or packing up the camp were kept busy prising the stones from the heads of fallen stonemen. It was a nauseating task, during which several heads ended up being smashed.

Yaret, bandaging up burns, tried not to watch as the mutilated enemy dead were piled up unceremoniously. She said Oveyn for them under her breath, still conscious of the shock of killing. It felt like a lightning stroke that had left its mark within her. She forced herself to over-ride it and filched a lightweight shield from one of the discarded corpses.

Next day they all moved on and after a muddy and uneventful march camped some twenty miles further west. The Baron called a halt by a craggy hill that loomed over a long ridge: between the two, the ground was soft.

Here, the following dawn, many men were set to work digging a long trench two or three yards wide. Yaret thought that it was not an ideal place to capture darkburns. However, since she could not see a better site, and no-one was interested in her opinion anyway, she kept her misgivings to herself.

The trench was only part-dug when the warnings came. Lookouts had been set along the ridge: now horns blew, loud and frantic, one after the other, signalling the sighting of the enemy.

And then brief moments later came the swiftly rushing blurs of darkness and the stink and horror of approaching death. Yaret snatched up her bow and fought against the fear that rapidly enveloped her. Whether it was the manufactured fear of darkburns or her own fear of battle, nobody should say she failed in courage because she was a woman.

A couple of the men, however, seemed to be suffering; young Bred was almost in tears as he tried to hold his shaking sword up in both hands. Yaret called out words of support to him while she nocked an arrow to her bow, but almost at once the darkburns – eight or ten of them, spaced out – were rushing at the Melmet line. Close behind them the first stonemen were already emerging, charging from the trees with upraised axes and their strident battle-cries harsh in her ears.

If the first battle had seemed chaotic to her, this one was doubly so. She loosed off arrows at the charging mass without knowing if she hit any of her targets; for the crowd of stonemen was so thick that any injured soldiers in their number were just carried along in the surge or else swiftly trampled underfoot.

The unfinished trench swallowed a number of the darkburns, but because it was still too shallow at one end, the larger ones got out and hurtled on towards the Melmet line – only to stop several yards away, flailing and spinning, held back by the power of the stones. The Baron’s men, encouraged, advanced on them, so that the darkburns were driven back towards the trench once more.

At the same time, the front line of stonemen came hurtling down from the ridge; some of the more unwary of them toppled into the trench too. But others leapt it, swinging their axes

as they came, and ignoring the darkburns which now zigzagged in destructive random paths, trapped between the two armies. The darkburns resorted to hurtling through any gap, however small, on either side, leaving men behind them burnt and shrieking. But at least they did not stop for long enough for their heat to often become fatal.

Through all this, amidst the fires and smoke and shouts, Yaret fired arrow after arrow until her quiver was empty. Then she dropped her bow and grabbed up her sword and newly-acquired shield.

The shield proved its worth immediately, with the first blow of a stoneman’s sword. The point penetrated it and then stuck fast; and while the stonemen tugged at it, she swiped him with her own sword through the neck. He was still in the act of falling when the next man leapt upon her. Parrying the blow, in the same stroke she sliced across his arm. She saw only surprise and annoyance on his face – no pain – before she stabbed him through the ribs.

Although again she felt that jolt of shock there was no time to think about it.

Once again it was bloody, brutal work; but the shield helped, even though it was only made of leather stretched taut over a wooden frame, and soon began to look the worse for wear. The trench and the properties of the stones were giving the Baron’s men a clear advantage – and, moreover, the darkburns that they repelled wrought more damage to the stonemen’s discipline than to that of Melmet. While the stonemen seemed to have no cohesion, the Barons’ troops held their line; and gradually the chaos took a shape as they began to gain the upper hand.

Suddenly the furthest line of stonemen turned and retreated over the ridge, to disappear into the ranks of trees. Yaret was surprised, for she had gained the impression from the Riders of the Vonn that retreat was anathema to stonemen; yet this was the second time she had witnessed them withdraw. She was very glad of it none the less – as were they all. The triumph of the Melmet army was muted by fatigue and wariness.

The Baron sent no men to follow the retreating stonemen into the denseness of the forest.

Instead he rode around on Poda assessing the damage done to his own forces. Despite the effectiveness of the stones, there were many Melmet casualties; and while the Gostard men had all survived, several had bad cuts and gashes.

“You’ve got one yourself,” Jerred told her. “On your head. No, the other side.”

She had felt nothing. But when she put a hand up to her hair – which she had braided tightly on the right, copying the Melmet archers – she found her temple sticky with blood that she had assumed was the enemy’s.

“At least the trenches worked, after a fashion,” she remarked.

Jerred handed her a waterskin and a bit of cloth to wipe her head with. “After a fashion,”

he agreed soberly. “Though we won’t be able to use that trick again. They’ll be prepared for trenches now. If they have any sense they’ll attack as soon as they see us start to dig.”

But from now on, it seemed, they would not be allowed to stop to dig, not even to bury their own dead. The Baron ordered the troops to move on with all haste.

When he led them out again on Poda, the straggling line of men behind him was much longer and thinner than it had been at first. Everyone was tired and apprehensive. As she rode, Yaret felt more nervous than the stolid Helba underneath her: she expected another ambush at every moment. When none occurred it simply fuelled her nervousness.

It was a long forced march with no stops until nightfall. On halting, her troop, like others, tried to light a fire; but all the wood nearby was so damp that the smoky flames fizzled weakly before sputtering out. So they ate their rations cold, and shivered through the night.

Yaret awoke multiple times, disturbed by every rustling twitch and murmur of the men around her. When she finally managed to drift into sleep, her dreams were no respite. The deafening orange roar of fire: the shrieks of children... They shook her back into appalled wakefulness, more terrible than the actual noise of battle had been.

In the grey, drizzly daybreak the army set off on the march again. Still they were not attacked. On their coming to the north-road five miles from Ioben, Yaret noted the familiar surroundings with dull surprise, wondering to find herself here without hindrance. The last five miles plodding on their weary horses to Ioben’s rugged walls seemed the longest yet, with every man looking round for some sign of the enemy. There was none.

When they arrived at Ioben, it was strangely quiet. Even the Baron’s air of dour self-assurance seemed to leave him as the Melmet army rode up to the main gate, their hoofbeats and jangling harnesses the only sound.

Yaret and her troop were not far behind the Baron: Jerred had kept them well up towards the front, with a stern insistence which some of his men did not appreciate. But Yaret guessed at his reasoning – that the closer they were to Grusald and his hard-bitten bodyguard, the safer they would be. The men of the Broc had won her respect over the last few days for their discipline and their resilience.

Outside the gate the Baron, pulling on Poda’s reins, came to a frowning halt to consult his headmen. He looked aggrieved. Where were the Ioben troops that were to meet them here?

Where were the aldermen with their grateful welcome? No cheering crowd awaited them.

Instead, a group of four elderly men and women came hesitantly from the gatehouse.

Although they bowed they looked askance at the arriving army.

“We sent messengers ahead,” the Baron told them, his harsh voice echoing in the cold air,

“to tell you that we were coming to your aid against the stone-heads. Where are your men?

Your forces, your commander?”

“Our commander Hreld is trying to muster troops, Baron, north of the town.”

“I thought they would have been already mustered,” complained Grusald. “Don’t you know that the enemy is only a day’s march away? We have fought them off half a dozen times merely to get here. And we find that nobody is ready! Take me to Hreld.”

After some consultation the gates were opened fully and the army was led through the almost deserted streets. Finally Yaret allowed herself to relax a little.

She looked around with both interest and recognition; for this was her grandmother’s birthplace, and she felt a certain sense of belonging here, even though three years had passed since her most recent visit. It was a long diversion from her pedlar's route to get this far north, and the trade last time had not been good enough to justify the journey. Ioben was not a wealthy town.

In truth, it was not even a town at all so much as a collection of clumped houses, many of them built in the old round style in turf and thatch. With small windows set into walls almost a yard thick, they were gloomy but wind-proof in the biting winters. Goats grazed in the space between.

But the houses themselves seemed to be mostly empty. Not burnt, which was something: and at one or two Yaret saw the dim faces of women and children looking out. When a pair of women called to each other, window to window, she recognised her grandmother’s dialect.

“From Melmet, are they? Which side do you think they’re on?” called one.

“Ours, it’s to be hoped,” replied the other. It was odd to hear the familiar tongue, so close to the Bandiran language and yet so far in miles from her own home. But Ioben was where many of her distant relatives had settled four hundred years ago. They had kept to the old ways of their northern origins, while Obandiro, in the east, had been more adaptable. There, the last roundhouses had been replaced many years ago by multi-roomed homes that allowed for privacy and did not fill themselves with smoke.

None the less the ties between the two remained. On her early visits to Ioben with her grandfather, she and Ilo had been welcomed warmly, if with a quaint accent.

There was no warm welcome now as the Melmet army tramped, tired and disgruntled, through the town. On its far side they came upon a field that was full not of goats but of

people. This was obviously the mustering camp; for many groups of men lounged by makeshift tents, sharpening rusty swords and comparing home-made spears.

It was a makeshift army, too, thought Yaret; for most of these men wore everyday working clothes or a range of disparate gear. There was the odd ancient breastplate and battered helmet probably taken down from its wall for the occasion. But many of them looked like farmers come to market, rather than soldiers gathering for war.

Not all, however. Some way apart stood a small group of men with the appearance of hunters: they favoured hoods of scruffy fur, and carried a profusion of bows of varying lengths. As she rode past, she noticed that at least three of them bore the red raw scars of recent burns. She looked more closely: though young, they had the grim expressions of men who had experienced too much too recently. She knew something of that feeling.

Jerred was summoned along with the other captains to talk to the Ioben commander, Hreld. That must be him, she thought, standing in the middle of the field – the man built like a barrel with a round bristling head and a harassed air. His mood did not seem to be improved on seeing the Baron and his captains. Although Yaret couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged, the looks from Hreld’s people were not over-friendly.

And closer to hand, the Ioben men began to gather round the newcomers, eyeing them with suspicion, and discussing them openly and unflatteringly in the Ioben language. She realised that she might well be the only one in the Melmet army who could understand their blunt, idiosyncratic speech.

“Melmet? Think they’re a bit grand, don’t they? What are they doing here? This isn’t their country.”

“Aye, well, maybe they want it to be.”

“Then they can take a jump. Did Hreld ask them to come here?”

“Not that I know of. They’ll say they’ve come to rescue us – as if we needed it.”

“We’ll have Kelvha marching up here next,” declared the first man, glowering at the arrivals, “and pretending to clear out the stone-heads, and then claiming that it’s all their doing and this is all their land.”

“Aye, well, that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? That’s what Adonil said. It’s all about territory. Invade it, burn it out and then they can take it over.”

She glanced sidelong at the speakers. They weren’t alone in their opinions: others were nodding in agreement and muttering misgivings. When Jerred returned to the troop after the meeting with Hreld, he looked annoyed.

“Seems we’re not wanted,” he said tersely. “You’d think they’d be glad to see us after everything we’ve gone through to get here. But they’re an ungrateful set of country clods.”

“Then we should go away and leave them to it,” suggested Olked.

Jerred shook his head. “Can’t do that. They can’t hold back the stonemen on their own.

They don’t understand what’s coming,”

“They’re suspicious of us,” Yaret said. “They think we want to take over their territory.

They’ll think the same of Kelvha too, if they should happen to turn up.”

“They what?” said Jerred with a frown. “How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “I’ve been listening. The Ioben tongue is very similar to Bandiran. You can tell the Baron if you want; I’m willing to act as an interpreter.”

But after brief consideration, Jerred shook his head. “Ach. Why bother? They can all speak Standard, can’t they? If they don’t want us here, they can tell us so outright. I don’t need to give Grusald bad news that he knows already. And do you really want to bring yourself to his attention again?”

“I don’t think he’d kick me out, now that we’ve come this far.”

“Maybe. All the same, they can damn well talk Standard,” grunted Jerred. “Ungrateful lot.”

“They’re worried, not ungrateful,” Yaret tried to explain. “Somebody’s been spreading rumours that Melmet and Kelvha want to annex their country.”

“Who’d want this star-forsaken place?” sneered Inthed.

“Have you heard of anyone called Adonil?” she asked. They all shook their heads.

“Adonil was named as a rumour-spreader. If you find he’s one of the Ioben captains–”

“He’s not,” said Jerred. “Hreld made his captains bow to the Baron – not that they wanted to – and none of them was called Adonil. Mind you, he’s expecting more men to arrive soon from the outlying regions to swell his numbers.”

“They could certainly do some with swelling,” remarked Hansod. “And they could do with some proper soldiers. This lot are a joke.”

Yaret wanted to point out that the men of Gostard were themselves hardly crack troops.

She kept her mouth shut, because they were doing their best. Anyway, who was she to talk?

A lonely female peg-leg... And her whole leg ached as much as the half one did.

Luckily there was no more marching to be done that day, although she saw scouts galloping out in various directions. The Melmet troops spent their time cleaning their gear and trying to buy food from the townspeople, who did not want to sell them any. She was glad of the chance to rest and to wash in a handy horse-trough, although an attempt to sponge the blood from her clothes only spread the stains still further.

“You look like a barbarian,” Bred informed her as she rebraided her damp hair.

“Thanks. I expect we all do, or we will before this is over.”

Bred gave her a rueful half-smile. “I suppose so,” he said. “Do you know, I thought that first battle would be it. I thought that would end it, and then we could all go home. So…” He grimaced. “That was why I…”

“Sure,” said Yaret. She pulled the braids on the right side back around her head and fastened them. “You fought bravely,” she added. Bred had fought adequately but with resolution. A tall, well-knit, amiable young man, he lacked skill with a sword, as did most of the Gostard men apart from Jerred; but once the battle started he had not lacked courage.

“Everyone did all right,” said Jerred, who had stripped to the waist to take his own turn at the horse-trough.

“I just hope there aren’t too many more battles still to come,” said Bred.

“There’ll be a few yet,” said Jerred. “The stonemen are still testing us. Looking for weaknesses.” Yaret eyed him surreptitiously as he washed. His thick-set body bore a number of old, white scars.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

“What? Washed? Has been known, on occasion.”

“A very rare occasion,” said Novad, waiting in the horse-trough queue.

“Watch it or I’ll demote you,” said Jerred calmly.

“From what?” laughed Novad. “From dogsbody?”

Jerred began to towel himself down with his bloody shirt. “From general dogsbody to official turnip-head.”

“Ah, but we’ve got one of them already. Don’t need another.”

“Inthed fought well,” said Yaret, because it was true, and only fair to say so. Jerred raised his eyebrows, and she turned round to see Inthed smirking at her.

“You noticed, then,” he said. “I killed a few stonemen before they could get to you.”

“For which I am grateful,” she responded formally.

Inthed held out his bag. “Here; say something else nice, and you get first pick.”

Yaret peered warily into the bag. She saw three loaves of coarse grey bread, and an end of ham, which looked slightly green.

“How old is that?”

“The bread, two days. The ham, unknown.”

“Hmm. Not sure that’s worth another compliment.”

“It’s food, isn’t it? I did better than Morad, for all his cajolings,” said Inthed.

“Nobody would sell me anything,” admitted Morad. “Maybe you should try, Yaret, seeing as you speak the language.”

“Maybe she shouldn’t,” said Jerred firmly. “Don’t let them know you understand a word, Yaret. It’ll only make them more suspicious.”

She nodded. And later on, when she wandered round Ioben, piecing together her three-year-old memories of the town, she took Jerred’s advice and spoke to nobody. Even when she came across a shopkeeper that she knew, she made no sign; and the man clearly either didn’t remember her, or didn’t recognise her in her blood-stained gear and archer’s braided hair.

So she restricted herself to looking and listening – both to the townspeople and to the makeshift Ioben soldiers. Hearing their distrustful comments about the incomers, she realised that Jerred was right about the wisdom of staying unobtrusive. She kept her mouth shut and eavesdropped where she could.

The Baron of the Broc was spoken of disparagingly, as a proud old man now far beyond his prime. But to her surprise, the Iobens’ opinion of their own leader, Hreld, seemed little better: they were sceptical about his motives. He had friends in Kelvha, they muttered, who would call in favours of their own.

And once or twice she heard Adonil’s name.

“When he was here,” said one man, “he told us this would happen.”

“Where is he now? We could do with Adonil. He’d soon send this lot packing. No trouble to him.”

But the first speaker only shrugged. Who and where Adonil was remained mysterious to her. How he could send an army of sixteen hundred packing was another mystery, and one she did not like the sound of. Adonil – whoever he was – must have considerable forces on his side, unless the Ioben speaker was exaggerating wildly.

She thought of Adon, the wizard named by Rud back at the inn; it felt like half a lifetime ago. Was the similarity of the names a mere coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not… for the other wizard Leor had multiple names too. Liol. Leori. When on her return to her troop she mentioned Adon’s name to Jerred, it sparked no recognition. So she was in the dark.

And not just about Adon, she thought ruefully as night fell. Although the streets were lit by intermittent torches, each was an isolated patch of yellow. Between them there was no connection to enable her to piece a map together – no way to see into the blackness.

She was in the dark about everything. Where the stonemen were; how long before the next attack; if Hreld and Grusald would agree on any course of action; where the army might be sent; and whether any of them would come out of this alive.

Chapter 27

Hreld’s reinforcements arrived early the next morning. There were less than a hundred of them, by their appearance mainly farmers and goatherds: they marched in through the gate with solemn countenances but with little order. Some of them looked very young. Hreld’s entire army now comprised barely seven hundred men, although the townsmen that Yaret overheard seemed to think that was a great number. She would have thought so herself not so long ago.

Various scouts, both Hreld’s and Grusald’s, had returned the previous night. All gave the same report: that stoneman forces had been spotted to the north and west, while a great many Kelvhan troops were marching from the south, but not towards Ioben. Grusald’s scouts had, according to Jerred, approached the Kelvhans and had been told – somewhat loftily – that Kelvha was on its way to the western Outlands to do battle, but would wait for Melmet and Ioben to join it if they wished.

Hreld was not willing to head south to join with Kelvha. Instead, he gave orders that the whole army should be ready to march west as soon as possible.

Nobody could understand that.

“Hreld should at least go and meet the Kelvhans,” protested Morad, “if they’re that close.

Why is he so intent on marching out alone and risking battle now? He should take any help that he can get.”

“Don’t worry – he will when it comes down to it,” said Jerred confidently.

Yaret was not so confident, for she suspected that Hreld was swayed by his men’s distrust of Kelvha. However, she said nothing as she doled out the morning’s food. That had become her job; partly because food was seen as women’s work, but chiefly because she was meticulously fair in portioning. It saved arguments.

Half an hour later they were on their horses and leaving Ioben’s walls behind. To Yaret, the column of troops ahead of her seemed never-ending, a long line snaking through a drizzly landscape of recently ploughed fields. Hreld and the Baron of the Broc rode at the front, barely visible in the mist of fine rain; her own small company was, this time, far in the rear.

“How many of us are there?” she murmured to Morad.

“Something over two thousand.”

“Is that a lot for an army?”

“I don’t know. It’s a lot for me.”

Yaret felt that it was a lot for her too. But she had no doubt that the stonemen’s numbers were far greater. The fact that the Melmet forces had killed many more than they had lost did not particularly reassure her. It simply demonstrated that the stonemen foot-soldiers were so numerous as to be regarded as dispensable. She thought again of Brael, abandoned in that eerie northern town, with a faint queasiness.

She concentrated on steering Helba through this unaccommodating landscape. The ploughed fields soon gave way to craggy pastures interspersed with clumps of pine and juniper. It was lumpy, boggy, up-and-down terrain, clouded in patchy mist or maybe smoke, for certainly the smell of smoke seemed to permeate this land. There were streams everywhere and the ground squelched underfoot: they rode through mud that had been made semi-liquid by the hundreds that had gone before them.

The drizzle did not help. By midday the path they followed was so slippery and sodden that the Gostard troop was obliged to lead their horses rather ride them, and so lagged behind yet further.

Which meant they didn’t know the attack was happening until the panic rippled down the line. There were confused shouts: and then the tell-tale billows of smoke began to rise, and Yaret heard the screams of horror and of pain.

Swifter than the clouds of smoke, the darkburn fear came spreading over them, a stifling, choking shroud of terror. Panic afflicted the Iobens, some of whom were running pell-mell down the line.

“Stand fast. We’ve got our stones,” called out Jerred. “They can’t come near us.” And the Gostard men held steady. Yaret glanced at Bred; he looked unhappily resolute, and she thought that she herself was definitely becoming hardened to the darkburns if not to battle.

Although her limbs felt weak and heavy, she could repress the urge to run.

But she realised with a lurch of her stomach that the fleeing Iobens could have no stones –

no protection from the darkburns. Instinctively she began to move towards them, her hand on the two recently-harvested stones she had in her pocket.

“Leave them,” commanded Jerred sharply. “Let’s do our job here. Form the crescent.”

As he barked out his orders his men assumed their usual battle formation, making a semicircle with Yaret and the other archers to one side. A squadron from Melmet was assembling at their back. When she glanced over at the Iobens, she saw to her relief that some of the Baron’s men were riding to their aid. Only then did she catch her first glimpse of the blurred shapes of the darkburns, as, repelled by the stones, they began to rush away from the Melmet line.

And their movements told her where the stonemen were – for the rushing darkburns veered and spun again, away from the shadowed stand of trees to their right, and began their random zig-zag as they had before when caught between two armies. One hurtled straight towards her before swerving aside just as its heat threatened to become unpleasant.

She tried to ignore the careering darkburns and took aim with her bow at the trees beyond them, ready for the emerging stonemen. When the first line charged out there was a spray of arrows from along the ranks, which totally failed to slow the charge. Yaret released most of her arrows until the enemy drew too close, their war-shouts a cacophony of hatred and the rumble of their feet vibrating through the ground.

As in the last battle, she dropped her bow and snatched up her sword and shield. This was becoming all too familiar. Would there be no end to it, just attack after attack? She felt already sickened by the task before she cut down her first stoneman.

But again, as in the last battle, there was soon no time to think. There was barely time to plan her next thrust and slash. There was no time to register that her blade had cut off a stoneman’s ear on its way through his shoulder; no time to wonder whose were the cries of agony around her – not stonemen’s, she thought, for they were oblivious to pain – no time to prepare for the next charge, and just enough time to realise that this enemy army was much bigger than the last.

And better organised. Rather than running around without co-ordination, the stonemen came at the Melmet troops in concentrated waves, beating repeatedly against the ranks of defending men. However many she and her companions killed, always there were more to take their place. It did not matter if individually the stonemen were unskilled fighters when their numbers were so great.

Meanwhile the scattered Iobens were in disarray. A darkburn had caught them and the dreadful smell of burning flesh added to the stink, as the screams of anguish added to the noise.

However, most of the darkburns were still trapped between the two armies – and they were doing more damage to the enemy than to Melmet in their wild collisions with both sides, for the horde of stonemen was too thick and tightly-packed to easily let them through.

Four or five darkburns ended up enclosed within their ranks. In the crush, whole squads of stonemen were engulfed in flames, and the Melmet troops took the advantage.

Once taken, they did not let it lapse. The stonemen’s attack broke up and lost its power.

The men at the back gave way; and at a shout of command they abruptly all retreated. A few Melmet horsemen gave chase, but not for very far. The last of the darkburns rushed away into the trees, where no-one felt inclined to follow.

Instead they stood in the mud, panting, and listening to the crash and crackle of the retreating army fade into the forest. Three Iobens lay dead not far from Yaret’s feet. Her own troop had escaped without major injury.

“We’ve got them on the run!” crowed Inthed, hoarsened with smoke.

“Unlikely. It’s just a strategy. Someone’s organising them,” grunted Jerred. “Stonemen don’t think for themselves.”

“They must think,” Morad objected. “They’re not animals.”

Jerred shook his head. “Close as you can get.”

“Well, at least we might have some respite now,” suggested Yaret, wiping the sweat and blood from her face with her sleeve. “With any luck they won’t be able to regroup again until tomorrow.”

Everyone agreed with that. As it turned out, everyone was wrong.

The stonemen attacked two hours later, at dusk. The army had marched a mere three miles before the gloom of nightfall halted them. While the weary and unwary soldiers were starting to unfurl their bedrolls, there was sudden pandemonium. The enemy had charged the camp.

This time they drove no darkburns; so there was no preliminary warning stink nor sense of fear. The attack was not large, falling on the far edge of the camp, but it was disproportionately devastating. In the shadows and confusion at least a dozen Iobens and two dozen of the Baron’s army died before the stonemen could be beaten back.

After that every troop and squadron set its own watch while the other members tried, in vain for the most part, to snatch some rest. Shortly before dawn, a second band of stonemen attempted a new raid. Although this time the watchmen gave the alarm and the Baron’s men repelled the marauders without further losses, it meant the end of sleep.

As soon as possible the army was ordered to set out again, and the slow-moving column began to worm its way across the heavy ground. Yaret was always uneasily aware of the ranks of trees, too close, on either side. They seemed to smoke. She knew she should be glad of the intermittent drizzle, for it lessened the risk of fires, but it meant that everyone was cold and damp in spirits as well as in their clothing. Although her home-made woollen cloak was more resistant to the rain than most, it lay sodden and heavy on her shoulders.

The Baron had sent six scouts ahead to reconnoitre – of whom only four returned. As they galloped up, there was a brief halt while the headmen gathered to take counsel. According to Jerred, who attended, the scouts reported seeing a great stoneman army a few miles to the north. Of the Kelvhan force, there was no sign.

There had followed, Jerred said, some fierce dispute between Hreld and his own men.

Jerred did not know what about – it was all in their northern babble, as he put it. Whatever its cause, the upshot was that the army was ordered to ride on west with all possible speed. At this news everybody groaned.

“Why? Where are we going?”

“Just west,” said Jerred. “Don’t know why. They might have some intelligence that they haven’t told us.”

“Intelligence? In that Ioben rabble?” muttered Hansod.

Yaret said nothing, but followed the others, spurring Helba into a trot. Soon the trot became a canter, until a number of horses stumbled on the unforgiving ground and they had to slow again. They weren’t progressing fast enough for the Baron; she saw him look back,

gesticulating angrily. It’s all very well for him, she thought – riding Poda at the front before the ground got ploughed up by eight thousand hooves. Grimly she wondered how far they would be allowed to go before the next attack.

It came all too soon. They were skirting the dark border of a pine wood when the warning horns were sounded. Yaret, who had managed to retrieve only a dozen arrows from the previous battlefield, took up her place and nocked one to her bow, trying to shake off the dismay and hopelessness that flooded over her. She braced herself for the arrival of the darkburns.

But there were none. Her sense of weary hopelessness was entirely her own. There were only stonemen running towards them in a long line from the trees. Maybe the stonemen had decided that the darkburns were a liability – or maybe too many were escaping in the battles, and could not be retrieved.

Either way, it made for more straightforward fighting. Yaret shot her dozen arrows, and then hacked with her sword, and expected every second to be struck down; but she wasn’t.

The stonemen were fewer than she had thought at first, and unlike the enemy army on the previous day they seemed to have no battle plan or even concept of defence.

Thus they were slain wholesale by the Baron’s soldiers before the remnants of the attacking force dissolved and scattered into the surrounding trees. Yaret was left with the strong impression that this onslaught – like the night-time raids – had been merely a distraction designed to keep the Melmet forces busy: to slow them down, and wear them out.

Two hours later, when the next similarly disorganised mob fell upon them and was similarly quelled, she was sure of it.

And then, two hours after the exhausted Melmet army had stopped for the night, yet another raid came in the still of dark: a sudden force of screaming stonemen charged right through the middle of the sleeping Gostard camp, hacking around them viciously.

Yaret, dozing at the edge of the group, had time to jump up and grab her sword before the stonemen reached her – but Novad was already lying on his bedroll with an axe buried in his head, killed before anyone had realised fully what was happening. Jerred avenged him furiously, leading the troop in slaughtering half the stonemen and driving the others away.

The attack lasted only a few minutes. Yet despite its brevity, it felt to Yaret like the worst so far. She had seen Novad die and had been unable to stop it. A quiet, middle-aged, dry-humoured man; a skilled potter, the father of three children. What use was his death to anyone?

Despite their weariness, not many of the Gostard men could lie down again to sleep after that. They sat up, huddled in their cloaks, with Novad’s covered body in their midst. There was none of the accustomed banter. Not a word was spoken as they waited for the cold pale dawn.

The next attack came in the dull gloom before the dawn arrived. The bulk of the Melmet army had only just begun to stir when a company of stonemen poured out of the trees – this time targeting the Iobens, on the northern edge of the camp.

The Iobens did not know what to do. While some stood and fought, others fled, with stonemen in pursuit; and all the time more stonemen were emerging from the forest until the fighting spread all up and down the camp in wild confusion. It was a maze of shouts, of whistling swords and flying axes, of stone-studded heads yelling avid hate. Some of the stonemen seemed to hit each other in their frantic haste to strike.

Yaret had no arrows left to shoot and no opportunity to shoot them. The defence was all sword-work, bloody and chaotic. No formation could be held for long: it was every man for himself until the stonemen’s lack of skill or strategy began to tell against them, and gradually the weary Melmet soldiers gained the upper hand.

By the time the last marauders turned and ran back to the trees Yaret could barely lift her blood-stained sword. Her leather shield was ripped to shreds. How many attacks was that?

She had lost count. How many stonemen had she slain? She could not guess. She seemed to have been killing men for ever.

Around her, the victorious troops were too tired to even cheer. Uninjured men fell exhausted on the muddy ground amongst their slaughtered foes as if they too had decided to give up the ghost.

When Yaret tried to say Oveyn she could not do it. The words had gone. Kneeling on the blood-soaked ground she bowed her head and just thought a vague Oveyn instead. It wasn’t enough: it was nothing. It was mere words in the air. There were too many dead – these battles were too much for an Oveyn. Her clothes were newly sodden with fresh blood.

“Here; drink.” It was Morad, offering her a waterskin. She nodded exhaustedly and drank.

Life. Still. But for how much longer?

“How are the others? Many hurt?” she asked eventually.

“Olked’s badly injured, I’m afraid. Shaled’s got a nasty gash all down his leg. Inthed’s moaning about his shoulder, but he’ll live. Mostly cuts and bruises otherwise. You? Your head’s bleeding.”

“I think that’s just the cut from last time.” She inspected herself for slashes that she might not have noticed. There was a cut on her shoulder and another on her shin but neither was big enough to be significant. “No, I’m all right,” she said, getting painfully to her feet. She went over to take a look at Inthed, who sat not far away, clutching his arm and groaning with a steady, continuous rhythm.

“Dislocated,” said Yaret. “Needs putting back in. I know how to do it.”

“Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!”

“I’m not going to touch it.” Too tired to argue, she called Jerred over to do the job of putting the shoulder back into its socket under her instruction. It was something her grandmother had done for her twice, thanks to her habit of climbing. Then Yaret had done it in turn for Shuli, after the girl had fallen off the trapper’s horse. Had that really only been four weeks ago? It felt like years. A distant time and place, unreachable from here.

Well, that was one more battle fought for Obandiro. If you could call it a battle. Another mess of blood and sweat and screams. How long until the next?

“Just keep your arm still,” she told Inthed, who was still moaning, to Jerred’s evident exasperation. “I’ll make you a sling.” The nearest dead stoneman lay two yards away, one of many. Cutting a long strip from his tunic with her knife, she fashioned a rough red sling to tie over Inthed’s shirt and support his arm.

“It still hurts,” he moaned. “Have you got any ethlon?”

“Ethlon? No.” She looked at Jerred. “You?”

“We don’t carry ethlon,” Jerred said. “Perhaps we ought to.”

“I suppose the stoneman might have some. They use some drug or other,” said Yaret.