Darkburn Book 2: Winter by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

“Athelid, it’s called.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I’ll check his clothes.” Wearily she returned to the stoneman’s corpse and checked for any bags or pockets: but the only pocket she found was empty save for a few crumbs of biscuit. The man had no identifying marks or badges. He wore just four stones on his close-shaven head.

She stared at his face, already waxen now in death, and wondered about him. How old was he? Who had he died for? Who had sent him here to be felled so brutally and anonymously?

She turned to search another corpse. The same. No pockets. No identifying badge. No name.

Three stones.

But now a Melmet man approached the body, pliers at the ready, to prise the stones out of its head. Yaret turned away, and busied herself in searching for spent arrows. Few were to be found; she would have to resort to the home-made flint arrowheads in her pack. Around her, soldiers began ransacking fallen stonemen for their weapons, prompting her to search again, this time for shields. Although not many stonemen seemed to carry them, she eventually retrieved four from beneath the twisted bodies and took them to her troop.

Once the enemy corpses had been harvested for stones, and the wounded patched up roughly, and the Melmet and Ioben dead buried in a shallow grave – with brief but heartfelt words from the Baron – the army began to move slowly on. The worst casualties, including the unlucky Olked and Shaled, were sent back to Melmet in carts: she did not envy them that jolting journey.

Their own journey was bad enough. The sleep-deprived soldiers were allowed no respite, but rode or led their horses all day through the mud. Since several horses had been injured or had fled, there were now not enough for everyone, so where the ground permitted riding, the men took turns. Yaret’s troop made sure she was allowed sole use of Helba: something she did not realise for a while. When she did, she was appreciative and grateful, because her leg was hurting.

Everyone in the procession was jumpy. Yet there were no more ambushes.

The stonemen are regrouping, she thought. It probably just means the next attack will be a big one. Where is the Kelvhan army? And where is the Baron taking us?

She had no idea where they were heading other than west and north. All this landscape looked the same: rough ground enclosed by trees, which she eyed nervously. But no stonemen ran out yelling from their cover.

“You all right?” That was Morad, who seemed to have taken on the role of her protector.

“I’m all right, thanks,” she said wearily. “I just hope we’ll be allowed to rest tonight without more fighting.”

“We could all do with the sleep,” he agreed. “Looks like we’re stopping now, thank the stars.”

All up the line, soldiers were throwing down their gear. The Gostard men followed suit, hastily unpacking bedrolls. Minutes later, some were falling into them without even having any food. A mistake, in her opinion.

“Make them eat,” she said to Jerred.

“I mean to. Get up, Claben, don’t lie down yet. Get your supplies out.”

Unloading some of her own supplies from Helba’s pack, Yaret added biscuit and dried fruit to the stale bread and tough salt meat being offered round the troop. Inthed was kicked out of his bedroll. The men ate in near-silence.

“Everyone had enough?” said Jerred after a while. “Now get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

Yaret rolled herself in her cloak on the damp ground, back to back with Morad for warmth. Despite the chilly damp no-one had even attempted to make a fire. She shivered and waited for sleep to take her: but now, when she needed it so badly, it held back. It tantalised her with brief snatches of slumber. Every time she felt herself fall deeper she was jerked to wakefulness by sounds.

They were only in her head. But so clear, so loud, so vivid.

The screams of burning children. Running through the ravaged streets, begging, crying for help. Shrieking in desperation for their parents who were burning in their houses. This was worse than the dreams of falling. She closed her eyes and saw the roaring walls of fire, the weeping children.

When she tried to say Oveyn again she could not. So she lay with her eyes open to keep the dreams at bay. She felt slashed open; torn apart. She should have been there when it

happened, to defend them. She should be there to protect them now. Every child she had abandoned to come here wept in her head. Every Oveyn she tried to say accused her.

Accused her of what, though? She felt so muddled. Her mind was a mess as bad as any battlefield. She hated this killing: the shock of every blow. She loathed the sensation as her knife went through a stoneman’s ribs or her sword hacked at a neck. The softness of the flesh.

The grating on the bone. It made her feel unbalanced, furious, guilty, seasick.

There was no glory in it. Yet it was necessary: because she loved Obandiro, she had to fight and kill its enemies. Otherwise the stonemen would win, and would go back home and kill the children, brutally, without compunction.

No: she was doing the right thing. But not in the right way. What she accused herself of was of being unfit for the task. What was the right way to kill? Why couldn’t she find it?

What madness had brought her to think she could be any sort of soldier?

She felt no triumph or even satisfaction when a stoneman died. Instead she felt that lightning jolt of shock, and then a kind of grief, and guilt at grieving, and fury at the stonemen for causing this necessity. Everything was destruction. It made her angry, and it made her want to cry. She was continually resisting both her anger and her grief, pushing them down firmly; but she knew she was unfit.

What was it she had said to Elket? Use your anger as a forge. So her anger ought to make her want to slaughter stonemen; to turn herself into an instrument of death, infallible and merciless. Instead she was just an exhausted bundle of flesh and bones and fear.

So far she’d just been lucky. She’d managed to kill the enemy before they managed to kill her.

And she couldn’t shake off the insidious, unwelcome feeling that the stonemen hadn’t managed to kill her first only because they were too clumsy, too untrained: too young.

Chapter 28

The forced march continued the next day. And now, at last, the country changed. This was much further west than Yaret had ever travelled, and when they emerged from a strip of woodland on top of a high knoll she was unprepared for the sight that lay before her. Ahead of them, the army marched on down the hill, for the Baron was relentless: but the Gostard troop all paused, like her, to gaze.

She saw a wide, bleak plain of dreary yellowed grass, flattened by the bitter wind that whipped at cloaks and drove long swirls of mist across the land. There were few trees, yet indications that many had stood here until lately; where they had been felled, the grouped trunks had the appearance of black mushrooms.

The plain was backed by foothills, patched with snow and heavy with a haze of untouched trees; and in the distance, like tall sentries, she glimpsed a range of mountains – snow-shrouded, yet not white but blue-grey, the unearthly hue of shadow. The hue of steel. Above them in the cold sky stood the pale disc of the moon.

A guard of snow, she thought. What were those lines in the Ulthared?

To fear the claws of snow. To seek the footprints of the moon. To meet the gaze of ice.

Whatever that meant. Those mountains looked as remote and unattainable as the moon above them. Even as she watched, a veil of rain or snow was drawn across them like a curtain, shutting them from her sight.

She wondered how far the Baron intended to go across this vast waiting wilderness. But it was not empty of mankind. Someone had felled those trees, for a start; and several miles away, indistinct and misty, stood a dark rectangle.

“What’s that building?” whispered Bred.

Jerred shook his head. Nobody knew.

They rode on, following the army down to the plain below. Before they reached the hill’s foot, without warning the column ahead came to a sudden stop, horses stamping as they were abruptly halted.

“It’s those Iobens.” declared Inthed with exasperation. “Holding us all up.”

Indeed, there seemed to be much vehement discussion and gesticulating at the front of the line. A group of Iobens started to dismount from their horses.

“They don’t like where we’re going,” said Morad heavily.

“I don’t like where we’re going,” said Bred. “What are we doing here? There’s no cover or anything.”

“No cover for the enemy either,” pointed out Jerred sombrely.

With a jolt of realisation Yaret thought, So this is the battlefield – this empty, waiting plain. All the other fights were just preliminaries. The proper battle is to come; that’s why the Baron’s brought us here. But there are too few of us. Where are the Kelvhans? And where is the enemy?

Almost before she had framed that second question, she knew the answer to it. The stink, the fear... When she spun round in alarm she saw the steam rising from the trees behind them.

“They must have been following us all the time,” she said, dismayed.

“Tracking us,” said Jerred, “when we thought we were pursuing them. Dismount, everyone. Prepare your arms. Then let the horses go.”

The Melmet troops were already drawing up their ranks in response to the Baron’s harsh commands. The horses were allowed to canter off, to be regathered later. Jerred and his men swiftly took up their battle formation; even Inthed, left arm bound in its sling, hefted his sword in the other hand and assumed his place.

The enemy were on them within another minute. Yaret shot two arrows only – no time for more, for as the darkburns veered away the stonemen charged. That yelling. She wished they wouldn’t. Then they were on her, so close that she could smell their sweat and dirt, could see their eyes wide-pupilled, full of hate between the daubs of grey, could hear the snarls and shouts, could feel the terrifying breeze of axes flying: and once again she was slashing desperately with her sword, her right shoulder painful before she even started.

Somewhat to her surprise she felled three men with ease in swift succession: and could not stop herself from noting the number of stones on each head. The last had only two. How old was he?

Another stoneman at once threw himself at her, burying his axe in her newly acquired shield. She staggered backwards. No matter how old these stonemen were, all had the size and strength of full-grown adults, and were recklessly vicious in battle, not even noticing their own wounds. They were oblivious to pain. She took a second blow on her shield before stabbing her attacker in the stomach. Then she had to finish him off with a sword-blow to the neck, gritting her teeth at the feel of metal slicing through the bone.

Screams from the Iobens. A darkburn must have caught them. Dear stars, had no-one told them to harvest their own stones? The rising smoke, that smell of burning…

“Never again,” she cried aloud, “never again, I will never let you have them!” She was thinking not of the Iobens but of the children of Obandiro. So many dead. Obandiro was gone. Yet it would be avenged: and Yaret fought on furiously, forgetting the counting of the stones. They all deserved death. Every one of them. She did not care how old they were – she would kill them all.

She killed a number; yet still more stonemen charged on past her to redouble the attack further up the line. Each wave of the enemy as it broke and foundered on the Melmet swords was followed by another. Around her, her own troop were fighting valiantly although this onslaught was more prolonged than any yet. Poor Claben fell, a sword protruding from his neck.

Jerred slew the man who killed him. But there was no lessening of the attack. By now both Yaret’s arms were burning with fatigue. Her blood-lust had been replaced by grim resolution.

She longed for some respite from the effort and necessity of killing; but there was never more than a few seconds’ pause. As she helped Bred to dispatch a yelling stonemen, she heard another yell behind her, and spun round.

It was Inthed. He was shouting, “Get off! What are you doing?”

But he wasn’t shouting at a stoneman. He was fending off a blow from the spear of a burly Ioben. Thrusting the man away, Inthed slashed out with his sword, and missed.

“What are you doing?” he yelled again.

The Ioben man began to shout in his turn. “I’ve had enough. You’re all liars and traitors and your Baron–” Inthed kicked him in the stomach, so that he fell over backwards.

“Dear stars,” said Jerred, as shocked as she had ever seen him. “They’re turning on us!”

It was so. Yaret realised that, all along the line, Iobens had begun to fight against the Baron’s men. She felt at first bewilderment, and then a surge of shame on their behalf. These were her own relatives, and they had joined the enemy...

But the enemy seemed as bewildered as she was. The next line of stonemen hesitated in mid-charge, as if uncertain whom they should attack. After a brief pause they attacked everyone anyway, indiscriminately, swinging their axes and clashing swords with all alike.

Yaret fought off one before she had to whip round to defend herself against an Ioben with a knife. She managed to catch him in the groin with her sword so that he stumbled over, cursing her.

She did not want to kill him – probably a mere goatherd, and her countryman to boot.

Almost family, now that Obandiro was gone. But maybe she ought to kill him before he could stab someone else. This was impossible.

Her head was spinning with dismay and her limbs were quivering with fatigue. As he began to rise, she slashed at his sword arm. Then she yelled to Morad, “Watch your back!”

Morad swivelled, but too late: an enemy axe came hurtling through the air and caught his leg.

Morad toppled over with a cry.

She could not reach him. Nor could Jerred, who was fighting off two enraged Iobens.

It’s mayhem, she thought. We’re going to lose this one.

For now another line of stonemen was breaking out from the trees. There were too many.

The Melmet army could never defeat them, not now that the Iobens had turned on them as well.

So this was it. Her final battle. Here she would fall in service to Obandiro, and Obandiro would never know.

In her weariness Yaret let her sword point drop. It was the wrong moment; a large stoneman was running at her. She threw herself aside, sprawling on the muddy ground, so that he tripped over her legs. He went down heavily on top of her. Before he could recover, she had whipped out her knife and plunged it in between his shoulder blades.

I just stabbed a man in the back, she thought. She needed to get up, to help the others: but the dying stoneman was lying on her legs, like a dreadful memory of some other time, and she was trapped. The new line of the enemy was only yards away. She could not move.

So it ends, she thought, in blood and ignominy. Oh, Obandiro.

Something shot past her overhead with a loud whistling burr. Two of the charging stonemen staggered and then fell, and she could not work out why.

There was a second long whistle and burr, and two more of the enemy reeled back, collapsing against each other. In fact, they seemed to be somehow tied together.

A third missile whined swiftly overhead. Again she could not see it properly, for it moved too fast. Whatever it was caught three of the enemy this time – and now Yaret observed something that she had never seen until this moment: stonemen panicking.

The three men seemed to be tangled in something that was wrapped around their heads.

One pulled at it, crying out in fear, and cried out again as his hands began to drip blood. None of their fellows went to their aid. Instead a number of them began to run away, stumbling over bodies in their haste to flee.

Yaret managed to shove the dead man off her legs, and struggled to her feet. Some of her comrades were already starting to chase the fleeing stonemen when she heard a voice behind her calling sharply.

“Wait!”

A fourth missile shot past her and another pair of stonemen fell, heads entangled, she could see now, in a cord or chain. At the sound of rapid galloping behind her, she turned: a single man was riding up, his saddle laden with looped chains, a spear in one hand, a long chain swinging in the other.

“Keep clear,” he shouted, and as he rode past her he began to swing the chain more rapidly and strongly, letting out a greater length with every rotation until it spun in a huge lethal arc around his head. She thought there were blades at the far end, each on its own length of chain, but moving so fast that she could not be sure.

With a whistle the flying blades shot out and hit a stoneman. The chains wrapped themselves in swift decreasing circles round his head. The rider wielding them pulled his weapon free with a twist of his arm; and the stoneman crumpled, his face and neck scarlet with multiple gashes.

Almost simultaneously the unknown rider stabbed the next stoneman in the eye with the spear in his left hand. The three entangled stonemen were dispatched with the same spear through their ribs even as the rider wrenched his chain from round their heads, taking half a man’s scalp with it.

Two whirls of the chain, and another pair of stonemen fell. And then the lone horseman proceeded to wreak havoc amongst the enemies within his reach: their swords and axes could not touch him before he slew them with his spear or flying blades.

All the stonemen nearby who could run were now doing so, heading for the cover of the trees. The rider wheeled his horse round to address the remnants of her troop, who were watching open-mouthed. He was dark and fierce and eager.

“Who’s in charge? Gather your men and join forces with the next squad. The enemy will stay back for a few minutes now. Not long. But Kelvha’s army is only a quarter-hour away.

Hold fast till then.”

“Kelvha?” said Jerred.

“Ten thousand men. I came ahead.” The man grinned with a flash of teeth. Then he was gone, riding up the line on his rough-haired horse towards the Baron’s men, who were still fighting off Iobens as well as the foe. Yaret watched another pair of stonemen fall beneath the flying blades: at the sight of the lone rider, yet more turned tail.

Jerred, who was sitting on an Ioben, punched him several times in the face before getting to his feet.

“Do what the man said,” he shouted at his troop. “Join with Melmet.” He gestured at the neighbouring squad of Melmet men, who had also watched the stonemen’s retreat with astonishment and relief.

Yaret hurried over to check on Morad, who was trying to sit up, despite the deep wound in one leg.

“Hear that, Morad?” she said. “Ten thousand Kelvhan troops are on their way. We’ll move you further back, to where you’ll be safer till it’s over.”

Together with Bred she managed to carry Morad behind the new line that the men were forming with the nearby Melmet company. There they laid him gently down, and Yaret checked his wound. Deep but not dangerous, she judged, so long as the bleeding could be stopped.

“The stonemen are all beating a retreat,” said Bred, gazing round. “Thank the stars that man rode up when he did. Who do you think he was? A Kelvhan?”

“Not Kelvhan,” said Yaret. “Not enough adornment. Or the right sort of horse.” She ripped the sleeves from the nearest stoneman corpse and began to apply one as a dressing to the bleeding leg.

“Veron,” gasped Morad.

“Veron?” Her fingers stilled.

“Never seen him,” panted Morad. “But he fits.”

As she resumed her task of dressing Morad’s leg, Yaret thought about it. The horseman had not been particularly small, nor had he worn the wolfskin cloak of Rud’s description back at the Gostard Inn: he had been clad in black-stained leather armour. He had not looked much like the other Riders of the Vonn that she had met. None the less she had a feeling that Morad could well be right.

Whoever he was, he had saved them for the moment. Further up the line she could see Iobens surrendering to the Baron’s men. The darkburns had all rushed off across the plain or back into the trees; the stonemen had not reappeared. The Melmet army had several welcome minutes to prepare themselves for the next onslaught.

And once she had bandaged up Morad and was returning to the front, here, at last, the onslaught came. No darkburns; just a line of stonemen running out of the trees. She lifted her sword in weary resolution.

But no sooner had this new assault begun than it abruptly ended. For with a raucous cacophony of horns and a heavy drumbeat of swift hooves, another, vaster army swept down the hillside from the east, behind the stonemen.

The Gostard troop, abandoning their formation, huddled together to avoid being trampled

– for hundreds of great horses ridden by knights clad in full plate armour were charging round and through and occasionally over any unwary Melmet soldiers. The ground shook with their hoofbeats until Yaret felt as if she were caught in the middle of a thunderstorm.

When the cavalry reached the nearest stonemen, they made short work of them with their glittering swords. All up the line she could see the same thing happening: there was nothing left for Jerred’s troop to do.

It was over quickly. The horsemen looked around for more foes to vanquish, and found none. Yaret felt almost like a vanquished foe herself, surrounded by these proudly stamping horses and their equally proud riders. So this was Kelvha, here at last…

As the Melmet soldiers slumped to the ground, battered and exhausted, the final Kelvhan troop of cavalry rode past them on to the battlefield.

The splendour of this group made Yaret look at it with wonder. In the centre rode a young man, who wore golden armour and an excited, happy air. Those with him formed a protective ring, holding spears out as if in warning to the weary Melmet soldiers not to get too close.

The other Kelvhan riders halted, parting ranks, and saluted as the group made its ceremonial progress to the front.

And over all the heads she saw a gold and scarlet standard being planted, and flying in the breeze, as Kelvha claimed their victory.

Chapter 29

“Not much of an army, really, are they?” remarked the young prince to Huldarion in not quite enough of an undertone. Huldarion saw the Baron of Melmet draw back and look askance at his newly met ally.

The commanders of the victorious armies stood together on the higher ground, surveying their forces on the plain below. Only Ioben’s commander, Hreld, was absent: he lay in a tent nearby, having been badly injured by one his own men, who had turned on him before being slain.

Some of the Ioben troops had remained loyal; but to Huldarion’s eyes they were clearly not trained soldiers. They looked ill-equipped and dispirited. And even the more disciplined Melmet troops appeared ragged when he compared them to the unspoilt magnificence of the Kelvhan cavalry.

“The Melmet forces are small in number, maybe, but valiant,” said Huldarion, wondering how much of a reproof was acceptable. None, probably.

Prince Faldron did not take the hint. “To me they seem to be little more than a rabble.”

Huldarion was exasperated. He knew that the High Prince of Kelvha was only parroting what his seniors said – he had heard the Arch-Lord Shargun express the same opinion barely ten minutes earlier – but why had his seniors not taught him diplomacy? The Baron might have little more than two thousand men at his command, but they were men who had already successfully fought several battles. That Huldarion himself had currently only three hundred Riders under him was not reassuring. Although the Riders of the Vonn had fought well – if briefly – they had naturally been both outnumbered and outshone by Kelvha’s splendour.

There was no doubt that Kelvha had saved the Melmet army from defeat. However, that was no reason for the Prince to show such contempt; especially when he himself had been protected from any heat of battle. He had been kept safely back until it was time to ride in past the enemy corpses and claim the final victory.

Huldarion judged that there was no malice in Prince Faldron; he was merely ignorant and thoughtless. In other respects he seemed a pleasant enough youth, if pliable. At least Faldron had woken up somewhat over the last two days, for on their first meeting he had struck Huldarion as passive to the point of apathy.

Presumably being away from Kelvha had a stimulative effect on the Prince. But for a twenty-year old, he seemed young; and for a man who would be High King within a year, he was granted remarkably little freedom. Arch-Lord Shargun, the head of his army, had so far made all the decisions and merely asked the prince for his agreement.

Although Shargun was evidently clever, he was also close-lipped and evasive. Huldarion would have preferred to deal with the blunt honesty of the Baron. Grusald was another man who lacked diplomacy but at least you knew where you stood with him.

Now the Baron strode away to talk to Veron, whom he clearly regarded with more awe than he did the Kelvhans. Huldarion appreciated this but could have wished the Baron did not make it quite so obvious. He observed to Prince Faldron and the Arch-Lord Shargun,

“You cannot expect the Baron’s troops to rival yours in either numbers or quality of training. I am sure his men are humbly grateful for your intervention.” To be humbly grateful was expected of all Kelvha’s minor allies, he knew well. He anticipated having to practise a little humble gratitude himself at some point.

But not yet. Veron had shown what a single Rider of the Vonn could do; and his other men had fought with efficiency and skill. Few stonemen had escaped.

The Arch-Lord Shargun was frowning at the motley army.

“They didn’t appear that grateful to me,” he grunted. “And what about those turncoats, eh?

Ioben or whatever they call themselves. What do you think, your Highness? Do they deserve death or merely branding?”

“We could slice their hamstrings,” suggested a young man standing just behind the Prince,

“and watch them crawl away.” Huldarion let his gaze alight briefly on the supercilious face, the dark eyebrows at odds with the long bleached-gold hair. He had noticed this man fight without regard for his own safety; it was a surprise to him how such reckless courage could be combined with personal vanity. Perhaps both were simply types of self-regard. It was not a comfortable thought.

The Prince stared down at the large huddle of Ioben men who were now being led towards them, surrounded by a guard of Melmet’s archers.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why did they turn against us, Shargun?”

“Because they’re snivelling cowards. Look at that one there.” Shargun pointed at one of the Iobens, a young man who had fallen to his knees on the grass and was sobbing and calling out plaintively in a language Huldarion did not know. He had a thorough grasp of the Kelvhan tongue but Ioben was beyond his ken. “Begging for mercy,” said Shargun disdainfully.

They watched the sobbing man’s companions try in vain to urge him to his feet. Then to Huldarion’s surprise one of the archers guarding the group lowered his bow. Lying it on the ground, he walked up to the crying man, who was now on hands and knees. Squatting down beside him, the archer seemed to be questioning him. The other guards stood aside bewildered: when one remonstrated, the archer raised his hand as if asking him to wait.

Then the archer stood up and questioned the other captives more loudly in their own strange, breathy language. Two or three answered, their tone both vehement and mournful.

“Do you understand Ioben?” he murmured to Veron, who had walked over to stand with him and watch the scene.

“Some,” replied Veron. “Interesting.”

It was certainly bold, thought Huldarion. Behind him Baron Grusald was muttering angry imprecations. The archer was risking a severe reprimand, or worse; yet he continued to address the prisoners patiently, speaking in the unemphatic tones of a comrade, not a conqueror.

Then at last the archer switched to Standard, as he nodded towards the distressed man on his knees.

“Help him stand up. Have courage. I will go and speak to Kelvha.” That too was bold, thought Huldarion with some misgivings.

The young Ioben was at last raised to his feet by a pair of his companions: he was still weeping but less noisily. Huldarion guessed that he was no more than a teenager, who had most likely never witnessed anything more violent than a fist-fight until now.

The archer walked up the slope to the assembled commanders. A slenderly-built man, he wore his brown hair braided on one side and tied back in the manner of these northern archers. Few of them had so much as a cheek-guard, never mind any proper armour. This one bore a recent cut on his forehead, blood-soaked clothing, and a slight limp. He stopped before the group of commanders and bowed low to the Prince.

“Bowman,” said the Baron with barely controlled fury, “go back to your place.”

The archer dipped his head to the Baron and touched his forehead in respectful salute.

“Directly, sir,” he said. Then he turned to the Prince. “My lord, these Ioben captives are my distant kinsmen, and I understand their tongue.” He himself was speaking reasonably fluent Kelvhan. “They are a remote and lonely people who know little of the world. It seems that they have been misled. They tell me that they fight against Kelvha because they, they are

being told that you are…” he paused, searching for a word, “in friendship with the stonemen, and that you control the dark burning creatures.”

“Utter nonsense,” said the Arch-Lord.

“So I tell them.” Although the archer’s command of Kelvhan was good, if rustic, he seemed to struggle with the past tense. “However, when they see the Baron and his soldiers use the stones to make the creatures run, they think this proves their fears are right. They also think that – please forgive me. I will not insult Kelvha by saying this in your tongue.”

He went on in Standard, speaking with a soft northern burr. “The Iobens have been misinformed that the Kelvhans are a cruel people who will – forgive me – throw their women into pits with darkburns and will impale their children on stakes for the crows to eat. I have told them that these are slanderous lies, and that Kelvha is a just and honourable people who will treat them with due mercy. And on their behalf I ask you for that mercy now.”

With that, the archer went down on one knee before the Prince, his head bowed in supplication.

“Why are we listening to a foreign foot-soldier?” demanded the man with the eyebrows.

“A churl in rags?”

But the Arch-Lord leaned forward, and said sharply to the Baron, “You used the stones?”

“Of course we did – once we learnt, by pure chance, that they repelled the darkburns,”

replied the Baron. He was glowering at the kneeling archer as if he would like to kick him down the hill.

“But who told the Iobens all these lies?” asked the Prince, sounding bewildered.

The archer raised his head. “They named someone called Adonil. I don’t know who they mean. I gather it is not one of their number. At least, he is not here.”

He never is, thought Huldarion, although he held his peace.

“Adonil,” repeated the Arch-Lord Shargun. He stroked his beard gravely.

“Should we forgive them, Shargun?” the Prince asked. “It seems their fault was ignorance.

Should we show them mercy?”

“With such cowardly vermin it hardly matters,” said Shargun dismissively. “Do what you will, prince.” Huldarion was disgusted, and careful not to show it.

“I would still hamstring them,” said the man with the eyebrows. “And this upstart archer into the bargain.”

“But that is such a messy and unpleasant business, Dughin,” said the Prince a little plaintively. “That’s not how I want to start my command of this campaign.” Huldarion saw the Arch-Lord’s eyelids flicker as if in ill-concealed contempt.

“My lord, if you will but show these Iobens mercy, they will praise your name,” said the archer, looking up at the young prince and speaking earnestly. “They will know Kelvha for the powerful and noble nation that it is, and will look to it for wise leadership.”

“Do you know, I am inclined to forgive them,” said the Prince. “Well, get up. You may tell them that I am merciful. There aren’t many of them, after all. We’ll strip them of their arms and horses, naturally, but then they may return to their homes and we expect them to give us no more trouble. Will that do, Shargun?”

His adviser shrugged. Huldarion felt relief. The archer stood up, somewhat clumsily, and said,

“Your name be praised, my lord.”

“I’ll speak to you later,” said the Baron, his suppressed fury seemingly unabated.

“I am at your command, sir.” The archer bowed again and turned away. Before he could descend the slope, Huldarion called him aside.

“Archer. Come over here.” He moved a few yards away from the group, and the man followed; as did Veron. “Those Iobens,” said Huldarion. “If they learn their error, would they

fight for us, do you think?” He kept his voice down and his manner aloof, for he did not want the Kelvhans to hear him asking a foot-soldier for counsel.

However, the archer did not seem taken aback. Nor did he behave like a common foot-soldier when faced with a commander. Rather than staring formally into space, or flinching from his close view of Huldarion’s scars, he gave Huldarion a long, curiously assessing look.

Huldarion, intrigued, assessed him in his turn. The cut on the man’s forehead, like an extra eyebrow, gave him a quizzical air; but beneath the outward composure and heavily bloodstained clothing, Huldarion detected a grim and weary resignation.

“Some of them might fight for you,” the archer said after a moment. “They do not lack courage, or they would not be here. But these Ioben men are herdsmen and farmers for the most part, bewildered and already far from home. I think that the further from their homes they go, the less use they will be. That applies not only to the captives but to the Ioben troops in general.”

“You do not rate them highly?”

“They are not trained for this,” the archer said. He paused, considering. “I believe there are several hunters amongst them. They would be the most likely prospects.”

“Hunters? Good,” said Veron briskly. “How many speak Standard?”

“All will have a smattering of market Standard. They generally understand more than they can speak, but that’s not always a lot. Less than you might expect.”

“You’re not from Ioben yourself,” said Huldarion.

“No. From further east. I came to fight under Baron Grusald of the Broc.” The archer compressed his lips as if unwilling to say more.

“I’m going to talk to the prisoners,” said Veron. “Come and translate for me.”

The archer bowed acquiescence. Huldarion accompanied them, conscious of the Kelvhan eyes upon the three of them as they walked down to the company of captive men, slowing to accommodate the archer’s halting step. Well, let the Kelvhans think what they liked for once.

“Your right foot,” he said. “Are you wounded?”

“An old injury.” They paused in front of the downcast prisoners. “First I will give them the Kelvhan lord’s message,” said the archer.

“He’s the Prince,” said Huldarion. “Soon to be crowned High King of Kelvha.”

“That young man?” A barely raised eyebrow betrayed the archer’s surprise. “And the other… the older gentleman?”

“That was the Arch-Lord Marshal.”

The archer nodded and turned to address the captives, who showed no happiness at the news of the Prince’s mercy, unless relief and humiliation combined could be called happiness. Most of them turned to bow towards the watching Kelvhans. Some went down upon their knees and touched their foreheads to the ground. Good, thought Huldarion, as the distant Prince raised a hand in acceptance of their gratitude.

“You advised them to do that?” he asked the archer.

“Yes. But they are, of course, dejected, and still afraid.”

“Tell them they need not be afraid if they fight alongside me,” said Veron.

The archer gave him a curious look. “You can save them from being killed?”

“Of course not. But they won’t be afraid.”

“That is an interesting distinction,” said the archer. “Who shall I say you are?”

“I am Veron.”

Another measuring look. “I’ve heard you mentioned. And everyone who’s mentioned you is frightened of you.”

Veron grinned in seeming pleasure. “That’s why they need to fight alongside me.”

“I will tell them.” The archer drew breath and spoke again in Ioben. At the name of Veron, a number of the men stirred and murmured until the archer answered them sharply, his previously soft-spoken manner turned to command.

“What is it?” said Veron.

“I have told them not to bow to you,” the archer said, “not here. They seem to hold your name in awe.”

“So they should,” said Huldarion.

“You may tell them also,” said Veron, “that my wife is the huntress. Well? What’s the matter? Don’t you know the Ioben word for huntress?” For the archer hesitated, taken aback for the first time.

“I know two words for huntress,” he replied slowly. “One word is simply the feminine form of hunter . It can mean anyone. The other word is… different.”

“Ah,” said Veron. “Different how?”

The archer seemed to struggle to explain. “It doesn’t exactly describe a person. And there is only one of them.”

Veron nodded. “That’s the word you want. Well? Why do you still hesitate?”

“Sir, forgive me. But it is a word that is – you might say – secret. Or forbidden. I’m not sure that I am permitted to speak it. And they may not understand it.”

“They’ll understand it. Speak it,” said Veron. “You have her permission.”

“I…? You…” The archer, now definitely disconcerted, tried and failed to frame a query.

“Are you afraid to say it?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” The archer licked his lips, and took two deep breaths before he again addressed the Ioben prisoners. Although Huldarion had heard of the huntress he had never connected her with Veron’s wife. And he had never heard her name before. Yet he knew which was the forbidden word by the listeners’ reaction.

Unsaryun. Nothing remarkable in that word. What was remarkable was the way certain of the Iobens froze, eyes widening, and stared first at the archer and then at Veron.

Two of them stepped forward. Then two more followed; and after a few seconds, several others.

“Good,” said Veron. “I’ll take those ones. Stay here in case I need you; we’ll go and speak to the rest of the Ioben troops. I’ll clear it with your Baron.”

“Very well.” But Huldarion noticed that the archer had been glancing up and around as if expecting some thunderbolt to leap from the sky. Although nothing of the sort occurred, when he bent to pick up his bow and arrows it was with much less composure than before.

“Your arrowhead. It’s stone,” remarked Veron, although he did not appear to have even looked at it.

“I had no recourse to a forge,” the archer said.

“You made it?”

“Yes.”

“You are a hunter?” said Veron.

“At need.”

Veron nodded. “All right. Well, Huldarion, you’d better go back and pacify your prince.”

Huldarion turned away; but not before registering the unmistakable start which the archer gave on hearing his name. There was a glance of greater shock and curiosity than his scars had previously induced. So the man had heard of him. Yet he had not thought his name was widely known; it certainly ought not to be, up here amongst these men.

Any more questions would have to wait. Still, something about the lame archer tugged at his consciousness as he left the group and walked back to the Prince.

“The prisoners’ gratitude to you is unbounded,” he told Faldron.

“I should hope so too,” said the Arch-Lord Marshal Shargun.

“I have been thinking, Lord Huldarion, that we owe gratitude to you and your men also, for your part in the battle,” said the Prince.

Huldarion felt sure that this was unprompted, since Shargun looked faintly aggrieved and for once said nothing. It was certainly unexpected; but a good sign.

He bowed. “Our part so far has been small. I hope it will be larger at the next affray.”

“Oh, yes! At the forts? That’s where we are going next, aren’t we, Shargun?”

“We hope to be there within two days. That’s if we can persuade this…” Shargun swept his arm across the scene before them – “this hotch-potch of a so-called army to march that fast and far.”

“They have already had some hard fighting,” said Huldarion.

“By their standards, no doubt,” said the man called Dughin. “Our standards are different.

You are sure your men will be at the Outland forts, Huldarion?”

Lord Huldarion to you, he thought. But he said merely, “I have a company stationed there already. Their latest reports indicate no enemy movement yet. The greater part of my Riders are on their way now, speeding here from recent battle in the south. The onslaught there was fierce, but they put it down.”

“Ah, yes, the firedrakes.” The Arch-Lord Shargun sounded unimpressed. “I had reports.

The stones should deal with those quite easily, should they not?” He glanced round at the Baron, who lingered within the borders of earshot. The Arch-Lord did not bother to lower his voice. “I wonder when he would have thought to tell us that he’d worked out that secret.”

The Arch-Lord spoke, Huldarion reflected, as if he himself had worked out the secret of the stones long ago; while in fact it seemed that everybody else had, apart from Kelvha. As usual, the Kelvhans would leave the hard work to others and claim the glory for themselves…

Patience, he told himself. Keep the peace. These are noble and courageous men; not all the Kelvhans are like Shargun. Without Kelvha we can do nothing. We need to make them feel they cannot do without us.

So he said smoothly, “No doubt the stones have been a valuable tool, and one whose use we should explore further. However, in the hands of fools or cowards they are worse than useless.” He felt at once that Shargun would take these words to refer to the Melmet army, and added more loudly, “The Baron and his men have done extremely well with limited resources. But I hope my own men will add experience as well as strength.”

“And how soon will they get to the Outland Forts?” Dughin asked.

“With luck, not long after we arrive ourselves: three days, perhaps.”

And then he turned away, thinking, No more than three days, please, Thoronal. Be swift as the wind.

Because never mind Kelvha. We need you. Veron and I and the others, no matter how effective, cannot do this on our own. We need you there in time.

Chapter 30

“Hope he’s comfortable in that carriage,” said Veron.

“No doubt he is.” Huldarion glanced towards the enclosed carriage in which the Arch-Lord Marshal travelled. Only on the rougher ground did he descend from it to ride on horseback alongside the young Prince. Faldron rode well. But he ought to, with a string of well-trained horses at his disposal.

“Wouldn’t do for me,” said Veron. “Like to see where I’m going.”

Huldarion laughed. In battle he was occasionally afraid of Veron – or rather, afraid of what the man might do; for another spirit seemed to take him over. Otherwise he liked him, although they could hardly be said to be intimate. Certainly the intimacy did not extend to Veron imparting any more information about his wife. Huldarion was curious about what he had learnt two days ago when Veron addressed the hunters. Yet the one question he had subsequently asked, Veron did not so much close down as simply leave unanswered, as if it were irrelevant.

“Well, Veron, you should see the Watch Forts by tomorrow,” he said. “And I sincerely hope we’ll see Thoronal soon after that. How is your gang of hunters faring?”

“Good enough.” Veron had now acquired his own troop of about thirty men, mostly Ioben hunters of wolf and bear, maluf and snow bison; so they ought to know what they were about.

“We’ve been discussing the best use of the stones,” he went on. “A series of well-positioned trenches is one solution, if there’s time to dig, but it has to be planned for the terrain.”

“All such plans may be useless if the stonemen get wind of them. They might not bother using the darkburns at all.”

“After bringing them all the way up here? They’ll use ’em,” said Veron confidently. “Just a question of how.”

“I’d give a lot to know that.”

“In Melmet’s last battles the stoneman force outweighed the number of the stones on Melmet’s side. The darkburns caused havoc in the middle. Yaret told me the darkburns didn’t want to go near the Melmet army, but eventually they had to push through it to get away. She said they zig-zagged at random until they finally burst through: didn’t come back. Of course the stonemen may have rounded those ones up by now.”

“Wait a minute,” said Huldarion, almost stopping his horse in its tracks. “Yaret? She said?

Who is this?”

“My interpreter,” said Veron with some amusement, “the archer. Archeress: turned out to be female. You’ve heard of her. Fell over the cliff above the Thore and lost a foot, got rescued by Tiburé’s troop last year. Arguril told me the tale.”

“Yes, I remember it. Rothir found her at the bottom of the cliff, beside the river. That’s the same one?” It seemed staggeringly unlikely that she should be here.

“Only introduced herself properly this morning,” said Veron. “Worried about her sex being known, I think. But I’ll make sure there’s no trouble.”

The limp, thought Huldarion. Beardless. Quiet voice. Acted older than she looked. And she recognised my name: that should have set alarm bells ringing louder than they did. “Is the Baron aware he’s harbouring a woman in his ranks?”

“Haven’t asked him.”

“Don’t,” said Huldarion. “Whatever is she doing here?”

“Haven’t asked that either.”

They rode on in silence, Huldarion reflecting on the story of her fall down the precipice with an amputated foot. Extraordinary that she had survived.

No wonder his scars hadn’t disconcerted her. Even Prince Faldron had difficulty looking in Huldarion’s face – at their first meeting the wince had been obvious – but then the Prince had never suffered any injury himself. That might change if he was permitted to take part in the fighting. A big if, however.

“What do you think they’ll do with Faldron in the next battle?” he asked Veron. “Will they keep him safe behind the lines again?”

“For the most part. Let him loose towards the end, with plenty of his own men around. Got to blood him some time.”

“That’s assuming that we’ll win.”

“We’ll win.”

“I like your confidence.”

Veron swept his arm around. “Look at our numbers. And Shargun might ride in a padded carriage, but his men are hard enough.”

“They are a strong force. Our numbers, though, concern me,” said Huldarion. “Yes, combined we have a large, impressive army. But that’s what worries me, you know. The stonemen must have foreseen this. We are doing exactly what they would expect.”

“Might not have expected to be noticed, hiding out up in the forts.”

“Maybe that was their original plan. But all their slash-and-burn across the north must mean they don’t care if they’re noticed. It sounds as if they were just testing Melmet’s little army. I think they’ll be expecting us.”

“May not be expecting Kelvha. Stonemen don’t plan much.”

“But Adon does.”

Another silence. Then Veron said,

“Adon won’t be there.”

“No. He’s never where you think he might be, is he? Even Leor says he doesn’t know where Adon is.”

Veron shrugged. “Wonder how hard he’s looked.”

“You don’t think much of Leor, do you?” said Huldarion.

“He’s a good enough fighter. But he’d rather tame a wolf than kill it.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“Depends on how much time you’ve got. But stonemen can’t be tamed in any case.”

“Or negotiated with,” said Huldarion. “No, that seems clear. Look there.” He pointed to the westward sky. Beyond a sea of firs, above the gathering evening mists, there rose a square grey sail: a sail made of stone. It was the first of the Watch Forts. They had already passed three such forts, also square and grey, but smaller by comparison; this one was immense even in its semi-ruined state.

Veron nodded, then raised his eyes to gaze across the Outlands, at the far distance which was now obscured in a hazy cloak of cloud.

“When will these fogs disperse, do you think?” Huldarion asked him.

“By tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll see the Liath Mountains in the morning.”

“The Liath Mountains,” repeated Veron softly, with something almost like love.

At the first Watch Fort the army halted. The Kelvhan troops began to arrange their camp around the building, amongst the trees. Inside the fort, the abandoned, twig-strewn rooms were cleared to house the Prince and Arch-Lord and their entourage.

Huldarion joined them only briefly. He was busy moving through the Kelvhan army, assessing the troops and talking to the captains, his own fluent Kelvhan putting them at their ease. They were acquainted by now with his history and his experience of previous campaigns; he carefully mentioned a few far-flung battles to add to what they already knew.

For he needed their acceptance more than the Arch-Lord Marshal’s, and he thought that he had it – or he would have it, after the next battle. Provided the rest of his men turned up.

And women, he reminded himself. Don’t forget the women just because the Kelvhans do.

So when he went to see his own troops, he made a point of stopping to talk with Delgeb and Hilbré, the most senior women there, assuring them of his undiminished faith in them despite their temporary demotion.

“It is only for this time,” he said. They nodded, though resignedly.

“Don’t worry,” said Delgeb with a curling lip, “we’ll stay unobtrusive.”

Then he went to find the archer, who had been at the back of his mind while he spoke to the women of the Vonn. The Iobens were camped on the worst ground, the Kelvhans having appropriated all the best. He exchanged a few words with their new commander, Nold, who had taken over from the stricken Hreld: he seemed a practical and blessedly unimaginative man. It was gratifying to learn that many of the previous defectors had completed the long journey here.

Veron and his hunters sat a little apart, under the shadows of the pine trees, in the middle of a discussion about night stalking. Huldarion was interested to see the deference which the men showed to Veron, although he spoke to them as equals. They conversed in a strange mixture of Standard and Ioben; while he watched, the archer was needed to interpret only once.

He called her aside. As she saluted he decided that the femaleness was not obvious, yet it was there: the fine skin was camouflaged by the crooked nose as well as by the archer’s bloodstained outfit. A good disguise, but yes... He wondered how long it had taken Rothir to realise.

“Yaret,” he said. “I understand that you’re the woman from the north that Tiburé told me of: the travelling pedlar who found and tended Eled when he lay injured. For that, on behalf of all the Riders of the Vonn, I thank you.”

Her face lit up. “Yes, that’s me. And you’re Huldarion, the leader of the Vonn. But none of them told me that. I only know your name because I overheard it once or twice while they were talking together, that’s all.” He was mildly touched by her anxiety to absolve his Riders.

“How is Eled, do you know?” she asked. “And Tiburé? How are they all?”

“Tiburé is in Kelvha. Eled, I understand, is still safe in Farwithiel and making steady if slow progress; Arguril’s with a small troop at the further Outland Forts, but they will join us in a day or two. The other three whom you met are at present on their way up here from the south, along with the main company of Riders.”

Although there was no more than the faint curve of a smile, the expression that leapt into her eyes was unmistakable. Pure joy. He was surprised, and moved. Well, they had saved her life.

“I’m glad they are unhurt,” she said.

“Rothir was wounded at their battle in the south, I’m told, but nothing major.” It was enough to cause a sudden intentness in her gaze, however; and he added, “It won’t prevent him from riding here. I hope for them to meet us at the further Watch Forts late tomorrow evening.”

“May I–” She hesitated. “May I ask to see them? Just to say hallo?”

“They will have little time to rest; but if you can find us around sunset, you may have a few moments to talk to them. I think that seeing you safe and well may do them good.” It may do Rothir good, at least, he thought. And perhaps Maeneb. Not as cold as she appeared.

And as for Parthenal… ah, who knew whom Parthenal cared about?

“It will do me good to see them too,” she said, unable now to contain her smile. “I thank you.”

“You are a long way from your home,” he said, although he could not remember being told exactly where that home was.

“I have friends in Melmet.”

“And how is your leg?”

“Better with these days of riding rather than travelling on foot. By the way, Baron Grusald of the Broc is mounted on Eled’s horse. I had to give it him to win my place here.”

“I thought it looked familiar. Did you pay a penalty for your insubordination?”

She smiled again. “He gave me double duty cleaning down the horses. That’s fair enough.”

“It is,” said Huldarion. She saluted him before he walked away.

Next, the Kelvhan quarter-master. After complimenting him on the quality of his fare –

not difficult, for the man had, after all, numerous cart-loads of provisions to work with –

Huldarion had no compunction about using a little bribery to get some of it for his own troops: not just the ones who were already here, but the larger number who were on their way. He did not care for bribery but in this case it was expected. And for now he had to live by Kelvha’s rules.

The next day dawned cool and yellow, the sunrise laying golden hands across the plain. As the army once again set out west he could not help but notice the new shoots poking through the wan coarse grass: tiny starry flowers were hidden in the moss. A minute insect jumped.

Each little sign of life held his attention, seeming to leap into sharp focus. It was not a dead land.

Yet from a human point of view this was a sad and barren country, all but uninhabitable.

He wondered what had happened to it; for everything that grew was stunted until the forest made its forbidding reappearance to the north. That heavy mass of trees appeared not green, but almost black: the Watch Forts in front of it were dull grey hulks, their outlines torn and broken.

And then the mist cleared and beyond and over everything he saw at last the Liath Mountains, their upper slopes unforested and clad in snow. For there the winter reigned in cold defiance of the spring elsewhere. The peaks shone, palely glittering against the eastern sun: a beacon and a warning that this remote, forbidding land was no place for men.

Chapter 31

At the biggest of the Watch Forts, they called another halt. Although the Kelvhan lords took up their residence within the fort, as Huldarion had expected, it was surrounded by a number of out-buildings and guard-houses – three of which he immediately appropriated for the use of the Vonn. The guard-houses were unheated and unfurnished, but sound enough, with several wind-proof chambers. There his friendly bribery of Kelvha’s quarter-master paid off: he was able to oversee the bringing in of ample food, whilst firewood was stacked high beside the hearths.

Huldarion surveyed the results with satisfaction, reflecting that he wouldn’t have made a bad quarter-master himself. But then what else was a king but a quarter-master on a giant scale?

And diplomat. And arbiter, and judge. And above all, a fatherly protector to his people. If only those people would appear and set his mind at rest…

But it was a further hour before Veron, who had ridden south to look, came galloping back to report that the line of Riders was finally making its way towards them. So Huldarion went out to watch the column appear on the horizon and steadily grow larger. Still a small number by Kelvhan standards. But everything by his. Gratitude and affection filled him with an unexpected weight of emotion.

When he rode out to meet them he saw that Thoronal, at the head, was looking tired and unusually sombre. Well, they’d had a long, relentless ride. Huldarion passed down the line of weary horses, greeting men and women by name, assuring them of fires and hot water and food waiting.

This is not parental love I feel, he thought; these are my brothers and sisters, these are true friends who have ridden hundreds of miles to do battle for me. His heart warmed to all of them, and for once he wished his face could show it. On this occasion it was hard on him to be expressionless. Instead he had to ensure his words and manner spoke his feelings.

As the Riders filed into camp, and were led into the guard-houses, expressing their surprise and pleasure at their warmth, Veron arrived with his huntsmen to lead away the tired horses.

“You’ll join us for dinner?” said Huldarion.

“Later. I have an errand of my own,” said Veron. Huldarion knew better than to enquire what it might be. Instead he asked,

“You don’t need your interpreter, Yaret, do you?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I invited her to join the Riders for a short while at dinner. It should please some of them to see she has survived and thrived. They will have tales to exchange. What is it, Veron?” For Veron had stopped to stare at him with creased brows.

“Obandiro,” he said. “Her hometown. You know what happened to it?”

“No. What?”

“Darkburned. Last autumn. I passed through it soon after. Didn’t know its name then.

Town just north of Byant: the place looked dead apart from fires and smoke. Completely gone.”

“Dear stars in heaven,” said Huldarion blankly.

“Yaret arrived from Farwithiel a fortnight later. Found her family dead. Everyone else, too, until she discovered four survivors, all children. A few more turned up after a bit. And some refugees. She left about two dozen there, I think, to ride here and represent Obandiro in battle.”

“Dear stars in heaven,” said Huldarion again, in increased dismay. “Two dozen? Out of how many?”

Veron shrugged. “Fifteen hundred?”

Huldarion stared out across the line of weary horses, seeing only the burning town. If Thield were burnt, and all his Riders lost – save four…

“Where did they winter?”

“In the cellars.” Veron glanced at him. “This is why we fight.”

“Yes.” But he wished he had known about it earlier. He had thought of Yaret’s presence as a gift for some of his Riders, a welcome reminder of past success. Of difficulties overcome.

And what now?

He walked into the main guard-house where the Riders had distributed themselves through various chambers before washing and settling to their feast. Fires roared in every fireplace; but now their hearty crackle seemed to menace him.

A whole town darkburned. Gone up in flames. He had known that it had happened in many places, but now his imagination could not put it down. It had not been his land nor his people, but none the less he felt himself burning as he had so many years ago, all down his side, all down his scars. He had survived. So many who had not.

It was almost sunset when he walked outside again to catch Yaret as she trudged over to the guard-house. Her limp was more noticeable than it had been earlier. Even as he hailed her, he was still undecided.

She stopped before him. That gladness in her face.

“Welcome,” said Huldarion gravely. “I’ve just heard about Obandiro. I’m sorry.” She looked at him without speaking. “I don’t wish my riders to learn of it right now. They have had a hard battle and have another ahead of them, with little space for rest.”

“So I may not see them? But I will say nothing of Obandiro.”

He hesitated, aware that he ought to turn her away. It was unlike him to be so indecisive.

“They’ll find out anyway,” said Yaret.

“Yes. But not yet. Do you still wish to go in?”

She nodded.

“You may have a quarter-hour,” said Huldarion. Then he led her through the doorway, already feeling qualms.

In other circumstances he would have been entertained to see how the three Riders who knew Yaret did not at first recognise her in her archer’s garb and strange asymmetric hairstyle. As she limped over to the trestle table, it was Maeneb who suddenly exclaimed her name, and then Parthenal stood up from his camp stool, and Rothir just stared as if in disbelief – as if she had fallen from the moon in front of him. Huldarion sat down at the far end of the table, not with the pleasure he had anticipated, but with deep misgivings.

“Rothir, Maeneb, Parthenal,” said Yaret, whose own delight was evident. “I’m very glad to see you all so well.”

“If it isn’t a stray donkey,” said Parthenal, somewhat puzzlingly.

“What on earth are you doing here?” demanded Rothir.

“So are we glad to see you too,” said Maeneb, giving them both a glance of reproof.

“Indeed we are,” said Parthenal. “But what are you doing here, at this star-forsaken tail-end of the earth?”

Yaret laughed. “I’m here for the same reason as you are: to fight. I’m an archer with the Melmet army. Though not even the Baron actually calls it an army. I believe Kelvha call it a rabble. However, it is somewhat better than that.”

“But how did you get here?” and “You’re here on your own?” came from Parthenal and Rothir together.

“I got here on Poda. I’m afraid the Baron of Melmet is riding Poda now; he took a fancy to her, so I had to exchange her for a scruffy little thing called Helba. She’s all right, though.

And my troop have looked after me well, don’t worry. They’re from Gostard and I knew most of them before.”

“No-one from Obandiro came with you?” queried Parthenal.

“They stayed to defend the town. Just in case.”

Rothir was still staring at her. If he was delighted to see Yaret, it didn’t show. He seemed less stunned now, and more suspicious. “How are your grandparents? And your friends back home? Are they all right?”

“They were fine last time I spoke to them. And you? Are you unhurt?”

“Unscathed, as you see,” said Rothir.

“Rothir got a nasty slash on the leg in battle,” said Parthenal, “defending us from stonemen in the south. A lone stand.” Huldarion noted glances down the table between other Riders, who were listening in with interest, apart from Thoronal who stared glumly at his plate. Something had gone on that he hadn’t yet been told about. “But he’s tough. I stitched it up for him and he hardly noticed. Skin like leather.”

“And a leg like patchwork, thanks to your stitching,” said Rothir.

“Well, I now have a leg like wood,” said Yaret. She picked up a spoon and hit her right shin with it, just above the boot. There was a small dull clunk. “They gave it to me in Farwithiel. It’s been very good; they carved it out of rootwood.”

“Your foot is rootwood from the Farwth?” asked Maeneb in some amazement. She was not alone in that, for all the other Riders in the room were now engrossed.

“I don’t know about that. I suppose it could be: it’s tough enough. In fact I think it might be indestructible. It hasn’t even got scratched yet. By the way, I left Eled being well cared for in Farwithiel. He seemed very settled there; I think the Wardens would be happy to adopt him permanently. Have you had word about him lately?”

“They say progress is gradual,” said Maeneb, “but he is continuing to improve, and is content.”

Yaret nodded. “He was always content there.”

“How long did you stay in Farwithiel?”

“Five or six weeks. I’d gladly have stayed longer. I hardly had time to explore a fraction of the place.”

“The Farwth let you?”

Yaret laughed. “Well, I couldn’t walk very far, after all, let alone climb any trees – much though I’d have loved to.”

As she began to recount her stay in Farwithiel, Huldarion gradually relaxed. While she seemed reticent about the Farwth itself, her description of the forest with its shifting pools and brightly flitting birds was distant and serene enough to take all minds off the coming battle. He himself felt the trees as a shimmering appearance in the guard-house, although it was some years since he had visited Farwithiel. The whole table was listening intently as if feeling the tranquillity of the forest settle round them.

But Rothir was still staring at Yaret with a frown. When she paused he said abruptly,

“Something’s happened. You’re different. What is it?”

Damn, thought Huldarion. He leant forward to give her a two-minute sign.

“She’s thinner,” said Parthenal.

“Army rations,” said Yaret.

“That’s not what I mean. What happened?” asked Rothir.

“Well,” said Yaret slowly, “well, I suppose one thing that’s different is that I killed my first stoneman. Some weeks ago on a trip up north, at close quarters. I didn’t enjoy it.” A

couple of the listening Riders nodded. She shrugged. “Of course I’ve met a few more stonemen since, so I’m getting quite accustomed to that now.”

Huldarion appreciated the understatement. He had heard about the many raids that Melmet had endured to get here, and was aware that few people ever got used to killing – certainly not in the space of one nightmarish week. So he was grateful that she kept her tone light when she went on,

“And I have the great advantage of being an archer; it means that I can claim the credit for everybody else’s hits.”

“Ah! We all know someone who does that,” said Parthenal, glancing down the table.

“We have some very impressive figures amongst the Melmet archers, I can tell you. If you believe them all, we’ve already dispatched more than the entire stoneman army. Quite an achievement.” There were chuckles as she got to her feet. “Well, I have to go now, and let you eat and sleep. Veron says you’ll be riding off early in the morning. Our troops don’t have much speed, but I expect we’ll catch up with you at some point tomorrow.”

“Veron?” asked Maeneb.

“He’s got himself a group of huntsmen from Ioben. I’ve been acting as interpreter when needed, because our languages are similar.”

Parthenal raised an eyebrow. “Veron needs an interpreter? That’s news. He must like you.”

“Are you riding with Veron tomorrow?” asked Rothir, still strangely severe.

“No. I’ll be trailing in the rear with the Melmet rabble.”

“Good,” said Rothir. “Safer there.”

“Really? Veron told his huntsmen that they might not be safe if they chose to fight with him, but they wouldn’t be afraid. I don’t feel afraid with him either.”

“You probably should,” said Rothir, but now, at last, he was smiling.

Then Yaret said a few words in her own language to each of the three, touching first Parthenal and then Rothir on the shoulder before returning her fist to her chest. Maeneb she saluted but did not touch. “I hold you in my heart,” she said.

“As do we you,” answered Parthenal.

“Indeed,” said Maeneb. Rothir said nothing but echoed the gesture as if unconsciously, touching his clenched hand to his heart.

She left them and walked over to Huldarion, saluting him also, this time hand to forehead in the formal archers’ style. Her gaze told him she had something else to say; so he stood up to see her to the door.

“Thank you,” she said. “About that stoneman that I killed up north.”

“What about him?”

“He’d got left behind in Erbulet, abandoned when the others all moved on. He’d been alone for several days, I think. He was banging his head against a wall because of the pain of the stones. He only had the two of them. He begged me for athelid – that’s what they call the drug they use to quell the pain. When I had no athelid to give him he begged me to kill him.

And he told me he was ten years old.”

“He what?”

“Yes, I know. He looked full-grown, yet also young. It’s true that he was crazed with pain and hunger. But something to keep in mind.”

“Don’t tell anyone else,” said Huldarion instinctively. She bowed and left.

His relief had curdled to dismay. She had avoided giving bad news to the Riders only to lay this unwanted information on his shoulders. Ten years old? It was impossible. Ridiculous.

It didn’t bear thinking about. He did not want to keep any such thing in his mind if he could help it.

But it would have to be thought about, now that it was there.

Chapter 32

Maeneb picked her way across the swampy ground with distaste. It had dried out somewhat since she had been here late last year, but in many places the mud still sucked audibly at Shoba’s hooves. The fragile flowers that adorned the yellowed grass had been trampled by thousands of rope-bound soles: for stonemen’s trails covered the land, showing the direction of their marches over the previous days or weeks. All the trails led northwest, towards the foothills of the Liath Mountains. Only the peaks themselves, now clear of cloud and luminous with snow, looked untouched – indeed, untouchable.

Much else had been touched and worse. The tall trees that had stood here before winter, and for centuries before that, were now gone: large areas of pine and selver had been chopped down, evidently to refurbish the Outland Forts – although the nearest of those Forts, which had been inhabited over the winter, now stood cold and empty but for piles of rubbish. It was far to the west that the stonemen were now assembled.

So west was where the companies were riding. Maeneb, despite her relish of quiet places, found she did not like this despoiled and dismal landscape. The warmth of the guard-house last night already seemed a distant memory. Durba’s comments didn’t help her mood.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Durba called to Maeneb now, as they cantered across the wilderness in the midst of Parthenal’s company of Riders. Maeneb did not bother to reply.

She sensed that Durba was still happy. It was most disturbing, because nobody else was –

although she felt a kind of fierce excitement in Parthenal, riding at the head of the line.

She had been pleased to be allocated to Parthenal’s company instead of Thoronal’s. Both men were once again named Captains; the other Captains included Rothir, Sashel, Uld and Ikelder – a young man who had apparently impressed Huldarion during the previous brief engagements up here. Sashel’s bluff twin, Gordal, was in Parthenal’s company, as second in command. She could not tell how much he minded. All twelve Captains were under the ultimate command of Huldarion himself.

Apart from Veron. He had a roving role with his group of hand-picked men, and chose his own route. His company had ridden off before dawn, to track the movements of the second stoneman army – the one which had attacked the Melmet forces. It was reported to be marching across the northlands on its way to support the stonemen already stationed in the western Forts. Huldarion was anxious to get there first and join battle, if possible, before the reinforcements could arrive.

The Kelvhans, on the other hand, seemed anxious to move fast and get the fighting out of the way simply so that they could go home to their comfortable houses and civilisation. The Kelvhan troops had looked askance at her, as an unseemly and no doubt inept female soldier; but probably for the same reason, had assumed that she would not understand them when they talked in their own language. From what she overheard, the Kelvhan troops seemed to think they faced an easy task. Maeneb hoped their confidence was justified.

“This is fast!” yelled Durba alongside her. “We’re leaving Melmet behind!”

Maeneb looked across at the Kelvhan troops. They were indeed riding fast; slowly outstripping the Vonn, although their horses rattled with weapons and the men were weighed down by their armour – whether chain-mail or the flashier plate armour worn by the High Prince and his lords. But their horses were big, strong beasts. Durba was right; behind them, the smaller steeds and weary men of Melmet were having trouble keeping up.

Somewhere back there was Yaret. It had been an unexpected pleasure to see her whole –

or almost whole – and well. Maeneb felt a mild affection for her, as a practical and efficient person who did not try to touch her nor talk about emotions. However, Maeneb had sensed

some deep disturbance in Yaret: some dark and churning region in her mind that had not been there previously. Something had certainly happened.

They had been riding for three hours now and had passed a further two forts – both empty

– but the next fort, as they approached, was clearly not. Smoke rose from it and from its surroundings of dark swelling hills, which were blurred by trees and threaded here and there by thin black waterfalls. The glistening mountains stood aloof and lofty over all. The Riders halted.

Between them and the hills, the ground seethed with movement, like the writhing of ants around a rotten corpse. Thousands of stonemen. They were preparing for battle: for there was a line marching in from the forts still further west. Although most of the stonemen were on foot, there was at least one company of cavalry; that was unusual.

And behind them, she thought she could discern some carts. She reached out with her mind. While the darkburns, as ever, could not be felt, she could detect their presence – their many presences – by the clumps of fear in the stonemen round them. Despite their drugs the stonemen were not totally immune to the darkburn aura.

Apart from fear, though, what was there? Stonemen’s minds seemed to be mostly cloud and shadow. Sometimes, like now, there was aggression, rage: yet all oddly unshaped.

Formless. And at other times there would be merely blankness, a space waiting to be filled.

Although she wondered about the drugs that they were fed, it did not incline her to feel pity for the stonemen. But then Maeneb knew that pity was something she was short of in general.

Huldarion, at the head of the Vonn, held up his arm to sign for caution and a slower pace.

As they rode on they spread out more widely, each company to its allocated role, so that by the time the halt was again called on a drier stretch of ground they were already in formation.

They stayed mounted, bows at the ready and swords to hand.

No trenches had been dug. There had been no time to send teams of man ahead: and even if it could have been done, Huldarion was doubtful of their efficacy. Instead each soldier carried at least two stones wrested from the heads of corpses, in the hope that this protection would prove good enough against the darkburns.

Apparently the Kelvhans did the same. Some of the Kelvhans also carried nets of fine metal wire with which they hoped to trap the darkburns: an untried device. For her part, although she now could see the smoking carts distinctly, Maeneb hoped they would stay closed. With any luck the darkburns would not be used at all.

She was to be disappointed. Durba, next to her, said, “Who’s supposed to start?” at the same time as she realised that the stonemen had already started.

Only a few of them had begun to move: their horsemen, who were riding out in scattered pairs. But then the cages on the carts clanged open, the sound arriving at her ears a second or two after she had seen it.

The pairs of horsemen were driving darkburns. She saw the smoking blurs in the spaces between the riding stonemen, yet she could not tell how they were doing it until she realised that there was a long chain stretched between each pair of riders. Clever, she thought: the horses aren’t close enough to the darkburns to make them bolt, and they move fast…

Very fast. The chains had perhaps been treated in the same way as the stones, or had stones bound into their links, for the darkburns ran from them. As fast as horse could gallop, they raced, blurred and smoking, towards the waiting Vonn.

“Dismount, and shoot at the riders!” cried Huldarion. “Then ready with your swords!”

The horses were guided to the rear while Maeneb got to work with bow and arrow. It seemed only half a minute later when the darkburns rushed on them; she slung her bow over her shoulder and unsheathed her sword. With the chains close behind, the darkburns did not veer aside, but ran straight into the waiting ranks of Riders. Maeneb hoped they would rush

through swiftly to escape the stones; but meanwhile the effect was much the same as every other encounter with darkburns that she had suffered.

Once again she was enveloped by that smell, felt that disabling terror, saw that familiar scrambling mayhem as people hacked desperately at the smouldering shapes and then turned to run before they began to burn. Maeneb helped Felba and Gordal to smash one darkburn to pieces, each of them leaping back at intervals. The stonemen who had not been shot from their horses were riding around at a short distance with their chains, although they did not join in the fight.

Smoke and steam obscured her vision. Yet she was aware that through the smoke on either side of her, Parthenal, Rigal and the others were doing much the same as she was: slash, run, slash, run. As she saw Parthenal shatter one darkburn and turn instantly to face another, she realised why the darkburns had not broken through the ranks of Vonn to flee the stones. Their keepers, in their pairs, were riding right around each group of fighting Vonn and enclosing them with lengths of chain.

She and five other Riders found themselves trapped in a chain circle with a darkburn. She shot at both stonemen in rapid succession until they slumped heavily from their horses; but the damage was already done. The darkburn could not escape – and neither could Gordal, on whom it leapt.

It seemed to wrap him in a shroud of smoke. He fell beneath it, screaming.

Pain filled Maeneb’s head. The burning. It was unbearable. It paralysed her. But after a few seconds it faded, and she was able to join Parthenal and Rigal as they smote and slashed at the darkburn that embraced the fallen man.

They took it in turns, knowing all the time that it was too late. Long before the darkburn had been hacked to pieces, charred fragments of it scattered all around, it had done its work.

At least the pain had not lasted long, she told herself. Gordal had been conscious for no more than a dozen seconds. Now the body blazed up in a roar of orange flame and a billow of black smoke. Parthenal staggered backwards, coughing, and trying to disentangle himself from the chain that was draped across the ground.

“We should use this,” said Maeneb. She wrenched one end of the chain from the wrist of a dead horseman. “Give me a hand,” she called to Durba, who was staring at the blazing corpse of Gordal with her mouth open. “I said give me a hand!”

Durba held out a hand automatically and Maeneb tossed the end of the chain at her.

“Coil it up,” she ordered, as she unwound the chain from Parthenal’s feet and hunted for its other end.

“Stonemen,” wheezed Parthenal, half-choked with smoke, but pointing with his sword. A new line of stonemen was galloping towards them, with no darkburns this time – but with speed, their axes raised.

“Stonemen!” she yelled at Durba, who seemed half asleep. “Wake up! Hold that chain tight! Raise it up!”

She lifted her own end of the chain. Rigal, understanding what she meant, seized the other end from Durba’s passive hands and pulled it tight.

The first horsemen rode straight into it. Although the chain immediately flew out of Maeneb’s grasp, it had already made the stonemen’s horses stumble. One threw its rider and careered into another. Parthenal and Landel made short work of two more stonemen as they tried in vain to control their floundering steeds.

Maeneb parried a blow that was meant for Durba, and swiped two-handed with her sword at the stoneman who had struck it as he rode past. When he fell from his saddle she finished him off with a stab through the ribs. Then she had to pull her sword free and immediately spin round to face the next attacker.

“Get the chain!” yelled Parthenal. She grasped it, and the two of them tried the same trick again, pulling the chain high and tight – with a similar result. Although the chain was whipped out of her hand on impact, it was again enough to unbalance the enemy horses, while their riders were not skilful enough to keep them upright. Then everything was a confusion of flying axes and sweeping blades. Maeneb reverted to her long knife, her preferred weapon at close quarters; for it felt like an extension of her body, which her sword never did.

She had no compassion for the stonemen that she stabbed. They felt only hate for her, after all. So she tried to shut out all intrusive feelings as time thickened into a mess of blood and clashing swords and wordless cries. She had no idea how anyone beyond her group was faring, and no chance to look.

But eventually a change in the nature of the shouts drew her gaze from the man she had just killed. Kelvha were charging. Several hundred horsemen, hooves thundering and standards flying, were galloping past. She felt the ground shake.

The charge was decisive and made her wonder why it hadn’t happened earlier. The few remaining stonemen cavalry were soon killed or put to flight. The mass of enemy foot-soldiers was still half a mile or so away; but now it halted its advance as the Kelvhans continued their thunderous charge. Then the stonemen turned and began a swift retreat.

“Thank the stars,” said Maeneb, as she leant over to rest while she had the chance, gasping with her hands on her knees. She was aware that she had a cut through her leather jerkin. She felt underneath it: no blood. Hardly any, anyway. “Exciting enough for you?” she asked Durba who stood nearby. The girl looked half-stunned.

“Have we won?” said Durba blankly.

“No,” said Maeneb. “Tactical retreat at best. What’s happening, Parthenal?” With his greater height, he gazed over the heads of the others.

“Kelvha’s still in hot pursuit. Ah, now they’ve had to stop. There’s a line of darkburns, tethered, I think; at least, the Kelvhan horses can’t get past them. It looks as if the Kelvhan charge is halting. Yes, they’re coming back. Well, they’ve given us a break at least. But what took them so long?”

“A break?” said Durba.

“An hour, maybe two if we’re lucky, while the stonemen regroup. Their reinforcements must be arriving soon. Rigal, see to the casualties. There’s Huldarion, thank the stars.”

Parthenal strode away to talk to his commander.

Maeneb helped Rigal organise the moving of the injured; thankfully there were not too many, and none were too badly burnt. Despite her own distaste for flesh and skin she could assess them quickly – it was easy for her to tell how much pain each casualty was in – and with quick decision told others what was needed.

The injured dealt with, she turned round to attend to Gordal’s corpse. It still lay smoking on the ground, while Durba was standing motionless nearby, her sword limp in her hand.

“Help me move Gordal,” she said impatiently.

Durba half shook her head. “There’s nothing left to move.”

Maeneb searched for Durba’s feelings and found a blank. Dear stars, the woman’s made of stone, she thought. Witless as a stoneman, without the excuse of a head full of sharpened rocks and unknown drugs.

“Help me move Gordal,” she said again, between clenched teeth. When Durba still did not move, she instead beckoned Landel, who silently aided her in shovelling the smoking remains onto a pair of shields and carrying them away from the main field of battle. The stretchers were needed for the injured, not the dead; and Gordal’s body – if the sad remnant could be called that – would have burnt through a stretcher in any case. She saw Sashel in the distance and wondered if he had yet heard about his twin.

There was little on the shields to say, This once was Gordal. Maeneb stood by the pitiful remains and muttered a prayer of some sort, because something was needed; but she had to improvise the words and she knew they were inadequate. She thought of Yaret murmuring her Oveyn. She could have done with that just now.

Then she charged Landel with guarding Gordal’s body, and returned to the battlefield to hunt spent arrows and collect the stonemen’s chains. They might have a use. When she found Durba, the girl was just standing on the field and staring into space, doing nothing, thinking nothing. But at least she wasn’t happy any more.

Chapter 33

“You’re hurt,” said Parthenal.

“Not badly.” Huldarion removed the cloth from his left arm and checked it. “It looks worse than it is. Come to the tent with me, and you can stitch it up while we talk.”

“You want me to stitch it?”

“Rothir says you do a good neat job. And I need to speak to you and the other captains without delay. Where’s Sashel? He’s not wounded, is he?”

“He’s safe. I saw him with his company over there. He doesn’t know yet… Gordal died.”

“Ah.” Huldarion let out a brief exhalation of regret. “How?”

“Darkburn.”

“Any others in your company lost?”

Parthenal shook his head. “All standing. But not all unscathed. Let me leave you for a moment and talk to Rigal.”

He went to check the number of casualties with Rigal, his second in command now that Gordal was gone. But he knew that Maeneb would see that everything necessary was done in any case. Really she should have been his second, if not a captain on her own account.

Returning, he accompanied Huldarion to the tent. It had been hastily thrown up and was really no more than a long canvas awning. At one end medics were assessing the injured and handing out bandages. At the other end, the captains gathered – all except Sashel, who had now heard the news and knelt outside with head bowed by his brother. Inside, the captains also bowed their heads to Gordal and the other fallen soldiers for a moment.

As they raised their heads again Huldarion held out his arm for stitching. “Make it quick, Parthenal. It doesn’t need to be neat. That arm’s hardly beautiful in any case.” The gash ran through the scar tissue on his forearm; the tightness of the skin there pulled it open.

Parthenal compressed his lips as he dipped the fine curved needle and thread in spirit, and after mopping away the blood, gently wiped the gash with spirit too. Huldarion did not flinch.

“Don’t worry, there’s little feeling in that area,” he said; probably untruthfully. Then, as Parthenal bent to his task, Huldarion addressed the other captains. “Kelvha will want to lead the next attack on the stonemen. That’s already been made clear.”

“Why didn’t they ride out to help us sooner?” queried Uld.

“Testing us, I imagine.”

“So they’ll join in now that we’ve got rid of all the darkburns for them,” grunted Solon.

“I don’t think we’ve done that,” said Huldarion. “I have no doubt that there will be more darkburns waiting for us; though I don’t think the Kelvhans will bother with those metal nets of theirs again. They just melted in the heat, apparently.”

“On the other hand,” said Parthenal, “perhaps the stonemen will also think twice about using that trick with the chains again.”

“How did you fare with those?”

Parthenal described how Maeneb had used the chain against the stonemen. It turned out that Ikelder had made a similar use of one, while Rothir had somehow managed to wrap his darkburn and both its stoneman riders up in their own chain.

“Wouldn’t want to try that again, though,” he said. “The darkburn just happened to run the right way. We were lucky to get away with it.”

Huldarion nodded. “It may deter the enemy from using chains next time,” he said. “But these stonemen are proving more adaptable than previous ones that we’ve encountered.”

“Maybe they’re learning,” suggested Ikelder.

“Then we should be too. I need a plan to put before the Kelvhan Arch-Lord.”

“Shargun? He won’t do any fighting,” said Parthenal. “He’ll sit in his carriage and issue orders.”

“Then we need to make sure they are orders that will work for us. Yes? What is it?”

Somebody had just entered the tent: Parthenal glanced up and saw an Ioben man in ripped fur clothing, with a bow slung over his shoulder.

The Ioben bowed and said in rough Standard, “A message from Veron. The big army of new stonemen is nearly at the fort number fifteen.” He held up fingers to make sure they understood. “There almost now. Veron says three thousand extra stonemen. Hundred darkburns.”

“A hundred,” said Huldarion; not in shock, thought Parthenal, but as if he were simply weighing up the number. Yet Parthenal himself was shocked. A hundred?

“Where is Veron now?” asked Huldarion.

“Two, three miles from fort number fifteen. Out of sight. Veron says he will get more helpers from the north to fight with him. Then will come down to hit the stonemen at fort number fifteen.” Again he held up his hands to emphasise the number.

“Helpers? What do you mean?” asked Solon.

“I don’t know. Veron knows. Veron has also the wizard, Leor: Lioli? The red hair.” The man drew his hands dramatically down his own shaggy locks to demonstrate. He was enjoying this theatre, thought Parthenal. “Leori will help.”

“How?”

“Veron says, look to the north. Not tonight, but tomorrow afternoon, under the moon.” He pointed to the sky.

“And what will we see?” asked Thoronal, who had been unusually quiet until then.

“Helpers,” said the man. He grinned. “That’s all Veron says. Any message? I have another errand now.”

“No message, except that all goes so far much as expected.”

The man nodded by way of a salute, and left the tent.

“Helpers?” repeated Solon. “Just helpers? That’s not helpful at all.”

“Can we trust him?” asked Ikelder.

“Who: the messenger, or Veron?” said Rothir.

“Well… both.”

“We can trust Veron,” said Huldarion. “If he says he’ll come up with something, then he will.”

“The question is, what?” said Parthenal, looking up from his stitching.

“Is that done now?”

“Almost. Keep still while I put a dressing on it.”

Parthenal knotted and cut the thread carefully. As he placed a star-moss dressing on the tight-stitched skin, and began to apply a bandage, he felt more moved by pity for this injury than any of the much worse ones being cared for at the far end of the tent. Those others barely stirred him. But in the midst of battle, it seemed both strange and wonderful to be so close to Huldarion: to touch his arm in almost a caress. He was careful to make little of it, and did not allow his hands to linger.

Meanwhile Uld asked the group, “Does anybody know what Veron may have meant by helpers? Because I am aware of no settlement of any size within fifty miles.”

“Further than that,” said Rothir, “if you mean of size enough to supply a battalion.”

“I doubt if Veron means a town at all,” replied Huldarion.

Parthenal finished tying the bandage and neatened the ends. “There. You’re done. But then what did Veron mean?”

“I think I may have some idea,” said Huldarion slowly. “But I have no certainty about it.

We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

“And what might happen?” he asked.

Huldarion looked at him, unreadable. “Like I said, we’ll wait and see. But that’s tomorrow. We need to hold out until then. The fighting may not resume tonight, but it surely will at dawn, or even earlier. So, meanwhile: our plan?”

“If Kelvha wants to lead the charge,” said Rothir, “we ought at least to guard their flanks.

We should set there all the archers that we have. I notice the Kelvhans don’t use their bows half as much as they might.”

“Then we will. Make sure that every archer is supplied with arrows. Parthenal?”

“We should advise the Kelvhans to immediately cut down any horsemen carrying chains. I don’t believe the stonemen will abandon that tactic all at once – especially if Veron is right, and they still have a hundred darkburns to use up.”

“Stakes?” Ikelder said, a little hesitantly. “If we have time to set a row of long stakes in the ground, they will catch any chains held out between the enemy horses. Hinder them at least.”

Huldarion nodded. “Good.”

“Some of the Kelvhans carry lances,” Ikelder went on, encouraged. “They’re unwieldy, but against an opposing cavalry lances may have a use – if the Kelvhans can use them properly. Many of those stonemen didn’t look too secure on horseback.”

“I observed that also,” said Huldarion. “Kelvha’s lancers should be skilled enough.”

“Will Kelvha want to ride out to the enemy, or wait for them to come?” asked Solon.

“They’ll ride out. I’ll suggest to them we make for the fifteenth fort as soon as possible, since that is where the enemy are mustering, according to Veron. We should have time to get there before battle resumes: certainly before tomorrow morning. And then it will be with us on the flanks, Melmet bringing up the rear. We’ll use the Baron’s archers to reinforce our own.”

At this Rothir stirred. “Over by the fifteenth fort the ground will be swampier than here. It shouldn’t be too soft for the foremost horses, but those at the back may struggle. I’d suggest Melmet ride out initially, but be prepared to go on foot as soon as their horses start to get bogged down. Because they will. And if Shargun’s thinking of his carriage, he can forget it.”

Huldarion smiled. “I’ll tell him that,” he said, “though perhaps not in those words.

Thoronal?”

“I have nothing to add,” said Thoronal heavily. And he took no part in the brief debate that followed. At the end he bowed and walked out with the rest, having said no more.

“Parthenal,” said Huldarion, motioning him back. “Stay a moment.”

He stopped. Once the two men were alone, Huldarion asked,

“What’s wrong with Thoronal? I thought I knew him well enough, but you’re his cousin too. You might understand this glumness of his better than I do. Is it simply that he found himself worsted by the firedrake in the south? I thought him more resilient than that.”

“He’s resilient as long as he believes he’s in the right,” said Parthenal. “He finds it hard to admit to a mistake.”

“Don’t we all? But he admitted his mistake to me as we rode over here,” said Huldarion,

“and I told him that it didn’t matter. We learn, and we move on.”

“Thoronal is not an adaptable man. He finds change difficult – especially changing his ideas about himself. He’s proud.”

“Again, aren’t we all? You’re proud, yet you accept rebuke for your mistakes.”

“Do I?” Parthenal raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that I make any.”

Huldarion laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. Then he winced.

“I thought it didn’t hurt?” said Parthenal.

“I don’t mind telling you, since you’re a medic, of a sort. I must admit, mobility is a problem. Not just that arm; the whole side. I do my exercises but it’s not the same as battle.”

“So it hurts?”

“Yes.”

“Take ethlon.”

“No. Nor will I take belvane, in case it dulls my judgement.”

“Pain will dull your judgement,” Parthenal pointed out.

“Maybe; but I know how much. That’s the difference.”

Parthenal shook his head. “Then just keep using the ointment. You still do?”

“When there’s time.”

“Make time.”

“Easy for you to say.”

I would apply it myself, thought Parthenal, gladly, how gladly. The idea made him tingle.

And it was absurd. Why can’t I stop thinking this way, even in the most inappropriate moments? Why can’t I stop myself from wanting him when I know that it’s impossible? And when he’s stern it’s even worse. I could fall on my knees before him… Oh, no, no, stop it.

“One more thing,” said Huldarion, and his tone instantly sobered Parthenal.

“What is it?”

“Sashel. Should he remain a captain?”

“It would be cruel to take it from him now. But…”

Huldarion nodded. “Yes. We’ll go and talk to him,” he said. “Kelvha can wait a little longer.” He clapped Parthenal on the shoulder once again before walking to the doorway.

And Parthenal, in a flood of shame, turned his mind from men’s living, breathing bodies to that black and withered corpse outside.

Chapter 34

Helba was stumbling badly by the time Veron and his men were in sight. Not surprisingly, for it had taken her three hours’ rough riding from the camp to get here.

And it wasn’t just the horse that was suffering: Yaret was hurting too, her muscles sore with effort, while the roughly bandaged wounds on her right shoulder and left shin meant that every movement stung her painfully. But at least those wounds had not been added to – for there had been more marching than fighting for the Melmet troops that day. While the Vonn had borne the brunt of the attack, the Baron’s forces had lurked towards the rear, with a mixture of relief and restlessness.

Yaret’s own relief at the army’s success had been not least on the Riders’ behalf. Seeing them again had been such a great and unexpected pleasure that she did not know what to do with it. She felt that after the disaster of Obandiro and the horror of the battles, such happiness ought to be forbidden her. Guilt accompanied her gladness.

Yet her heart was full: and although she held her joy there as a bulwark against her losses, it immediately brought with it new fear of further loss. So she had felt reprieved when she had scanned the battlefield and glimpsed the distant Captains of the Vonn emerging from a tent.

Alongside her Inthed had also been scanning the field, with some envy.

“They’re very fine, aren’t they, those Kelvhans?” he said jealously. “Done up to the collar in bronze and gilt.”

“And they fight just as well as they look,” retorted Jerred. “Which is exactly what you do, too, Inthed.”

Inthed had taken some time to think about this, and had just started to complain when the Ioben huntsman rode up, shaggy and imperious. He had introduced himself as Naduk and demanded in broken Standard that the interpreter Yaret should be allowed to accompany him back to Veron in the hills. Jerred had been inclined to refuse, until he was told that the Baron had awarded Veron the use of any men he wanted.

“Women too?” said Jerred. “What does Veron want with her?”

At which Inthed had sniggered. Morad and the huntsman had both given him a look.

“Don’t be more of a fool than you can help,” said Jerred to him; and to the huntsman,

“Well, all right. But you’d better take care of her. One of my best archers.”

Which was nice of him if probably not true; and the laconic Naduk still didn’t explain what she was wanted for, even as she rode Helba after him towards the northern hills.

“If I’m needed as an interpreter,” she said, “why didn’t Veron ask to take me with him earlier?”

The huntsman shrugged. “We don’t need an interpreter so much. He talks a fair bit of Ioben and we talk a bit of Standard.”

“So what am I coming along for?”

Naduk shrugged again, extravagantly. “I only know that you’re necessary to his plans.”

“And what are his plans?”

Yaret spoke in Ioben, so she knew the hunter understood her; but he gave no answer.

Perhaps he couldn’t hear. His horse was moving at pace even once they reached the higher ground, which was speckled with thin snow. No stonemen were anywhere in sight: Naduk had skirted the battlefield by a distance, and they were slowly climbing.

And now, at last, after three weary hours, there was Veron with his men, greeting her with the merest of nods. The group was sheltering in a shallow cave beneath some overhanging rocks, while horses grazed amongst the shrubby trees.

Although the landscape here was bleak and wintry, the views from this hillside were long; another of the Outland Forts was visible only a couple of miles away. Down by it she glimpsed a lengthy procession of men and carts snaking its way from the west, the black and smoking line incongruous against the rosy drifts of clouds that presaged sunset. Behind her the mountains’ trackless scarps were tinted pink. It gave them the appearance of a warmth which was totally lacking in the chilly evening wind. But the cave where the hunters sat was dry and sheltered.

“A good place to spend the night, this,” she commented, for it offered better cover than her comrades by the battlefield were likely to enjoy. Last night they had shivered in the open air.

“We won’t be staying here tonight,” Veron replied. “We’ll be travelling. You’ve got half an hour to eat and rest your horse.” He offered her a lump of meat on a skewer from the small fire.

Nothing about resting her, she noted wryly as she took the skewer. But Helba probably needed it more. “Where are we going?”

“North.”

“And you want me to interpret?”

“Not with these men. Perhaps with someone else.”

“An Ioben?”

Veron appeared not to have heard her. As she looked around she noticed, for the first time, the stranger in the cave behind her. Why hadn’t she seen him as soon as she walked in? He was noticeable enough, with his orange hair glinting in the firelight: hair almost as bright as the flames, apart from two long white streaks, one down either side.

And he wasn’t a complete stranger.

“Great-uncle,” she said. “How are you?”

He stared at her, his old-young face creasing into a doubtful smile. “Have we met?”

“Last autumn, near the Coban hills. Our paths crossed and I gave you supper. As soon as I mentioned I was from Obandiro, you panicked and ran off.”

“Ah… Yes, I remember that. But I don’t think I ran. Did I?”

Veron had turned to gaze at them with interest.

“Leor? Your great-uncle?” he said.

“It’s a figure of speech. This is Leor? The wizard Lioli?”

The red-haired man stood up and bowed, as far as he could under the cave’s low roof. He was very tall.

“I answer to both those names.”

“My name is Yaret.”

“I know that now,” he said. “I wish I’d known it then. I was friendly with your grandparents when you were small.”

She digested this. It should have surprised her but amidst all else that had happened – and was still happening – it seemed of no great moment. “I don’t remember you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, his smile a little sad. “You were very young. When I last saw you, your father was still alive.”

“You knew my father?”

“Not so well as your grandfather.”

“So when we met last autumn, did you know my grandparents had died?”

“I feared it.”

“You ran away – hurried away, at any rate – when you learnt I was going to Obandiro, because you knew what had happened there,” she said accusingly.

“Yes. But I could hardly tell you. I tried to warn you, I think.”

“Did you? Maybe you did... After a fashion.” It was not fair to blame him for Obandiro’s destruction. But he could have given her a clearer warning.

Yet what difference would it have made, in the long run? With a clear warning she might not have gone back home at all, or not until much later; she might never have found the four children hiding in the cellars…

So she sighed, and said, “Well, what are you doing here now, Leor or Lioli?”

“I came here with the Vonn.”

“He turns up all over the place, usually when least expected,” Veron added, standing up.

“We’re going in ten minutes.”

“Where to?”

But he had already left the cave. When she repeated her question, the other huntsmen answered with dismissive shrugs; they were starting to pack up their gear.

As they loaded their horses the men had an air of purpose and contained excitement. Most of them carried on their saddles long coils of rope with bits of fabric attached to them at intervals. These puzzled Yaret, but the men would not explain what they were for.

“We’re going hunting,” said one at last. “Wolves, I’m told.”

Yaret looked at this man closely, for he was the youngest of three hunters that seemed different to the rest. They spoke only in Standard, and lacked the furs and unkempt beards of the others. They also lacked the excitement; their appearance was one of grim weariness.

Something in this man’s face reminded her of Charo, the first time she had seen him, the red-rimmed eyes and set line of the mouth making him look older than he was.

“You’re not a hunter,” she said to him.

“Not by profession, no. I have hunted. But I was chiefly a farmer, before.”

She heard the desolation in his voice, and knew even as she asked. “You mean before the stonemen?”

“They destroyed my village, and that of my two friends.” He gestured to the men beside him.

“Ah. Mine too. I’m sorry. Where was that?”

“East of Ioben.” His voice was flat and drained.

“And were you three the only ones…?”

He shook his head. “We were not the only survivors. That was thanks to Veron’s people.

The stonemen took a dozen of us captive: it was one of Veron’s kinsmen who freed us.”

“The stonemen took you captive? But I thought they usually…” Her voice tailed away rather than say what the stonemen did.

“They wanted us to pull the carts,” he said, again with such utter desolation in his voice that she knew she could not ask for any details of what that had been like. But after a moment he added, “When we were freed, we ran away, back to our village which was now no village.

There the hunters of Ioben found us and gave us food and shelter. So when they went to fight, we went too. And now that I have seen Veron, I will fight with him and for the people we have lost.”

“I do the same,” said Yaret. “It’s not much but it’s all that I can do.” Amidst the hubbub of the tramping horses they were both silent.

Then he said, “I’m Zan. The rest of my name doesn’t matter any more, since I have no family left to give it meaning.”

“All we have now is revenge,” said one of his companions. “We want to hunt the stonemen down. And these men tell us that Veron is the best hunter on this side of the world.”

This was said within earshot of Veron, who was coiling up a length of beribboned rope at the entrance to the cave. Rather than modestly shrugging disavowal, he nodded, and said,

“So I am. Bar one.”

“Bar one? Which one?” she asked. He gave no answer. “And today you’re killing wolves?”

“Hunting, not killing,” said Veron. “A true huntsman does not kill without good reason.

And then it should be clean and quick.”

“But if you’re not killing them, what are you hunting them for?”

He slung the coiled rope over his shoulder and looked towards the west. “Time to go. The sun is fully set.”

A long pale glimmer lingered all along the western sky; the snowy peaks had turned from pink to icy blue. A full moon was rising, so that when the group rode off, it was clear enough for them to see their way even after the last gleam of the sunset faded.

They rode through mud and old snow that crunched beneath the horses’ hooves and set a faint metallic tang in the night air. On this more level ground Helba recovered her sure-footedness. Soon they came to a forest, a mix of giant conifers and leafless greythorn, less dense and tangled than the forest round the Darkburn; yet no less forbidding, despite the open glades and narrow paths that wound between the trees. Perhaps it was the growing moonlight that made it seem so alien.

Veron led the way along myriad snow-spattered paths, halting only on occasion to consult the other huntsmen about their route. They spoke in low, quick voices in a mixture of Standard and Ioben, and the only interpreting she needed to do was to Zan and his two friends. When there was nothing to interpret she asked Zan more about their rescue from the stonemen; and in turn told them a little of Obandiro. These men understood.

But the others were absorbed in their hunt – if hunt it was. Beneath the sailing moon Veron’s face was alight. He did not seem to feel the increasing cold; none of the huntsmen did. Although Yaret had thought that she was hardened to the winter, in this freezing air she was soon shivering.

To her surprise she felt a cloak being thrown around her shoulders. She turned and saw Leor, who had ridden up alongside her on a lanky horse.

“You’ll need that tonight,” he told her.

“Thank you.”

“I’m truly sorry about Obandiro,” he said gravely.

“Yes. Let’s not talk about that any more just now. Why is Veron hunting wolves?”

“Not only wolves,” said Leor. “If this works.”

“If what works?”

Another shrug. He was as bad as Veron. The huntsmen were moving faster now, plunging through the forest along one of the tracks where little snow had penetrated. Although the light in here was low their horses seemed to have no trouble following the path. She rode after them and trusted that she would not crash into a sudden unseen tree.

Leor puzzled her. She should have noticed him in that cave. Was she really so unobservant? Or had wizardry masked him? But Rud said Leor had forsworn his magic...

Could he really be the same Leor, or Lioli, that Rud the innkeeper had told her about – and that the bard Madeo had sung about, so many hundred years ago? The questions began to pile up. She doubted if he’d answer most of them.

Next time they stopped for Veron to confer with his men, she tried her first question on Leor.

“Do you know Rud, the taverner at the Gostard Inn?”

“I do, although I haven’t been there for a while. A good solid man – in more senses than one.”

“He does a fine cheese pie,” said Yaret wistfully. “And did you know Madeo, the traveller and bard?” That was quite a leap from the Gostard Inn. She’d hoped to surprise Leor into an unguarded answer.

He certainly looked surprised: shocked, even. “Madeo?”

“Yes. Is it a hard question?”

“I did know Madeo once, very long ago.”

“Well, it would hardly be recent. And the Farwth, of course. I believe you know it also? –

and the Wardens of Farwithiel.” For that story had come back to her while she was riding: how Leor had lengthened the Wardens’ lives to several times the span of normal men and women, with unforeseen effects. Effects that should have been foreseen.

“You sound disapproving,” he remarked.

She almost said, “I beg your pardon.” But why did a wizard need her pardon? Whether she approved of him or not was surely nothing to him.

So she replied coolly, “One of the Wardens told me why their children die before them.”

A pause. “That was also a long time ago. You must know that I have forsworn all magic now.”

“Have you? I didn’t see you as I came into the cave.”

“Most magic. That was a mere shielding. It hardly counts.”

Yaret laughed, and the grizzled oldest huntsman, Edrik, turned to shush her.

“Silence from now on,” said Veron.

They rode for a further mile in near-silence, the horses’ hooves making no more sound than a soft pad-padding on the thick layer of pine needles underfoot. And then they heard a wolf howl. The cry curled through the trees, a long, mournful warning.

Veron held up his hand. Lifting his head, he howled himself, in what sounded to Yaret like a perfect imitation of the wolf.

More wolves answered, from a distance that she found hard to judge. A mile? Half? Two?

At a nod from Veron, Edrik and a second huntsman added to the howled reply. A dialogue of wolves, thought Yaret, the skin down her back tingling with instinctive apprehension.

Veron gesticulated without speaking, and half the men set off along the track ahead towards the origin of the howls. Veron himself plunged into the deep forest on their right and beckoned the remaining men to follow him.

He must have the eyesight of a cat, thought Yaret, for in here she could hardly see a thing.

Helba still walked on calmly, however, and after a while the trees thinned again so that the moon shone like a sudden lamp above them.

Now she rode through a confusion of black shadows and ribbons of snow that striped her surroundings in a dizzying maze. It was hard to make out what was tree and what was merely shadow. She stuck as close as she could to Veron.

But after a few minutes he pointed to her and Leor and then to the ground, indicating that they should stay here with Naduk and the others. He and Edrik moved silently into the labyrinth and were instantly gone; except that she heard more howls from time to time, and could not tell which might be wolf and which were human.

A bird called out, sharp and alarmed. No, that must have been a signal – nothing was as it seemed – for Naduk at once set off without a word, with the other huntsmen in pursuit. She urged Helba to a canter to follow them. It meant riding faster than she wanted to in the near-darkness, but she was afraid of losing them.

Behind her, she heard the husky breath of Leor’s horse, bringing up the rear. They might have been travelling through another world, one that appeared only at night: a world made of bewildering patterns of moonlight and strange clear calls between the listening trees.

And now there was the growing sound of rushing water. Emerging from the treeline, Yaret found herself looking down at a broad stream, its waters flashing black and white with splintered moons. On the far bank, low, dark shapes were running, racing downhill. It took her a moment to realise they were wolves.

Galloping behind the wolves was a man on horseback, who swung a coil of rope in one hand. Without slowing he threw one end of the rope across the water where it fell stretched

like a dead snake. Naduk hastened to pick it up, and tied the end to his own coil of rope. Then he rode on downstream, uncoiling it behind him.

She followed with the others. There were more men in the distance on the far side of the stream, and between them was a surging ripple of shadows: a pack of wolves was being herded on the riverbank. No, not one pack, for there were far too many of them – and she realised with a thudding of her heart that this was a most unnatural crowd of wolves, for the dim shapes underneath the trees seemed endless.

The ones nearest to the stream began to run with increasing speed towards some heap or huddle on the ground, before they leapt on it. She heard the sound of snarling. Her heart thumped harder. What had they caught?

“Goats,” murmured Naduk next to her. “Killed yesterday.”

The dead goats and a huge circle of flagged rope would, he told her, keep the wolves in place there through the day to come. Yaret was dubious of this, unless wizardry also were to be involved; but she had to assume that the huntsmen knew their business. Now Naduk spurred his horse on, and they all rode further down the hill, to her relief, keeping downwind of the wolves across the water.

And some time later there were Edrik and Veron again, appearing so suddenly out of nowhere that she wondered if she had momentarily slept in the saddle without realising it.

“So far, so good. All huntsmen now to come with me. Not you two: you stay here with Edrik,” Veron commanded.

An instant later all the hunters except Edrik had slipped into the concealing maze of shadows once again. Edrik gestured to Yaret and Leor to dismount. They sat down on the cold rocky ground beneath the shelter of an oak that still held on to clusters of brown leaves.

“Where have they gone?” she whispered.

“Ssh. Wait. Sleep if you can. They’ve gone for bear,” muttered Edrik.

Sleep? There seemed little chance of that, although Leor lay down wrapped in his cloak and soon seemed to be gently snoring. After the strenuous efforts and broken nights of the last week Yaret was all too aware of her fatigue; yet the same events that had exhausted her also kept her wakeful. Curled up in her cloak, she waited for her mind to still. Even when she pushed away the thoughts of stonemen, her imagination was busy with wolves and bear and vivid with striped moonlight. She remembered the bear that she’d come across in the woodland near Obandiro. And how the children had saved her from it. Her heart began to ache.

She did not fall asleep till dawn was starting to glow dimly in the eastern sky, like a lamp behind layer upon layer of blue. She watched it through half-opened eyelids; and then she woke up to find that it was full morning, and that she was alone.

Chapter 35

Yaret scrambled to her feet. The sun must have risen half an hour ago at least. Where had the other two gone?

Maybe just to answer calls of nature. And nature was calling her, so she walked over to the nearest trees, which were not so very far away and much less threatening in the dazzle of snowy daylight than they had been in the dark. But when she returned to her rock there was no sign of Edrik or Leor or their horses, although Helba grazed unconcerned nearby. Yaret took the waterskin from her saddlebag and drank, before walking over to the stream to refill it. The patchy snow was thin and the stream ran readily, unhindered by ice.

She bent down to the water; and yards away, across the stream, a wolf looked back.

She froze. The wolf had been drinking, camouflaged against the earthen bank. Yet even so, she should have noticed it. She needed to wake up.

But she told herself not to be too alarmed, for a single wolf was more likely to run away than to attack. And this wolf seemed as surprised and wary as she was. The stream was narrow enough for it to leap in a couple of bounds; but it simply stared at her with amber eyes, not moving.

With a slight shift of her elbow she checked for her knife; yes, still there at her belt.

Slowly she withdrew the full waterskin from the stream. The hunters’ flagged rope lay along the bank at her feet. She’d stretched her hand over it to reach the water, but was now fully behind it.

Still crouching, she moved back a little further, her hand on her knife-hilt. Slowly the wolf also withdrew one step, then two. They watched each other as if memorising every move.

“Wolf,” she softly in Ioben, “I mean you no harm.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say.

No harm? She didn’t know what Veron intended for this wolf. But he wasn’t hunting them to make pets of them.

Gradually straightening up, she walked backwards to the rock, feeling the way with her feet, watching the wolf, it watching her. Helba did not seem to have even noticed its presence, which was odd, or maybe the horse was just unusually phlegmatic. Yaret quickly picked up her bow and slung the quiver across her shoulder, just in case. The wolf was still there, unmoving.

What was more worrying, two more wolves came down out of the bushes to join it at the bank. They crouched together at the water’s edge but did not drink. Instead they stared at her.

“You’ve got goats,” she said; “don’t look at me.” She could not help but remember that night on the Darkburn loft, so clear and yet so long ago, hearing the wolves howl. That made her think of Rothir. She wished he was here with her.

Or Parthenal, or any of them. But she was alone. She drew her bow. The wolves watched.

If they leapt across the water, she would have to shoot one. Couldn’t shoot three in time to stop them getting to her. She didn’t want to shoot any of them unless she had to. As Veron had said, killing should always have a reason.

On raising the bow, she saw them stiffen. These wolves knew bows. So perhaps just the twang and hiss of a shot might be enough to send them running. She took careful aim at an old tree some distance from the stream; a canker half way up the trunk was a natural target.

Only a dozen yards – an easy shot. She hit it squarely in the centre, and as she swiftly nocked a second arrow to her bow, looked back at the watching wolves.

One by one they slunk away into the bushes. Congratulating herself, Yaret walked over to the tree and tugged the arrow from its trunk.

But a moment later, as she turned around, she realised that she’d been mistaken. They had not slunk from her at all.

For there was another watcher – a much larger and more fearsome one. It was crouching on the rock that she had sat on earlier, its eyes fixed on her. Unblinking eyes like ice. Pale blue, splinters of exploding starlight. Her heart thumped.

A big cat. Not a lion; though it was as big as one, no, bigger, heavier – but it was white, its thick fur dappled here and there with small black dabs, like the surrounding snow across the rocky ground.

It was only a dozen yards away. An easy shot... She felt the arrow ready at her bowstring.

The big cat moved, as smooth as oil; first one powerful fore-leg, then one hind-leg, with slow deliberate strength. It was gathering for a spring. Yaret held still.

Snow leopard. First she’d ever seen. Had no idea they were so big. Should it be that big?

How long would it take to reach her? Perhaps two seconds, perhaps one. It was all power, formidable, held in, pent up. Those eyes transfixed her. The words of the Ulthared passed across her mind: to fear the claws of snow, to meet the gaze of ice…

She could not tell what the great cat might do. Still they stared at each other, she with the bow half-drawn, it with one foot half-lifted.

It was out of its territory here, she thought. Must have come down from the mountains.

Maybe the howls of hunting wolves had drawn it, or the smell of goat. Not fair to shoot it unless it tried to kill her. Kill nothing without a reason.

But if she waited it would be too late. Shoot it or run. No, don’t run.

Still she did not move. Neither did the leopard. Its eyes held her.

Behind her was a sudden flurry of alarm; a bird clapped wings and shrilled a warning. She could not help half-turning. Then, in panic, she swung back, fully expecting to see the leopard covering the ground towards her, leaping at her, muscles rippling–

It was gone. No sign of where. She stood and stared at the empty rock it had been crouching on. Its sudden absence hurt. So strange. Such fierce beauty, such curbed power... A little way behind her she heard Leor’s voice. He and all the others were riding up the hill.

“Are you all right?” said Leor as he came up to her. He looked at the half-drawn bow in her hands.

“Yes. There were wolves on the far bank of the stream. They’ve gone now.”

“They won’t cross that rope,” said Veron. “We thought we’d let you sleep a little longer.”

“Thank you.” Her voice felt odd and she tried to make it sound normal. “Did you have success in your hunting?”

He nodded. “Enough. You sure you’re all right?”

She opened her mouth to tell him. But what would Veron do if he knew there was a leopard here? Decide to hunt it down? Use it for his unknown purposes?

His gaze on her was intent and interested. And it occurred to her that he must have realised there was a snow leopard in the area. As a master huntsman, how could he not? He just didn’t know if she had seen it. So what did that mean?

“I’m all right,” she said.

“Then let’s get moving.”

She went to fetch Helba, who had withdrawn to the edge of the trees, but had not bolted.

Although Yaret stared hard, she glimpsed no hint of white fur amidst the upright ranks of tree-trunks. She looked for paw-prints in the snow, and saw none. But then she was no tracker.

Veron was watching her; so she mounted Helba without comment. They all rode up the hill again, and through the trees in single file. Within the woods was silence, yet every time they stopped she thought she heard a distant sound; or rather, a conglomeration of sounds, in a faint rumbling clamour.

“That’s the battle,” murmured Leor. “It started again a little while ago.”

“We can do nothing until early evening,” said Veron.

She wondered why not, but suspected that were she to ask, again she’d get no answer.

Down on the battle plain was where she ought to be, alongside her comrades. She bit her lip and wondered if Jerred and Morad were in the thick of the fighting yet, and how Poda was faring underneath the Baron; and how Rothir and Parthenal and Maeneb did.

And that still, calm man, Huldarion, for whom they risked their lives. That man so shackled by his burns, with such deep consideration in his gaze, as if he weighed a hundred possibilities in every thought.

Veron, too, did this for Huldarion – whatever it was that he was doing. Which seemed to be, bizarrely, stalking bear. He and his men melted away at intervals and reappeared without warning; and all that she could gather was that five bears had now been collected.

“Collected?” she asked Leor. “What does that mean? What are they for?”

“They’re for the battle.”

“You can’t make bears fight,” Yaret protested. “Against stonemen and darkburns? That would be cruelty. They’d get slaughtered.”

“Darkburns don’t seem to attack animals,” said Leor. “Only humans.”

“That’s not the point. What about the stonemen? They’re not going to have any compunction about slaughtering animals, are they? And why am I here at all? I should be down there in the battle. So should you, for that matter.”

“Time to eat,” said Leor, for the huntsmen had done their reappearing trick again.

By now the group had reached an area where the forest thinned, breaking up into many glades. They had descended below the snowline, and in one of these glades they sat on the grass and handed out some food.

Yaret had to force her bread down. She knew she ought to eat, but with the distant noise of battle coming and going on the wind she once again felt desperately anxious about her friends down on the field. If Veron did nothing before evening, it might all be too late.

Everything had been too late. She had arrived at Obandiro too late. She saw the bear too late. Today she’d woken up too late...

But then she reflected that none of the outcomes would have been better if she’d been too early. So she made herself wait patiently. She needed patience; for after they had eaten, Veron announced his attention of sleeping for an hour or two, along with all his men.

“Can I walk around?” asked Yaret.

“Don’t go far. Stay within earshot,” said Veron, settling down on a patch of dry ground.

He put his hands behind his head as if he were merely basking in the sun after a picnic, not readying himself for battle.

“I’ll keep you company,” said Leor to Yaret. “I can’t sleep in the daylight.”

“Keep her close,” said Veron, and shut his eyes.

Yaret had no intention of going far when there were so many wolves around – to say nothing of the giant cat. But by walking a mere hundred yards to a gap in the trees, she came to a lip of rock that jutted out of the hillside, overlooking the plain.

Her limbs seemed to lock up as she approached the edge with its sheer drop. Even though it was nothing like the drop down from the cliffs above the Thore, it made the back of her thighs burn and tingle with sudden apprehension, so she paused and sat down on the stone.

From there she could gaze south and see some part of the battle that was raging two or three miles away.

It was hard to make out what was happening. Those thin lines must be the stonemen, and the groups on horseback were surely Kelvhan cavalry; now and then there was a sharp glint from them as armour caught the sun. But the scene was much obscured by patchy smoke, and only a jumbled noise came to her ears.

None the less she watched for a long while, trying to work out which side had the better of it in the section of the battlefield that she could see. Sometimes the stonemen seemed to surge

forward; and then the Kelvhans pushed back. It was inconclusive. A mess, she thought, like every battle she had seen so far.

Leor sat silent next to her, also looking down between the trees.

“What happens if we win?” she said at last. “Will that be the defeat of the stonemen?”

“It will be a defeat, although probably not the last. After we have won we’ll march to see how General Istard is faring west of Kelvha, and to help him defeat the stonemen there if need be.”

“And then?”

“Then Kelvha will certainly go home as soon as they can. The Vonn will hope to be invited into Kelvha City as valued allies. If they can win Kelvha over, they wish for their help in regaining Caervonn. That will probably involve more battles with the stonemen.”

She stared. Chaos. But maybe somebody down there knew what was going on.

“Who is responsible for all this, Leor? Who is the stonemen’s leader?”

There was a reluctant pause before he answered. “He is called Adon.”

“Is that the same as Adonil?”

“Yes. The stonemen seem to worship him almost as a god. But he’s not a god, nor a stoneman. He’s a wizard.”

At that she turned to look at him. “Like you? Rud said he was your brother.”

“He’s not. He’s nothing like me.”

“How many wizards are there? You’re the only one I’ve ever heard of with any certainty.

Surely you and Adon must be kin.”

“We are not kin. Never say that.” Leor seemed to be angry.

“Nevertheless, if wizards meddle in the affairs of men–”

“I have given up meddling,” he said vehemently. “Do not accuse me of meddling.”

“But if one wizard meddles in the affairs of men,” said Yaret more carefully, “perhaps another wizard, kin or not, ought to try and stop him.”

“That is what I’m trying to do.”

“Without meddling?”

“You can’t have it both ways. I will help Veron in this plan of his. Beyond that, I will not use wizardry to interfere.”

“What is Adon like?” she asked.

Leor paused again. When he answered he sounded both wistful and bitter. “He was wonderful, once.”

“Is it age that’s made him cruel, then?”

“He has made himself cruel. Age has nothing to do with it.”

“There must be a reason why he chooses to be cruel.”

“You’d think so. But I don’t know what it is. I don’t want to talk about Adon,” he said.

“Will you tell me about Obandiro instead? I’ll understand if you don’t want to.”

If the destruction of Obandiro made more pleasant listening than Adon’s doings, thought Yaret, then Adon must be very bad news indeed.

All the same she began to tell him her story, from the discovery of the four children and the digging out of the first cellars, to the small village she had left in the process of remaking itself. She realised that it afforded her relief to talk about it, in more detail than she had to Zan: to share the tale, not skirt around it.

“You’re fond of Dil,” he said when she had finished.

“Yes. I’m fond of all the children. But Dil’s the youngest, or rather he was for a long time.”

“I never had children,” said Leor.

She thought she heard a note of sadness, and almost answered, “Well, it’s never too late,”

before she caught herself up and decided that it probably was. In any case, whom could a

wizard marry? A woman whom he would have to witness dying centuries before he did himself? It occurred to her that the Wardens were not the only ones to suffer from their extended lives. Perhaps Leor grew lonely.

She knew what that felt like. “I’m sorry I was sharp with you before,” she said.

“It was understandable.” He stood up, startlingly tall, and offered her a hand to pull her to her feet. Below them the battle continued its inconclusive mayhem. They walked back to the sleepers, who were now being shaken into wakefulness by Veron.

“The moon will soon be rising,” Veron told them. He seemed fiercely happy. “And then our work will start in earnest.”

Chapter 36

He wished he hadn’t said that, about having no children. It was far too personal. What must she think?

But age had not brought wisdom, Leor reflected yet again. Over and over he made mistakes. Over and over he vowed to learn from them, and failed.

Yet he did not always fail, he told himself as he climbed onto his rangy horse. Bryddesda was as thin and unappealing as Leor thought he was himself, but luckily the horse was also just as tough. Now they rode uphill once more. Soon his chance to fail would come again; but his scheme would not fall short this time. Only a few of them did. It was just that they were the ones that he remembered.

Leor tried to think of some successes. The collapsing house that he’d shored up: he’d saved three lives. The drowning man he’d rescued, holding back the river until he could scramble out. Quite a feat. The man had been blind drunk, but that was beside the point. The well he’d caused to appear during the drought in Outer Kelvha. That was worthwhile, surely?

The stonemen he had slaughtered near that village in the north-west. There were too many of them to fight, so he’d used lightning – just a minor redirection of a single bolt that had been lurking in the clouds. He’d saved a few lives there, although the villagers would never realise it. But the lightning had set a hay-rick on fire as effectively as any darkburn, and destroyed their winter fodder. So: success, or failure?

Sometimes it was finely balanced. He trusted that this time it would come down on the side of success. All that was required was a simple shrouding spell – one he found himself still using frequently, despite his vow to forswear wizardry, because it was so useful. So innocuous a charm hardly counted as wizardry in any case. It hurt nobody. It merely made him inconspicuous until he wanted to be seen.

This time, it would make others inconspicuous as well as himself. He was confident enough that it would work.

And Veron’s hunt had been efficient. Leor was less sure of the efficacy of the rest of Veron’s plan. In particular he was worried about Yaret’s role in it. Not safe. She could even die, if this went wrong.

But Veron had refused to give her any warning.

“She’ll be all right,” he’d said, although what he based his faith on, Leor did not know. He understood Veron even less than he did most people. The longer he lived, the more complicated people seemed to get. So little time he had to know and understand these mortal men and women before they grew distressingly old and died, and then he had to start again.

Thuli, now: Yaret’s grandmother. He’d fallen for her somewhat – why, he was not certain, for it was not physical attraction particularly, but rather a sense of mysterious affinity, perhaps caused by the red hair echoing his own, or else her love of ancient lore – but in any case she was married to his old friend Ilo, and showed little interest in Leor, so he held his peace. That last time he laid eyes on Thuli she had aged immeasurably. She had lost her daughter-in-law and baby grandson in that time, it was true, and was bringing up the infant Yaret; but her lined face and brisk dismissiveness seemed to him to be inordinately premature. Meanwhile Leor himself seemed to grow younger and younger, not in looks to be sure, but in uncertainty and ignorance.

As they rode over the hill and round the back of it he glanced at Yaret. Not as pretty as Thuli had been. But calmer.

“Don’t let her know,” Veron had told him. Leor remembered how, on their first meeting, he’d wondered whether to warn her of what lay ahead: that she was soon to come upon the smoking ruins of Obandiro. In the end, according to Yaret, he’d run away.

What could he warn her of right now, in any case? This idea of Veron’s lay outside his realm. And all the time, the distant rumble of the battle reminded him why it was deemed necessary.

Now, hidden from the battlefield by rising hills, they were once again hemmed in by tall austere trees that leaned menacingly over them on either side. The light was fading although it was still at least an hour to sunset. Yaret was looking around warily.

“All right?” said Veron. “Not far now.” She nodded and said nothing.

A hundred yards further on, Veron paused. He breathed in deeply, looking at the sky.

“The moon is risen,” he said. Leor turned: no moon was yet visible above the trees, but a pale luminescence glowed in the eastern sky. At a nod from Veron the greater part of the huntsmen slipped away, disappearing into the woods. The remainder took up position behind Yaret. Leor thought it looked suspiciously as if it were to stop her from escaping.

They rode on a little further until they came out on an open hillside ringed by ranks of trees. Here they all dismounted. The noise of battle was clearer; Leor wondered who had the best of it. He could be down there, wielding bolts of lightning… and no doubt hitting the wrong people. Lightning was a dangerous weapon.

Magic was a dangerous weapon. So what was this, that Veron was about to use? Or to ask to use, at least? It was not wizardry. Leor did not know what he should call it. It was beyond his power or knowledge.

The daylight was fading fast: too fast, far too speedily. This was not a natural sunset. Now the moon was visible above the treetops, its light falling like a silver veil across the hill, its strange heavy paleness percolating through the air. As if we were underwater, thought Leor.

We are underlight. He was seldom afraid of anything except himself; but he was afraid now.

From the line of trees across the hill a dark mass was emerging: the wolves. There were surely numerous packs joined into one, he thought, so many of the animals were there, wild and keen and hungry, held in only by the flagged rope and perhaps by some other force that he could not detect.

To their right, there was a crash: and a bear blundered out of the trees, rearing up onto its hind feet before dropping heavily back onto all fours. Behind it were the bulky shapes of more. Five bears, all shambling down the slope towards the wolves.

These animals would never gather in such numbers or so close to one another, Leor knew, were there not something to hold them here. And when a movement of the moonlight made him look up the hill, he knew what that something was.

“Ah,” he said, and looked down again; as did all the men except Veron, who gazed and gazed, his face alight. And when Leor glanced up momentarily he saw that Yaret too was gazing.

“Go and talk to her,” Veron said to Yaret. “She prefers women. Especially women hunters. She will hear you. Take your bow.”

“What shall I say?” Yaret murmured.

“Ask for her help. She already knows what’s needed. But we have to ask. We have to petition her.”

As Yaret slowly picked up her bow, Leor risked another glimpse at the shape that stood high on the hill.

It was made of moonlight, but it looked like a women. Perhaps it was a woman, at times.

Tall and strong, graceful and upright, her silver drapery falling softly round her spear and bow, she might have been a silver statue – but a moving one. Her hair was braided on one side like a northern archer’s. It too shone silver, although not with age.

Yet she was older than he was himself, by far. Leor could not look for any longer. The huntsman next to him had covered his face with his hand.

Instead he turned to look at Yaret, who was walking up the hill towards the woman. She couldn’t know what the woman was. Oh, beware, he thought beware, every instinct raising the alarm although he wasn’t sure exactly what she needed to beware of.

Yaret did not seem to show any wariness at all. As she walked she gazed unfalteringly at the silver shape, before she stopped a mere three yards away. Too close, he said in silent agony, too close, step back!

Then a wisp of cloud made the moonlight shift: the ground beneath him seemed to tilt –

and the silver shape abruptly shifted too.

In an instant it had changed to something long and sleek, a creature of tremendous power and beauty: a sinuous great cat, a fatal huntress, poised to spring. This was the point when Yaret ought to turn and run. Leor willed her to. He had stopped breathing. But if she ran now, would the huge white leopard chase her down? One leap, and she’d be dead.

Yaret did not run. She gazed long and steadily into the cat’s eyes. How could she bear that? Then she went down on one knee, and laid her bow upon the ground.

“Unsaryun,” she said in a clear unfaltering voice. “I ask you for your help.”

And then, to Leor’s surprise, she continued speaking in Bandiran, a tongue he had once learnt, long ago, so long. Even more to his surprise, he knew the words she spoke.

“Mother of the hunter, child of the moon, protector of the hunted, who knows of birth and death and all between, have mercy on your followers. I dedicate my bow and arrow to your service, to kill nothing without cause, to say Oveyn for every thing I kill. For the day will come when death shall hunt me also.”

She looked at the snow leopard, whose eyes were on a level with her own.

“I beg you to protect these prey tonight. Make them invincible underneath this moon. Give them vengeance on the enemies who now despoil and burn their homes. While the moon burns white, allow them use of your own power. This I ask on behalf of your loyal huntsmen here, and for myself, as hunter. Unsaryun.”

She bent her head. The leopard took three slow, rolling paces towards her, until its head was almost touching hers.

And then the moonlight shifted, and it was a woman again – or something like a woman.

“It is granted,” she said. Or someone said. The voice was silver. Leor could not tell from whence it came.

Yaret stood up, and with her head down, backed away, feeling with her feet behind her. As she got close to Leor she stumbled and he had to catch her. She sat down heavily on the ground.

Veron was approaching the woman now, his face alive with joy; almost with ecstasy.

What has the man married? thought Leor. As the two met beneath the moon, again he could not look. The other huntsmen stood around, all with heads bowed.

He turned to Yaret, who sat clutching the grass with both her hands. She seemed dazed.

“Are you all right?” After a moment, she nodded.

Veron and his wife began to walk down the hill, side by side, made into living marble by the full moon’s luminous intensity. The huntress was the taller by a head.

Yaret got slowly to her feet again and bowed along with all the huntsmen. Some fell to their knees as Veron and the huntress walked in silence past them, down towards the animals.

The massed wolves drew apart for them. The bears dropped their heads submissively and began to pad behind them. The wolves followed; and the huntsmen rose and followed the wolves, some leading the horses at the back.

“We need to go as well,” said Leor. “My part comes soon.”

But Yaret stopped. A group of lions was emerging from the surrounding woods: thin, tough beasts of the mountains, very different to the great cat they had just seen.

“Lions,” she muttered. “I’m not keen on lions.”

“You’re safe from them today,” said Leor. “Just stay close beside me.”

She began to walk alongside him behind the mass of animals, into the band of trees. Once in there, the moon was hidden, yet Leor could feel its cold power beating down on him.

“I think that worked,” he said; which was something of an understatement. “I recognised most of what you said – the first part, but then you added your own plea, did you not?”

Her head jerked round to look at him. “You recognised it?” she said, startled – indeed, almost afraid, as she had not been before the huntress. “You shouldn’t have known any of it.

It’s secret – Ulthared. What’s more, it’s women’s Ulthared.”

“No, it’s not,” said Leor. “It’s by Madeo.”

She stared at him. “What are you saying? That Madeo wrote the Ulthared?”

He shrugged. Another mistake made. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“You didn’t seem surprised at her,” he said after a while.

“I knew who she was. Even without the eyes.”

“The eyes?”

“As blue as ice,” said Yaret softly. “It is said in our lore that she was born from the moon and came to earth to hunt. That in every generation she takes the greatest huntsman for her partner.”

“Every generation? Don’t tell Veron that.”

“I should think he knows.”

They had now crossed the strip of woodland and emerged on the far side. Here they paused to look down, where there was a clear view of the nearest fort and the wide plain beyond. Leor realised that the light here was quite different: the moon was almost unnoticeable, for the low sun drowned the scene in red.

Fitting, he thought grimly. The battle plain seethed with carts, men, horses, a frantic piecemeal stormy lake of warfare half-submerged in smoke. It looked as though Kelvha had been pushed back by some distance, although the army was still fighting strongly; but fighting in defence and not attack. The enemy seemed to be using some sort of giant catapult but he could not tell what missile it might hurl.

Behind the fort and closer to him, he could see another company of stonemen arming themselves, ready to enter the field. None of them looked backwards to observe the silver figure standing tall and upright on the hill. Perhaps she was invisible to them all.

But under the cover of the trees the animals were clearly visible. Could a horde of wolves and bears and cats really offer anything against this force? Well, whatever happened, Leor thought, he was committed. He would do his part.

Veron looked round at him and nodded. Leor began to think his spell. There was no need to speak it aloud. Cloaking came easily to him – too easily, perhaps. It made it too straightforward for him to hide.

But now he was cloaking a huge four-legged battalion which would do the will of the huntress. It took a little longer: he could tell it had worked when the huntsmen drew a long collective breath.

“Where are they?” whispered Yaret. “Are they still there? All I can see are haze and shadows.”

He nodded. To himself, the animals were still obvious enough.

“Now,” said the huntress – he hardly liked to even think her name, because its power was so strong, a cold fierce light inside his head. At her command, the animals streamed forward.

They are possessed by her spirit, he thought, or liberated from their nature by it. Wolves and lions would never run together otherwise. And bringing up the rear, the lumbering bears.

They raced downhill towards the battlefield, and Leor and the huntsmen hastened after them. Leor held fast to the shielding spell, and prayed that it would hold: and that this swift fierce army of the wild would not prove to be too few, too weak, too late.