Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

Aelang slammed the doors behind him and set off towards the edge of the camp. He signalled to the trackers to move ahead.

Within a few minutes, however, they returned to him. ‘They continue north, towards His Citadel, Great is His name, His will be done.’

Aelang finished wiping his sword. He cast away the small bruised sheaf of harsh grass then looked north and smiled, his canine teeth sharp in the grey daylight. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we need only go to the west.’

Sylvriss surveyed the destruction the next day as the camp was being broken. Outside the rudimentary palisade lay scores of dead Mandrocs, and fatigue details were hauling them away and recovering arrows and spears. Occasionally a knife was drawn to dispatch some badly wounded individual. Sylvriss started forward the first time she saw this, but Loman laid a hand on her arm.

‘We can’t tend them,’ he said sadly. ‘We tried at first, but once they gain the least strength, they’ll try to kill anything that comes near.’

Sylvriss grimaced but made no comment. It was an unpleasant enough task for those involved without her displeasure adding to it.

She mounted her hitherto favourite horse. The ani-mal had galloped faithfully behind with the remounts while she had ridden from Vakloss on Serian and now it reacted with pleasure as she settled into the saddle. Sylvriss felt like a faithless lover as she stroked its neck affectionately, for though the affection was genuine, her mind was full of the mystery of riding Hawklan’s now vanished black horse.

Initially, with well-disguised reluctance, she took her place with the baggage train, Hylland and her four bodyguards riding escort. After a while however, she was trotting up and down the huge column, talking, laughing, encouraging.

Loman turned and smiled as she approached. ‘Lady,’ he said. ‘You’re the only thing so far that’s managed to bring some lightness into this weary land. Just look at it.’

Sylvriss looked around. As ever, the mist obscured the horizons, but it held none of the mellowing haziness that might be expected. Sometimes it would be sparse, grey, and chill, fading coldly into the dull sky; at others it would be dense and white or, worse, yellow and clinging to the ground as if trying to suffocate it or obscure some approaching menace. And it seemed to shift and change to some eerie law of its own, tendrils seeping forward and then retreating, or reaching up into the sky like eyeless spies.

The terrain itself was harsh and uneven, littered with rocks and boulders, stagnant lakes and sluggish rivers, and here and there pocked by ragged areas of discolouration as if something had lain there that had slain the ground for ever.

Trees and shrubs grew in watchful malevolent clus-ters as though fearful of attack, and even the grass seemed to cower.

‘It’s an ill land these creatures possess,’ Sylvriss said. ‘Perhaps if we’d looked to them more… ’

She left the sentence unfinished. Oslang looked at her. ‘Our whole journey here is littered with "ifs", lady,’ he said. ‘Perhaps in the future we might pay more heed to them.’

‘Concern yourself with the present, Cadwanwr,’ Loman said gently. ‘Or there’ll be no future for us.’

It started to rain. Cold, vertical, rain. Loman wiped his hand across his mouth. Even the rain seemed to be oily and tainted. He pulled up his hood.

Ahead, the large scattered groups of infantry who were acting as scouts started to disappear from view as the rain formed its own mist. Loman turned and looked back down the main column. That too was disappearing.

‘Go back to the baggage train, Lady,’ he said to Sylvriss. ‘This is ambush weather.’

Sylvriss nodded and turned about.

When she had gone, Loman motioned to Oslang, and the two of them rode over to Eldric.

‘Will we reach the central plain before nightfall?’ Loman asked.

Eldric nodded tentatively. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘It must be generations since anyone rode the Watch this far north, but our old maps have been quite reasonable so far… ’

Loman allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Except for a few rivers and forests,’ he said.

‘I was about to say, with regard to the major fea-tures,’ Eldric added defensively. ‘If that remains the case then we should reach the edges of the plain well before dark. After that, I must admit, the maps become too vague to be of real value.’

Before Loman could reply, a rider drew up beside him. It was Fyndal, one of the Helyadin who had been sent out to assess the threat to the supply route following Sylvriss’s observations. Despite the cold rain, both he and his horse were sweating.

‘There are large groups of Mandrocs to our rear,’ he said to Loman immediately. ‘It’ll take a substantial force to get through them. We’re cut off from Narsindalvak unless we want to head back and make a fight of it.’

‘I understand,’ Loman said, then he cocked his head on one side as a faint whistling reached him. It was a relayed message from up ahead.

‘It’s the Goraidin coming back,’ he said, urging his horse forward. ‘Let’s see what lies ahead of us now that we know what lies behind.’

Yengar, Olvric and Tel-Mindor looked substantially worse than Fyndal. They were tired and dishevelled, and their horses too were steaming in the steady rain. They had been riding hard for some time and it needed no subtle eye to see they brought ill news.

‘Speak then rest, Goraidin,’ Loman said simply, by way of greeting.

‘There’s an army camped on the plain two days’ march away,’ Yengar said.

‘Mandrocs led by Mathidrin?’ Loman asked.

Yengar nodded.

‘How big is it?’ Loman went on.

Yengar glanced briefly at his companions. ‘Bigger than we are by far,’ he said. Then, hesitantly, ‘Three, perhaps four times our number.’

Hawklan looked down at the piece of meat on Dacu’s knife. He pulled it off and began chewing it, trying to look appreciative.

‘You’re not hungry enough yet,’ Dacu said, chuck-ling a little.

Gavor was less discreet. ‘Eat it up, or you’ll get it for your breakfast,’ he said, mimicking Gulda, and laughing raucously.

Hawklan glowered at him. ‘Thank you, Dacu,’ he said graciously. ‘And you Byroc, for your hunting.’ Gavor continued to laugh.

‘Indeed, Byroc,’ Dacu seconded Hawklan’s remark. ‘I’ve never seen such wary game. We’d have been waiting a lot longer for food if you hadn’t helped.’

Byroc grunted. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are a good hunter. Very quiet. You will soon learn.’

‘Aren’t there any herbs and roots we can eat round here?’ Hawklan asked almost plaintively.

‘If you wish to die, yes,’ Byroc said. ‘This is a bad place.’ He waved a half-chewed bone at Hawklan. ‘Full of His poisons. Nothing wholesome grows. Even this. We eat this now because we must, but we must not eat too often.’

Hawklan looked at the remnant he was holding, then began chewing it again. He was no great meat eater, but he knew that the Mandroc was speaking no more than the truth. He had examined some of the vegetation that surrounded them and it had a distinctly unpleasant aura. He looked at Byroc. The Mandroc had been an invaluable ally and his knowledge of the country had enabled them to make far more progress than they would have been able to make alone.

‘How much further to Lake Kedrieth?’ Hawklan asked.

Byroc looked at him. ‘We cannot go further this way,’ he said. ‘We must move to the road now.’

He became the focus of attention for everyone in the shelter. ‘North are marshes,’ he said. ‘They move. There is no way through them.’