Roger Taylor - Into Narsindal

Quartermasters looked harassed.

Engineers checked the palisade and earthworks around the camp.

Bows were strung and tested, spare strings stowed safely, supplies of arrows confirmed with the runners. Slingers loosened their wrists and pocketed, ‘… just a few extra shot, Sirshiant.’ Cautiously, countless cold thumbs tested countless sharp edges-swords, knifes, axes. Long pikes were hefted and grips bound and rebound. Shield straps were adjusted, armours were wriggled into some degree of comfort.

Some ate, some did not. Some sat silent, some swore, some wept-briefly. Some laughed-too much. Some checked their equipment-yet again.

All were afraid, but all would go forward.

Loman stood for a long time with Eldric on the watch-tower, watching the commotion. Relentlessly he willed his spirit into the vast gathering. And indeed, through all the ranks ran many of his words: ‘Remember your drills… your orders… watch, listen… keep your wits about you, and use them… discipline and trust in your neighbour will win us the day… discipline and trust in your neighbour will sustain you even if your courage falters for the moment… don’t be afraid to be afraid, it’ll keep you alive… it’ll fire your anger… ’

He wondered as he watched. The Riddinvolk and the Fyordyn had their military traditions, yet somehow it was the Orthlundyn and their unforeseen new aptitude that formed the heart of the army. An army whose members could fight as one, or in groups, or as individuals. An army whose every member knew why he or she was there.

This is a fine tool you’ve made, smith, he thought, both sincerely and with bitter irony. Now use it as you must; as it deserves to be used.

Eventually he moved to the Command Tent and the final tactics of the day were agreed in the light of the information brought by the Goraidin and the Helyadin. They needed little debate; tactics had been discussed and rehearsed endlessly and were understood at every level throughout the army. There could be no other way; communication across the battlefield, however well considered in advance, would almost certainly be disrupted once battle proper was joined; leaders and officers might be killed, or companies separated. ‘Use your judgement as need arises. Have no fear, it’ll be the same as mine,’ Eldric had said before the battle for Vakloss. Now Loman echoed it.

As the various officers left, Loman turned his atten-tion to the gathered Cadwanwr.

‘Are you prepared, my friends?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Oslang replied quietly.

Loman shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m at a loss to know what to say to you,’ he said. ‘We’ll protect you from the fray, as far as we can protect ourselves, but… ’ He shrugged again.

‘Thank you,’ Oslang replied. ‘That’s all you can do for us and it’s important to us.’ He smiled and put his hand on Loman’s shoulder with unexpected purposeful-ness. ‘Have no fear for us,’ he said. ‘Like the Orthlundyn, we’re not what we were but months ago. We’re soldiers now, also. And we’ve every intention of both defeating our foe and coming away alive.’

Loman smiled in return, and echoed their earlier conversation. ‘I’m supposed to be the warrior here, wise man,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ Oslang replied unapologetically, and the two men burst out laughing.

Finally, Loman, with Sylvriss and her father and the Lords, rode along the length of the army. It took them some time and when they returned to the centre, the damp, unpleasant air of Narsindal rang to the sound of cheering-a sound the like of which it had not heard in countless generations.

As the Queen and her son returned to the camp with her escort, Loman pulled on a grim helm, and began to ride slowly forward.

Commands echoed along the line and the great army began to move after him.

It began to rain again.

Serian craned forward and examined the armoured figure in front of him intently, then he pranced a little, uncertain.

‘Will you carry me?’ the figure asked.

Serian pranced again, then bowed his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, knowing that the figure would hear him truly.

From the shelter of a cluster of gnarled and dying trees, Isloman gazed from side to side along the road. Then he moved from his hiding place and walked on to the road and looked again.

Satisfied, he signalled and, stealthily, the others ran forward to join him.

‘At least the mist is on our side now,’ he said as they set off.

Hawklan and Andawyr exchanged glances. From now, their whole venture would be balanced more finely than a sword standing on its point. They had moved along by the side of the road for as long as they could, but the ground had become increasingly marshy and now they had no alternative but to use the road itself. Yatsu, Tel-Odrel and Lorac had salvaged what they could of their Mathidrin uniforms and Hawklan had donned that of the Captain they had killed.

‘You are slave gatherers from the mines,’ Byroc told them, tapping an insignia on Hawklan’s uniform.

‘Which means you’re not highly thought of, as far as we can tell, but at least you’re a Captain,’ Yatsu added.

Hawklan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, adding needlessly, ‘Stay aware, all of you.’

As they walked, the road widened considerably, and twice it gave them the opportunity to hide rather than test their crude disguises. On both occasions a group of mounted Mathidrin trotted out of the mist, to be followed by a large column of armed Mandrocs. Hawklan and the others, having heard the approach, lay flat at the foot of the wide shallow embankments that led down from the road.

The exercise demonstrated the correctness of By-roc’s advice as they found themselves lying immediately adjacent to what appeared to be a field of lush, tufted vegetation which extended away from them into the mist. A single step however, disabused them of any thoughts of travelling along this seemingly solid turf, as it yielded immediately with clinging relish, and emitted an appalling stench.

The smell of decay indeed pervaded everything, and occasionally the mist thinned out to show beyond the vegetation a dark glistening surface which seemed to be both still and uneasily mobile. In the distance, faint flickering lights could sometimes be seem, and from time to time, strange noises came softly out of the encompassing greyness; splashing, slithering, bubbling.

Indeed, Hawklan frequently felt live things reaching out to him, but there was a quality about them so unnatural that he could do no other than turn away.

‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman asked him at one point, but Hawklan just shook his head. ‘Corruption,’ he answered. ‘Beyond any help I can offer.’

Then a dense mist, barely waist-high, spilled over on to the road so that for a while they seemed to be wading through a shallow lake.

‘Walk slowly. Do not disturb it,’ Byroc said, without amplification.

After a while, it seemed to Hawklan that although the road was flat, he was straining up some great slope.

‘How much further?’ Hawklan asked Byroc.

‘Not far,’ came the reply, but it was from Andawyr not the Mandroc. Hawklan turned round to look at him. The Cadwanwr’s face was grey with strain.

Hawklan signalled the group to stop and put his arm around Andawyr to support him. Andawyr however, waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘It’s just that His presence is more appalling than I could have imagined.’ His face lightened momentarily. ‘But His Will is elsewhere. We must hurry. We must take Him while His attention is towards the army.’

‘Allow us then to escort you to His presence.’

The voice was harsh and cold, and came out of the mist ahead.