Chapter 22
“Good balance,” said Parthenal. He held out the sword at arm’s length and tested it with a few sibilant strokes through the air. Then he put the point to the ground and flexed the blade. “Not too much give.”
“I don’t like too much give. That one’s my best attempt so far,” said Rothir. “Took me a full day to forge. Not sure whether to trust it in battle, though. I’ll keep it as a spare.”
Parthenal carefully sheathed the sword – which was sharp enough to slice a hair lengthwise – and passed it back to his friend.
“If it proves itself, you can make me one,” he said. “A touch longer maybe. Same weight. Longer hilt. Who did the leatherwork? Not you.”
“Olbeth. The decoration’s not quite worthy of Kelvha, but it’s good strong stitching.”
“I don’t think any of our battle-gear will shine compared to Kelvha’s,” commented Parthenal.
“It will do the job. We’ll find out soon enough how it compares.”
Parthenal looked at his friend and smiled. “We’ll find out soon enough how we compare. Your gear may not be shiny, dwarf, but I think you’ll stand comparison with the best Kelvha has to offer. You’ve put more muscle on those brawny arms. Weren’t you wide enough?”
“That’s what three months of blacksmithing does,” said Rothir soberly.
Parthenal shook his head. The prospect of battle energised him. In contrast, it made Rothir grim and grave. He confessed to not enjoying killing even stonemen. Parthenal felt differently. To him, stonemen were just moving targets; highly aggressive but often singularly stupid ones.
“We’ll soon know where we’re going, at least,” he said. “My money’s on the north. What do you think?”
“I think we’ll find out in a minute,” said Rothir, standing up. Thoronal had emerged from the largest of the tents and was summoning them impatiently. Not just them: two dozen of the senior Riders were lingering amongst the tents of Thield, waiting for instructions. Now they filed into the main tent past the sentry.
Once they were all gathered Huldarion scanned the faces.
“The reports are in,” he said.
There had been a change in Huldarion these last few weeks, thought Parthenal. He was still the friend that he had ever been, but there was something newly formal and austere about his manner; as if he were preparing to be king. It was a difficult balance to be both friend and ruler. Parthenal had felt that difficulty himself, at a lower level, when commanding men whom he knew well. He did not doubt his own ability, yet he hesitated to impose his will on others and create a gap between them – even when he knew the gap was necessary.
Was Huldarion feeling the same ambivalence? There was something in his look that Parthenal had not seen before; and he had spent years trying, surreptitiously, to read that scarred, almost immobile face.
“There is movement in the north,” said Huldarion in his measured voice, its slight huskiness a heritage of his burns. “Veron sends word that over two thousand stonemen have lately fired their winter quarters in Erbulet and are heading west. Twenty-five darkburns. He thinks some thousands more of stonemen will soon follow – or are already following – from other bases in the east. There is no sign of movement yet from the Outland Forts; but we can sure that it will not be long.”
He looked around at them all. “I myself and Uld will join Veron in the north, where we will meet with General Istard from West Vale. We have been informed that Kelvha will dispatch their own troops and commanders there to join us. We will take with us three hundred Riders. Unfortunately I can appoint no women as captains in this campaign: it would be unacceptable to the Kelvhans to find themselves fighting alongside women in positions of authority. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is for now.”
Delgeb, the most senior of the women present, nodded. “Understood,” she said.
“Within the troops, however, it’s a different matter. Kelvha will have to put up with you there. Delgeb, you and Hilbré will ride north with us and take your place within the troops alongside other female riders. You will not be named as captains but none the less I look to you for captaincy in battle.”
Again Delgeb nodded.
“Additionally,” said Huldarion. “Leor is to be up there with us.”
“What?” exclaimed Thoronal. Obviously this was news to him. “What’s Leor going to be doing?”
“Assisting us in any way he can,” replied Huldarion.
“Assisting us with what? He’s refusing to do wizardry, according to Bruilde. So what possible use can he be?”
“I’m useful with a sword as well as other weapons. And I hope that I can be of some use in advising you.” Saying this, the tall sentry at the door strode forward into the middle of the group.
Parthenal frowned in surprise and suspicion. How could he have missed seeing Leor when he entered the tent? His height made the wizard stand out; and the red hair was unmistakable even if Leor had changed his long robes for drab riding gear. Glancing at Rothir, he saw the same puzzlement in his eyes.
“Pardon me,” he said, addressing Leor courteously, for he had always liked the man although he did not understand him. “But did you not use wizardry to escape our notice till just now?”
“I did not use it to change my appearance,” answered Leor, equally courteously.
“That’s not quite a complete answer,” rumbled Rothir. Leor merely bowed.
“Pardon me,” said Thoronal, less courteously than Parthenal, “but a wizard who forswears wizardry is useless. A wizard who pretends to forswear wizardry and then uses it to suit himself is worse than useless – he is dangerous.”
“I only use it where it cannot make a difference,” said Leor mildly.
“Then what’s the point?”
Huldarion made a gesture of impatience. “Enough! Leor is our friend, and has a considerable fund of knowledge for us to draw on.”
“Not about darkburns,” said Thoronal. Huldarion gave him a long look, until Thoronal turned his head aside.
“If it must be, it must,” he muttered.
“So much for the north,” said Huldarion. “A small detachment under Solon will be sent further west of the Outland Forts to monitor activity. For the rest of you, Thoronal will be your commander–” at this news, Parthenal groaned inwardly – “and you will be riding the other way, east and south. Reports have just come in from a new direction. A further army is emerging from the Darkburn Forest.”
He paused, and in the stillness Parthenal enquired, “How many?”
“A mere six hundred so far; but doubtless many more to follow.”
“Where?” asked Ebril.
“The forest’s southern edge.” Huldarion pointed to the map. “From here, it’s less than two days’ swift ride. Everyone has their gear prepared, I trust? Very well. These are the captains.” He named eight men including Parthenal and Rothir, and, for the first time, Sashel. Of Sashel’s twin, Gordal, there was no mention.
“Again, no women captains,” Huldarion continued. “I regret it, but it’s possible that a company may come from Kelvha to assist you. We have requested this of them, not because I think you need their help, but because I would like Kelvha to become involved. So far I have had no answer. But if they do arrive then you shall show them how we fight.”
And then they all drew round the map and discussed their possibilities in more detail, Parthenal joining in but thinking, I had rather go north and fight beside Huldarion.
“One weapon that the stonemen do not know we have,” said Huldarion, “is the knowledge of the stones and their effect. It’s clear that they repel the darkburns. Why, or whether all will work in the same way, we don’t yet know; but it is useful knowledge none the less.”
“Can we get hold of any stones?” asked Rothir.
“Veron has some, and will try their use in battle in the north. Otherwise, we have none yet. Maeneb and a junior Rider have been back to the Gyr cave, where you left several dead stonemen, but without success. The bodies had already had their stones harvested – which is interesting.”
“The stonemen may be aware that we’ve found out their secret,” Rothir said.
“I’m not sure how they could have found that out,” replied Huldarion, “except from you, during your expedition chasing after Arguril.” Ouch, thought Parthenal.
Leor said peaceably, “Whether they know it now or not, they will find it out soon enough.”
“So, any stoneman bodies that we come across,” said Sashel, “we extract the stones if possible?”
“Yes. You will be issued tools for the purpose. An unpleasant task, and difficult to carry out on the battlefield itself, but necessary afterwards. Gather all the stones you can.”
“To catch a stoneman or two before the battle would be useful,” said Parthenal.
“It would. But take no excessive risks.”
At the end of the discussion Huldarion looked round all their faces searchingly.
“I value you all equally,” he said. “If any one of you is not happy with my choice for this campaign, come to me afterwards and we can talk it through.”
Did his gaze linger on Parthenal’s face? Did Huldarion guess how strongly he desired to go north? Parthenal knew that he would not ask to discuss it. For what could he say? I want to be with you. To defend you, to fight for you, to die for you if necessary.
For now, at last, the time had come for which they had waited twelve long years. That was the meaning of the change in Huldarion’s scarred face: it was a sharpening of purpose, a honing of intent. And Parthenal knew he would only hinder that intent by asking for some special treatment. His part was what it always had been and would always be – to serve Huldarion in any way that he was asked.
So he saluted wordlessly and left the tent with the others, to gather those who would fight under his captaincy, and bid them pack their gear.
They had three hours, but all the Riders were ready before that. Huldarion came up to salute them before they rode out of the camp.
“After you have disposed of this stoneman army, you will be needed in the north,” he told them. “You will have to ride speedily to join me there, and be ready to do battle at short notice.”
“And when will Kelvha deign to join in, do you think?” That was Thoronal.
“As soon as they see the danger encroaching on their borders. Tiburé reports that they are already mustering their troops ready to march north and west.”
“Not east? So we’ll have to go it alone after all,” said Thoronal.
“Possibly. But that is why I have chosen so many of my best people for this task,” replied Huldarion. “Remember our watchwords: honour, care, fidelity. Your care and fidelity must be to each other. Ride fast, fight well, and bring honour to the name of the Vonn.”
Saying that, he looked each of them in the face, in turn, and spoke their names. Parthenal’s heart leapt in his chest. To hear his name spoken, by that voice, still shook him.
He hoped that Huldarion had not guessed at his brief liaison with the infantryman up by the Outland Forts. The other man had been lean and scarred and while they gasped and thrust against each other he had allowed himself, for a moment, to imagine that he was with Huldarion. It was always ecstasy for a moment and it was always a mistake. He forgot the infantryman almost as soon as they parted, yet that imaginary melding with Huldarion still glowed painfully in his mind. He trusted that it did not show.
Then Huldarion nodded, and they all rode away and left him standing by the tents.
“So, an easy task, then,” said Parthenal, trying to be casual. The farewell affected him more than the knowledge of the fight to come.
Rothir merely nodded and checked the train behind them, speaking briefly to the men and women under his command. They took no provision carts: the spare horses carried food and gear. It gave them better speed.
Once they were away from the trees and on the open ground they were able to urge the horses to a gallop. The miles rolled past beneath their feet, wet pasture turning to dry moorland that as yet showed little sign of spring. Parthenal was aware of the thudding of two thousand hooves that shook the ground like a travelling earthquake, a wave of force and thunder heading swiftly east. His horse Alba was strong and eager, and now that he was on the move Parthenal felt the same way. He wanted to get there fast and do the job. Do what he was good at.
Soon they came to the high edge of an escarpment; beneath it lay more plains, and like a reaching hand, a dark and ominous mass of trees that disappeared into a distant haze. It looked endless. He glanced over at Rothir, a few yards away.
“That’s the edge of the Darkburn forest down below, isn’t it?” he yelled over the wind. “I’ve not been to this spot before.”
“I have,” said Rothir, gazing down upon the place where the infant Darkburn river plunged in between the trees. That was all he said.
But Parthenal had the sense that Rothir, like Huldarion, was reforging his own spirit – placing it upon the anvil to harden it, as he would a blade: tempering and honing himself in preparation for the battlefield ahead.