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.