Chapter 39
He returned to the remainder of his company, who were setting up their camp in a dry hollow a short distance away. Rothir at once began to help Theol in managing the bivouac, for there were many things to organise. He made sure the Riders had sufficient fuel for their fires, and blankets for the night: a few had lost their horses and their gear. So he took two men to search for them amongst the Kelvhan horses, with some success, and spoke to the Kelvhan quartermaster about extra food. Huldarion must have primed the quartermaster because it was instantly forthcoming. But only half his mind was on all this.
After leaving the Riders with their fires and food he went with Theol to the compact fort where Huldarion was quartered with his captains and their seconds. Normally they would have stayed each with their own companies, but Huldarion said that such an arrangement would seem strange to Kelvha, and that right now they needed to do everything to make themselves acceptable. So that meant sleeping in the fort while their soldiers stayed outside.
Rothir did not care for this; he would rather have remained with his weary soldiers in their hollow. Nevertheless he had to admit to himself that the shelter was most welcome, even though there were neither chairs nor tables, only a few stools; the trestles were all in use in the infirmary. They would be sleeping on the earthen floor which still held the remains of ancient layers of rushes, too fragile to add more than a modicum of comfort. There was a feeble fire on which a cauldron sat and simmered. So not that much better off than the men and women outdoors, after all, merely warmer.
However, Huldarion was right about the Kelvhans. Rothir had only just arrived when the Kelvhan Arch-Lord Marshal Shargun and his two chief commanders came in to exchange courteous words – or, in the Arch-Lord’s case, what passed for courteous.
“You did not bring your beds?” the Arch-Lord said in a surprise that was surely pretended. He must know perfectly well that the Vonn had not come accompanied by carriages containing folding beds and mattresses and rugs and little luxuries, as had the Kelvhans.
“We travel light,” said Huldarion calmly.
“Jeveran would approve of this,” said one of the Kelvhan commanders to the other, who laughed; but Shargun looked at them askance.
“Jeveran has low-born tastes,” he said quellingly. The Kelvhan speaker bowed acquiescence.
“I expect my Lord Huldarion has quartered in still worse places during his campaigns,” said the second commander – a man called Rhadlun, if Rothir’s memory was correct – with a better attempt at diplomacy than his Marshal had managed. All the same Rothir sensed that both the Kelvhan captains were inclined to wrinkle their noses at the austerity of their surroundings. Clearly, to have been sitting outside around a campfire would have marked the Riders down as little more than tribesmen.
Rothir wondered that the two commanders, whose judgement in battle had seemed astute, should place such store by outward show. Its importance filtered all the way down through the Kelvhans’ ranks, as demonstrated by the varied levels of adornment on their gear; yet surely, he thought, it must be a drag on their efficiency.
Once the Kelvhans had departed to their more comfortable quarters, he listened to the other Riders talk, without wishing to join in. He did not want to think about the battle. None the less he had to hear the Kelvhan strategy being dissected, and the Kelvhan commanders broadly approved. Shargun was generally disliked, while the High Prince of Kelvha was spoken of with sympathetic censure.
“Brave, but foolish. You’d think Shargun would have kept him off the field,” said Theol.
“He probably tried. I expect Faldron’s wishes are not easily gainsaid,” remarked Huldarion.
“The Prince didn’t seem all that strong-willed to me,” said Uld.
“Nor to me, at first; but I’ve noticed a marked change in him since he left Kelvha. He seems to have woken up.”
“Activity must suit him,” said Solon. “Lucky for him he was uninjured.”
“Lucky for all of us,” Huldarion replied. “It could have been calamitous had the Prince died in this battle. Kelvha would be in uproar; there would have been little chance of an alliance with them after that – not for a long while, at any rate.”
“Shargun’s too rigid in his strategy,” commented Uld. “Even the Baron of Melmet thinks faster on his feet, for all that he’s a curmudgeonly old man.”
“I don’t think that helped Melmet much, though, once they were in the thick of it,” said Ikelder. “They suffered some severe losses.”
Huldarion nodded. “The lack of experience told against the Baron’s men. And they were already tired.”
Parthenal looked over at Rothir. “I noticed Yaret tore you off a strip over that dead Ioben boy in the infirmary. You looked as grim as an executioner. Whatever did she say?”
Rothir merely raised a hand and put it down to signify nothing of importance.
“I suppose she was upset,” said Parthenal. “After all, he was her kinsman; even if a very distant one. And she’s not used to such violence and death, not until these last few days at least. It must be very different to what she’s always known.”
At that, Huldarion looked over at him sombrely. “On the contrary, Parthenal. Yaret is well acquainted with death. She lived with it all winter. I asked her not to tell you when she first came to the forts. But I think you ought to know before you next encounter her.”
“Know what?”
“Her town, Obandiro, was destroyed. It was obliterated by darkburns shortly before she arrived home from Farwithiel.”
“What?” said Rothir.
“Veron witnessed the devastation there soon after the stonemen left; and so did Leor. They thought there was no-one left alive. As it happened, they were wrong. When Yaret turned up she found four children hiding in the cellars.”
“Four children?” said Theol, his normally placid face aghast.
“Dear stars. How on earth did they manage?” asked Uld. “Did the neighbouring towns take them in?”
“What towns? Veron said there was nowhere near that hadn’t been burnt out,” replied Huldarion. “They spent the winter living in the cellars, surrounded by the dead.”
“But how did they survive? What did they live on?” asked Ikelder in dismay.
Huldarion shrugged. “Whatever they could find, I think. A few other survivors did turn up eventually. I believe there were about two dozen in the end.”
“But what–”
“I don’t know any details,” said Huldarion. “You’ll have to ask her – if you must. But don’t be surprised if she doesn’t want to answer. Where are you going, Rothir?”
“I’ve got something still to do,” he said. He stood up and went out.
The moon had retreated behind the clouds. The many fires dotting the darkness spoke to his memory: the reek of smoke, the burnt farmhouses, the ruined hamlets. The slaughtered village, and the captives he had tried to save. But never a whole town… Four children living in the cellars, surrounded by the dead.
The Melmet camp was a quarter-mile away, beneath a stand of old pine trees which whistled and wailed mournfully. There he spoke to a man called Jerred, who wasn’t sure where Yaret was.
“She went to the infirmary some hours ago with our injured men,” Jerred told him. “She didn’t come back. Maybe she’s gone off again with Veron.”
“Unlikely,” said Rothir. “What did she tell you about Obandiro?”
Jerred wrinkled his brow. “That’s her home town over east, isn’t it?”
“Was.”
“What do you mean, was?”
So she hadn’t told them either. He nodded and returned to the infirmary fort.
He couldn’t see her in the great hall. It was much quieter now than it had been earlier, though no less crowded; many of the patients were asleep, as were some of the attendants. He noticed Leor bending over a moaning man: a few seconds later, the moaning stopped and the man was still. Not dead but sleeping soundly. Well, if that was wizardry, at least it was benign.
Walking around the crowded beds in the dim lamplight, Rothir found Sashel also in deep sleep. He stood over him for a while, aware that he had always liked Sashel better than his twin, as the less brash and more thoughtful of the two. It seemed like a thing he should not admit even to himself. He tried to imagine what Sashel must feel now. It was not easy; nor pleasant. Despair at Gordal’s death. Rage. Guilt. He understood that. Loneliness. Yes, that too.
He laid his hand lightly on Sashel’s brow for a brief moment. Then he sighed and walked over to the supervisor nodding in his chair.
“The lame archer who was here before, helping out?”
“The peg-leg?” The supervisor peered around, bleary eyed. “He was here ten minutes ago. Don’t know where he’s gone.”
Leor was walking over to them, like a tall candle topped with a flame, bright in the faded lamplight. He beckoned Rothir aside and spoke quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping patients.
“You want Yaret? She’s been helping here all evening. Last time I saw her she was handing out water; so you could try the well. It’s out the back. And, Rothir…”
“What?”
“Just don’t be harsh on her. I saw you were angry with each other. But she’s had a long day and a lot going on, what with Veron and the other one.”
“What other one?”
“The huntress. Yaret was in the middle of all that. See if you can persuade her to go away and get some sleep.”
Rothir studied the wizard, who looked unusually stooped and heavy-eyed.
“It’s been a long day for you too,” he told Leor. “You should go away and get some sleep as well.”
“In a while, maybe.”
“When you need food and rest, come and find us in the third fort.”
Leor nodded and walked away to check another patient. Rothir went outside to seek the well. It was not hard to find. But there was no-one there: just a stack of empty buckets in the semi-darkness and a jumbled heap of firewood piled against the wall.
And somewhere in the background, a muffled, momentary sob.
Rothir took two more steps and halted, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. Whoever it was had gone quiet at his step. But in the shadows beyond the piled firewood he could just glimpse someone sitting huddled on the ground with their knees drawn up under their chin. He went over to see who it was.
Yaret. Whom he had never seen weep until today, and had thought it was a weakness in her. When he sat down on the stone floor in the shadows next to her he felt her stiffen. Her head turned slightly to see who he was. He could barely make out her face although he could visualise it, streaked with those entirely justified tears. He expected her to snap, lash out at him, to tell him cuttingly to go away. But she did not.
So he put an arm around her shoulders and felt the sobs he could not hear, still convulsing through her body, which was held as tight as wire.
“I know,” he said. “I know. The young and old, all calling for their mothers. It’s.” He found he had no words for it and had to stop.
But slowly he felt the tightness in her loosen; the unvoiced sobbing eased, turning at last to a long shivering sigh. She leaned against him in the darkness.
They sat in silence in the dark until Yaret said huskily, “You found me.”
“I will–”
He stopped a second time. What a stupid thing he’d been about to say. Meaningless. She sighed again and after a moment let her head fall sideways to rest upon his shoulder. Her hair was against his cheek: she smelt of mud and smoke.
As he felt her gradually relax, relief came washing over him at last. The tautness of his own mind was allowed to slacken. After all the bloody chaos of the day there was a kind of peace here together in this gloom with the cold stone underneath them. He let it grow within the shadows, hearing Yaret’s breathing. Despite his knowledge of the dead and wounded, despite the grievous losses from his people, yet much was saved, and he knew that he was grateful.
They sat there for a while longer, neither moving, until something occurred to him.
“When did you last have anything to eat?”
“I don’t know. This morning?”
“Come.” Rothir stood up and gave her his hand to pull her to her feet. They were both stiff and slow. Then he led her stumbling over the dark ground between the dotted campfires, past groups of soldiers dozing or talking in low voices.
By the time he reached the third fort he had decided that if Huldarion did not let her enter he would simply argue that she should take his own place. He could sleep outside. From the doorway he saw the banked fire blazing strongly in the hearth, with the stew-pot steaming over it; Huldarion glanced up at him and beckoned. So he pushed Yaret into the room and made her sit down amongst the others, who were already eating. Parthenal took one look and handed each of them a bowl of stew.
It was mostly beans and roots with only a few shreds of some stringy fowl, but that didn’t matter. Rothir ate with an eye on Yaret. She just sat cross-legged with the bowl in her hands for a while, but once she began to eat, she devoured the stew and oat-bread hungrily.
She was definitely thinner than she used to be. He wondered what she’d been eating through the winter, in those cold cellars; but now was not the time to ask. When the bowl was empty she put it down with a long sigh.
“Better?” asked Thoronal.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“You’ve had a hard day, I expect,” said Thoronal. Rothir realised that he was trying to be kind. He wasn’t very good at it. Not enough practice.
But then how good was he himself? What had he actually said to comfort her? Nothing. Some nonsense about the dead being old and young.
I will always find you. At least he hadn’t said that. What a ridiculous remark it would have been. It wasn’t as if Yaret was even of the Vonn. Once this campaign was over she’d be going back home, doubtless, to those cellars. Home? Back, anyway.
The other Riders resumed their quiet talk, but now mostly in Standard, not Vonnish. Rothir recognised this as an act of kindness in them too. They were not obtrusive in the curious glances that they cast her way. By now, all knew the story of her lost foot, although it was Parthenal who had told it, not Rothir himself. He still found the memory of her disappearance down the cliff-face too painful to recall. The overwhelming emptiness of seeing her vanish from his sight... As if it were the end of everything. His own internal darkburn.
But it shouldn’t be such a dreadful memory, because he’d found her. He had not failed, not altogether. Not failing, not letting people down, mattered to him more than anything. Parthenal never seemed to worry about failure the way he did; but then Parthenal seldom failed at anything he put his mind to. Or perhaps he did not put his mind to things that he might fail at. No, that was not fair. Parthenal simply assumed that he would not fail in any task.
Now Parthenal refilled Yaret’s bowl of stew without being asked. It was not until she’d emptied it a second time that Huldarion asked the question that all the Riders probably wanted to.
“How did it go with Veron? Can you tell us what exactly happened?”
“Well… It started when one of his huntsmen came to fetch me from the Melmet camp.” Slowly and haltingly at first, Yaret started to describe the day’s events.
Gradually the words gathered pace and fluency. As Rothir listened, he felt himself to be in the close dark forest, hearing the wolves’ howl, seeing the huntsmen melt into the trees; he saw the snow leopard crouching on the stone, poised to spring as it watched him with ice-blue eyes. The Riders did not interrupt.
Yet when it came to the petition of the huntress Yaret slowed again, and picked her words with greater care and hesitancy. There were evidently things she would or could not say.
None the less Rothir now understood what Veron had meant. It can be fatal. His hand clenched on his knee. If it had been fatal, he would not have been able to forgive Veron. He reminded himself that all was well, and made his fist unclench.
“But who exactly is the huntress?” asked Ikelder.
Yaret spread her hands. “She is… Ulthared. Which means something hidden: something sacred, secret. Exceptionally so. All that I can tell you is that she seems made of Ulthared – as if it made her; or maybe she made it. Our lore says she is the daughter of the moon but what exactly that means I don’t know. I don’t have sufficient understanding.”
“You recognised her,” said Rothir.
“Yes. Although I didn’t realise she would take that shape. The Ulthared only says she can transform at will; it doesn’t specify what into.”
“But is she human?”
“When she wants to be.”
“But… Veron… How can…” Ikelder was embarrassed.
“I think I would say that Veron worships her,” said Yaret.
“So is she… a goddess?”
“Some would call her so.”
“You seem to know more about Veron’s wife than we all do,” commented Solon drily. He looked at Huldarion, who shrugged.
“A king ought to know his subjects,” he said, “but I admit I hardly know Veron. Although his father was a Rider, Veron lived far in the north with his mother’s remote clan till he was twelve. When I first met him he was already an accomplished wolf-hunter. As for his wife… He told me only that they came upon each other while he was out hunting. No more. This is the first time that any of us has seen her.”
“You are honoured,” said Yaret. “The huntress obeys no will but her own.” After a moment’s thought she added, “In Ioben she is for the huntsmen. In Obandiro she is also for the women. I can’t explain that difference, apart from the connection with the moon.”
In Obandiro she is. Not was. Rothir noted that, as surely did they all. Nobody commented on it.
“When we move south, would she come to our aid again, do you think?” enquired Uld.
“You’d have to ask Veron,” she said, “but personally, I think it is unlikely. When I said that you are honoured, I meant it. That was no light thing she did. I think that also she is a being of the north, where she is believed in, and that if she moves south her power will diminish.”
“Does she need to be believed in to be effective?” asked Uld.
Yaret smiled at him, a little sadly.
“Who doesn’t?” she said. “But talking of moving south: I gather that although the Baron will return to Melmet now, the huntsmen want to stay with Veron. They seem to have developed a great fealty to him even in so short a time, as the partner of the huntress as well as in his own right. They’re saying they will follow him wherever he wishes, to see the job done properly, as they put it. But I don’t know what that may involve.”
“The job is, I hope, almost done properly now,” Huldarion answered. “Dispatches say that General Istard has been successful to the west of Kelvha, where the enemy were few in number. We shall march there next to make sure of that success, but probably with only a small part of the Kelvhan army. The rest of the Kelvhans will go home.”
“But even if the stonemen are defeated there, that will not be the end of them?”
“No. I hope it is the end of them in the north. Their stronghold is in the south, along the Darkburn. But they have sent so many of their men up here that their forces in the south will be much depleted, and I think we shall have several weeks or even months of peace before any more attacks.”
“By which time we shall be still firmer and closer allies with Kelvha,” added Thoronal. Unwisely: it earned him a look from Huldarion that made him stare at the floor.
“And you?” Huldarion addressed Yaret with careful courtesy. “Will you now go back to Obandiro?”
She took a moment to answer. “I’m not sure. If Veron permits me to stay with the huntsmen, I admit I too would like to see the job done properly before I return home. I’d like to be able to tell them that there is no stoneman threat left for them to fear. I don’t know how feasible that is.”
“It is feasible,” said Huldarion, “if not straightforward. With Kelvha’s help – and our other allies – I believe it can be done.”
“Your other allies? They can’t be numerous, though, can they?”
“But you never know who will make the difference,” said Huldarion. “Melmet made a difference. And the Ioben huntsmen also, though they are few.”
“True. They’re not all Iobens, though. There are three of them who follow Veron not because he’s a hunter but because he’s of the Vonn. Their village got burnt out,” said Yaret sombrely. “Most of the people were massacred, but a dozen of the younger men were taken prisoner to pull the darkburn carts. One of them was called Zan. He was shackled to another man called Arguril – yes, that Arguril – who told him he was of the Vonn.”
“He shouldn’t have admitted that,” said Thoronal.
“Shouldn’t he? He probably thought it didn't matter because they’d all be dead soon anyway. But they were rescued. Another Rider turned up: he somehow set a darkburn loose and galloped off with Arguril, and managed to allow several of the others to unlock their shackles and get free. It sounds like quite a feat.”
“That was Rothir,” said Parthenal.
“Was it?” Yaret turned to give Rothir an appraising look. “Zan speaks of you as someone almost godlike,” she remarked.
“Hah! That’s because he doesn’t know him,” said Parthenal, amused.
“You did all that?”
Rothir shook his head. “It wasn’t enough. I had to leave behind too many captives, at the mercy of a darkburn.”
“Zan told me that eleven men were freed.”
“Well,” he said, “that’s more than I had thought. But still not enough.”
“Can I tell Zan? He’ll probably rush straight over to throw himself at your feet and swear eternal allegiance. Don’t smile; I’m serious. He and his kinsmen feel themselves beholden to you – and to the Vonn. They have vowed to keep fighting for vengeance.”
“And you?” asked Theol. “You fight for vengeance also?”
“I fight to stop it happening again… but yes, for vengeance too, on behalf of all Obandiro. There is no-one else who can.” Yaret traced a circle on the ground with one finger. “They are mostly children. But it’s not as if they need me there – not now. Enough people had turned up by the time I left. I don’t think I’ll be missed. Maybe Dil… but he has the donkeys.”
Huldarion said gently, “Some time I would like to hear more of the children you left behind, if there is an opportunity.” Rothir looked over at his chief and wondered in which direction his thoughts were now turning. War had been his craft till now, not children.
But it was for children, known or unknown, that they all did this. For whom they fought. He remembered Olbeth’s baby; that warm weight in his arms, the milky dribble down his shoulder. More responsibility. But such an unfamiliar soft feeling.
After a brief discussion about what the morning might bring, the Riders blew out all the lamps but one and began to settle down to sleep. Although the floor of broken reeds was somewhat scratchy Rothir was too tired to care. The sound of Theol’s snoring was soon joined by Thoronal’s rasp.
Parthenal rolled close up behind Rothir for extra warmth as he so often did out in the wild: his was a comfortable, familiar presence. Yaret, lying curled on Rothir’s other side, seemed to be asleep almost immediately. She must have been exhausted. Well, they all were. Only Huldarion still sat up, on one of the low stools, gazing at the glowing embers of the fire, evidently thinking.
A king ought to know his subjects. Another remark that surely had been noted if not commented upon. Huldarion never normally referred to himself as King. But the time was coming when that title might be justly claimed: King not just of the itinerant Riders, but of Caervonn.
I hope it won’t change him, Rothir thought. I hope he won’t forget what it is to be a Rider. Right now he’s just one of those around me: my kin, my family. All here, except those few who stand around the walls in spirit, whose bodies lie outside. Tomorrow we will mourn them. Today’s job is done. My kin are safely sleeping. There, that’s relief, at last. He closed his eyes.