Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 40

Amidst the turmoil Meya stood at a loss. Around her, Riders ran and argued and hoicked their gear with grim or flustered faces.

I should not have come so far, she thought. What madness made me join this tiny army on their reckless expedition? No matter how brave the Vonn may be as individuals, as a nation they are nothing. I should not be here. I should be with my daughter. Oh, Aliya, my beloved Aliya.

With folded arms, she rocked herself a little, unobtrusively, trying to hold her anguish in. The Riders paid her no attention: all their wariness was for Huldarion, now issuing terse, clipped commands. Meya was a lost queen in an alien army.

The Vonn had promised to protect her daughter. She had been assured that Aliya would be safe. But of what worth were such assurances? Her heart felt rent in two, laid open with an axe of dread. The monstrous darkburn had filled her with appalling fear; but now that it was gone, the fear had not dissolved, as Huldarion had said it would. Instead, it stayed, transmuted into terror for her daughter. If such a dreadful enemy could appear so suddenly, so unforeseen, then where was safe?

And I assigned her to the roughened hands of a farmer’s wife, she thought, in sharp dismay. No army protects my precious Aliya. A sick hunter and his band of ruffians, and a few farm labourers…

Numbly she gazed at the activity around her, seeing only Aliya in a shabby dress, her hair pulled back in an undignified disguise. She wanted to hold her daughter. To hug her tight, to never let her go.

Huldarion had turned his back on her to speak curtly to his Riders. Some of the horses had run a long way off, and he was angry. Thoronal came up to ask about the stowage of the damaged tents and got snapped at.

“Use your common sense – if you have any. What point is there in packing up a tent that’s irreparable?”

At which Thoronal backed off, looking hurt and surprised.

Meya had heard anger many times, in Kelvha; yet coming from Huldarion, it shocked her. She had thought his self-containment so complete that the rashness of wild anger could not touch him. Yet he was clearly burning up with fury. It alarmed her.

And now the northern archer, Yaret, was being led over to him by Parthenal; although Yaret did not require leading. She walked straight up to face Huldarion with her head tilted slightly, and cool, assessing eyes.

How dare she, Meya thought, both irritated and admiring. For a common archer, and a female one at that, to scrutinise the ruler of Caervonn in that manner! Where is her timidity, her awe?

When Huldarion addressed her, his voice was thick with anger: clotted.

“You told the hunter Zan about the stonemen’s youth – against my express orders.”

“I told Zan nothing,” answered Yaret steadily.

“You were close with him.”

“I was. But I told him nothing.”

“Then who did?” Huldarion almost snarled.

“I don’t know. Perhaps the men of the Baron of the Broc.”

“Really? Yet Zan showed no sign of any knowledge prior to this morning. So who told him? Who sent the army into disarray by such treasonous rumour-mongering?”

“A treasonous rumour? Zan told nothing but the truth,” said Yaret.

“So it was you. It would not be the first time you have lied. Darkburns that tunnel through the earth? Oh, you were fluent there.”

“That was necessary,” said Yaret. “But this time it was not me. Are you quite sure that you told nobody?”

“Nobody.” But Huldarion’s head went up. “Leor,” he muttered, his tone ominous. “Where is Leor?”

“Leor was in the monastery with us, during all that battle,” Meya put in, feeling an unaccountable need to defend Leor from Huldarion’s rage. She had no idea why. A wizard could surely look after himself.

In any case, Huldarion ignored her. Instead he called out harshly to his men. “Solon? Go down to the sea and summon Leor. Orbrel? Why is nobody rounding up those horses?”

He strode away, and Meya stood and rocked herself, again. Who cared about the horses? Who cared about Leor? Oh, my Aliya, she thought, Aliya, why did I entrust your future to this wrathful man?

Yaret stood looking after Huldarion as he strode off. Then she turned to Meya.

“Does everybody think I spread this story?”

“I don’t know,” said Meya. “I think it hardly matters who first spread it. The more important thing is its effect.”

“Its effect on the army.”

Meya nodded, although she also meant the effect on Huldarion. For did not a commander decide the behaviour of his army? Her father would have pointed out instantly that a problem was not necessarily a problem unless you dealt with it the wrong way. Huldarion seemed obsessed with finding the culprit, rather than dealing with the actual issue.

Which to her mind was not really a problem at all. Even if the stonemen were younger in years than they appeared, they were, to all intents and purposes, still men. They were not children. They looked like men and fought like men; and when she sought inside herself to ask her father what his judgement was, she heard General Borovin’s deep voice clear in her head.

Whatever their age, they are the attackers. Unless they sue for peace, they have to be put down.

So put them down, Huldarion, she thought. Join with the Kelvhan army, put them down. And then let me find my daughter.

Meanwhile Yaret’s gaze had moved over to the nearby carts.

“Is she all right?”

“Who? Gaelera? She seems perfectly all right,” said Meya acidly. Her fellow Kelvhan had appeared unmoved by either dread of the darkburn or the shock of being thrown into the sea. The events that had horrified Meya seemed to have filled Gaelera with a strange enthusiasm.

“Actually, I meant Janeya,” murmured Yaret.

“You meant Jebil,” said Meya in reproof, before glancing around to check that they were within no-one’s earshot. Jebil-Janeya, ten yards away, was being calmly harangued by Lady Gaelera about some detail of her dress.

“It is your job,” Gaelera was instructing her, “to ensure my clothes are always ready for me.”

“But, ma’am, two soaking wet dresses in two days!” expostulated the other, true, maid, Piril. Janeya did not know how to be a lady’s maid, thought Meya. The girl just moped and hung her head and was altogether exasperating. It occurred to her, again, that Gaelera must know her true identity; for otherwise she would not bother talking to her at such length.

Time to step in. This was one situation, at least, that she could deal with. She marched over to the group, saying,

“Jebil, go into my carriage, please, and tidy up. Pack everything in the chests and make sure they are secured. We shall soon be moving off.”

Janeya-Jebil shuffled away, her head still down.

“How soon do we leave, my lady?” Piril asked.

“Very shortly. Once the horses are all gathered.” In fact Meya had no idea how soon Huldarion intended to march; but she added, “To linger in this place another night cannot be safe. We shall depart inland and east to meet the Kelvhan army.”

“I’ll go and find the archers,” said Yaret. “But first – my Lady Meya? May I have one more word? It is a private matter.”

Janeya was the thought that sprang at once to Meya’s mind: what other subject could have such need of privacy?

“Please step into my carriage,” she said majestically. Yaret swung herself up into it, and Meya followed with more difficulty. “Leave us for a moment, Jebil,” she said to the drooping girl within.

“How are you?” Yaret asked her with compassion.

“I am alive,” said Janeya dismally. “I suppose.” Exasperation washed over Meya again. The girl was a high-born lady of Kelvha – could she not show some grit?

“You saw the darkburn?” asked Yaret.

Janeya nodded.

“You will see more,” said Yaret, “if you stay with us.”

“Good,” said Janeya, raising her chin with unexpected resolution. “I want to fight.”

Yaret surveyed her thoughtfully. “You’ve heard that some of the stonemen are no more than children? Would you be able to fight them?”

“It’s Nerogun that I want to fight.”

Meya was both shocked and irritated. Too much grit, of entirely the wrong sort. “That will not happen,” she told Janeya.

“So you always say. That will not happen. Yet it does.”

“Well, never mind now,” put in Yaret. “Have you skill with a sword, or bow and arrow? Can you shoot?”

“Young ladies do not learn to shoot in Kelvha,” Meya said. “Nor use a sword.”

“I can learn,” suggested Janeya.

Yaret grimaced. “Well, I suppose you can be useful in the medics’ tent.”

Janeya looked somewhat deflated; and quite rightly too, thought Meya.

“That private matter,” said Yaret to her. “Janeya may hear it. It is this.” She took a battered waterskin from her belt; it had been cut open to enlarge the opening, and re-tied.

Now, untying the cord, Yaret dipped her fingers into the stained leather. When she withdrew them, they were smeared with a bluish clay-like substance.

“You may be able to advise me, Lady Meya,” she said. “Is this stuff similar to Athelid? I think it is.”

Meya took a tiny amount on her own finger, sniffed it, and cautiously put it to her tongue before wiping both tongue and fingers on her kerchief. Oily, sightly metallic… it was certainly familiar.

“I agree,” she said. “Although it looks different to the sample that that your herb-mistress showed me, the smell and taste are similar. Where did you get it?”

“From a deep clay pit over yonder. It seems to have been much mined.”

“By stonemen?”

“So I assume,” said Yaret. “Your archivist Tamu had an old document that said the stonemen dug their Athelid from the ground. That could mean a root; but why not a mineral? I asked Rigal to dig up more of this, in case it might be useful.”

“If indeed it’s a component of that stonemen’s drug called Athelid,” said Meya cautiously, “to what use could you put it? It’s dangerously addictive, is it not?”

“Athelid certainly is. I don’t know about this particular element of it. I think the main ingredient of Athelid is ethlon or a related painkiller; ethlon is moderately addictive. But there must be additional ingredients in Athelid that make the stonemen both aggressive to their enemies and submissive to the orders they receive.”

“Then this, I think, tastes like the ingredient that makes them submissive,” Meya said, thinking of the sample she had removed from the valet Kavaul’s flask back in Kelvha Castle. When it had been added to Faldron’s wine, it had certainly made the High Prince unusually passive and suggestible.

“How can you be sure of that, my lady?” asked Yaret in surprise.

“I have knowledge of that element. It smelt similar to this.” That faint metallic sourness... She could not, of course, tell Yaret of the dosing of the High Prince Faldron by his servant: but she recalled who had appointed Kavaul.

Nerogun. How had he laid his hands upon it?

“Would you advise me to show this to Huldarion, my Lady?”

She hesitated. “Yes, of course,” she said, “in due time, but not immediately, perhaps. He has a great deal to think about at present.”

“Indeed.” Yaret bowed her head. “My lady, would you broach the subject with him, if the opportunity arises? I am currently out of favour. You could say to him that Rigal keeps the samples.”

“I will see,” said Meya. She felt that she would not care to broach any subject with Huldarion just now.

When they clambered out of the carriage she could see him striding up to Leor in the middle distance. The two men stood still and appeared to be arguing. Huldarion took a step forward and Leor took a step back. Surely it could not be wise to antagonise a wizard?

Meanwhile four senior Riders were waiting near the carriage for her.

“Ma’am,” said Crade, “are we to prepare to ride out?”

“You are,” said Meya decisively. This was something she could do, at least. “We aim to leave” – she glanced up at the sky – “within the hour. The Kelvhan army, as I understand, is two or three hours’ ride away. It may be possible to reach them before sunset. If not, a camp some distance from the sea-shore will certainly be safer than remaining here. Captain Crade: what is the situation with the horses? Is an hour feasible?”

“I believe so, Lady Meya.”

“Good. Tiburé; have any stonemen been found by the Riders who went in search of them?”

“Only the footprints of one, heading north,” said Tiburé. “They have distinctive shoe-soles. A lone escapee from the ambush, mostly likely, hardly worth pursuing.”

“Then please recall those scouts and tell them of our imminent departure.”

Tiburé left, without any salute. Meya decided to overlook the omission.

Meanwhile Parthenal was gazing towards Huldarion with a worried frown. And no wonder. She addressed him next.

“Can the companies be drawn up ready to leave in their usual formation, Captain Parthenal? I am sure you will know the procedure. I shall make it clear to the Lord Huldarion that you act on my command.” This last, she thought, was necessary in the light of Huldarion’s summary dismissal of Rothir. But he would not treat her so.

Parthenal bowed. “I will see to it, my Lady Meya.”

“I know there have been points of disagreement amongst your people,” Meya said. “But those, I hope, can wait for now, while we ensure an orderly departure. Your comrade Captain Rothir is a brave and principled man. I have no doubt he will obey the orders to ride out?”

“Rothir will always do his duty,” said Parthenal soberly.

She nodded, and turned to the fourth Rider standing there. “Captain Thoronal. I believe you were to check the carts. Are we fully watered and provisioned?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Thoronal. “That’s not usually my task.”

“Then let us go and see.” While the other captains hastened off, she walked briskly towards the provision carts with Thoronal. Before reaching them she addressed him in a quiet voice. “Captain, you are Lord Huldarion’s cousin, and you know him well. Clearly, he is upset by the tragic recent occurrences. The weight of responsibility lies heavy on him. What might calm him? What method would you suggest?”

She did not really want advice from Thoronal – nor did she expect any useful answer; rather, she aimed both to acknowledge the difficulty of facing Huldarion’s anger, and to warn Thoronal to tread carefully. His heavy-handed manner was not likely to improve things. She aimed, too, to keep Thoronal emollient by asking his advice; although he did not strike her as an emollient man. He was too stiff – too like Huldarion in that respect.

Now he frowned and pulled a face which presumably signified deep thought.

“Hmm,” he said, “not easy;” a response even less useful than she had expected. He came up with none of the more obvious suggestions that had occurred to her. To soothe Huldarion by giving him matters to concentrate on that lay within his control. To distract him with calculations of riding times and distances. To guide him to think about his men – and women – rather than stay entangled in his own preoccupations. And she knew another way to soothe Huldarion; although it was not one that she could hint about to Thoronal. That one was up to her.

She hoped that Huldarion would not fall out with Leor. While she did not altogether trust the wizard, she recognised the value of the spell with which he’d frozen out the darkburn. Huldarion needed Leor, whether he realised it or not.

And he needed her, whether he realised that or not. With Thoronal at her side she began a swift inspection of the carts, checking what equipment was missing, how many sacks and crates of food were still intact, nodding and storing numbers in her head. She found the task almost familiar, being so accustomed to supervising the steward’s work within Kelvha castle, with its many hundreds of inhabitants. What was an army but a castle on the move?

What surprised her a little was that the Vonn who manned the carts were so forthcoming to her, a mere woman taking liberties. She even won a smile from one or two as she discussed the quality of the dried meat – always unpredictable, but that variation could make the difference, she knew, between a well-fed army and a dissatisfied one. She heard her dead father speaking through her voice and was at first disconcerted and then moved by the memory of that committed general.

Meanwhile Thoronal was increasing her impatience. Why did he not know the amount of flour each man required for one week’s worth of flatbread? It was simple enough, surely. And while the provisioning of water was something she had seldom thought about, it would, as she observed to a nodding driver, hardly be of such great moment in the water-sodden land that they must pass through.

In all, the only unsatisfactory answer came from the strange gaunt priest from the temple of Borgun, who travelled in one of the provision carts and who despite listing its contents refused to let her enter it to check them.

“You will do as you are bid,” said Thoronal sternly.

“And the Lord Huldarion bid me allow no man but himself to enter,” said the priest. “You know that, sir, for you were there.”

Thoronal turned away in some confusion.

“The man is an eccentric,” Meya said to him, “if not an actual fanatic. We will not press him.” She was anxious not to flout any command that Huldarion might have made. In fact, she was becoming anxious about his reaction to the steps she had just taken.

With this anxiety growing she left the carts and walked over to Huldarion where he stood alone within the temple. He merely nodded absently as she informed him that the carts and Riders were being readied to depart. Meya bridled a little; anger would at least have shown that he was paying attention. Where was the acknowledgement of all her efforts?

“Your men – and women – await only your command to leave,” she said, as meekly as she could.

“Then let us go,” he murmured.

Returning to her carriage, Meya sat up behind the driver on the padded seat. Her driver, a withered elderly man called Argret, nodded to her. She did not expect him to speak – although he frequently mumbled to himself, his only words to her till now had been a distressingly casual “All right, m’lady?” She had thought of reporting him to Huldarion but had decided this might be considered too niggling a complaint.

“All right, m’lady?” offered Argret now, and then, to her surprise, he added, “Good work there, m’lady.”

“See to your horses,” said Meya coolly. After a moment, however, she added “Thank you,” because the Vonnish ways were, after all, not as the Kelvhan. All the same she hoped he would not see fit to begin talking to her.

Nor did he; so they sat in silence while the earth began to rumble and the air to ring. The first companies of Riders had set out behind Huldarion at the front, the horses stamping. She as usual was far back in the train of trundling carts, and had to wait before her wheels began to turn.

Gaelera, in Meya’s second carriage, was travelling alongside her, perched bolt upright just behind her own ancient, toothless driver. Her dress appeared to be clean and dry. How had Piril managed it? A good maidservant. Gaelera was looking around her, stretching her neck in all directions in an unexpected show of curiosity.

Fortunately the distance between her and Gaelera, coupled with the noise of the wheels and the creak of carriages, was too great to allow for any conversation. Meya sat back and mused on the wonders of this world outside Kelvha: the immensity of sea, which she did not like and was glad to see the last of; the ruined monastery, that black hulk at the end of the civilised world; and the forlorn remnants of the town so far in time and place from Kelvha City – a reminder that greatness was not Kelvha’s only, and that Kelvha could, by some comparisons, be considered young. It was not a reassuring thought.

These musings occupied her as they trundled over grassy trackways with no glimpse of the ocean, although the sea-birds overhead still rode the wind and scraped the sky with their continual wails of grief and shrieks of warning. The great stones became visible and seemed to march towards her, like giant sentries making some unheard demand she could not satisfy.

Slowly the sun slid down behind them, streaking the dull cloaks of the Riders ruby red. And soon the thudding hooves began to spray out golden drops as they re-encountered the strangeness of the Red Roads. The waters up ahead were painted glowing scarlet by the sun: meandering streams of fire. Meya was acutely aware of them, and of the stark and massive presence of the stones.

Before the army reached the wide streams of the Red Roads proper, it halted, where the grassland was still relatively dry. A borderland between two enigmatic countries.

Argret pulled up with the other carts and looked at her expectantly. “All right, m’lady?”

Meya nodded, and climbed down from her seat to stretch her limbs. In the neighbouring carriage, Gaelera was still looking round. She addressed Meya from her perch.

“Where is my good friend Maeneb?”

“I don’t know,” said Meya.

“She should have been here.”

“I expect she is further up the line.”

“Perhaps,” Gaelera said. Still she peered this way and that. Meya thought that Maeneb was very likely hiding from Gaelera. She wished that she herself could do the same.

Up ahead, Huldarion was directing men and women to deploy the tents. Fires were lit and suppers cooked. Meya ate within her carriage, accompanied only by Janeya-Jebil, in order to avoid Gaelera’s company. She had hoped that Huldarion might come to join her, but he did not, and she would not encroach on him unbidden.

All the same, having exiled Janeya to the rear section, she waited in her carriage that night until late, her shielded lamp faintly burning, in hope blended with a strange and creeping fear. But the murmuring bustle of the camp subsided and gradually fell silent; and Huldarion did not come.