When Mocker came round he found Bragi, Varthlokkur, Nepanthe, and Haaken waiting over him.
"What happened?" Bragi demanded.
"Give him a chance," Nepanthe pleaded. "Can't you see... ?"
"All right. Get some of that soup down him."
Mocker took a few spoonfuls, desultorily, while trying to remember. Voices. Telling him he had to.... To what? Kill. Kill these men. Especially Bragi. And Varthlokkur, if he could.
He felt for his missing dagger.
The compulsion to strike was almost too much for him.
Varthlokkur eyed him suspiciously. He had been doing so since the island encounter. This would take cunning. He had to get himself and Nepanthe out alive.
He had to do it. For Ethrian.
His friend of more than twenty years, and his fa-ther.... Already the necessities gnawed his vitals like dragon chicks eating their ways out.
Varthlokkur was the illegitimate son of the last King of llkazar. He had killed his father, indirectly. It was the curse of the Golmune line. The sons slew the fathers.... Mocker had slain Varthlokkur once already, long ago, over Nepan-the.... But that spooky little man with the winged horse had revived him.
Mocker told his lies, and his mind strayed to his own son. Ethrian. Would he, too, someday, be responsible for the death of his father?
TWENTY-EIGHT: A Friendly Assassin
Marco brought the news to Ragnarson at Gog-Ahlan. Megelin had retreated to the Kapenrungs. The blood of half his followers stained the desert sands.
El Murid had suffered as bitterly. Nevertheless, he had ordered Badalamen to lead the ragged, war-weary victors into Ravelin.
Ragnarson increased the pace again.
As the army entered the Savernake Gap, Varthlokkur toid him, "We have a problem. Mocker. Something was done to him. He's lying,..."
"He's acting strange, yeah. Wouldn't you if Shinsan had had a hold of you?"
"Shinsan has had a hold of me. That's why I'm suspicious. Something happened in Throyes that he's not admitting."
"Maybe."
"I know what you're thinking. The spook-pusher is getting antsy about moving in on Nepanthe. Keep an eye on him anyway."
Later, after the army had passed Maisak and started eagerly downhill into its homeland, Varthlokkur returned. "Nepanthe is gone," he announced.
"What? Again?"
"Your fat friend did it this time."
"Take it from the beginning." Ragnarson sighed.
"He left her at Maisak."
"Why?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know."
"To remove her from risk?"
"Go away."
He didn't like it. Varthlokkur was right. Something had happened. Mocker had changed. The humor had gone out of him. He hadn't cracked a smile in weeks. And he avoided his friends as much as possible. He preferred remaining apart, brooding, walking with eyes downcast. He didn't eat much. He was a shadow of the man who had come to the Victory Day celebration.
Challenging him produced no answers. He simply denied, growing vehement when pressed. Haakenand Reskird no longer bothered.
Ragnarson watched constantly, hoping he could figure out how to help.
Kavelin greeted them as conquering heroes. The march lost impetus. Each morning's start had to be delayed till missing soldiers were retrieved from the girls of the countryside.
"I don't like it," said Haaken, the morning Bragi planned to reach Vorgreberg.
"What?" There had been no contact with Gjerdrum. Vorgreberg seemed unware of their approach.
"How many men have you seen?" Haaken's way was to let his listeners supply half the information he wanted to impart.
"I don't follow you."
"We've been back for three days. I haven't seen a man who wasn't too old to get around. When I ask, the people say they've gone west. So where are they? What happened to the garrison Gjerdrum was supposed to send to Karak Strabger?"
"You're right. Even the Nordmen are gone. Find Ragnar. And Trebilcock and Dantice. We'll ride ahead."
Varthlokkur joined them. They reached Vorgreberg in midafternoon. The city lay deserted. They found only a few poorly-armed old men guarding the gates. Squads of women drilled in the streets.
"What the hell?" Ragnarson exploded when first he encountered that phenomenon. "Come on." He spurred toward the girls.
Months in the field had done little to make him attractive. The girls scattered.
One recognized Ragnarson. "It's the Marshall!" She grabbed his stirrup. "Thank God. sir. Thank God you're back."
The others returned, swarmed round him, bawled shame-lessly.
"What the hell's going on?" Ragnarson demanded. "You!" he jabbed a finger at the girl at his stirrup. "Tell me!" He seized her wrist. The others fled again, through quiet streets, calling, "The Marshall's back! We're saved."
"You don't know, sir?"
"No, damnit. And I never will unless somebody tells me. Where're the men? Why're you girls playing soldier?"
"They've all gone with Sir Gjerdrum. El Murid.... His army is in Orthwein and Uhlmansiek. They came through the mountains somehow. They might be in Moerschel by now."
"Oh." And Gjerdrum had little veteran manpower. "Haa-ken...."
"I'll go," Ragnar offered.
"Okay. Tell Reskird to pass the word to the men. One night is all we'll spend here. Nobody to wander. Go on now."
He watched his son, proud. Ragnar had become a man. He was nearly ready to fend for himself.
"Thank you, Miss. To the Palace. We'll fill in the gaps there. Varthlokkur, can you reach Radeachar?"
"No. I'll have to wait till he comes to me."
"Damn. Ought to take ages to cross those trails. How did they get through? Without Radeachar noticing?"
They hadn't. Badalamen had, simply, moved more swiftly than anyone had believed possible, and Gjerdrum, unsure if he were attacking Megelin or Kavelin, had waited too long to respond. Then, thoughtlessly, he had ordered his counterattacks piecemeal. Badalamen had cut him up. He had taken to Fabian tactics while gathering a larger force in hopes of blocking the roads to Vorgreberg.
Two days had passed since there had been any news from Gjerdrum. Rumor had a big battle shaping up. Gjerdrum had drawn every able-bodied man to Brede-on-Lynn in the toe of Moerschel, twenty-five miles south of the capital.
Ragnarson had passed through the area during the civil war. "Gjerdrum smartened up fast," he told Haaken. "That's the place to neutralize big attacking formations. It's all small farms, stone fences, little woods and wood lots, some bigger woods, lots of hills.... And a half-dozen castles within running distance. Lots of places to hide, to attack from if he loses, and no room for fancy cavalry maneuvers. Meaning, if that's the way this Badalamen wants to fight, he'll have to meet our knights head on."
Varthlokkur observed, "He'll refuse battle if the conditions are that unfavorable."
"He wants Vorgreberg. He'll have to fight somewhere. Us or Gjerdrum. The maps. They'll tell us." They moved to the War Room, set out maps of Moerschel and neighboring provinces. "Now," Ragnarson said, "try to think like Badalamen. You're here, over the Lynn in Orthwein. There's a big mob waiting at Brede. The ground is bad. What do you do to get to Vorgreberg?"
"I might split my strength," Trebilcock replied. "Hold Gjerdrum at Brede and circle another group around. If he has enough men. Gjerdrum couldn't turn even if he knew what was happening."
"Till we hear from the Unborn, or the dwarf, we're guessing. I'd bet he's outnumbered. Gjerdrum's probably mustered twenty, twenty-five thousand men. But Badalamen's soldiers are veterans."