Orisian was already making for the door. “I need to talk to Herraic. I’ll send word, Eshenna, when I know what is to happen.”
Orisian’s mind was in turmoil as he followed his torch-bearing guide. Rothe, striding along at his side, looked worried.
“You mean to chase after this woman, then?” the shieldman asked.
“Maybe. If Aeglyss wants her… needs her, even. Maybe.”
“The battle might be done, before we reach Kolglas,” Rothe muttered. He sounded disappointed; worried.
“It might. But this need only take us a handful of days. What if they’re right, Rothe? What if Aeglyss is really our greatest enemy?” Orisian came to an abrupt halt and turned, taking hold of Rothe’s arms, staring into the big man’s face. “Inurian feared him. Yvane, all of them here. They all say the same. And I never knew Inurian to be wrong about someone, Rothe. Never.”
He wanted — needed — Rothe’s support. It was, in fact, almost approval that he sought here. No Thane should require such a thing from a shieldman, but perhaps he could seek it from a true friend, one he trusted more than anyone else.
“I’m no use to Taim Narran, no use to anyone, on a battlefield, Rothe. Do you understand? He’s what our Blood needs there. But I’m here, and this is something I can do. Something that might be important. More important, even.”
Rothe did not look wholly convinced. But he nodded, just once, and that was enough.
They found Herraic deep in conversation with two of his men, outside their barracks. The portly Captain of Highfast had the jittery air of a man besieged by events. He drew Orisian aside as soon as they walked up.
“Thane, Thane. Good. I hoped to speak with you this evening. Some surprising news, I’ve had.”
“In a moment,” Orisian said. “Will you answer me a question first?”
“Of course.”
“You told me when I arrived here that half your men had gone eastwards. Rumours of Kyrinin, you said?”
Herraic nodded, clearly puzzled that the activities of his tiny garrison should be of interest to a Thane.
“Yes, sire. There’re a handful of woodsmen and hunters in the forests to the east of the Peaks. Word came from one or two of them that there had been signs of wights moving. A couple of trappers have even gone missing, supposedly.” He shrugged. “Not seen White Owls on our borders for many years. Still, people said there were warbands moving south. I’d’ve thought there would have been more trouble reported if it was true, but It seemed best to look into it, foolish though it sounds.”
“Warbands,” Orisian repeated.
“It will turn out to be nothing, sire. I’m sure of it.”
“No,” Orisian murmured. “I don’t think it will. I think Eshenna’s right. It’s K’rina. They’re coming for her. Why would he want her so badly?”
Herraic looked puzzled. He spread his hands, displaying his incomprehension. Orisian ignored the gesture.
“I think we’ll be leaving you, Captain.” He turned to Rothe. “Find Torcaill. Get everyone ready.”
The shieldman went without hesitation, and without demur. Herraic stared in confusion after him. There was something rather plaintive in his expression, Orisian thought.
“You will?” the Captain said. “Oh. I don’t suppose… I’ve had word, you see. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about: can’t say I understand how or why, but the Shadowhand — sorry, the Haig Chancellor — is on his way.”
Orisian’s heart sank. His mind went blank, leaving him to stare dumbly at the Captain of Highfast.
“Injured,” Herraic continued. He was clasping his hands, squeezing them together nervously. He had angled his head a little, widened his eyes, like a supplicant seeking some favour. “Quite gravely injured, it would seem. I’m not sure what happened: some boy loosed a crossbow bolt at him, from the sound of it. Unfortunately, the Chancellor’s guards killed the child, so we’ll likely never know why. But could he have been coming to see you, sire? That’s what I wondered. I thought perhaps…”
“No,” said Orisian firmly. “Mordyn Jerain has no business with me that I know of. You must forgive me, Captain, but I cannot stay. I have duties elsewhere. I leave tonight. As soon as our horses can be readied.”
The downcast expression that settled upon Herraic’s face at that made Orisian feel a twinge of guilt. The poor man’s quiet, settled world was being shaken to bits. But it would take more than that to induce Orisian to wait placidly for Mordyn Jerain to appear. Whatever freedom of action Orisian had won for himself by leaving Kolkyre was unlikely to survive the Shadowhand’s presence.
He went quickly, wholly possessed now by the desire to be gone from this place. As he walked, he heard some of Herraic’s warriors talking excitedly in the doorway of their kitchens.
“The Shadowhand’s coming,” one was saying, his voice all awe and trepidation. “The Shadowhand’s coming.”
XI
Sirian’s Dyke was a changed village. The last time Wain had been here, she had witnessed the destruction by Shraeve and her Inkallim of the great dam that gave the place its name. Parts of that dam still stood, but they were now only pointless reminders of the hubris of a long-dead Thane. The Glas Water, the marshy lake the dam had retained in order to drown Kan Avor, was gone. The river now flowed unimpeded. Its banks were indistinct: huge expanses of waterlogged mud and debris laid down in the flood of the dam’s breaking.
The village itself had lost its purpose in the moment of the dam’s ruin. Its people had, for years, been employed in the maintenance of the dyke and in serving the needs of travellers on the road from Anduran to Glasbridge. The dyke was gone, and there were no travellers on the road, only warriors. Bereft of purpose, Sirian’s Dyke was now bereft too of its inhabitants. Not a single man, woman or child of the Lannis Blood remained. Those who had not been killed when the Black Road first overran the village, or had not fled of their own accord, had been dispersed: the adults pressed into service in Anduran or Glasbridge, the children most likely seized by the Inkallim and sent north.
In place of the original villagers, Sirian’s Dyke now housed a few Inkallim and the dozens of eager followers they had gathered to themselves. They were only passing through, making for the battle everyone knew was imminent, at Glasbridge or beyond. Fiallic was taking the bulk of the army along the southern side of the valley, intending to fall upon the flank or rear of any force that marched against Glasbridge. Those, like Wain, who had chosen to follow the road down the river’s northern bank faced a more trying journey. Beyond Sirian’s Dyke, she knew, the way through the flood-wrecked landscape would be difficult. But it would take her back to Kanin’s side, and that was where she meant to stand and fight. It had, too, the advantage of keeping Aeglyss and his Kyrinin away from the great mass of the faithful, and from the wrath of Temegrin the Eagle.
Satisfied that her horse was suitably settled for the night, Wain backed out of the stall, slapping the beast’s haunches as she went. The gesture was part irritation and part grudging respect for the animal’s obstinacy; it had been stubborn and obstreperous all day. It looked back at her with what she suspected was contempt.
In the yard outside, her warriors were making arrangements for their own horses, tying them to a long rope stretched along the side of the stable block. Beyond them, out in the damp dusk where the village gave way to open fields and copses, Wain could see the indistinct shapes of the White Owls, pitching their own camp. Aeglyss would be with them. His mood had been foul ever since Anduran, his presence so brooding and surly that it had unsettled everyone, including Wain. He had not uttered a single word to her — or to anyone, as far as she could tell — for more than a day. Sometimes when she looked at the halfbreed, she felt as though she was looking upon the greatest hope for their cause. Sometimes she was only afraid.