Grasping her hand, Paregin reverently pressed her hand to his lips. He looked exalted, uplifted. When he returned to the lines, he spoke to his troops in excited tones as if she had conferred upon them a great reward. Galdar watched closely to see that Paregin’s men obeyed him and did not try to skulk off in the face of orders that were essentially a death warrant. The men obeyed, some looking dazed, others grim, but all determined and resolved. They ranged themselves around the supply wagons that were filled with barrels of beef and ale, sacks of flour the smith’s equipment, swords, shields and armor, tents and rope.
“The ogres will think it is Yule come early,” Samuval remarked.
Galdar nodded, but made no comment. He remembered back to Beckard’s Cut, remembered Mina ordering him to pack extra supplies. A shiver ran along his spine, caused his fur to rise. Had she known all along? Had she been given knowledge that this would come to pass? Had she foreseen it all? Were their ends determined? Had she marked Paregin for death the day she saved his life? Galdar felt a moment’s panic. He wanted suddenly to cut and run, just to prove to himself that he could. Prove that he was still the master of his own fate, that he was not trapped like a bug in her amber eyes.
“We will reach Silvanesti by nightfall” said Mina.
Galdar looked up at her, fear and awe constricting his heart.
“Give the order to move out Galdar. I will set the pace.”
She dismounted and handed the reins to one of her Knights.
Taking her place at the front of the line, she raised her voice, and it was sweet and cold as the silver moonlight. “On to Silvanesti! On to victory!”
She began to march double-time, her strides long, starting out at swift but easy pace until her muscles warmed to the exercise.
The men, hearing the ogres rampaging in the rear, needed no urging to keep up with her.
Galdar could escape into the hills. He could volunteer to remain with the doomed rear guard. He could follow her for as long as he lived. He fell into step beside her and was rewarded with her smile.
“For Mina,” Subcommander Paregin shouted. He stood beside the loaded wagon, listening to the ogres raise their battle cry.
Gripping his sword, he waited for death.
Now that the troops no longer had the wagons to slow them, Mina’s army made excellent time, especially with the howls and hoots of the ogres to spur them on. Each man could hear the sounds of the battle behind him, each man imagined what was happening, could tell the progress of the battle by the noise.
Ogre shouts of rage, human death cries. Wild yelps of glee—the ogres discovered the wagons. Silence. The ogres were looting the wagons and hacking apart the bodies of those they had slaughtered.
The men ran as Mina had told them they would run. They ran until they were exhausted, and then she urged them to run faster.
Those who fell were left behind. Mina permitted no one to assist them and this gave the men additional incentive for keeping their aching legs moving. Whenever a soldier thought he could no longer go on, he had only to look to the front of the line, to see the slender, fragile-looking girl, wearing plate and chain mail, leading the march, never flagging, never pausing to rest, never looking behind to see if anyone was following. Her gallant courage, her indomitable spirit, her faith was the standard that led her men on.
Mina permitted the soldiers only a brief rest, standing, to drink sparingly of water. She would not let them sit or lie down for fear their muscles would stiffen so that they would not be able to move. Those who collapsed were left where they fell, to straggle along behind when and if they recovered.
The sun’s shadows grew longer. The men continued to run, officers setting the grueling pace with songs at first. Then no one had any breath left except for breathing. Yet with every step, they drew closer to their destination—the shield that protected the border of Silvanesti.
Galdar saw in growing alarm that Mina’s own strength was flagging. She stumbled several times and then, at last, she fell.
Galdar leaped to her side.
“No,” she gasped and shoved away his hand. She regained her feet, staggered forward several more steps and fell again.
“Mina,” said Galdar, “your horse, Foxfire, is here, ready and able to carry you. There is no shame in riding.”
“My soldiers run,” she told Galdar faintly. “I will run with them. I will not ask them to do what I cannot!”
She tried to rise. Her legs would not support her. Her face grim, she began to crawl on her hands and knees along the trail.
Some of the soldiers cheered, but many others wept.
Galdar lifted her in his arms. She protested, she ordered him to set her back on her feet.
“If I do, you will only fall again. You will be the one to slow us down, Mina,” Galdar said. “The men would never leave you. We will never make the Silvanesti border by nightfall. The choice is yours.”
“Very well,” she said, after a moment’s bitter struggle against her own weakness. “I will ride.”
He helped her onto Foxfire. She slumped over the saddle, so tired that he feared for a moment she could not even remain in the saddle. Then she set her jaw, straightened her back, sat upright.
Mina looked down, her amber eyes cool.
“Do not ever defy my orders again, Galdar,” she said. “You can serve the One God just as well dead as alive.”
“Yes, Mina,” he answered quietly.
Gripping the reins in her hands, she urged the horse forward at a gallop.
Mina’s prediction proved correct. Her army reached the forested lands outside the Shield before sundown.
“Our march ends here for the night,” Mina said and climbed down from her exhausted horse.
“What ails this place?” Galdar asked, eyeing the dead and dying trees, the decaying plants, the corpses of animals found lying along the trail. “Is it cursed?”
“In a way, yes. We are near the shield,” Mina said, looking intently at everything around her. “The devastation you see is the mark of its passing.”
“The shield brings death?” Galdar asked, alarmed.
“To all it touches,” she replied.
“ And we must break through it?”
“We cannot break through it.” Mina was calm. “No weapon can penetrate it. No force—not even the magical force of the most powerful dragon—can shatter it. The elves under the leadership of their witch-queen have hurled themselves against it for months and it remains unyielding. The Legion of Steel has sent its knights to batter it to no effect.
“There.” Mina pointed. “The shield lies directly before us. You can see it, Galdar. The shield and beyond the shield, Silvanesti and victory.”
Galdar squinted against the glare. The water caught the setting sun’s lurid red glow, turning the Thon-Thalas into a river of blood. He could see nothing at first, and then the trees in front of him rippled, as if they were reflected in the blood-tinged water.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking fatigue was causing them to blur.
He blinked and stared and saw the trees ripple again, and he realized then that what he was seeing was a distortion of the air created by the magic of the shield.
He drew closer, fascinated. Now that he knew where to look, he fancied he could see the shield itself. It was transparent,but its transparency had an oily quality to it, like a soap bubble. Everything inside it—trees and boulders, brush and grasses—looked wobbly and insubstantial.
Just like the elf army, he thought, and immediately took this as a good omen. But they still had to pass through the shield.
The officers brought the troops to a halt. Many of the men pitched forward face-first on the ground as soon as the order to cease march was given. Some lay sobbing for breath or sobbing from the pain of muscle spasms in their legs. Some lay quiet and still, as if the deadly curse that had touched the trees around them had claimed them as well.