Then the old man seemed to recover himself, and, casting a sly, sightless glance at Ivaroth, he withdrew his fingers from the rock and, with a longing pass of his hands, made it whole again.
'It is a power beyond your knowing or understanding, Ivaroth,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘But through me, it will give you the power that you seek, the victories, the wealth, the worship of your people, the vengeance of your race.'
'And what will it give you?’ Ivaroth asked, pulling his thick kerchief over his face to disguise the hoarseness of his voice as it struggled from his fear-dried throat.
The old man's face became alive with anticipation. ‘More,’ he said, simply.
It was a chilling answer, but Ivaroth felt himself drawn inexorably forward. ‘And then?’ he pressed.
'Then…’ The old man paused. ‘Then, I shall return and seek my master, and his master in turn. And restore…’ His voice faded again and, though still powerfully curious, Ivaroth did not choose to pursue his questioning. The image of the torn rock hung in his mind. Whatever masters the old man had served in the past, he had no wish to learn of them. At least not at the moment.
Turning away, Ivaroth clicked his horse forward a little way and then dismounted. Peering ahead he could just make out in the distance the red flags that his scouts had positioned to guide the army.
Drawn from the southern tribes who had regularly raided the northern Bethlarii outposts, their mountain lore, though limited, had proved invaluable. ‘The gods favour us, Mareth Hai,’ they had said when they reported to him at daybreak. ‘They bring the cold wind, but they keep at bay the mists. We'll move well today.'
And they had. Indeed they had moved well almost every day since they had left the plains. Mindful of Ivaroth's injunctions, complaining had become a discreet affair throughout the army, confined to low voices and close friends, though few were at ease with the alien terrain.
And not without cause. There had been several fatalities and many injuries as the plains’ people learned about this new, unyielding domain. Unwary feet which dislodged rocks on to those following below; narrow and treacherous paths and too steep slopes that claimed wagons and horses and also those who struggled too long to restrain them; savage winds which toppled the incautious down buffeting crags and into screaming voids.
At the same time a new breed had appeared amidst the disparate tribes that Ivaroth had welded together in this great venture. Men who had looked at the terrain and at the sweating, straining effort of their fellows, and who had directed their own effort into acquiring skills unknown in the plains: widening and strengthening pathways, fixing ropeways, using levers and pulleys.
Ivaroth watched this remarkable metamorphosis but hid his elation as each new piece of ingenuity spared his fighters and moved his army forward. He hid also his distrust for these men with their strange, clear-sighted vision. What did they see when they looked at him? Still, they were like the blind man, they were but men, and susceptible to blade and point.
'Good. You have done well,’ he would say impassively. And they went away aglow with his approval.
A hand caught his elbow. He did not respond, the blind man's cloying grip was all too familiar.
'Soon,’ the old man said, lifting his face upwards as if scenting the air. ‘You are nearer to your old lands than your new.'
'How long?’ Ivaroth asked.
The blind man did not answer. His head was swaying from side to side hypnotically.
Ivaroth did not press his question. It would be to little avail; the old man seemed to have either no concern for, or conception of, time and distance. It was as if part of him, perhaps the greater part of him, existed in some other place.
Later, as the great caravan rested, draped like a thin dark scarf about the shoulders of mountains, Ivaroth amazed his scouts by telling them what they had been about to tell him. A few days, the weather continuing to favour them, and they would be out of the mountains and moving across the rolling foothills. Ahead of them then would be the rich lands of the south.
'Tonight we must visit our allies,’ Ivaroth said to the blind man. ‘To ensure they are still resolute in their purpose.'
The blind man smiled.
Ivaroth turned away from the sight.
Chapter 33
As Arwain dispatched the gallopers to carry the news of the intended attack back to Ibris, his thoughts became as dark as the surrounding night.
'It's no worse than any ambush,’ part of him said.
'It's murdering sleeping men,’ said another.
'You'll not murder many. You'll be lucky if you reach the camp unseen, and if you do, the alarm will be sounded within minutes. Then you'll be fighting for your lives. Outnumbered more than ten to one now they've brought new troops up.'
'But killing men unshriven…'
'There's no good way to die in battle. And they've done it to us often enough in the past.'
'We aren't them.'
'Ah, are we not? We've never done it to them in the past?'
'We've changed.'
'Indeed?'
Silence.
'But you've just sanctioned this deed? Will you account for it when the time comes?'
'The time is now, and I account for it now, to the one who matters the most: myself.'
'Too easy.'
'Killing them may save us, and many others.'
'May is a frail word on which to place this dark and joyless burden; from which to claim necessity.'
'It's all we have. All I have. The treaty, the paper wall that kept us apart, is breached. Breached by them, utterly, and without a vestige of provocation.'
'Not enough.'
Stillness. Then, ‘The last religious war was savage beyond belief. We must defend ourselves.'
'But an unprovoked attack?'
'The assault on Whendrak is provocation by virtue of treaty and historical fact. Serenstad must defend itself, and we, here, cannot risk waiting the enemy's pleasure.'
Silence.
'They'll come definitely, if you attack.'
The arguments began to circle. ‘Yes, but probably quickly, with a small force that we may be able to contain. And if they send a large force, it'll have been delayed and it'll move more slowly.'
'May? If?'
Arwain closed his eyes. For a moment, his mind was choked by a great, entangled, knot of causes and effects which disappeared back into time and far beyond the boundaries of his knowledge.
They ceased suddenly as if they had been severed by a swift sword cut.
'What we do is necessary. It's necessary because we're here, and all other alternatives that we have from here lead … may lead … as far as we can see, to destruction.'
Unsought and unexpected, a vision of his wife, and a great longing for her, intruded on his thoughts and made him falter. But his debate had a momentum of its own, and the vision was swept away even as Arwain reached out to it.
'What myriad happenings brought us here, brought the Bethlarii here, is beyond my sight and my understanding, let alone my unravelling. What we're going to do is necessary and its necessity is the true measure of war.'
The debate faded. Arwain reached up and wiped his brow. It was damp with perspiration despite the morning's chill.
And this necessity was also a measure of his father, he realized. His father, who had determinedly turned his face against the ways of the past and led the Serens and their allies away from such necessities for so many years.
Standing alone in the cold darkness, Arwain resolved that should he and Serenstad survive, he would try to be a better pupil at the feet of this man. Now, however, he must guard his father's life's work by following his teaching and tending to this cruel necessity.