Even though the man was gone, the physician kept his long-bladed knife from view as he drew it. It was a well-practiced gesture.
Arwain turned away and left the lamp-lit scene.
Coming towards him was Ryllans.
'Any news?’ he asked, for want of something to say that would distance him further from this one death.
'Only from the company on the ridges,’ Ryllans answered. ‘They met no opposition and they're well placed to defend their positions.'
'And us?’ Arwain asked, looking round at the broad field that sloped gradually up from the road until it petered out in dense vegetation and scree. Adequate as a rallying point, it was not remotely defensible against a large force.
'The archers have found a narrower, rockier section further back,’ Ryllans said, pointing down the valley. ‘It's not perfect, but it's as good as we're likely to find.'
A little later, the surgeon's work finished, one of the two wagons that had accompanied the battalion began its journey back to the main army, bearing those wounded too seriously to continue.
The straggling column of retreating men opened to let it pass, and then closed behind it like a dark, silent river.
As they trudged steadily forward, a dull sun rose to greet them, throwing long, faint shadows up the valley. Grim black columns of smoke scarred the western sky.
Antyr moved to the front of the enclosed wagon that he was sharing with Pandra. He was still not wholly used to its relentless, rocking motion and frequently stepped outside to join the driver and enjoy the cold morning air.
Tarrian and Grayle were already there, lying in the foot-well, their paws draped over the kicking board, and their inquisitive heads held high as they peered around at the rumbling train and the quiet countryside preparing for winter.
'Another storm brewing, sailor?’ Tarrian scoffed, as Antyr's head emerged from the wagon.
'Shut up, or I'll ride my horse and you two can run beside me like dutiful hounds,’ Antyr replied brutally.
'You forget I've seen you ride,’ Tarrian retorted, unabashed by the threat.
Antyr contented himself with a grunt and sat down by the driver. He was joined almost immediately by Pandra, who carefully placed a large cushion on the hard wooden seat before sitting down.
'A hard bed, I like,’ he said. ‘But not seats.'
'Are you all right?’ Antyr asked. The wagon was, in many ways, remarkably lavishly appointed, but Pandra was an old man to be undertaking such a journey.
'Yes, I'm fine,’ Pandra replied, shuffling himself comfortable and rubbing his hands together. ‘I'm enjoying this. It makes me feel quite young again.'
Antyr caught a whiff of some caustic comment by Kany, but Pandra merely smiled smugly and patted his pocket gently.
Well wrapped against the morning cold, they sat in companionable silence for some time.
'Dream Finders are you?’ The question came from the driver. Both Antyr and Pandra turned to him. He was a man whose grey hair and weather-beaten face made all attempts at guessing his age futile, but even if his face had not confirmed him as a countryman, his patient, placid manner would have. Antyr and Pandra's surprise, however, was due to the fact that throughout the journey so far he had spoken very little to his two passengers, confining himself mainly to puffing on a carved wooden tobacco pipe and clicking affectionately to his horses from time to time.
'Yes,’ Antyr replied.
The driver nodded sagely, and removed his pipe from his mouth as if to speak.
Then he put it back again. Antyr and Pandra exchanged glances, and the driver clicked at his horses and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
'Bannor,’ he said after a while.
He held out his hand to Pandra, who, after a brief hesitation, shook it and introduced himself in turn. The hand moved to Antyr who did the same. It was large and muscular, but its grip, though positive, was gentle and careful, and, despite the cold morning, its touch was warm.
'You're a farmer, Bannor?’ Antyr asked
Bannor shook his head slowly and took his pipe from his mouth again. ‘Labourer,’ he said. ‘Traveller. Farm to farm as season needs.’ He pointed the pipe stem over his shoulder. ‘My wagon,’ he added.
The revelation left the two Dream Finders at somewhat of a loss as to what to say next.
'It's very … comfortable. And kind of you to let us use it.’ Antyr's reply was a little awkward. He was fairly certain that the wagon would have been commandeered, and that they were about to be subjected to some acrimony on that account.
Bannor, however, simply inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Known the Duke a long time.'
'You know the Duke?’ Antyr could not keep the surprise from his voice.
Bannor nodded again, but did not amplify his observation immediately.
'Good man,’ he said, after another long pause. ‘Asked me to look after you.'
There was a chuckle from Tarrian. ‘Deep one, this,’ he said. ‘And quiet. Pleasure to be with. Not like you rattling townies.'
Antyr ignored the jibe.
'How do you come to know the Duke?’ he asked, speaking slowly in an attempt to make his curiosity seem less strident against Bannor's patient demeanour.
'Fighting,’ Bannor answered.
Antyr nodded. How else? he thought.
'And you?’ The echo of his own question from Bannor, albeit leisurely, caught Antyr unawares. He had a fleeting image of slow plodding feet following a plough; feet that would neither quicken nor slow with the terrain, but would continue relentlessly until the whole field was turned, and would then carry their owner to his hearth at the same pace.
'He … sent for us,’ Antyr replied eventually, fiddling with his ring of office.
Bannor nodded slightly and sucked on his pipe. ‘Knows his men, the Duke,’ he said. ‘Always did.'
And that seemed to be the end of the matter; at least for the time being. Antyr was quietly relieved. He made a note to himself to be careful with this seemingly slow countryman. He sensed no malice in him, but realized that his relaxed manner might extract confidences more readily than the craftiest Liktor. He wondered how many more ordinary people the Duke bound with old ties of personal loyalty. Probably a great many, he decided.
He turned his gaze to the baggage train ahead of them. Many of the wagons were of a standard army design, but the majority were obviously modified farm vehicles, although there were also hospital wagons and several specially made house wagons to accommodate the administrative personnel that were an integral and vital part of Ibris's army.
He leaned out and glanced back at the train behind them. In the distance he could see the lavish wagons that housed the lady Nefron and her entourage. It added an unnatural sense of incongruity to the scene. Like most Serens he knew the rumours about the reason for Nefron's confinement to the Erin-Mal, but official pronouncements had always resolutely maintained that she was ‘plagued by ill health'. Now she was suddenly recovered and trailing dutifully after her husband, ‘for the morale of the troops'.
Not for mine, though, Antyr thought, remembering that it was her unseen touch that had brought him to Menedrion.
He sided with the current refectory wisdom; Ibris had released her to guarantee greater unity among the various factions that comprised the city's government, but he didn't want her left to her own devices in Serenstad.
Antyr shrugged the conjectures aside. Whatever their truth, he had more urgent matters to occupy him.
'Double your guard on myself and Menedrion,’ Ibris had said to him and Pandra before they had left Serenstad. ‘I know you feel I'm strong enough to protect myself, but we're all of us going to be increasingly tired and preoccupied, and this bond between Menedrion and Arwain is too vague for me to rest easy with-especially as they're a long way apart now. Besides, with this matter coming to a head, who knows what … they'll … do before it's finished.'