He took a deep breath as he reminded himself that Ivaroth had killed his own brother.
Still, family was family, these things happened. He and Ivaroth were saddle companions. That was different …?
Composing himself, he went to the door of his tent and, after a brief hesitation, yanked it open and strode out into the cold wintry gloaming.
'Sirs, sirs. Please, sirs…’ The two riders had seen the woman bustling along the track which crossed the field, but were nonetheless surprised as, arms waving agitatedly, she almost hurled herself in front of their horses.
She was middle-aged and stout, and her flushed face and heavy breathing confirmed that she had not run anywhere in many years. Her shoes were soiled with mud and she was wearing no cloak or gown to protect her from the cold weather. What was presumably her good house pinafore was crumpled and grimed.
Without pausing, she seized the bridle of the nearest rider; the younger of the two, a man with a round, worried face which, for all he was no boy, had a touch of innocence about it. She leaned heavily on the bridle for support. ‘Please help me, sirs. I don't know what to do,’ she managed to gasp out eventually.
The man bent forward and laid his hand on her shoulder gently. ‘Quietly, mistress,’ he said. ‘What's the matter? Have you been attacked?'
The woman hesitated, taken aback by the man's heavy foreign accent. Then she looked into his face intently and seemed to reach the conclusion that she could still seek his help.
'No, sir,’ she said, a little more calmly. ‘But I've a hurt man at my cottage, and my husband's … over the fields … and the man needs help. He's raving something terrible. And I can't even ride to the village for a physician.'
Without waiting for an answer, she started to lead the horse towards the track she had just run along. The two men exchanged a brief glance, and the older man nodded.
Keeping pace with the woman's anxious tugging, they soon found themselves passing alongside a carefully cut hedgerow draped with drop-laden cobwebs. Passing through a gateway they came into the garden of a farm-worker's small cottage; it had the high-pitched, thatched roof and broad, overhanging eaves typical of the area.
'This way,’ she said, releasing the horse and bustling off towards an already-open door. The two men dismounted and followed.
The woman had disappeared into a room off the small hallway as they entered, but her whereabouts were revealed almost immediately.
'Oh, you shouldn't be out of bed,’ came her anxious voice. ‘It's bitter out there. You'll catch your death with that fever. Lie down, please…'
'But I must reach Viernce … Warn them … The horsemen … It's following me … tearing the ground…’ the speaker gave a brief, fearful scream. ‘…run … run … I must…'
The second voice was a man's but it was weak and barely coherent. The two men stepped quickly into the room. The woman was trying to prevent a young man from rising from a bed. His tunic and trousers were obviously a uniform of some kind, but they were soiled and torn and his face bore signs of a futile attempt to wash mud and blood from it. His eyes were wide with fear.
'Oh sirs, he's been like this since he woke up,’ the woman volunteered, vainly trying to push the man down. ‘Ranting about a message and something chasing him. I can't handle him, clean him up, or…’ She shrugged and resorted to soft reproach in an attempt to silence the man. ‘Lie still now. Look at the mess you're making of my bed.'
The older of the two men moved to the other side of the bed and sat down on it. ‘Lie down, trooper,’ he said, gently but firmly, putting his hands on the man's shoulders. ‘Nothing pursues you here, you're safe among friends and I'll take your message in a moment. Be still.'
The young soldier's eyes widened further and he seized his comforter's arm. ‘It tore the ground up … tore it up … raced after me … burst my horse … burst it … like a rotten fruit…’ His voice disappeared into a fearful wail, and he began shaking violently.
The man frowned and glanced at his companion whose brow furrowed in response. ‘Enough, trooper,’ he said, this time sternly. ‘You're still on duty and this is no way for a Duke's man to behave. Lie down and be still. That's an order.'
His tone seemed to reach through to the soldier in the man and he became a little quieter. Hesitantly he lay back, though his eyes were fixed on his new commander.
'Who is he? Where's he from?’ the man asked the woman.
'I don't know,’ she replied. ‘He sounds as if he might be from Rendd…’ She gestured vaguely over her shoulder, adding, ‘Up north, I found him sprawled in the field just outside, his horse dead … dying anyway … beside him. He'd ridden it to death. It was foaming and sweating something awful. I managed to drag him in, but he needs proper help, and I can't…'
The man raised a hand to stop her. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘We'll help you.’ He laid his hand on the distressed soldier's forehead and frowned again. ‘Get me the medicine pouch,’ he said to his companion.
The younger man left the room and returned shortly with a leather case which he handed across the bed.
The woman followed the two men's actions anxiously. ‘Are you physicians?’ she asked.
'No,’ replied the older man, with a faint smile as he carefully examined the contents of the pouch. ‘Just travellers. We know enough to look after ourselves, and this was given to us by a … most … remarkable healer.'
Her immediate concerns now transferred to the charge of others, the woman examined her two saviours. Almost immediately, her hand came out to touch the cloak of the man standing beside her. Then realizing what she was doing, she snatched it away. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said, flustered. ‘But it's such lovely material. I…’ A blush lit up her already flushed face further. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, to dispel her embarrassment.
'In your language, I think you'd call me … Jadric,’ the younger man said. ‘And he's … Haster. We're just travellers come to see your great cities.'
'You've picked a sad and dangerous time, sirs,’ the woman said. ‘We'd all hoped that we'd see no more wars again, but…'
'Ah!’ Haster's voice cut through her lament as he held up a small ornately carved stone jar. He removed its lid and shook some tablets into his hand. Picking one up he touched it gingerly with his tongue and pulled a wry face.
'Feverfew?’ the woman asked.
'Similar, I think,’ Haster replied. ‘Fetch him some water to take these with, would you.'
Happy to be doing something, the woman scuttled out of the room.
Haster bent forward and, putting an arm around the young man's shoulders, eased him into a sitting position. The woman returned with an earthenware cup.
Haster placed one of the tablets in the man's mouth and offered the cup to him. ‘Swallow this,’ he said. ‘It'll help ease your fever.'
His eyes still fastened to Haster's face, the man did as he was bidden, then lay back.
'Now, tell me your message,’ Haster said after a moment. The young man's agitation threatened to return, but a raised eyebrow from Haster stilled it.
'We were attacked,’ the man began, rapidly.
'We? Who?’ Haster intervened quietly but firmly. The young man looked bewildered for a moment as if the simple question had driven all memories out of his head. ‘The reservists,’ he managed eventually. ‘From Rendd … companies one to five … under Captain Larnss … from Serenstad.’ Haster nodded and motioned him to continue. ‘We were on routine border patrol…’ His eyes widened suddenly and he reached out and clutched Haster's arm. ‘Then they attacked us…'
He fell suddenly silent.
'Who attacked you?’ Haster asked after a moment, laying his hand over the soldier's comfortingly.
Bewilderment returned to the man's face again, but this time it was different. He shook his head. ‘Bethlarii, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But … they didn't look like Bethlarii … and I've never seen so many horses. There were thousands of them…'