'These are hard, highly trained men,’ he said. ‘Young men for the most part. My best. They'll be riding like the devil and fighting a dreadful battle against who knows what odds at the end of it. They won't be able to nurse you along the way or protect you when you reach the enemy. If the journey doesn't kill you, the…'
'He is there,’ Antyr said, resolutely interrupting his lord. ‘I've no relish for this but I have to find him before he comes for me again.’ He looked down for a moment. ‘Pandra is doing all that can be done here. He has no great need of me. But it may be that I'm the only one who can protect your men, Serenstad's men, from the Mynedarion's power. And, at worst, while he has to deal with me, he can't deal with them.'
Ibris wavered.
'They can tie me to my horse if I look like falling off,’ Antyr pressed.
'And the wolves?’ Ibris asked. ‘They can't run all that way.'
'Throw them in panniers,’ Antyr replied shortly.
'What!’ Tarrian's indignation was considerable.
'Throw them in panniers,’ Antyr repeated firmly. ‘They can sleep. They'll need to be fresh when the hunt starts.'
Tarrian's indignation faded slightly.
Haster walked across to them. ‘If it's your wish that he goes, Lord, we'll tend him,’ he said. ‘He can ride between us, he'll be no burden.'
'But you must be exhausted yourselves,’ Ibris protested.
'We're tired certainly, but we've finer horses than yours, lord,’ Haster said. Unexpectedly he smiled. ‘And we've learned the art of sleeping as we ride.'
Ibris growled and then gave a resigned shrug. ‘As you wish, Dream Finder. You must go where your heart leads you. Take care. And my thanks to you.'
A little later, Antyr found himself mounted between the two strangers, with Tarrian and Grayle ensconced in panniers.
Tarrian had protested more than a little at the indignity of being lifted into his, but was now almost asleep. Grayle was as silent and deep as ever.
Antyr watched Ibris and then Menedrion embracing Arwain, then, almost before he realized what was happening, Arwain had swung up into his saddle and, with a stomach-churning lurch, his horse surged forward into the night.
Chapter 40
The day was full of winter brightness. A cloudless blue sky, brilliant sun, and a windless cold.
It was a day for brisk walking through ragged, leafless country lanes or along hilly ridges or across manicured parks.
A day for warm reassuring clothes and a warm fireside and warm company to return to.
It was a day especially apt for celebrating life, but, albeit reluctantly, Ibris's army had risen to a misty dawn, to celebrate death. It had risen shivering with the cold and the fear: the fear of impending battle, the fear of showing fear, the fear of failing in command, the fear of edges and points, of missiles and flailing hooves, of looking into the face of the unthinking, fear-spawned, personal hatred of the enemy and, worst of all, of random, cruel chance.
Quickly the army had drawn noise and bustling activity over its nakedness like a familiar blanket.
And now it moved across the rolling Bethlarii landscape in battle formation; the sun glinting off spear points and armour, shields and harness, and brightening the surcoats and pennants and flags emblazoned with their many devices.
The air was filled with the soft clatter of marching and riding men, punctuated occasionally by shouted orders to maintain the line, and made purposeful by the ominous tattoo of the pace drums. A dark green trail marked the passing of the host as the dew-damped grass was relentlessly crushed under hoof and foot.
Visibility being good, and being some way from the Bethlarii position, Ibris and Menedrion rode at the front of the line with several other senior officers and aides. No one spoke.
A small group of riders appeared in the distance. Ibris motioned a signaller to halt the advance.
The pace drums stopped with startling suddenness and for a moment it seemed to Ibris that the ensuing silence was absolute.
As the riders drew nearer, the noise of the thousands of now waiting men began to assert itself.
'It's Feranc's patrol,’ Menedrion said.
Ibris nodded and clicked his horse forward, motioning Menedrion to follow him.
As Feranc's men reached them, Ibris sent the men back to the waiting officers to make their reports. Even as he did so, he saw Feranc's eyes flicking along the length of the waiting army.
'Your bodyguard, the Mantynnai, Arwain?’ he asked as Ibris turned back to him.
Ibris told him what had happened the previous night. After he had heard the tale, Feranc lowered his head. Ibris waited for his reaction, concerned.
'The Dream Finder has gone with them?’ Feranc said, after a long pause.
Ibris nodded awkwardly, somewhat taken aback at this unexpected response.
Feranc grimaced in sympathy. ‘It'll be a bad journey for him,’ he said. ‘A dark grim night he'll not forget.'
'You'd rather you were with them?’ Ibris said, cutting across this digression and anxiously voicing what he felt would be Feranc's unspoken reproach.
Feranc looked up at the blue sky, thoughtfully. ‘Your reasoning was sound, Lord,’ he said eventually. ‘And it was a decision only you could make.'
The two men looked at one another.
'Thank you,’ Ibris said softly.
'Talking of difficult decisions…’ Menedrion broke the silence and gave Feranc a significant look. ‘As commander I've decided that you, father, will take command of the reserve cavalry…'
Ibris turned to him, his face darkening.
'You're too old for the front line,’ Menedrion continued hastily, and more bluntly than he had intended.
'I can ride and fight you into the ground yet,’ Ibris blustered noisily.
'Not these last ten years, you can't,’ Menedrion retaliated vehemently, leaning forward towards his father, chin jutting.
Feranc coughed.
Ibris turned to him. ‘Ciarll?’ he appealed.
'Commander's decision,’ Feranc replied simply.
'Ciarll!'
'Please, father. Your will has brought us this far. You're the heart of all our dominions. If you fall today, then…'
He flicked his head towards the waiting army. ‘They'll evaporate, disappear. We'll all be lost. And city after city will fall in our wake.'
Ibris looked at his son narrowly. ‘Think you can out-talk me as well, do you?’ he said darkly.
Menedrion scowled impatiently. ‘No, damn it,’ he said. ‘I'm trying to tell you what you already know. I want all eyes forward. I don't want anyone risking themselves and their companions playing unofficial bodyguard to you.’ His expression became embarrassed. ‘Besides I've told all the company commanders you'll be protecting the rear, and that's what they've told the men. Everyone's happy with that. It'll not help their morale if they see you at the front. They'll think it's because Arwain and the others leaving has seriously weakened us.'
Ibris's eyes narrowed further and his mouth tightened.
'Yes, I know,’ he said abruptly.
Menedrion started at the unexpected reply.
'Do you think I don't know what's going on in my own army?’ Ibris continued, not without some relish. ‘I was just wondering when you were going to get round to telling me about it, that's all.'
Menedrion looked as if he were considering a wide range of replies to this revelation, but in the end, without taking his gaze from his father, he spoke to Feranc.
'Tell us the enemy's latest dispositions, Commander,’ he said.
Feranc replied without preamble. ‘Substantially unchanged from earlier reports. The traditional Bethlarii battle order. Predominantly heavy infantry in phalanx, with cavalry and light infantry protecting the flanks and rear. At least twice our number in all.'
'Anything unusual in the line?’ Ibris asked. ‘Chariots? Artillery? Cover for ambushing cavalry? Treacherous ground?'