Once inside, he threw off his cloak to reveal the black robes and golden Verenthane medallion of a priest.
“Thank the gods I spotted you fools before you plunged head first into Andal,” he told them in Torovan, with a thick Ilduuri accent. “A party of serrin and foreigners, traipsing through the land in hope that no one will identify you? Are you mad?”
Rhillian sheathed her blade. “Who are you?”
“I, dear lady, am Father Belgride. I have been following you for two days since a concerned parishioner passed word to me of your presence in my mountains. I can guide you safely into Andal, and give you secure lodging there. Otherwise the Remischtuul will kill you all, as plain as the nose on my face.”
FOURTEEN
Errollyn held his impatience at bay for as long as he could stand. Then, approaching the crest of a hill, he gave in and galloped. Kessligh followed, soon drawing level on the road with an eager smile that Errollyn had never seen him wear before. Damon pursued, and General Rochan, and then the whole command vanguard, galloping away from the main formation like children testing new ponies in a race.
They descended the last hill through forest, catching the odd glimpse of wide waters ahead. That was the Ipshaal, the easternmost border of Enoran lands. Upon the far side was Saalshen. It had been many years since Errollyn had seen Saalshen, yet that was not why he galloped. Scouts ahead had brought word, several days earlier, of something remarkable upon the Ipshaal. Even Kessligh, when he'd been told, had been disbelieving. Now they were close, and all wanted desperately to see for themselves.
They rode through a town to the river edge. There were piers, to which small boats were tied, village folk hauling in nets and tending sails. Beyond lay the vast Ipshaal, perhaps five hundred strides across, deep waters glistening beneath an overcast sky. Upon those waters lay something impossible.
It was a bridge. A new bridge, to be sure, for there had never been a bridge across the Ipshaal in all Errollyn's knowledge of history. So new, in fact, that it was not yet finished. Even as he watched, it grew.
Made of wood, it ended now barely fifty strides from the Enoran bank ahead. Upon that uncompleted end, great machines of timber, gears, pulleys and winches were in motion, swarming with men. They wound great wheels, which lifted large weights above the end of pylons. At a maximum height, those stone weights would release and fall with an almighty thump onto the end of the pylon, driving it deeper into the riverbed. Upon the completed bridge behind them, horses drew carts bearing new pylons, cross-beams, and decking. In all, Errollyn thought he could count at least five hundred men on the bridge, plus seven carts and fourteen horses.
For weeks they had all wondered and worried about the Ipshaal crossing. Now they wondered and worried no more. He looked at Kessligh, and both men laughed. Errollyn had never seen him so enthralled. This man who showed so little emotion in the victory of the forces he commanded now gazed at the growing bridge with the excitement of a small boy who had just seen his first catapult.
General Rochan looked utterly astonished. “That is the most amazing thing I have ever seen.”
“Twelve days,” said Kessligh with amazement. “Twelve days so far, and they've nearly finished.”
A little ahead, Errollyn noticed several boats at the riverbank, and men standing and discussing. He rode to them, and greetings were exchanged. The men were from Jahnd, and very pleased to see them.
“We're going to pave this part of the riverbank,” one explained. “Between here and the village, so your carts and catapults can move freely to the bridge. If we start now, we'll be done in three days, when the bridge is finished.”
“We'll be lucky if the Regent is more than five days behind us,” Kessligh warned them.
“Plenty of time,” said the Jahndi with a grin. “We would have started earlier but we did not know where you were, or if there was even an army left to cross the Ipshaal. We're glad to see we didn't waste all the effort.”
In the midafternoon, a serrin rider came, and halted at the head of the column to speak to Jaryd. Sofy hastened her mount up the road past creaking wagons to hear their conversation.
“Elissians,” Jaryd told her grimly as she arrived. “More than a hundred. They take the more northerly route-they mean to intercept us ahead.”
“How many fighters have you?” the serrin asked.
“Twenty-six,” said Jaryd. “Perhaps another twenty archers we've placed on the rear wagons where they're most use, but they're not accurate like the talmaad. How many are you?”
“Twelve,” said the serrin. Jaryd grimaced. “Can you make better time? We can have boats on the river shore when you arrive, but at your current pace the Elissians will get there first.”
“We have too many on foot,” said Jaryd. “If we abandon them we may save the half that are mounted.”
“We shan't!” Sofy said loudly. “Jaryd, I forbid it.”
“And thus condemn everyone to death,” Jaryd said with temper. “This isn't some contest to see who can think the prettier thoughts, Sofy, this is us trying to make sure that at least some of us survive.”
Sofy stared at him stubbornly, her jaw set.
“We can distract them,” said the serrin. “Perhaps an ambush, we may lure them away, purchase some time.”
“If they're coming after us,” said Jaryd, “it's because they know of this column and have been directed to kill it-they won't be easily distracted.”
“We'll see,” said the serrin. “Make as much pace as you can, keep on this road until you reach the village, the villagers can tell you where the river landing is from there.”
He galloped off. Sofy gazed up to where giant white clouds were looming like mountains in the sky.
“A change comes,” she said.
“Thunder,” said Asym. “The spirits are watching. They come to collect the dead.”
It was raining by the time the first in the column reached the river. They poured down rough tracks through the forest, abandoning wagons as serrin helped them into longboats. More boats were coming, serrin and some humans rowing hard from upriver, where Sofy gathered a fishing village lay.
“You should be on the first ones,” Jaryd told her, shield now on his arm in expectation of the Elissians' arrival.
“I will not,” said Sofy. “We have an entire column behind us and Elissians somewhere near. This could easily become a stampede. Someone of authority needs to stand upon this bank and appeal to order.”
Jaryd gritted his teeth, looking at the passing wagons. People on the wagons were indeed looking at Sofy with some measure of reassurance to calm their fear. Some folks were trying to unload their belongings into the boats, and the serrin were protesting. Sofy rode over to them.
“You cannot take belongings!” she shouted over their argument. “You must abandon them, we need all space on the boats for people!”
Not everyone understood her Torovan, but enough did. People began to do what she said. But other such arguments were breaking out further up the bank, and she rode off to address them. A glance back to Jaryd did not find him. He was tasked with defending the column, he could not be distracted by boats. But Sofy knew that any delays here on the bank would make Jaryd's task impossible, trying to defend an otherwise defenceless column against Elissian cavalry. Thinking of it, she had a stab of guilt at what she had asked him to do.
Grumbles of thunder grew to great booms, and flashes lit the darkening sky. The rain grew heavier, and gusts of wind whipped the surface of the Ipshaal River as the first wave of boats rowed hard toward the far bank, laden with people. The Ipshaal was at least three hundred paces wide at this point; even with every available oarsman straining, it was not a fast trip.