The event was considered an omen.
The second event was even more alarming.
The Voral flooded.
Rain had caused the river to rise. As the Hour-Whistler sounded noon, a great swell approached from upstream and the direction of distant Dorzin Lake. An old woman, Molas Ferd, was down by the riverbank collecting geese scumble when she sighted the swell. She straightened as much as she was able and stared in amazement as a wall of water bore down on her. Geese and ducks took fright, clattering up to perch on the barricades. But old Molas Ferd stood where she was, shovel in hand, staring open-mouthed at the waters. They rushed upon her and hurled her against the side of the women’s house.
The flood filled the village before subsiding, washing away grain, invading people’s homes, drowning sows. Molas Ferd was battered to death.
The hamlet was turned into a swamp. Only the tower where Shay Tal had taken up residence was spared the onslaught of muddy waters.
This period marked the true beginning of Shay Tal’s reputation as a sorceress. All who had heard her cry out against Aoz Roon sat inside and muttered.
That evening, as first Batalix, then Freyr set in the west, turning the flood waters to blood, the temperature dropped dramatically. The village was filled with thin crackling ice.
Next Freyr-dawn, the town was aroused by Aoz Roon’s angry shouting. The women, scuffling into their boots to go to work, listened in dismay, and woke their menfolk. Aoz Roon was taking a leaf from Shay Tal’s book.
‘Out you come, damn you all! You’re going to fight the phagors today, every one of you! I set my resolve against your idleness. Rise, rise, all of you, get up and fight. If phagors are to be found, then phagors you will fight. I fought them single-handed, you scum can fight them together. This will be a great day in history, you hear me, a great day, even if you all die!’
As the dawn clouds scudded bleakly overhead, his great figure in its black furs stood on top of the tower, fist waving. With his other hand, Aoz Roon clutched a struggling Dol Sakil, who fought and yelled to get out of the cold. Eline Tal loomed behind them, grinning feebly.
‘Yes, we’ll slay the milk-struck phagors according to the women’s plan — you hear that, you idle quemes of the academy? — we’ll fight according to the women’s plan, for good or ill — carry it out to the letter. By the original boulder, we’ll see what happens today, we’ll see whether or not Shay Tal talks sense, we’ll see what her prophecies are worth!’
A few figures were emerging in the lane, clattering through the thin ice, staring up at their lord. Many clutched each other timidly, but old Rol Sakil, mother of Dol, cackled and said, ‘He must be well developed, yelling like that — that’s what our Dol said he was. Bawls like a bull!’
He came to the edge of the parapet and glared down at them, dragging Dol with him, still shouting.
‘Yes, we’ll see what her words are worth, we’ll test her. We’ll test Shay Tal in battle, since you all seem to think so much of her. Do you hear me, Shay Tal? We’ll make or break today, and blood shall flow, red or yellow.’
He spat down at them, then withdrew. The trapdoor slammed after him as he climbed back into his tower.
When they had eaten some black bread, everyone set forth, urged on by the hunters. All were subdued, even Aoz Roon. His storm of words had blown itself out. They proceeded in a southeasterly direction. The weather remained below freezing. The day was still, the suns were lost in cloud. The ground was hard and ice crackled underfoot.
Shay Tal went with them, keeping in with the women, her mouth pursed, her skins swinging about her thin body.
Progress was slow, for the women were unaccustomed to walking distances that meant nothing to the men. They came at length to the broken plain from which Laintal Ay’s hunting party had sighted the Borlienians only two days before the Voral flooded. Here lay the series of ridges with shallow flood lakes between, glinting like stranded fish. Here the ambush could be set up. The cold would bring out phagors, if there were any. Batalix had set, unseen.
They went down into the plain, men first, the women following, in confused groups. All were apprehensive under the hard sky.
By the edge of the first flood lake, the women halted, looking at Shay Tal in none too friendly a fashion. They realised the danger of their position, should any phagors arrive — particularly if they came mounted. No amount of anxious glancing about could reassure them on that score, for the ridges restricted their view.
They were exposed to danger and the elements. The temperature remained two or three degrees below freezing. Quiet reigned; the air was hard. The shallow lake lay silent before them. It was some forty metres wide by one hundred metres long, occupying the hollow between two ridges with its unwelcoming expanse. Its waters were motionless but still unfrozen, reflecting the sky without a ripple. Its sullen appearance increased a certain supernatural fear which fell upon the women as they watched the hunters disappear over the ridge. Even the grass at their feet, crisped by frost, seemed under a curse, and no birds cried.
The men were unhappy about having their womenfolk nearby. They stood in a neighbouring depression, by another lake, and complained about their leader.
‘We’ve seen no sign of phagors,’ Tanth Ein said, blowing on his nails. ‘Let’s turn back. Supposing they destroyed Oldorando while we were away? A fine thing that would be.’
The cloud of breath about their heads united them as they leaned on their spears and looked accusingly at Aoz Roon. The latter paced about, keeping himself separate from them, his expression black.
‘Turn back? You talk like women. We came to fight, and fight we will, even if we throw our lives to Wutra while we do so. If there are phagors near, I’ll summon them. Stand where you are.’
He went at a run to the top of the ridge behind him, so that the women were again within his view, intending to shout at the top of his voice and awaken all the echoes in the wilderness.
But the enemy was already in view. Now, too late, he understood why they had seen no more wandering Borlienians; they had been driven off. Like old Molas Ferd before the flood, he stood paralysed before the sight of humanity’s ancient enemy.
The women straggled at one end of the fish-shaped lake, the ancipitals grouped at the other. The women made frightened and uncertain movements; the ancipitals were motionless. Even in their surprise, the women responded individually; the phagors could be seen only as a group.
It was impossible to make out the number of the enemy. They merged together with the late afternoon mists filling the hollow, and with the scarred greys and blues of the scene. One of them gave a thick protracted cough; otherwise they might have been lifeless.
Their white birds had settled on a ridge behind them, at first with some jostling, now spaced out regularly, with heads submissively on one side, like the souls of those departed.
From their frosty outline, it could be determined that three of the phagors — presumably the leaders — were mounted on kaidaws. They sat, as was their habit, leaning forward with their heads close to their mounts’ heads, as if communion was in progress. The foot phagors clustered against the flanks of the kaidaws, shoulders hunched. Nearby boulders were not more still.
The cougher coughed again. Aoz Roon threw off his spell and called to his men.
They climbed along the crest of the ridge, to stare at the enemy in dismay.
In response, the phagors made a sudden move. Their strangely jointed limbs geared themselves from immobility to action with no intermediate stage. The shallow lake had checked their advance. They had a well-known aversion to water, but times were changing; their harneys said ‘Forward.’ The sight of thirty human gillots at their mercy decided them. They charged.