Hiron looked away from the stern gaze in reluctant acceptance. It was a necessary question that he had asked, but it was the last time that the need to prosecute the war was mentioned amongst the leaders of the three nations and the Cadwanwr.
Two days later, Otaff and Atelon declared that the Watch Hall had been repaired as well as it could be under the circumstances, and the Fyordyn pronounced the work excellent. There were areas which were still beyond the reach of the tower’s injured vision but, to much delight, there were also areas that could be seen more clearly than ever before.
The various officers of the army and the Muster spent much of the time learning about one another’s forces and discussing tactics. Such rivalry as there was, was for the most part good-natured and drew them together.
Among the ranks, however, there were initially a few angry exchanges as some of the younger Riddinvolk chose to taunt the Fyordyn cavalry. Urthryn dealt with such incidents ruthlessly.
‘Twenty years ago, when you were scarcely stirrup-high, these people came over the mountains to fight and die with us,’ he thundered at the gathered culprits. ‘Barely months ago they had to charge their own kind in massed infantry to drive Oklar from their land.’ He jabbed his finger into the chest of the one he deemed to be the ringleader. ‘You need to understand what a debt is, young man, and to help you towards this, I’m grounding you until further notice.’ Mouths dropped open, but Urthryn’s stern gaze prevented any other form of protest. Grounding was a considerable disgrace in the Muster and was usually used as a punishment for those who had ill-treated their horses. ‘You and your equally witless friends here will help with the baggage train for a day or so and then you can spend some time with the High Guards,’ he went on, ‘in their infantry contingent. Then we’ll see if your attitude’s improved.’
‘Bit severe, Ffyrst,’ Agreth said quietly afterwards. ‘They were only… ’
‘I’d ground Sylvriss if she behaved like that, in these circumstances,’ Urthryn said, before Agreth could finish. ‘I despise that… infantile… behaviour, at the best of times.’
‘They’re only young,’ Agreth protested tentatively.
‘Then they should learn both humility and true pride from their horses if they look to get older,’ Urthryn said angrily. ‘This is no horse fair. The finest rosette any of us will come away with will be a head on our shoulders. Grounding those clowns will soon spread the word that all energies are to be directed north-wards.’
Agreth bowed and let the subject lie.
Then the final plans were laid. The Goraidin and the Helyadin were gone ahead, the Watch Hall was manned, and the army stood ready to move.
There was no brash and raucous departing however, a steady downpour saw to that. Flags and pennants clung limply to their poles, and horses and hooded figures alike stood uncertain and dripping as Loman took one final look at the long column winding back out of sight along the valley.
Then he drew his sword and, holding it high, shouted, ‘Duty Watch, forward.’
His voice echoed off the rocks and the walls of the tower. Eldric straightened up and glanced at his fellows. They showed no outward sign, but he knew they were deeply moved by Loman’s gesture. It was a long time since the traditional marching order of the Watch Patrols had been called out at Narsindalvak.
Watched by the duty garrison, the army slowly be-gan to move forward on the first part of the journey that would carry it into the bleak, desolate heart of Narsindal and towards their terrible Enemy.
Chapter 28
Sylvriss stood at the half-opened door to the nursery and looked at her son in his simple crib. His arms were thrown up over his head and he was lying very still.
The Queen was holding her breath and she did not release it until she saw the slight movement of the sheets that showed her son too was breathing.
Then, looking around rather self-consciously, she closed the door gently and, pulling her cloak about her, set off along the wide corridor.
As she walked past the hanging tapestries and the ornately carved panels that decorated the corridor, Sylvriss took out the message she had received from Narsindalvak and read it again. Her father was safe, but though he made little play of it, his regret at not being able to come to Vakloss and see his grandchild shone through his simple straightforward prose like a beacon.
She smiled indulgently, as children will at the folly of their parents then, carefully, she returned the letter to her pocket and turned down a broad curving flight of stairs.
Outside, she acknowledged the salutes of the guards and set off towards her private stables.
As she had throughout her bitter struggle to reclaim Rgoric from Dan-Tor’s malign influence, she rode every day. Sometimes through the streets and parks of the City, sometimes around the extensive gardens of the Palace.
Her riding now, however, was not to assuage the seething emotions that had surged and roared within her in those times, but to ease the quieter, deeper, concerns that beset her now that her nation was recovering from its trial and turning to face its true foe.
As she neared the stables she heard the unsteady clatter of hooves and an anxious voice torn between coaxing and cursing. She quickened her pace.
Turning the corner she came into the smooth flagged courtyard that was bounded on three sides by buildings that Rgoric had had converted into stables suitable for her fine Riddin horses. The upper floors of the building protruded on to arched columns to form a covered walkway and, wandering in and out of the columns, was the source of the small commotion. A High Guard cadet was trying to take the reins of a large horse but the animal kept snatching its head away and then either walking round the columns or gently nudging its would-be captor sideways.
The boy was red-faced with frustration and despair, and an increasing amount of abuse was seeping into his language as he spoke to the animal. Sylvriss smiled at the sight: the boy must have saddled the horse for her and then tried to sneak a ride on it. Then her smile faded as the horse emerged calmly out of the shadow to avoid another lunge by the boy.
It was undeniably a Muster horse, but it was un-kempt and thinner than it should have been, and it was not one of hers.
The cadet saw her and stopped his weary pursuit to salute; there was no guilt in his manner.
‘I’m sorry, Majesty,’ he said plaintively. ‘It was here when I arrived. I don’t know where it’s come from, or who it belongs to and I just can’t get hold of it.’
‘It’s all right,’ Sylvriss said reassuringly, quietly walking up to the horse. It watched her, unmoving.
‘It’s a Muster horse like one of yours, isn’t it, Maj-esty?’ the cadet said.
Sylvriss nodded absently as she stared at the horse, her eyes widening with recognition. ‘It’s more than a Muster horse,’ she said softly, almost to herself.
‘You’re Hawklan’s horse, aren’t you?’ she whispered as she laid her hand on the great horse’s neck. ‘You’re Serian.’
Serian dipped his head and shook it.
The question, where is Hawklan? rushed into Sylvriss’s mind suddenly, but she set it aside with practicalities. ‘And you’re famished and filthy,’ she said.
She signalled to the cadet. ‘Open the big stable, move the other horses, get food and water and bring me a brush and comb,’ she said. The boy gaped. ‘Quickly!’ she said urging him on with a wave of the hand.