Morale had wavered initially, but the perimeter fortifications which had been built each night with much grumbling had demonstrated their worth admirably, and Loman and the Lords had been able to change these strangely desperate forays by the enemy into valuable training exercises.
As a result, the Mandrocs suffered heavy casualties with little to show for their pains. Yet, despite the losses, the attacks continued and, in fact, they were becoming progressively more severe as the army moved further northwards. Such determination and such an indiffer-ence to life on the part of the enemy was a grim portent, and one which was burdening Loman profoundly. Looking at his companions, he raised this concern with them for the first time.
There was an odd silence when he had finished and Loman had the feeling that these four foreigners were communing with one another in some silent fashion.
‘Urthryn doesn’t like his people manning the fences. He’s bursting to go after the Mandrocs during the day on reprisal raids. And the Helyadin want to find their camps and attack them pre-emptively,’ Hreldar said eventually. ‘Give them their head.’
There was a note in Hreldar’s voice which Loman could not identify at first. Then, quite suddenly, his foreboding was gone; despite themselves, and perhaps even unknowingly, these four old friends were anxious about this outlander commanding their army.
‘No,’ he said unequivocally. ‘If we send people out into this country we’ll be giving the enemy an advan-tage. They might find the odd camp and do some damage, but at what cost?’ He looked around at the four Lords. ‘We’ve agreed that it’s highly probable we’ve been drawn into this conflict so that Sumeral could fight a defensive war and destroy His most powerful enemies with one single campaign. We march knowing that. If now He chooses to attack and allow us the advantage of defence, then that’s fine-we’ll make the most of that advantage.’
He grimaced as the next words formed in his mind but, increasingly now, he knew that he must deliberately detach himself from the personal agonies of the individual soldiers and the price they must pay for this horror both now and in their future lives. He must concern himself with the broader cruel realities that those same soldiers demanded of him to ensure that they would have a future. Further, he must separate himself a little from these four stalwart leaders if he was to obtain their total support.
He went on, speaking as he knew Hawklan would. ‘The simple fact is that every Mandroc that dies here can’t fight us again. And, to be blunt, it’s important that our troops get plenty of practice at hand to hand killing, and winning; the Muster not least. That’s why I’ve got them manning the perimeter. After what happened in Riddin they’ve been wearing their sense of failure like a wet cloak and it’s been destroying their morale.’
The atmosphere in the tent eased perceptibly.
Loman moved in to finish his task. ‘I don’t mind your doubts about me, Lords,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly stern. ‘I take them as a sign of trust and affection. And, despite the opinion of your Queen and Hawklan, leaders of men such as yourselves would be rare fools not to be concerned about a bumpkin horse shoer from sleepy Orthlund suddenly given charge of this vast army. But in future, do as I do, speak your doubts to me as they occur. I knew I could speak freely to you here of the vague darkness looming in my mind, and that I would be heard and helped. In such manner we will win this war.’
Eldric lowered his gaze and there was an uncom-fortable silence in the tent for some time.
‘I’m sorry-we’re sorry,’ he said when he looked up. ‘You shame us.’
Loman waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, Lords,’ he said. ‘Sometimes doubts come because you are seeing the uncertainties more clearly, and there’s no shame to be had in seeing the truth, and accepting it.’
He leaned forward before any of them could reply. ‘Know this truth, Lords,’ he said, quietly, but with chilling force. ‘As we near this creature’s lair and as we pile up His soldiers dead by the wayside, I am set on our original intention more strongly than ever. We march straight forward, to His very throne, and through His corrupt heart. If anything chooses to stand in our way we will crush it as completely as we can and at as little cost to ourselves as our combined wits and ingenuity can allow. This is no more than His intention for us, and nothing less on our part will suffice.’
Flat on his stomach at the top of a small rise, Hawklan looked at the distant clutter of buildings, colourless and drab in the grey dawn. ‘I didn’t think your people lived in villages,’ he said to Byroc.
Byroc shook his head. ‘That is one of His slave places,’ he said. ‘Where weapons and other things are made. We must pass by carefully. There will be many black ones there and probably stinking Dowynai Vraen priests.’ Hawklan shot him a sidelong glance. The Mandroc was trembling with rage and it seemed that at any moment he might leap up and charge into the camp to wreak what slaughter he could before he perished. It was a response he would have to watch for carefully.
‘Control your anger, Byroc,’ he said, his voice like ice. ‘Or go your own way, now.’
Byroc’s eyes narrowed viciously. ‘You do not under-stand,’ he growled after a moment.
‘I, above all, understand the loss of a people,’ Hawk-lan replied. ‘Save your anger for the true creator of your ills.’
Dacu interrupted. ‘Do you want me to find a way round?’ he asked.
Hawklan nodded, but Byroc grunted. ‘I know the way,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ And, without waiting for any debate, he wriggled backwards down the slope until he could stand without being seen from the slave camp. Hawklan and the others followed.
For some time they followed a wide circular route around the camp which took them through increasingly wet ground. After they had jumped over several rancid-smelling ditches, Byroc stopped, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘This place has changed,’ he said. ‘And it stinks of His work. We must turn back.’
Hawklan looked down at the unpleasant mud cling-ing to his boots. It was black, with streaks of white running through it, and it was unlike anything he had ever seen before.
‘Let’s go a little further,’ he said. ‘It may be drier up ahead.’
Reluctantly Byroc agreed, and the party moved off again. They were soon brought to a halt, however, as they suddenly found themselves at the edge of a vast swamp-like area, flooded to a large extent by a black liquid. Several areas of tufted vegetation stood above the liquid but they were blackened as if they had been scorched, and the few trees that could be seen were not only leafless and stunted, but also a ghastly white.
‘They’re like the hands of drowned men,’ someone said into the sudden silence.
Hawklan bent down and looked out over the silent black surface. It was alive with shimmering iridescence.
Cautiously he moved forward, but he had gone scarcely four paces when his foot sank into the ground and suddenly he stumbled.
Several hands seized him immediately and dragged him back before he could fall. The ground released his foot with a noisy lingering slither and a foul smell rose into the air.
Coughing and choking, the group retreated in dis-order. When they stopped, Hawklan’s flesh was crawling. ‘What is that?’ he said, turning to Andawyr wide-eyed.
The Cadwanwr shook his head but nodded towards Byroc. ‘His work,’ he said, echoing the Mandroc’s remark. ‘Keep away from it.’
It was an unnecessary warning. Everyone was pale-faced and shocked. ‘It’s an obscenity,’ Athyr said, holding his stomach uncertainly. ‘Who could do such a thing, even to a benighted countryside like this?’