‘So the line of the Lords of the Iron Ring runs still,’ Gulda said, significantly.
Sylvriss raised a wry eyebrow. ‘This is Rgoric’s son, without a doubt,’ she said. ‘But before him, who can say who got in amongst the mares.’
The two women chuckled conspiratorially.
‘Why are you here, and not helping guide this army, Memsa?’ Sylvriss asked.
Gulda did not look up from the child. ‘My help isn’t needed for that any more,’ she said. ‘The Lords and your father are more than capable of doing what’s necessary with Loman’s Orthlundyn sight to guide them. I just potter about the hospital tent helping Tirilen and lusting after the young men.’
Sylvriss burst out laughing and for a moment could not reply. ‘You’ve obviously got too little to do,’ she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But you don’t deceive me, Memsa Gulda, you’re hiding from me and I can see you, whoever you are.’
The tears were suddenly a mixture of laughter and bewildered sadness.
‘Why are you here, Queen?’ Gulda asked blandly, ignoring the comment. ‘In this awful land, and with Fyorlund’s heir?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sylvriss answered. ‘Hawklan’s horse needed to be here. Why I brought… ’
Gulda looked up. ‘Serian brought you?’ she said without waiting for Sylvriss to finish.
Sylvriss nodded and briefly volunteered the story of the horse’s mysterious appearance at the Palace and their subsequent journey into Narsindal.
‘Well, well,’ Gulda said incuriously when she had finished. ‘How odd.’
She handed the baby back to Sylvriss with a smile. ‘He’s a fine child,’ she said. ‘I’m truly happy for you.’ Then, abruptly, she began ushering Sylvriss gently towards the entrance of the tent. ‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me now, my dear, I’m afraid all this marching has made me rather tired, and I’ll need to catch some sleep. We’ll be breaking camp early tomorrow as usual.’
As she held open the entrance, she looked intently at Sylvriss. ‘You did well to trust the horse, girl!’ she said. ‘But have the armourer fit mail around this.’ She fingered the sling. ‘And sleep in your boots and riding clothes, and with your sword by your side, until this is over. We’re nearly there, but we’ve all got harsh and dangerous times ahead.’
Closing the entrance behind the Queen, Gulda turned round pensively. Then she moved towards a long chest by her bed and producing a key from her gown, unlocked it.
As Sylvriss walked away from the tent, four large men emerged discreetly from the shadows. ‘Majesty, Loman has asked us to protect you,’ one of them said. For an instant Sylvriss considered protesting, but apart from the fact that she had the child to protect she knew that if she had no bodyguard then a far greater number of her subjects and countrymen than four would be distracted from their duties by fulfilling the role secretly.
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said. ‘That would be most reassuring.’
The Mandroc attack that night was worse than usual, and Sylvriss was glad of the four silent figures about her tent as the air began to fill with the relentless chanting of the Mandrocs and the shouted commands of the defenders. Eventually, though the baby seemed undisturbed by the noise, she took it from its crib and lay with it in her arms, staring up at the roof of the tent lit by the soft torchlight, and listening to the furore outside until it merged into her dreams like the sound of a distant, pounding, ocean. Somewhere in them floated the faint memory of an awed remark she had once heard: ‘The Memsa never sleeps.’
Aelang dismounted and looked around at the deserted slave camp. He needed no trackers to tell him there had been a battle here. The area had been cleared, but the dark skeins criss-crossing the stone streets were unmistakably bloodstains. Besides, it stank of it in some way.
‘Find the bodies,’ he said. ‘Let’s see how good these people really are.’
Within minutes the bodies of the ill-fated Mandroc patrol had been discovered in a windowless room in one of the buildings. Aelang showed a little surprise at the number but then examined them dispassionately. ‘Slave gatherers from the mines,’ he said. ‘Out-shot and out-fought by the look of it. Skilled hunters indeed, our quarry-we must be careful of ambush.’
As he turned to leave, the Mandroc standing next to him let out a piercing yell. Mindful of his last remark, Aelang spun round, drawing his sword as he did, and bracing himself for an attack.
But there was no attack. The Mandroc was pointing at the pile of bodies. Aelang frowned; what was it howling about? They’d all seen and done worse than this to their own kind themselves.
Then he saw the bodies of the two priests killed by Byroc, their heads crushed in. He swore to himself. That was a heretic Mandroc killing and it could drive even his elite troops here into an uncontrollable frenzy if he didn’t act quickly.
The Mandroc was beginning to roll its eyes and stamp its feet. Without hesitation, Aelang killed it with a single thrust of his sword. As he withdrew the blade he pushed the body so that it fell on top of the dead priests, then he turned round furiously on the other Mandrocs.
‘Get out and form up!’ he thundered offering them the smoking blade menacingly.
There was no debate. Aelang’s savage and arbitrary discipline was as legendary amongst the Mandrocs as it was amongst the Mathidrin. No explanation would be given for his conduct; the Mandroc had offended in some way and been duly punished. To question the Commander’s action would be to incur the same punishment.
Aelang slammed the doors behind him and set off towards the edge of the camp. He signalled to the trackers to move ahead.
Within a few minutes, however, they returned to him. ‘They continue north, towards His Citadel, Great is His name, His will be done.’
Aelang finished wiping his sword. He cast away the small bruised sheaf of harsh grass then looked north and smiled, his canine teeth sharp in the grey daylight. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we need only go to the west.’
Sylvriss surveyed the destruction the next day as the camp was being broken. Outside the rudimentary palisade lay scores of dead Mandrocs, and fatigue details were hauling them away and recovering arrows and spears. Occasionally a knife was drawn to dispatch some badly wounded individual. Sylvriss started forward the first time she saw this, but Loman laid a hand on her arm.
‘We can’t tend them,’ he said sadly. ‘We tried at first, but once they gain the least strength, they’ll try to kill anything that comes near.’
Sylvriss grimaced but made no comment. It was an unpleasant enough task for those involved without her displeasure adding to it.
She mounted her hitherto favourite horse. The ani-mal had galloped faithfully behind with the remounts while she had ridden from Vakloss on Serian and now it reacted with pleasure as she settled into the saddle. Sylvriss felt like a faithless lover as she stroked its neck affectionately, for though the affection was genuine, her mind was full of the mystery of riding Hawklan’s now vanished black horse.
Initially, with well-disguised reluctance, she took her place with the baggage train, Hylland and her four bodyguards riding escort. After a while however, she was trotting up and down the huge column, talking, laughing, encouraging.
Loman turned and smiled as she approached. ‘Lady,’ he said. ‘You’re the only thing so far that’s managed to bring some lightness into this weary land. Just look at it.’
Sylvriss looked around. As ever, the mist obscured the horizons, but it held none of the mellowing haziness that might be expected. Sometimes it would be sparse, grey, and chill, fading coldly into the dull sky; at others it would be dense and white or, worse, yellow and clinging to the ground as if trying to suffocate it or obscure some approaching menace. And it seemed to shift and change to some eerie law of its own, tendrils seeping forward and then retreating, or reaching up into the sky like eyeless spies.