Isloman nodded, and drew out a sharpening stone. Within minutes, the edge glinted and shone in the low torchlight, and so did Byroc’s eyes as he received it back. As he hefted it menacingly, he bared his teeth in a predatory grimace.
‘Almost as good as Loman could do with such poor metal,’ Isloman said. ‘Even though I shouldn’t say it. Anyone else?’
When the party broke camp, there was not an edged weapon amongst them that did not bear the touch that had sharpened the chisels of Orthlund’s master carver.
They abandoned the shelter and everything else that was unnecessary and, still following Byroc’s lead, set off silently into the damp, grey, mist.
It was a cold, grey morning that dawned on the allies’ camp two days after the Goraidin had brought the news about the army waiting for them. They had reached the central plain that same day and marched across it through the next. Except for occasional flurries of spiky, thorn-laden vegetation, it was featureless and drab terrain and, despite its openness, it offered no relief from the dank atmosphere that had pervaded their journey so far.
‘Another reason for speed,’ Loman mused to Eldric. ‘A long campaign in this place would sap the morale of even the finest soldiers.’
Eldric agreed. ‘It took no great subversion by Dan-Tor to engineer the abandonment of the Watch,’ he said ruefully.
There were no Mandroc attacks during the two nights they camped on the plain, though in the latter part of the second a long line of twinkling lights appeared on the northern horizon.
Eldric drew in a long hissing breath as he watched them. Yengar’s words kept returning to him. ‘Three, perhaps four times our number.’ One purpose of the Mandroc raids became clear to him. Hitherto, they had been creatures of terror in legend. Now they had been shown to be just such, in real flesh and blood. Oslang had pronounced that their reckless disregard for their own lives was probably due to their being possessed by some unholy religious fervour but that did nothing to allay the terrifying prospect of facing them in open combat. And so many of them!
Worse, lurking in the mists of Eldric’s thoughts, was the question: how many more of the enemy might be lurking in the mists of this benighted land?
Wilfully he repeated to himself Loman’s words to Urthryn. ‘We have bows, pikes and, above all, disci-pline.’ For a while before the dawn, his mood oscillated between fearful depression and exhilaration until, seemingly by accident, his hand touched the small carving that Isloman had given him as he and Sylvriss had prepared to leave his mountain stronghold.
He sat down and looked at it quietly in the subdued torchlight of his tent. It had such depth and, as he moved it slightly, so the image of Hawklan riding Serian seemed to move, or rather, to become alive. And yet it was only a few scratches on a piece of stone. In his mind he saw again Isloman astride Serian, supporting the unconscious Hawklan. ‘… and I only had my knifepoint… ’ the carver had said.
A few scratches, yet… so much; the wisdom and skill of generations.
He slipped the disc back into his pocket and found his mind full of the battle for Vakloss; how the army had force marched across Fyorlund to travel to the heart of its enemy like an arrow, and how, like the point of that arrow, he and his cavalry had crashed through the broken militia straight towards the distant figure of Dan-Tor.
His wavering concerns vanished and, though still fearful, he became calmer. Stepping outside his tent he went to join Loman on a small watch-tower. Together they stood staring out at the lights filling the distant horizon.
Then Loman turned to him. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked simply.
Eldric nodded and took out the carving. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve just won the hardest part of my battle. Now we go straight for their heart.’
Loman took the disc and looked at it for a long moment.
‘One day, I think my brother may look at this, and the one he gave the Queen, and say that for all their simplicity, they’re his finest works,’ he said. Then he smiled. ‘But then, as he’d doubtless remind me, I’m no great judge of carving,’ he said mocking himself gently. ‘Suffice it that he tells us now that he’s here with us, and Hawklan, and Serian.’
Then the camp was alive with activity.
The Goraidin and Helyadin came and went with their information about the enemy behind and the enemy ahead.
The cavalry-Muster, High Guard and Orthlundyn-checked their weapons and their horses and became one-more or less.
Tirilen walked among the healers in the hospital tent and, from somewhere, found a quietness to help them face the bloody ordeal that must come. Gavor’s feather, wilted and worn now, still adorned her green gown.
Quartermasters looked harassed.
Engineers checked the palisade and earthworks around the camp.
Bows were strung and tested, spare strings stowed safely, supplies of arrows confirmed with the runners. Slingers loosened their wrists and pocketed, ‘… just a few extra shot, Sirshiant.’ Cautiously, countless cold thumbs tested countless sharp edges-swords, knifes, axes. Long pikes were hefted and grips bound and rebound. Shield straps were adjusted, armours were wriggled into some degree of comfort.
Some ate, some did not. Some sat silent, some swore, some wept-briefly. Some laughed-too much. Some checked their equipment-yet again.
All were afraid, but all would go forward.
Loman stood for a long time with Eldric on the watch-tower, watching the commotion. Relentlessly he willed his spirit into the vast gathering. And indeed, through all the ranks ran many of his words: ‘Remember your drills… your orders… watch, listen… keep your wits about you, and use them… discipline and trust in your neighbour will win us the day… discipline and trust in your neighbour will sustain you even if your courage falters for the moment… don’t be afraid to be afraid, it’ll keep you alive… it’ll fire your anger… ’
He wondered as he watched. The Riddinvolk and the Fyordyn had their military traditions, yet somehow it was the Orthlundyn and their unforeseen new aptitude that formed the heart of the army. An army whose members could fight as one, or in groups, or as individuals. An army whose every member knew why he or she was there.
This is a fine tool you’ve made, smith, he thought, both sincerely and with bitter irony. Now use it as you must; as it deserves to be used.
Eventually he moved to the Command Tent and the final tactics of the day were agreed in the light of the information brought by the Goraidin and the Helyadin. They needed little debate; tactics had been discussed and rehearsed endlessly and were understood at every level throughout the army. There could be no other way; communication across the battlefield, however well considered in advance, would almost certainly be disrupted once battle proper was joined; leaders and officers might be killed, or companies separated. ‘Use your judgement as need arises. Have no fear, it’ll be the same as mine,’ Eldric had said before the battle for Vakloss. Now Loman echoed it.
As the various officers left, Loman turned his atten-tion to the gathered Cadwanwr.
‘Are you prepared, my friends?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Oslang replied quietly.
Loman shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m at a loss to know what to say to you,’ he said. ‘We’ll protect you from the fray, as far as we can protect ourselves, but… ’ He shrugged again.
‘Thank you,’ Oslang replied. ‘That’s all you can do for us and it’s important to us.’ He smiled and put his hand on Loman’s shoulder with unexpected purposeful-ness. ‘Have no fear for us,’ he said. ‘Like the Orthlundyn, we’re not what we were but months ago. We’re soldiers now, also. And we’ve every intention of both defeating our foe and coming away alive.’
Loman smiled in return, and echoed their earlier conversation. ‘I’m supposed to be the warrior here, wise man,’ he said.