‘Sorry,’ Oslang replied unapologetically, and the two men burst out laughing.
Finally, Loman, with Sylvriss and her father and the Lords, rode along the length of the army. It took them some time and when they returned to the centre, the damp, unpleasant air of Narsindal rang to the sound of cheering-a sound the like of which it had not heard in countless generations.
As the Queen and her son returned to the camp with her escort, Loman pulled on a grim helm, and began to ride slowly forward.
Commands echoed along the line and the great army began to move after him.
It began to rain again.
Serian craned forward and examined the armoured figure in front of him intently, then he pranced a little, uncertain.
‘Will you carry me?’ the figure asked.
Serian pranced again, then bowed his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, knowing that the figure would hear him truly.
From the shelter of a cluster of gnarled and dying trees, Isloman gazed from side to side along the road. Then he moved from his hiding place and walked on to the road and looked again.
Satisfied, he signalled and, stealthily, the others ran forward to join him.
‘At least the mist is on our side now,’ he said as they set off.
Hawklan and Andawyr exchanged glances. From now, their whole venture would be balanced more finely than a sword standing on its point. They had moved along by the side of the road for as long as they could, but the ground had become increasingly marshy and now they had no alternative but to use the road itself. Yatsu, Tel-Odrel and Lorac had salvaged what they could of their Mathidrin uniforms and Hawklan had donned that of the Captain they had killed.
‘You are slave gatherers from the mines,’ Byroc told them, tapping an insignia on Hawklan’s uniform.
‘Which means you’re not highly thought of, as far as we can tell, but at least you’re a Captain,’ Yatsu added.
Hawklan nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said, adding needlessly, ‘Stay aware, all of you.’
As they walked, the road widened considerably, and twice it gave them the opportunity to hide rather than test their crude disguises. On both occasions a group of mounted Mathidrin trotted out of the mist, to be followed by a large column of armed Mandrocs. Hawklan and the others, having heard the approach, lay flat at the foot of the wide shallow embankments that led down from the road.
The exercise demonstrated the correctness of By-roc’s advice as they found themselves lying immediately adjacent to what appeared to be a field of lush, tufted vegetation which extended away from them into the mist. A single step however, disabused them of any thoughts of travelling along this seemingly solid turf, as it yielded immediately with clinging relish, and emitted an appalling stench.
The smell of decay indeed pervaded everything, and occasionally the mist thinned out to show beyond the vegetation a dark glistening surface which seemed to be both still and uneasily mobile. In the distance, faint flickering lights could sometimes be seem, and from time to time, strange noises came softly out of the encompassing greyness; splashing, slithering, bubbling.
Indeed, Hawklan frequently felt live things reaching out to him, but there was a quality about them so unnatural that he could do no other than turn away.
‘What’s the matter?’ Isloman asked him at one point, but Hawklan just shook his head. ‘Corruption,’ he answered. ‘Beyond any help I can offer.’
Then a dense mist, barely waist-high, spilled over on to the road so that for a while they seemed to be wading through a shallow lake.
‘Walk slowly. Do not disturb it,’ Byroc said, without amplification.
After a while, it seemed to Hawklan that although the road was flat, he was straining up some great slope.
‘How much further?’ Hawklan asked Byroc.
‘Not far,’ came the reply, but it was from Andawyr not the Mandroc. Hawklan turned round to look at him. The Cadwanwr’s face was grey with strain.
Hawklan signalled the group to stop and put his arm around Andawyr to support him. Andawyr however, waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘It’s just that His presence is more appalling than I could have imagined.’ His face lightened momentarily. ‘But His Will is elsewhere. We must hurry. We must take Him while His attention is towards the army.’
‘Allow us then to escort you to His presence.’
The voice was harsh and cold, and came out of the mist ahead.
Chapter 32
Loman and the four Lords surveyed the enemy line as the army drew nearer. It was truly enormous. Loman thought of a debate they had held at Anderras Darion concerning the social disruption involved in fielding a large army. They had concluded that Narsindal had become a warrior state and that to delay attacking it would benefit Sumeral and drain themselves. It had been one of the many small milestones they had passed on the journey to this point.
And the conclusion had been largely correct, Loman thought. Except that they had not foreseen the awful flux that Sumeral would have used to join together the many disparate and quarrelsome Mandroc tribes. Oklar had almost destroyed the Fyordyn by slow and subtle corruption of their ancient, civilized, ways from within. Creost had unified the semi-civilized Morlider by a combination of traditional tribal brute force, and self-interest against a common foe. Sumeral, however, so Oslang surmised from his observations of the night-raiding Mandrocs, had united the Mandrocs by becoming a god to them as He had during the First Coming.
Thus, obedience to His word would transcend all independent thought, all reason, all past traditions, everything. It was as savage and cruel an invention as war itself and its effectiveness was a shuddering affirmation of the power of ignorance. Who knew now what empty promises filled the minds of these de-mented creatures as they hurled themselves so frenziedly on to their enemies swords?
A rider came into view. It was Yengar, bringing final details of the enemy’s disposition.
Loman raised his hand.
Commands echoed along the line and there was sound like the retreat of a wave down a pebbled beach as the advancing army halted. The forest of raised pikes wavered momentarily, like a field of tall grasses shaken by a sudden wind, then the air was full of the sound of thousands of waiting people, and the steadily falling rain.
Yengar saluted Loman and the Lords. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ he said. ‘One huge line of infantry, mainly Mandrocs, fronted by a pike line, and flanked by Mathidrin cavalry-of sorts-perhaps only a fifth of our cavalry strength. And a few archers.’
Loman nodded. ‘What about the discipline of their infantry?’ he asked.
‘Minimal, as far as we can tell,’ Yengar replied. ‘There seem to be one or two orderly pike phalanxes. Ex-militia and High Guard probably, but I think the intention is to overwhelm us by sheer numbers.’
Loman looked at Yengar closely. ‘That much we envisaged, but you seem more uneasy than that,’ he said.
Yengar pulled a wry face. ‘Something’s not what it seems,’ he replied. ‘But I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Be explicit, Goraidin,’ Eldric said, frowning a little, but Loman raised a cautionary hand.
‘Let it go for the moment, Yengar,’ he said casually as he turned round to look at the Cadwanwr. Armed and armoured at Loman’s express command, and to their own initial amusement, they were situated amongst the rearguard infantry and were quite indistinguishable from the rest of the troops.
Loman made a small hand signal and Oslang re-plied.
No attack had been launched by the Uhriel.
Loman turned back to Yengar thoughtfully.
‘Did you see the Uhriel?’ he asked.
Uncharacteristically for a Goraidin making a formal report, Yengar’s reply betrayed his own feelings. ‘Yes,’ he said, almost snarling. He pointed, but even for Loman it was difficult to make out individuals. ‘All three are standing in the centre as we are here, but riding… ’ His lip curled; Loman waited. ‘… things… things that might have been horses, once.’