In the command tent, Hawklan was not too con-cerned at the change in the weather. ‘We’ve made good progress so far,’ he said. ‘Very few accidents, no animals lost, and morale good.’
Loman was less sanguine. ‘A situation that could change very quickly if we get stuck here for any length of time,’ he said.
Hawklan nodded. ‘There’s no question of that,’ he replied unequivocally. ‘This weather won’t be keeping the Morlider away. We rise early tomorrow and we move forward, regardless. Everyone’s well-equipped and fit, and we can’t afford to dawdle. If anyone objects, remind him that we haven’t the supplies and our friends haven’t the time to wait the weather’s whim.’
And move they did, for all the wind was screaming its relentless opposition. The way was too narrow and the line of march too long for Hawklan and the others to move to and fro offering encouragement, so each section had to maintain its station by the simple expedient of shouted or whistled signals. Hawklan expressly forbade the Alphraan to help. ‘You won’t be with us on the plains of Riddin,’ he said. ‘These disciplines must be well learned from the start.’
The strong wind blew for several days but, driven both by Hawklan’s will and his example, the Orthlundyn army plodded slowly and defiantly on, each individual, limbs aching with fatigue and head bowed against the pitiless wind, concentrating on the person immediately in front, trying not to wait for that precious instruction to halt and camp that would eventually drift out of the whirling din ahead.
Finally the wind seemed to lose heart and, subsid-ing, allowed distant peaks to come into view once more.
It was with no small relief that Hawklan clambered up on to a ridge and confirmed for himself that his army was still intact. He remained on the ridge as the long column wound slowly past him, then he walked its length from rearguard to vanguard, bringing his healing touch to bear where the blizzard had torn into the will of his people.
‘You’re quiet,’ Isloman said that night.
Hawklan chuckled ruefully. ‘I’m exhausted,’ he said. ‘That’s a long, thin army we’ve got out there.’
Surprisingly, more injuries occurred during the subsequent fine weather than during the blizzard. The worst was the loss of a young man in an act of foolish bravado on an icy ridge. His flailing, sickening progress down the steep cliff face was watched in silent, impotent horror by a thousand eyes until he finally disappeared from view. Then there was uproar and ropes were lifted down from horses.
‘No!’ Hawklan cried in distress. ‘He’s beyond our help now. We’ll find him when we return.’
But it was the gentle whispering voice of the Al-phraan that stilled the noise.
‘We will find and tend his body,’ it said. ‘Go on your way. Greater needs drive you.’
That same day, another had a leg broken trying to help a struggling horse up a slithering icy slope. Thence came a flurry of sprains, dislocations and bruises caused by falls, together with cases of frostbite, exposure and even some snow-blindness that had kept silent through the blizzard. Few of these reached Hawklan however, Tirilen and Gulda having ensured that each contingent had someone versed in healing. The consensus in the ranks was that some of these healers left a great deal to be desired, but equally this proved quite an effective incentive to staying careful and uninjured.
Along the journey, Hawklan noted the landmarks he had seen when he had travelled to Riddin during the spring: the hollow where he had been surprised by Loman and Isloman on his return; the high knoll where he had encountered the strange brown bird and, unknowingly, the Alphraan; the valley where he had met Jareg and the ailing Serian. Then finally they reached the long steep ascent where Gavor had mocked him as he came perspiring to the top and looked for the first time out across the Decmilloith of Riddin.
Now, of course, the scene was very different. The forests and farmlands, the hedges and roads, were buried beneath a great whiteness, soft and deceptive under a pale yellow sun. And behind him was no mountain silence, but the rumbling clamour of his labouring army. Some way below, he knew, was the place where he had seen the Viladrien. How strange, he thought, that one of those great cloud lands had reached out and drawn him hither again.
He turned and looked at his toiling people and then back at the white expanse of Riddin. Once he had held out his arms to receive this country’s harmony. Now, black on the skyline, he drew his sword and holding it high let out a great cry of defiance. Gavor, sitting on his head, flapped his powerful wings like a living helm. As Hawklan’s cry echoed around the valleys, it was taken up by the army who sent it ringing out until it seemed to fill the whole sky.
As they moved down through the gentler foothills fringing the mountains, the Orthlundyn encountered none of the Riddinvolk. The few small hamlets and farms they passed seemed to be deserted, though there were fresh hoof prints in the snow to indicate that they had been visited recently.
‘Where is everybody?’ Hawklan asked Agreth.
The Riddinwr looked puzzle. ‘Urthryn must have called a General Muster,’ he said. ‘That means everyone has been mobilized.’
‘Everyone?’ Hawklan said.
Agreth nodded. ‘Even the sick and the incompetent have a task in the General Muster,’ he said. ‘The people from these farms and small villages will have moved to one of the bigger villages nearby. The livestock will be being tended by runners in rota. They’ll all be helping, planning… it’ll be a great sharing… ’ Though he was trying to affect casualness, he could not keep the emotion from his voice.
‘This is not usual?’ Hawklan said, more statement than question.
Agreth shook his head slowly. ‘Not even in the War was the General Muster called.’ Almost as if he could not help himself, he swung up on to his horse and, standing in the stirrups, stared out over the white landscape.
‘My people,’ he whispered softly to himself, then dismounted.
‘What does it mean?’ Hawklan asked.
Agreth shook his head again. ‘It means that Urth-ryn’s committed the entire nation to the destruction of this enemy. It means total and utter war. But as to what’s happened, I just don’t know. We’ll have to wait until we meet someone.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Well, let’s march,’ he said. ‘If we’re needed, we’re needed now. If we come upon a Morlider victory celebration then we’ll give your people vengeance, if we come upon your own victory celebra-tion then so much the better.’
Agreth looked fretful and Hawklan laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll be with your people soon,’ he said. ‘And you’ll have our swords by your side. Lead on.’
Agreth frowned in self-reproach. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Don’t think me a churlish guest. It’s just that all this… has taken me by surprise. I… ’
He stopped and with an effort quelled the turmoil inside himself. ‘Until we find out what’s happened I suggest we send out Dacu and the Helyadin as scouts,’ he said, his voice purposeful. ‘The rest of us can follow the route we’ve discussed previously.’
Hawklan smiled and motioned to Loman to trans-mit this advice as an order. ‘As you command, Line Leader,’ he said.
Riddin was criss-crossed with wide, well-made roads and though these were for the most part snow-filled, the Orthlundyn found themselves making excellent progress after the leg-aching toil through the moun-tains.
Together with Loman and Isloman, Hawklan rode up and down the line, encouraging the marchers, looking at the few sick and injured and subtly assessing the condition of the whole army. As the light began to fail, Dacu returned with the Helyadin.
‘There’s no signs of hostile activity,’ he announced, dismounting and walking alongside Hawklan. ‘In fact the only place we’ve seen any activity at all is in the village about an hour’s march down the road.’
Hawklan looked up at the darkening sky and then at Agreth. ‘Ride ahead and announce us, Agreth,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to be attacked in the dark by some startled militia. Go with him, Dacu, Athyr, in case there’s news we need to know quickly.’