Until the time of his meeting with Isloman and Athyr, he knew that he must wander the camp, talking, laughing, encouraging, commiserating, but, above all, quietly inspiring the Orthlundyn army-his army-with the deep resolution that alone could bring it against the superior numbers of the Morlider with any chance of success.
His pilgrimage took him through tent after tent, each standing dark and sullen in the fading winter light but inside glowing with subdued torchlight and filled with men and women, honing edges, testing bow strings, checking shields, armour, belts and buckles. Some were quiet and thoughtful, others were talking more loudly than usual and laughing too easily. But few needed his words. The Orthlundyn know what they face and what they need to meet it, he realized. It heartened him. Who supports whom? he thought. Perhaps, after all, he was no more than one man in the Orthlundyn army.
The camp’s small administrative centre was frantic with activity, as were the stores, and a mere glance told him he was not needed in either place. The kitchens were pursuing their normal routines uncertainly, but there he could be of no help anyway.
Only towards the end of his brief journey did he feel his resolve tested: twice.
As he entered the hospital tent, the two duty healers rose to greet him. They were smiling, but a subtle reproach hung in the air. How can you be both healer and warrior, Hawklan? it said. You know the scenes that will be enacted here soon, as smashed and broken bodies are dragged in from the battlefield in hope of repair or solace, or at worst, an easier death; bodies that have walked and run, slept, eaten, loved. And followed you.
There was no answer other than that he and those with him were there by choice and knowing at least some of the truth.
It offered little comfort.
He placed his arms around the shoulders of the two women. ‘Don’t be afraid of your anger,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it to mend some of the ills that you’ll see soon. Use it.’
Leaving the hospital tent he wandered absently for a few minutes before finding himself by the stables. Someone inside was singing softly. Entering, he saw that the singer was a lanky youth grooming one of the horses. At the sound of Hawklan’s footsteps in the straw the youth turned and, recognizing him, smiled awk-wardly.
But as their eyes met the youth looked away sud-denly.
‘What’s the matter?’ Hawklan asked.
The youth’s hand fidgeted with the grooming brush, then, suddenly he said. ‘I’m frightened, Hawklan.’
‘Good,’ Hawklan replied, almost automatically. ‘Your fear will help keep you alive.’
The youth looked at him suspiciously. He put down the brush gently on a nearby stool and twisted from side to side, his whole body denying Hawklan’s words.
‘It’s not the same, Hawklan,’ he said fearfully. ‘Not the same as training and talking at home.’ Then, abruptly, ‘I don’t want to die,’ he said. ‘Or be… maimed. And I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t think I can. I… don’t want to be here… freezing, frightened and days from home.’
The brief flow stopped and the youth turned round and began to stroke one of the horses nervously. Hawklan looked at him, his own conscience made flesh.
‘You’re not alone in that,’ he said quietly, after a pause. ‘What else are you frightened of?’
The youth turned back to Hawklan sharply, oddly unbalanced by the question. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ he said.
‘Speak all your fears,’ Hawklan said, ignoring the question.
For a long moment the youth stared at him, then he seemed to become more composed. ‘I don’t want to see my friends killed,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be responsi-ble for their deaths. Suppose I… fail them in some way; slip, stumble, forget a drill when I’m in the line and break it… ’
Hawklan looked down. Something in the youth’s manner touched him deeply. These last remarks were only a hastily snatched garment to cover the naked truth of the previous outburst. But it did not matter. The youth’s fear taunted him. He had many skills he could use to lift the morale of his people when it proved necessary; skills that would ease burdens and carry the bearer boldly into battle. But now they had a hollow ring to them; Hawklan recognized the mocking residue of their original creator’s teaching.
Here he could use none of them.
Reaching out, he stroked the horse as the youth had been doing. ‘You won’t,’ he said simply. ‘Will you?’ It was all he could offer.
Leaving the stable, Hawklan continued on to the command tent. Tirke and Yrain were there with Isloman and Athyr, poring over a plan of the Morlider camp. Both radiated a mixture of relief and exhilaration at their first silent encounter with the enemy. Their mood lifted some of the darkness from Hawklan that his encounter with the youth had left. He smiled and as he had with the healers, laid a hand on the shoulder of each as a token of welcome and understanding.
Yrain was marking on the plan the extent of the latest fortifications. Hawklan looked over her shoulder.
‘They’re nearly completed,’ he said unnecessarily when she had finished.
Isloman ran his finger over the plan. ‘Apart from this uncompleted end here, there are four openings,’ he said. ‘None of which is gated so far. The ground’s well compacted by now. We should be able to get in and out quickly in the confusion.’
Hawklan frowned uncertainly.
‘They’re not expecting anything,’ Isloman went on persuasively. ‘They’ve still not got guards out. They haven’t had any all the time we’ve been watching them.’
Hawklan nodded, and tapped his finger on the plan thoughtfully. ‘This uncompleted end is cluttered with tents and stores of some kind,’ he said. ‘Access is out of the question there. Then these gaps are a long way apart and none too wide. And for all they’ve no guards that we can see, we’ve no idea how quickly they’ll respond once things start to happen. You could find yourselves trapped in there and our hit and run attack could easily turn into a slaughter.’
The entrance of the command tent opened to admit Dacu and Loman.
Hawklan turned to Yrain. ‘Tell me about these pa-trols,’ he said. ‘Size, number, uniforms… ’ There was a little laughter at this last. The Morlider might perhaps be united in spirit and intent but they were as individu-ally and eccentrically dressed as could be imagined.
‘Single patrols, about twenty men strong, uniforms-well-wrapped, but casual,’ Yrain replied. ‘So far they’ve come out at irregular intervals and they seem to be following different routes. I think they’re just finding their way around.’
Hawklan thought for a moment. ‘Is there a patrol out now?’
Yrain nodded.
‘It’ll be dark when it returns?’ Hawklan continued.
Yrain nodded again.
Pitch-soaked torches burned smokily along the wooden palisade, throwing uneasy dancing shadows on to the nearby line of tents. Near to one of the four gaps in the long defensive paling a large fire burned. Four figures crouched around it. The sound of waves breaking over the shore in the near distance formed a constant bass harmony to their conversation.
‘What’s he doing down there any way?’ said one irritably. ‘Why’ve we all got to sit up here freezing our backsides in the snow while he and his fancy guards swan around down south somewhere.’
His neighbour kicked him, none too gently. ‘Shut up, you blockhead,’ he said, looking around anxiously. ‘This place is full of those big-eared Vierlanders, and a comment like that could see you discussing your complaint with him face to face.’
The first speaker rubbed his leg and made a dispar-aging noise. ‘So what?’ he muttered.
His companion looked round hastily then seized him roughly and pulled him forward. ‘I’ll tell you so-what, fish-brain,’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘He’ll boil your blood in your veins with a look, that’s what. I’ve seen him do it.’ He shuddered and released his charge. ‘Personally I don’t give a crab’s fart about that, but he’s liable to do it to us as well for not skewering you on the spot. Now shut up.’