Chastened, the first speaker stirred the fire with his foot. A shower of sparks rose up through the falling snow.
‘I meant no disrespect,’ he said awkwardly and more as if for the benefit of any listeners in the darkness around the fire than out of genuine regret. ‘But I came to kill Riddinvolk, not sit shivering behind a wooden fence at the top end of nowhere.’
‘There’ll be plenty of time for killing, don’t you fret,’ replied another, older than most of the others. He drew a long knife and turned it over longingly. ‘The Chief knows what he’s doing. That’s why we’ve got decent tents, clothes, food; so that we can wait. Not like last time. Men’s feet and hands turning black. Dying screaming in the night, or worse, just going… quiet… and lying down in the snow waiting to die. Trying to fight those damned horse riders and those poxed inlanders from over the mountains with your hands too cold to feel your sword; the chiefs quarrelling like old women and everyone fretting in case the islands moved off along the ways too soon.’
He spat into the fire and bared his teeth. The fire-light bounced menacingly off his twisting knife. ‘None of that this time. This time we take this land.’ He paused and nodded reflectively. ‘I’ve some rare scores to settle I can tell you, and I intend to enjoy them. I’ve waited twenty years-a little longer’s neither here nor there.’
Any further debate was precluded by the arrival through the opening of a group of men heavily muffled and hooded in furs.
The man with the knife looked up. ‘About time,’ he said unpleasantly. ‘Where the devil have you been? We’ve been freezing to death waiting for you.’
The new arrivals moved towards the fire eagerly, with much hand rubbing and foot stamping. The man watched them as they approached, then he leaned forward a little, his eyes narrowed, trying to peer into the darkness of the leader’s hood.
Suddenly his hand curled around the handle of his knife and he started to rise. ‘You’re not… ’
Before he could finish, a sword emerged from the leader’s fur coat and ran him through. There was not a flicker of hesitation in the deed, nor in the hand that shot out to silence any cry he might make. Before his knife had tumbled onto the snow, others from the group had killed the remaining three guards with the same ruthless expedition.
‘Guards after all,’ Athyr said. ‘I hope the others are all right.’ He looked down at the dead men. ‘Still, first and last duty for this lot. Prop them up quickly and gather round as if you’re warming yourselves.’ He wiped his sword on the dead man’s coat and looked at Tirke. ‘See what’s happened to the others,’ he said.
The young Fyordyn hesitated. The blood-stained sword in his hand was shaking.
‘Tirke!’ Athyr hissed angrily.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tirke said starting. ‘When I pulled my sword out, his… ’
‘Later.’ Athyr’s voice was both understanding and grimly unequivocal. ‘You did well. You killed him before he knew what was happening, quickly and quietly; that’s all that matters here. Keep it that way and we’ll get back to camp safely.’
Tirke nodded awkwardly. ‘By numbers,’ he said.
Athyr patted him on the arm. ‘By numbers,’ he con-firmed. ‘Now, signal.’
Tirke ran to the palisade and looked up and down its length intently. Producing a small signalling torch he sent a brief message in both directions.
The Morlider patrol had been ambushed and groups of Helyadin, suitably disguised, had arrived simultane-ously at all four entrances in an attempt to ensure deep and silent penetration into the camp. Hawklan had told them to prepare for guards, but nonetheless they had been an unpleasant surprise.
‘Groups one and three are all right,’ he said, return-ing to Athyr.’ But group four’s met some resistance.’
Even as he spoke the faint sound of raised voices in the distance reached them. The entire group stood motionless and silent. The commotion mingled with the sound of the sea but showed no immediate signs of stopping.
Athyr ran through the anticipated options quickly. Three groups into the camp without disturbance was one of the better ones. Isloman’s group would now act as diversion by holding for as long as they could before retreating.
‘Three are going in a hundred paces,’ Tirke said.
Athyr nodded. ‘We’ll go a hundred and fifty, tell one to go two hundred at their discretion.’
Tirke sent the message and then, without speaking, the group set off towards the sound of the breaking waves. They made no effort to quieten their footsteps, knowing that to the sleeping army around them a stealthy footfall would ring like a clarion call while the crunching indifference of their passing comrades would warrant no more than a mumbled oath.
The group encountered only two solitary wanderers and both met the same sudden and cruel fate as those at the gate.
Occasionally the distant sounds of Isloman’s en-counter drifted to them over the sound of the surf.
As they walked over the frozen sand and snow, churned up by the traffic of the camp, Athyr found flickering fireflies of sympathy beginning to dance in his mind. The layout of the camp was a bizarre mixture of imposed order and personal idiosyncrasy; all the tents were different and, for the most part, crudely made out of animal skins and various fabrics. Pitch torches and the remains of camp fires glowed and guttered every-where. Athyr could not avoid feeling the personal endeavour and the fulfilment of modest skills that radiated from these details and his carver’s soul could do no other than respond in some degree. He tried to scatter the thoughts, but they reformed. These people were trapped in and by their own ignorance, he saw. Blazing torches for light! Open wood fires for heat! Presumably they had the same inside their tents; tents that would let that meagre heat escape into the winter night with scarcely any hindrance; they had no concep-tion of collection, or re-use; small things, but they typified the state of these benighted, misled people. They knew so very very little… it was tragic that…
His foot caught an extended guy rope and only the quick response of his neighbour prevented him from sprawling headlong.
Athyr nodded his thanks and cursed himself darkly for a fool. Whatever had made the Morlider into what they were, they were what they were and, misled or no, they were numerous, dangerous, and more than capable of over-running the Orthlundyn army if they were given the opportunity. More urgently, they could destroy this tiny infiltrating force if they were roused by some such further act of carelessness. The Morlider could not now be retrieved by knowledge, especially as they had been welded into some semblance of a whole by Creost. That salvation might await them some other day, but…
One hundred and fifty.
His training and his wiser instincts cut across his thoughts. This was far enough. The intermittent noise of the distant fighting had faded; Isloman must have done what he could and retreated. Would the Morlider rouse the whole camp, or would Isloman have been able to preoccupy them with the lure of pursuit?
Conjecture was irrelevant.
‘Time to go,’ Athyr hand-signalled to his group. ‘You know what to do. Keep to your pairs, keep quiet, keep moving, and cut down anyone who gets in the way.’
The group spread out silently.
Athyr reached into his pouch and withdrew one of the specially prepared radiant stones. He placed it on the ground against the wall of a tent then, nervously and with a well extended arm, he struck it. Almost immedi-ately it glowed a dark sinister red and he stepped back hastily. Quickly he moved to the next tent.
In a few seconds the stone would begin to release its stored energy; not in a steady hearth-warming flow, but in a great uncontrollable surge of heat that would continue for many minutes. In addition to his concern at being in the heart of the enemy’s camp, Athyr’s nervousness was aggravated by the fact that once struck, such stones were unstable and there was no indication how long it would be before this release occurred.
He was crouching down striking a fourth as the first one began to fire. He paused momentarily to watch it and suddenly a blow sent him sprawling. As he fell, the stone he had struck blazed up dazzlingly in front of him.