Hawklan’s eyes narrowed with an unnecessary ques-tion. Andawyr answered it. ‘What Dar Hastuin is doing above I do not know, but whatever Creost’s purpose was in the south, it’s ended; for good or for ill. He’s here, now.’
Chapter 15
The long flight of stone steps led down from one of the Palace’s many side doors. It was a little-used entrance and the steps had not been routinely swept clear of snow, thus ensuring that such use as they had received had trodden a ragged pathway down the centre that had the texture of uneven, but polished, alabaster.
It glistened treacherously in the sunlight as Eldric emerged from the doorway.
Blinking in the sudden brightness, he eyed his pro-posed path suspiciously. Then, pulling his large cloak about his shoulders, he began a cautious descent, using his gloved hand freely on top of the stone balustrade to retain his balance.
Reaching the bottom without mishap or excessive loss of dignity, he made a note to return by another route and then crossed a narrow courtyard which brought him out into the Palace gardens.
It had not snowed for several days and though the extensive lawns and shrubs were brilliant in the winter sunshine they had lost that silent perfection which the first falls had given them. Untidy heaps of snow lay around the trees where the wind and the fluttering birds had dislodged it from the branches; human footsteps respectfully marked out the now hidden pathways, while the imprints of claws and padded feet showed no such restraint and were strung out purposefully across the lawns in an intricate tracery. Here and there a riot of destruction in the snow indicated the activity of the Palace children, not all of whom were particularly young.
Eldric took in the scene and smiled, then stepped forward to add his own marks to this great marring.
As he walked, he turned his mind to the message he had just received from Arinndier. Viladrien! Alphraan! Cadwanwr! Creost moving the Morlider against Riddin, and Hawklan leading half the Orthlundyn army into the snow-filled mountains to meet them while the other half was preparing to move north to join the High Guards for an assault on Narsindal!
Arinndier had laid out the facts simply and clearly. Indeed, Eldric could almost hear him speaking as he read the Lord’s characteristic hand.
He looked south. The Orthlundyn armed and ready for war. And with an army that was good enough to impress Arinndier. But for half of it to venture across the mountains at this time of year! Could even Hawklan bring his people through such an ordeal in a condition fit to fight a battle, or worse, a series of battles against the savage and numerous Morlider? By all accounts the journey north had been difficult enough for the two men who had brought Arinndier’s message; how much more so then for an army? And if Riddin fell, what then? What of Sylvriss and her child, the heir to Fyorlund’s throne? And what of Fyorlund’s southern and eastern borders?
Eldric weighed the thoughts briefly, then, with some difficulty, let them go. He could do nothing about these matters, he knew. Nothing except wait for further messages-tend his crops and keep his sword sharp as his father would have said. Urthryn would surely protect his daughter, no matter what happened. And if the rest of the Orthlundyn army was moving north then presumably they had made their own arrangements for the defence of their land should Hawklan be lost. As for Fyorlund’s border with Riddin, a few regiments of High Guards could always be left to protect that if need arose. Whatever force might come over those mountains certainly wouldn’t come quickly, winter or no.
It was too vague and untidy a resolution to be satis-factory, but it would have to suffice for the time being, though Eldric found that even the thought of Hawklan being lost in battle was deeply unsettling.
He reacted to his unease almost immediately. ‘We must stand on our own,’ he muttered into the cold air. To look to one man, however remarkable, as some kind of saviour, someone who would bear the responsibilities and fulfil the duties of others, would be a profound error. ‘Another betrayal of the people and our trust,’ he concluded.
He could allow himself to cling to the fatherly con-cern that he had felt on reading that Jaldaric was now training ‘with the Orthlundyn Helyadin-similar to our Goraidin,’ but apart from that he must continue to occupy himself with his own duty; with stern practicali-ties. Send messengers to welcome the approaching Orthlundyn. And find somewhere to put them all! Send the news to Hreldar and Darek currently out in the field, training and co-ordinating the different regiments of High Guards. This new army would radically affect the plans being laid for the assault on Narsindalvak and thence Narsindal. And to Yatsu, busy in the east with some of the Goraidin and their new recruits, preparing to assault Dan-Tor’s mines.
He straightened up and took a deep breath. As al-ways, when he did this, the cold air felt as if it were a light shining inside him, seeking out and exposing the lingering, stagnant memories of the imprisonment that returned to haunt him in his darker moments. It was a small, personal reaffirmation.
Remembering the treacherous stairway, he turned and set off briskly towards the front of the Palace.
With Gavor perched awkwardly in front of him, Hawklan walked Serian towards the top of the long slope that led down to the Morlider’s camp on the shore. Andawyr, on his smaller mare, rode by him, accompa-nied by Atelon. Loman, Isloman and a group of Helyadin maintained close station around the three. They were an unprepossessing sight, as Hawklan had told them to cover their light mail armour with rough cloaks to give the impression that they were a hastily levied local defence group.
A faint roll of thunder reached them. Several such had echoed down through the darkness since Andawyr’s announcement of the arrival of Dar Hastuin. Each time, Hawklan had looked at the Cadwanwr who had simply nodded helplessly in reply. Both knew that while the Morlider and the Orthlundyn were waiting for their battle, the Drienvolk were probably fighting theirs.
The slowly lightening sky, however, was an unbro-ken mass of grey, lowering cloud and gave no sign of this strange and alien combat.
‘Our tasks are here,’ was Andawyr’s final comment. ‘We mustn’t burden ourselves with their pain when we can’t alleviate it.’
Reaching the top of the slope, Hawklan reined Serian to a halt. In the far distance, the vague, misty horizon was broken by three islands which only the local Riddinvolk could have denounced as being unnaturally there. Nearer, on the shore, the rope-strewn masts of beached ships canted this way and that, and in front of them ragged columns of smoke rose from the camp. Hawklan viewed the scene with some satisfaction, though how much of the smoke was due to the previous night’s attack and how much due to the Morlider’s crude cooking and heating fires he could not tell.
Not that it was of any great moment now. The attack had doubtless done some useful damage to both materials and morale but its primary purpose had been to draw the Morlider out of their enclave to join battle. The only question taxing Hawklan as he gazed through the morning greyness was, had this been successful? If the Morlider simply repaired their defences and stayed behind them then the Orthlundyn would have to continue their harassing attacks, and while the previous night’s had cost them only two horses and various relatively minor injuries, future forays, being expected, would necessarily take a far greater toll.
It was with some relief therefore that he saw a large column of men forming up outside the camp, and he urged Serian forward to ensure he stood clear and bold on the skyline. At his signal the others joined him.
‘Careful,’ Andawyr urged softly to Hawklan. ‘I can feel Creost’s presence all around.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Hawklan asked.