For a long time there was no sound other than the lapping water, then came angry Mandroc voices, muffled by the mist, and the sound of the shuffling slaves and the creak of their carts began again.
It had scarcely begun however, when it stopped suddenly.
‘He comes,’ whispered the Mandroc leader.
Urssain peered vainly into the mist. He could nei-ther see nor hear anything but he too knew that Dan-Tor was returning. Unconsciously, he straightened up.
Then a vague shape appeared in the greyness. Urs-sain’s eyes narrowed, but the mist, swirling now, disorientated him and he could not focus clearly. Indeed, he found he could not even discern whether he was looking straight ahead or up in the air, and the shape seemed to become many different things as it came forward; tall and straight at one moment, then swaying and hovering like some strange bird, then, impossibly, far below him, large and bulky.
Gradually it resolved itself into a horse and rider. Urssain identified the rider as Dan-Tor by his hazy silhouette. But he had had no horse. All the horses had been left behind at the Mandroc camp half a day’s march south; no horse would come near Derras Ustramel, not even those that would bear Dan-Tor.
Yet, now, Dan-Tor was riding, without a doubt.
Urssain moved forward to greet his Lord.
As the figures neared, so the mist’s deceit fell away and horse and rider stood clearly exposed.
Urssain took in a deep breath. It was a horse that Dan-Tor was riding, but one such as Urssain had never seen before. Its shape was oddly angular and almost obscenely muscular, and at the back of each leg rose a curving bony spur. But it was the head and, above all, the eyes that made him shiver. Narrow and serpentine, the eyes glistened green through the mist, radiating a malevolence that seemed to confirm the impression of malign intelligence which was given by a bulging forehead.
Held low below the great hunched shoulders, the head swayed slowly from side to side as if searching. As Urssain took in the vision, it turned towards him and slowly opened its mouth to reveal the tearing teeth of a predator. Then came a rasping and unmistakable noise of challenge which froze Urssain to the spot. It stopped only at a cold word from its rider.
Urssain tore his gaze away from the creature and looked up at Dan-Tor. He too was different, though in what way Urssain could not tell.
‘Ffyrst,’ he said, saluting. The head of the horse creature swayed towards him again as if attracted by the movement of prey.
‘Commander,’ Dan-Tor acknowledged. His voice was both pained and triumphant and he was clutching his side.
Urssain searched for something to say into the misty silence.
‘Are you hurt, Ffyrst?’ he ventured.
Dan-Tor turned to him slowly and shook his head. ‘All hurts are as nothing now, Commander,’ he said, his white smile chilling in the gloom. ‘See. I am whole again.’
As he spoke he removed his hand from his side.
Urssain leaned forward.
Hawklan’s arrow was gone.
Chapter 20
Cadmoryth stirred uneasily. Hawklan leaned forward and took his hand. Urthryn and Girvan watched the healer anxiously, but looking at each in turn he gave a slight shake of his head.
It was a confirmation of what he had said earlier when, found on the beach as the Muster rounded up those Morlider abandoned by their fleeing compatriots, Cadmoryth had been brought to the hospital tent, unconscious and broken.
Girvan turned away briefly in distress, but Urthryn bared his teeth in angry frustration. He turned to leave.
‘Ffyrst.’ Cadmoryth’s voice was weak, but lucid and audible even above the commotion filling the hospital tent.
Urthryn turned and looked down at the fisherman. The man’s eyes were open and clear.
‘I’m here,’ Urthryn said.
‘Ffyrst,’ Cadmoryth said again. ‘Forgive me. So many good men dead… I… ’ His voice faded.
‘Hush, rest, fisherman,’ Urthryn said, but Cad-moryth shook his head and beckoned him closer.
Urthryn knelt down beside the bed and bent for-ward to catch the failing words; his travel-stained tunic soiled the white sheets that covered Cadmoryth’s broken frame.
‘I saw the evil, Ffyrst,’ the fisherman whispered. ‘I could do no other than… hurl myself at it. I forgot my duty as captain of my vessel, forgot my crew. Now… ’
‘Hush,’ Urthryn said again, looking helplessly at Hawklan. ‘You forgot nothing, fisherman. Sometimes a leader leads, sometimes he is simply a tool of the will of his people. Your whole crew saw the evil. You held the helm, but they rowed their hearts out to crush that abomination. The Orthlundyn saw the truth of it all.’ He indicated Hawklan.
Cadmoryth’s eyes followed his movement. Hawklan nodded. ‘It was the will of your crew,’ he said. ‘Your boat leapt at Creost like a hunting animal.’
A brief smile lit the fisherman’s face as he remem-bered that last surging charge to avenge the treacherous deaths of so many on that southern beach. ‘It did, it did,’ he said triumphantly. ‘The Morlider know how to make a fine ship. But so many dead… it burdens me.’
‘Many survived Creost’s wrath, Cadmoryth,’ Hawk-lan said. ‘And you brought him down with your deed. Gave us the day. Broke the Morlider utterly. Who knows how many lives you’ve saved? A good day’s haul, fisherman, a good day’s haul.’
But Cadmoryth was not listening; he was clutching Hawklan’s hand urgently. ‘Who lived, healer, who lived?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know their names,’ Hawklan replied. ‘But they’ve been fretting about outside all the time you’ve been unconscious. They… ’
‘Bring them here,’ Cadmoryth interrupted urgently, trying to rise. The effort however was too much, and he slumped back, gasping. ‘No, wait,’ he said. ‘Wait a moment.’ He lay still for a little while then, momentar-ily, he grimaced in distress.
‘There’s no landfall from this journey, is there, healer?’
Hawklan bent forward and spoke to him softly, placing a hand on his forehead. Slowly the fisherman’s breathing became quieter.
‘Girvan,’ he said after a moment. The Line Leader crouched down by him. ‘Girvan… Tell my wife… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to leave her. Tell her… thank you… for the light she’s given me… ’ His face became pained again. ‘You’ll find the words, Girvan. She liked you.’
Girvan nodded, but could not speak. Cadmoryth patted his hand reassuringly. ‘Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘You’ll look to the needs of my wife?’ His tone was anxious.
‘It’s ever our way, fisherman, have no fear for that,’ Urthryn replied.
Cadmoryth closed his eyes briefly. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then, smiling a little: ‘That was a rare ride you made, Ffyrst. A fine yarn to tell your grandchild when it arrives.’
‘It was fair,’ Urthryn replied. ‘But as nothing com-pared with your great journey.’
Cadmoryth gave a brief breathy chuckle then he lay back and looked up at the roof of the tent.
A timber post with ropes lashed about it rose up by his bed like a mast. Radiant stones filled the tent with their stored summer warmth, and the slowly billowing fabric of the roof faithfully held and returned it, but Cadmoryth’s eyes narrowed and his face tightened as if he were facing a cold, spray-filled wind, and revelling in it.
‘Send my crew in,’ he said to Hawklan, faintly. ‘They’ll tend me now.’
As the three men moved away from the dying fish-erman, Urthryn took Hawklan’s arm. ‘You must rest,’ he said. ‘Our healers and yours are sufficient. You’ve done enough.’
Hawklan looked at him, and then around the tent. It was filled with long rows of wounded. They were lying on a hotch-potch of beds; a few had been hauled over the mountains by the Orthlundyn, and some had appeared silently in the wake of the Muster, but most were rough and ready creations salvaged from the remains of the Morlider camp. It was fitting; most of the wounded were Morlider. They had taken appalling casualties in both dead and wounded at the hands of the Orthlundyn, and the tent was filled with the sound of their collective despair; a dark, disordered chorus of cries and groans, shot through with muffled screams.