Hannah tried to make as much room as possible; even in her dazed state she was amused at the thought that sharing a bed with someone for the first time was never easy, even when both were suffering from malnutrition and crippling fatigue. She tried to think of something witty to say, but Hoyt was already asleep.
Hannah looked at Churn, about to offer him her place on the mattress as she had slept a while, although she didn’t know for how long. It was still daylight, but the angle of the sun had changed; night would be upon them soon. ‘Churn,’ she whispered, ‘do you want-?’
But it was too late: the big man had walked to the nearest patch of sun and collapsed. Now, lying on the floor with the light on his face, he slept, a fallen Goliath. Hannah watched him for a moment, making certain his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, then she drifted off again herself.
WELLHAM RIDGE
The road was an endless ribbon of mottled brown and white, hoof prints and wagon tracks frozen in the snow-covered mud. The Central Plain was a wasteland, sleeping away the winter, with only a few forgotten corn stalks or the occasional patch of winter wheat breaking through the monotony.
Garec had lost count of time since they had ridden out from Traver’s Notch; they’d been more than fifteen days on the road, but how many more, he had no idea. He couldn’t even recall what they’d eaten for dinner; the meals had begun to blur together. They had had no trouble finding accommodation so far; they made sure to enter any village or town from various points, not together, and the scattered occupation patrols had given them no more than a passing glance.
Townsfolk, merchants and farmers had welcomed the partisans into their barns, haylofts, cellars, offices, even the occasional guest room, as they made their way south as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. The previous night had been the first time they hadn’t reached shelter in time, and sleeping outside had been painfully cold.
Now as they cantered down the roadway, Garec felt the prickly sting of winter needles across his cheeks and forehead; he smiled, thinking of his mother, hearing her voice in his mind warning him to watch out for skin freeze – she always called it icebeard.
If that was the least of his worries, he’d be lucky. So far their trip had been pretty uneventful, all things considered. It was four days before they met their first soldiers, when, cresting a short rise, the company had overtaken a five-man patrol. Without slowing, Brand led his men straight at them: the black-and-gold-clad horsemen had no chance as the Resistance soldiers ran them down, slashed them to bloody tatters and left their broken bodies lying in a gulley.
There had been a few other small skirmishes; by Garec’s tally, Brand had lost seven of his men, but had accounted for very many more – none of the Malakasians they encountered escaped, so the occupation army had no idea that an enemy company was on the move. He worried for those people in the towns and villages where Malakasians were killed; the dark prince had never been one for leniency, especially not where guerrillas were concerned. Malakasian retaliation would be bloody, and crueclass="underline" many innocents would die for each Malakasian body they left on the roadside or behind a village tavern.
Later that morning, when Brand called a rest halt, Garec slipped from the saddle to stretch his stiff, sore back and legs; a night on the freezing ground had left most of them with painful limbs, though Garec noticed Gilmour, the oldest of the company, wasn’t even limping as he walked over.
‘Stiff?’ Gilmour asked, sympathetically.
‘Ha! Not all of us have the benefit of Larion magic to limber up our muscles each day,’ he grumbled.
‘Of course you do.’
‘I do? How?’ Garec winced as his leg cramped again.
‘Like this.’ Gilmour rubbed his hands together slowly until they glowed a dull red, then pressed his palm against Garec’s lower back; in a moment, the young man felt his joints loosen as a rush of warmth spread into his extremities. His pain subsided and then faded entirely.
‘Now that is a spell worth knowing,’ he said gratefully, ‘and you have my deepest thanks, Gilmour. It’s too bad you’re not ambitious: you could have made a fortune as a healer.’
‘Nah, too many sick people,’ he laughed.
‘So you’d rather be a soldier?’
‘Look at where we are, how lovely and refreshing it is, out in all this healthy fresh air.’
‘It’s freezing air,’ Garec corrected, ‘and speaking of where we are – where are we?’
‘You remember that fjord we navigated last Twinmoon? I think the eastern end is about three day’s ride from here, putting us two days east of Orindale.’ He filled his pipe, lit it with a spell and began smoking.
‘Morning boys,’ said Mark, riding over to join them.
‘Get out of the saddle, Mark. The air down here is fine.’ Garec offered a hand.
‘No, I’m too stiff- the only way I’m getting off is if the wind blows me down.’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t like riding these miserable animals at the best of times, and all stiff and twisted with cold makes it ten times worse, so I’m doubly cranky this morning.’ He searched along their ranks. ‘Where’s Steven?’
Garec pointed forward. ‘I saw him near the front with Brand a while ago.’
‘I’ll catch up with you later then,’ he said. ‘Gee up, Dobbin.’
Gilmour and Garec watched him ride off, feeling the animal’s hoofbeats through the frozen mud. ‘We ought to make Wellham Ridge late tonight,’ Gilmour said, ‘and if we’re up and out early tomorrow, I suspect we’ll end the day in sight of the foothills. We’re making good time.’
‘Until we reach a city,’ Garec corrected.
‘But that’s not to be helped. All the time we spend making our way into any town undetected is time well spent. Think of the alternatives.’
‘Sleeping outside?’
‘For one.’
‘No thanks. I suppose I can live-’ The vibrations began again, resonating up through his boots. ‘Do you feel that?’
Gilmour had gone white. ‘Mount up,’ he whispered, and then, shouting, ‘Mount up! In the saddle, now! Mount up!’
Garec dived for his horse as with each moment the vibrations beneath his feet grew stronger. Behind him, Gilmour ran back to where he had left his own horse, still shouting, but many of Brand’s men were slow to realise what he was saying.
Garec, now mounted, started urging them into action. ‘Let’s go. It’s riders, coming fast. Get up! Let’s go!’ Instinctively checking for his friends, he saw Mark near the front, one of the only riders still in the saddle. He watched as Mark reached into his quiver and nocked an arrow.
Hundreds of riders were coming hard at them across the plain; they were close.
Garec rode forward to join Steven and Mark; Gilmour would not be far from Steven and Lessek’s key. As he closed the distance, he saw Mark draw his bow full, aim and release an arrow into the wintry sky. Garec tried to keep his eye on it, but Mark’s angle was too high for any accuracy; Garec hoped that meant the approaching forces were still some distance off, but as he came alongside Mark’s horse, he saw what they were facing for the first time.
A battalion of Malakasian soldiers, some five hundred men, were closing on them at a gallop, thundering across the plain with standards flapping.
‘This is very bad,’ Mark groaned. ‘There are too many; we can’t fight that many.’
‘Maybe Steven will-’
‘He won’t, that would be mass murder. He’d never do that.’
‘Maybe he can slow them down.’
How? They’re a tidal wave.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Over there with Brand and that squad of scared-looking icicles we’re calling the Resistance Army.’ Mark drew another shaft, aimed to the heavens and released with a twang. They couldn’t see if it hit anyone in the blurry cloud of black, brown and gold.
‘Steven!’ Garec cried, pressing forward. ‘Steven, we have to get you and the key out of here.’