Gel-Ethlin drew up his line on the open slope, with the road running at right-angles through his centre. There would be no need for his weary men to break ranks or advance until the enemy had shattered themselves against his front.
Under the still thickening clouds, the lowest vapours of which were swirling close above them, they waited on through the clammy, twilit afternoon. From time to time there were rolls of thunder and once lightning struck in the ravine half a mile away, leaving a long, red streak like a weal down the grey rock. Somehow the men had got wind of the magic bear. The Yeldashay spearmen had already produced a doggerel ballad about its hyperbolical (and increasingly ribald) exploits; while at the other end of the line some regimental buffoon seized his chance, capering and growling in an old ox-hide, with arrow-heads for claws on his fingers' ends.
At last Gel-Ethlin, from his command post on the road half-way down the slope, caught sight of the scouts returning down the hill among the trees. Balaklesh, running, reached him quickly. They had, he reported, come very suddenly upon the Ortelgans, who were advancing so fast that they themselves, already tired, had barely been able to get back ahead of them. As he spoke, Gel-Ethlin and those about him could hear, from the woods above, the growing hubbub and clatter of the approaching rabble. With a last word about the supreme importance of not breaking ranks until ordered, he dismissed his officers to their posts.
Waiting, he heard drops of rain beating on his helmet but at first could feel none on his outstretched hand. Then, filling all the distance, an undulating gauze of rain came billowing over the edge of the ravine from the left. A moment later the view below became blurred and a kind of growling sigh rose from the lines of soldiers on either side. Gel-Ethlin took half-a-dozen steps forward, as though to see better through the moving mist of rain. As he did so a band of shaggy-haired men, half-savage in appearance and carrying various weapons, came tramping together round the curve of the road below and stopped dead at the sight of the Beklan army confronting them.
21 The Passes of Gelt
To burn Gelt had been no part of Ta-Kominion's intention. Nor could he find out who had done it, each of the barons denying all knowledge of how or where the fire had begun. Ta-Kominion, with his personal followers, had readied the wretched little square in the centre of the town to find two sides already ablaze, the body of the chief lying with a spear in the back and a crowd of Ortelgans looting and drinking. He and Zelda, with a handful of the steadier men, beat some sort of order into them and – there being no water in the place except what could be scooped from two wells and one shrunken mountain-brook – checked the fire by breaking up the huts down-wind and dragging away the posts and straw. It was Zelda who pointed out that at all costs they must prevent any of the townspeople from carrying the news down to the plain. Guards were set on all roads and paths leading out of the town, while a young man named Jurit, to whom Ta-Kominion had that morning given Fassel-Hasta's command, led a reconnoitring force down the steep southward road to find out what lay before them.
Ta-Kominion sat on a bench in one of the dim, fly-buzzing huts, trying to convince four or five frightened, speechless town elders that he meant them no harm. From time to time he broke off, frowning and groping for words as the walls swam before his eyes and the sounds from outside rose and fell in his cars like talk from beyond a door continually opening and closing. He moved restlessly, feeling as though his body were wrapped in stiff ox-hides. His wounded forearm throbbed and there was a tender swelling in his armpit. Opening his eyes, he saw the faces of the old men staring at him, full of wary curiosity.
He spoke of Lord Shardik, of the revealed destiny of Ortelga and the sure defeat of Bekla, and saw the dull disbelief and fear of reprisal and death which they could not keep from their eyes. At last one of them, shrewder perhaps than the rest, who must have been calculating the probable effect of what it had occurred to him to say, replied by telling him of the northern army of patrol under General Santil-ke-Erketlis which, if he were not mistaken – as well he might be, he added hastily, his cunning peasant's face assuming an expression of humility and deference – was due at this time to cross the plain below on its circuit to Kabin and beyond. Did the young lord mean to fight that army or would he seek to avoid it? Either way, it seemed best not to remain in Gelt, for the rains were due, were they not, and – he broke off, acting the part of one who knew his place and would not presume to advise the commander of so fine an army.
Ta-Kominion thanked him gravely, affecting not to be aware that it mattered little to those standing before him whether he went forward or back, so long as he left Gelt If the old man had meant to frighten him, he had reckoned without the blazing faith in Shardik that filled every heart in the Ortelgan army. Probably the elders supposed that he intended only to raid one or two villages in the plain and then escape back over the hills with his booty -weapons, cattle and women – covered from pursuit by the onset of the rains.
Ta-Kominion, however, had never from the outset intended other than to seek out and destroy all enemy forces, whatever their strength, that might lie between himself and Bekla. His followers, he knew, would be content with nothing less. They meant to fight as soon as possible, since they knew that they could not be defeated. Shardik himself had already shown them what became of his enemies, and to Shardik it would make no difference whether his enemies were treacherous Ortelgan barons or patrolling Beklan soldiers.
The thought of the Beklan army, with which the crafty elder of Gelt had thought to dismay him, filled Ta-Kominion only with a fierce and eager joy, restoring to him the will-power to drive on his sick body and feverish mind.
Bowing to the old men, he left the hut and paced slowly up and down outside, heedless of the stinking refuse and the scab-mouthed, mucous-eyed children begging among his soldiers. Not for one moment did it occur to him to deliberate whether or not he should fight. Lord Shardik and he himself had already decided upon that. But on him, as Shardik's general, fell the task of deciding when and where. Even this did not occupy him long, for all his thoughts led to one and the same conclusion – that they should march straight on towards Bekla and fight the enemy wherever they might meet him on the open plain. There was scarcely any food to be commandeered in Gelt and the events of the afternoon had shown him how little real control he had over his men. The rains might come at any hour and despite Zelda's cordon the news could not long remain secret that Gelt had fallen to the Ortelgans. More immediate than all these, because he felt it within his own body, was the knowledge that soon he might become incapable of leading the army. Once the battle was won his illness would matter little, but his collapse before they fought would bring to his men misgiving and superstitious dread. Besides, he alone must command the battle. How else to become lord of Bekla?
Where was the Beklan army and how soon could they hope to meet it? The elders had said that the distance to the plain was about a day's march, and he could expect the enemy to seek him out as soon as they had news of him. They would be as eager for battle as himself. In all probability, therefore, he could expect to fight on the plain not later than the day after tomorrow. This must be his plan. He could make no better, could only offer to Lord Shardik his courage and zeal to use as he would. And to Shardik it must remain to delay the rains and bring the Beklans in their path.
Where was Shardik and what, if anything, had Kelderek achieved since he left him? No two ways about it, the fellow was a coward: yet it mattered little, if only he could somehow or other contrive to bring the bear to the army before they fought. If they won – as win they would – if indeed they came at last to take Bekla itself – what would Kelderek's place be then? And the Tuginda -that futile yet disturbing woman, whom he had sent back to Quiso under guard – what was to be done with her? There could be no authority that did not acknowledge his own. Get rid of them both, perhaps, and in some way alter the cult of Shardik accordingly? Later there would be time to decide such things. All that mattered now was the approaching battle.