‘You are naive to believe that,’ said Chandyr. ‘But I pray you are right. Remember, though, that soldiers go where they are ordered and fight as directed. It is accepted that not all those who enter battle will leave it alive. I don’t think you will find anyone in the Dordovan force able to make the decision to stand down.’
‘Perhaps not, but would you choose not to fight if I could negotiate a truce to allow the rulers to speak again?’
‘I will assess the situation when we encounter the Dordovans,’ said Chandyr. ‘But we are at war, Rusau, and I will not take any decision that risks our borders.’
‘But I must be allowed to cross the battle lines,’ said Rusau.
‘Enough,’ snapped Chandyr. ‘I go to defend my lands. And I will take such action as I see fit in discussion with the senior mage. If you get in the way of such action it will be on your own head. I trust you understand. Now I must think. Please fall back to the centre of the column.’
He looked at Rusau, and for the first time the Lysternan mage felt a pang of doubt.
‘Now, Rusau. I don’t want to have you removed.’
Rusau did as he was ordered, and for the rest of the day’s march and the day following he kept his distance from the Xeteskian commander. Late in the afternoon of the second day, with light cloud covering what had been a warm spring day, he was summoned forward.
He found Chandyr in conversation with the senior mage, Synour, a man fast rising through the echelons of Xeteskian power. They were riding towards the crest of a low hill and Rusau knew that beyond it a shallow valley swept away to the River Dord, which flowed through Dordover and eventually let out into the River Tri just to the north of Triverne Lake. The Dord marked the northern border of the Xeteskian and Lysternan mage lands.
‘Commander,’ he said, as he rode to Chandyr’s free side.
Chandyr acknowledged his presence but finished his conversation before turning in his saddle.
‘My scouts have reported,’ he said, voice matter of fact, ‘a force of perhaps eighteen hundred Dordovans setting up camp just north of the river. There are an estimated five hundred refugees there too. They are corralled by the Dordovans but are south of the river. On Xeteskian land. You will see that they have been very careful to allow no one to occupy Lysternan land. I think their message is quite clear.’
‘And what are your intentions?’ asked Rusau.
‘The refugees must be freed immediately to return to rebuild their homes. The Dordovans must not stand in their way. I am sending a message to that effect to their commander, whoever he may be. You are welcome to ride under the parley flag but you will not interfere with the delivery of the message. We are not negotiating this point. Those refugees will not be used against us.’
‘I will see what I can do,’ said Rusau.
‘Try not to endanger your own life,’ said Chandyr. ‘I am not responsible for you and neither are the Dordovans. My messenger will return with their answer as soon as he is able. If that answer is negative, we will advance immediately, while there is daylight enough.’
‘Commander, you have to give me a chance,’ implored Rusau.
‘No, Rusau, I do not,’ he said. ‘I sympathise with you but my orders are quite clear. Dordover has invaded us. I will repel that invasion. The time for talking is when they are north of the Dord. I suggest you work quickly or get yourself to a place of safety.’
Rusau nodded. ‘I had hoped for more understanding from you. Where is your messenger?’
‘He is being briefed by the sergeant-at-arms now. You’ll find them to your right.’ Chandyr indicated a pair of riders slightly apart from the rest of the column. ‘And Rusau, I understand very well. We didn’t ask for war but we will wage it. Perhaps you can talk sense into the Dordovans, but if you ask me, the time for talking is done.’
Rusau joined the messenger as he cantered up the the rise and over the crest into the valley. Below them a wide grassy plain fell away down a shallow slope to the banks of the River Dord a mile and a half away. A mass of humanity waited on the south side. ‘Corralled’ was the right word. They were in a tight group, Dordovan cavalry and foot soldiers guarding them. To the north of the river, tents were pitched, fires burned and pennants flew. The sound of hammering and the whinnies of horses filtered up to them as they rode in silence towards the Dordovan army.
As they passed the refugees, a Dordovan cavalryman detached himself from the guard and fell in beside them.
‘You’re wasting your time, Xeteskian,’ he said to the messenger. ‘You should have saved your horse’s legs and your breath. While you still have it to waste, that is.’
‘What is the name of your commanding officer? I have a message for him.’
The cavalryman laughed. ‘Very disciplined, I’m sure. Turn around. Mark my words, boy.’
‘His name,’ said the messenger.
‘Master Mage Tendjorn,’ said the cavalryman. ‘He’ll eat you for breakfast.’
He peeled away and rode back to his companions. They shared an over-loud laugh.
‘Commendable,’ said Rusau to his companion.
The messenger didn’t reply. He kept his pace even, riding through the shallow waters of the Dord which, though thirty yards wide at this stretch, barely reached his boots. Unchallenged, they rode to the centre of the camp, where they dismounted. The command tent was obvious, its sides pinned back. A table inside was bare but for a scattering of goblets and a few bottles. Five men stood inside and waited for them to enter.
‘You took your time,’ said one. Rusau supposed him to be Tendjorn. He was an ugly man with a wide nose, small ears and thinning unkempt dark hair. ‘And you? Sent a Lysternan lackey to beg, have they? We’ve enough of your sort plaguing us already.’
‘I am Rusau of Lystern,’ he confirmed. ‘I seek peace, as I believe ultimately we all do.’
‘Well there’s your first mistaken assumption,’ said Tendjorn. ‘Xetesk’s protection of the Nightchild was the first act of aggression in this war and now we are delivering the consequences of their invasion to their door for them to deal with.’
‘These people are not consequences of this dispute,’ said Rusau. ‘You cannot use them as such.’
‘Can’t I? Xetesk prevented us from dealing with the Nightchild at the earliest opportunity. They were complicit in her prolonged survival, hence the prolonged elemental attacks on Balaia. Therefore these refugees are their problem.’
‘Your memories are coloured,’ began Rusau, but Tendjorn cut him off with a snap of his fingers.
‘Your message, Xeteskian,’ he said.
The messenger pulled a leather envelope from his breast and handed it over.
‘I would take your reply at your earliest convenience, my Lord,’ he said.
Tendjorn untied the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper it contained. It was a brief message, and the mage smiled and shook his head as he read it.
‘Gracious me, how predictable,’ he muttered, and handed it to the quartet of soldiers and mages grouped behind him. He slapped the empty envelope into the chest of the messenger. ‘Tell your commander that we will not withdraw until he agrees to take charge of the people whom his college has made homeless. Tell him that any move to force them across the river will be met with an appropriate response.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ The messenger bowed, his face expressionless.
Rusau grabbed his shoulder. ‘Wait a moment. You can’t deliver that. This is madness. Tendjorn, I beg you to reconsider.’
‘You must remove your hand, sir,’ said the messenger. ‘You may not impede a messenger under the parley flag.’
‘I know but . . .’ He removed his hand and immediately the messenger turned and walked from the tent. ‘Think what your message means. Men will die.’