The massive white-eye dropped his eyes. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I can't help feeling like, whatever I do, I'm being forced, guided down paths for someone else's gain. It makes it hard to take any sort of advice at face value.' He looked stricken for a moment. 'I really am sorry.'
'You have good reason to feel that way,' the witch said, laying a hand on his arm. 'There were powers planning your birth long in advance. The seeds were planted during the Great War.' Her anger had subsided; a lifetime of control was not so easily lost, and Isak's face showed true contrition. He hadn't been brought up to understand responsibility, the witch reminded herself. This had been thrust upon him, less than a year ago, and now the entire Land looked to him with both expectation and apprehension.
'Seeds?'
'The noble warriors you have as your aides might not have men¬tioned it, but most wars resolve little, and the Great War was no exception. The hatred does not die, and the original causes are often refuelled by the pain and suffering inflicted on both sides. The enmi¬ties endure, and all look to the day their chance comes again.'
The witch reached out to take Isak's white hand in her own. 'Before your final rest you will walk many paths of the dead. The aftermath of such conflicts requires this, for there is no easy way to lay those ghosts to rest. Our lives are like paths in a forest, choices made at each fork, and sometimes they will lead you to clearings bathed in sunlight, sometimes into shadow. Your path has been walked before, by all those whose mistakes and failures set the course of your life, whose weaknesses have unbalanced the Land.'
'The paths of the dead.' Isak nodded to himself, lost in his own thoughts, still gripping Xeliath tightly by the hand. 'It has felt that way sometimes, as though I can feel the footprints below me and the ghosts alongside.'
'They are there, never forget that, but they do not own you; not Aryn Bwr, not this shadow Azaer, not even the Gods. You cannot change the past, Isak, but perhaps you can free the future of its shack¬les. In a land under shadow, you can give the hope of dawn.'
Isak looked humbled by her words. This was a hard thing to lay on someone so young, she knew that all too well, yet there was no other course: she had to trust him, and hope he was strong enough to bear the strain. The choices were ultimately his alone. For all her wisdom, she couldn't make them for him.
She looked from the hulking lord to the girl intended as his queen. Xeliath had been quiet throughout their exchange, perhaps feeling an echo of Isak's pain.
'I hope to see you in Scree, and show you that you will not have to do this all alone. There are those who care, those who will make sac-rifices when it becomes necessary. And now-' she raised an eyebrow in Xeliath's direct ion, 'now I should leave you two alone.'
CHAPTER 14
Count Vesna looked out through the trees at the scrappy tufts of grass that were briefly bathed in sunlight as a break appeared in the cloud. Behind him a horse whickered softly. He saw his own horse's ears twitch, but a reassuring pat on the neck was enough to keep the borrowed animal steady. He shifted his feet slightly, wincing as he accidentally pressed down on his damaged toe, the product of a lucky escape two days past. The little horse turned and inspected the count, nostrils flaring, questing towards his hand in case a treat was on offer. He forced a smile and rubbed its nose affectionately, then sighed and returned to his vigil.
The only sounds came from the river ahead and the small stream to his left that ran into that river. He could hear nothing from the men positioned on the other side of this small wood, something he'd have considered a blessing at any other time this last week. The war had dragged on a long time in Tor Milist and now most of the duke's soldiers were little more than irregular troops, some no more than bandits enjoying the protection of a banner.
Their commanders exerted no control – indeed, many were worse than their troops – and rape and pillage were more common features of the war than actual battle. It had been a blessing to get away from the drunken louts who were his temporary allies, but Vesna couldn't shake the feeling that they might have slipped away instead of stick¬ing to the battle plan.
'You look like a man who's thinking too hard.' The speaker, his rough Lomin accent harsh to Vesna's ears, was a bearded veteran he'd promoted to sergeant-at-arms as soon as he'd met the man. Sergeant Tael was a dour forester in the employ of the Duke of Lomin, whoever Isak decided that was now to be, and one of the few old bands in his regiment. 'Men who think too hard before a battle don't come back.'
'I know that,' Vesna replied, 'but I've no intention of dying here.'
'Do any of us?'
Vesna forced a wry smile. 'You're a tight-mouthed bastard, Tael. I don't pretend to know what you intend.'
The comment provoked a snort from the sergeant. 'Aye, well, it ain't to die here. I've a grandchile on the way and I'm looking forrard to bouncing a rabble of little'uns on m'knee before I go.'
Tael squinted at Vesna, then gave the count a calculating look. 'From your face, I'd say you're thinking about your own.'
'Remember your place, Sergeant,' Vesna warned, more out of habit than anger.
'Aye sir, but I don't want to see a hero die in such a Gods-forsaken place either. Might lose m'faith if that happened. More important, it'll be one damn sight harder for me t'get home in one piece if you're dead.' He waved a dismissive hand towards the horsemen behind. 'These gutless shites won't hold if they see you go down.'
'They're not all bad.'
'Not all, but enough. The men we got from Saroc are fine troops, but neither captain is worth much. One's new, other's too well-bred lor his own good.'
'Enough!' Vesna snapped. 'They're your superiors, and it is not your place to rate officers, only follow their orders. Clear?'
Aye, sir,' he drawled. From the set of the sergeant's face, Vesna could see it wasn't the first dressing-down the man had had for voicing his opinions. There were scars on his face that he wore proudly – one very obviously an infantryman's spear-cut – but there were probably scars on the man's back that he was less proud of.
Vesna surveyed the rest of his men. Four regiments in totaclass="underline" the two from Lomin and Tildek he'd fought against all too recently, one from Saroc and another from Nerlos – now with a complement of little more than three hundred men. They had all undergone the general I raining that was their liege's most vital duty, but few had real battle experience. The regiments Duke Certinse had provided contained some veterans, but most had been too young for the patrol rotation of those parts, where most Lomin men gained their experience. Unfortunately for the Farlan, it was the current set that had been wiped out before the battle of Chirr Plain, so Certinse had chosen on the basis of the commander's loyalty.
'They're cowed, no more than that,' Vesna muttered to himself.
'There's little to be proud of in these parts, and a soldier needs that.'
The men were hidden in a gentle dip in the ground. The trees, mostly elms, stretched past the stream for another few hundred yards, beyond which, Vesna devoutly hoped, his allies still waited. They were the dregs of six regiments, now fewer than three hundred in number, led by a man with a scar around his neck that was clearly a noose burn. The troops paid lip service to Duke Vrerr's battle orders. They killed the enemy whenever they had the advantage, and ter¬rorised the region in between sorties. A soldier found pride where he could. Only wide-eyed boys thought there was much praiseworthy to be found in war itself, but even the old hands among the Farlan were sickened by some of the things they'd seen here.