‘You’re one of the many, so make sure you behave well. Do everything your teacher tells you. Don’t move a muscle unless you have his consent.’
‘When you ride, always watch your companions – you’re not alone. Make sure you never forget that.’
‘So you say you’re left-handed?! How do you know? Don’t be self-important – you don’t even know what using a sword means.’
Mordraud could have recited all his advice off by heart.
‘What do you take me for?! I’ve killed two... no, THREE men!’
The Stranger was never missing off the list. In fact, his name was the most cherished presence.
“I can use a sword better than that disgusting paralytic fatso... and yet look where I get to stay!”
At least he wouldn’t receive Adraman’s orders for a few days – the only meagre consolation on that wet grey morning. The captain had to escort a battalion to the camp on the southern front, which meant Mordraud could breathe freely for a while. He wanted to savour every instant of that afternoon’s training.
“IN LINE!”
The recruits’ tutor was a veteran with a grotesque scar on his head in place of most of his hair. He didn’t have the slightest intention of letting the rain pass. Mordraud was pleased – he couldn’t wait to flex his muscles.
“So, kiddiewinks. Today’s just a perfect day for training, don’t you think?!”
A somewhat listless chorus replied to the question launched by Gabor, the instructor. He was neither particularly stocky nor tall. Without his arming doublet, he could easily have been mistaken for an elderly peasant, or a poor merchant. But Mordraud had once seen him knocking about an insolent young man. Rather than hands, the teacher had two farrier’s hammers on the ends of his arms.
“The Rampart is guarded by you now, and in fact every night I pray to the God of Mercy to keep the enemy far from here... And you’re scared of a bit of water?! Come on, come forward! I say we should start with a spot of healthy hand-to-hand!” barked the tutor with morbid pleasure.
Mordraud turned to the comrade on his right, as everyone did. More than a training session, it was a beating. The goal was to stay standing till Gabor announced the end of the trial.
“START!”
He’d been lucky. His opponent was a thin sinewy dwarf with small shifty eyes. He didn’t know his name, which was fine – that way he could have more fun.
Mordraud was rather good at laying out punches, but he was champion at taking them. He could have the better of any foe through exhaustion, if he wanted to. But he had tension to vent that day, so he didn’t play hard to get.
The young men slammed into each other in the sludgy mud, amidst bawling and cursing of every kind. The rain and the puddles soon became one, and keeping both eyes alert was an arduous task. Mordraud grabbed his adversary’s shoulders, dug his fingers in, and shoved him downwards with all his might. At the first opposition, he slipped his leg in between the other’s limbs, and pushed sideways. The lad was on the ground in a flash, pinned down by all Mordraud’s weight.
“HEY, HEY! We have an expert among us today!” Gabor cried out, applauding superciliously. “While you fledglings are still thumping each other, look what your friend’s done! What’s your name boy?”
“MORDRAUD!” he shouted, straightening his back.
“Ah, Blackie! I’ve heard about you. And don’t look so self-righteous – it was all awful!” Gabor motioned for him to step closer. The other recruits had stopped fighting to watch.
“Yes, sir!”
“Why did you use that move on your opponent?” barked the instructor.
“To win straight away!”
“And you used it because you saw he was shorter than you, didn’t you?!” Gabor seemed proud of him. Mordraud nodded with half a dim-witted smile on his face.
“I’m shorter than you, Blackie. Isn’t that right?”
Mordraud was thrown by the question. He could do little other than nod in puzzled agreement.
“Well, use it on me then!”
Gabor stretched out his arms and showed him his chest. It was true: Mordraud was wider and taller than him, and probably stronger.
“Come on! What are you waiting for?!”
In the general silence, Mordraud gripped his teacher by the shoulders and pushed him down and forwards brutally, trying to tip him over backwards. Gabor bent like a reed, and Mordraud saw his moment to repeat the leg move.
It was like trying to stop a boulder with his cheek.
Mordraud flew into the mud, seeing stars everywhere and without the time to figure out what had happened to him.
“YOU STUPID, BLACKIE?!” roared Gabor in amusement. “You left my arms free! I could have wrung that useless chicken neck of yours – I’d have been doing this army a favour. But the idea of touching you was too repulsive, so I’ll let you off with this lesson!”
Mordraud returned to his place, among all-round laughter and with his head low, and took up his training again without uttering a word. He could feel his face was as swollen as a ball and his mouth was bleeding profusely. But none of the pain was intense enough to take his mind off what a complete moron he’d made himself look.
The training ended after what seemed like hours, and by that time Mordraud’s features were so grotesquely disfigured that many failed to recognise him. But instead of going to the healers, he preferred to stay on his own in the back of the communal tent. Resting on the ground under the canvas canopy, he sat in silence watching the rain falling in defiance, ignoring the men who cursed it.
‘Oh, Deanna... I hope I haven’t been foolish...’
He thought about her often, especially when he was alone. Only a few months had gone by since he’d left, but it felt like years. The warm, dry, peaceful life in the villa was now a memory that faded just a little more day by day.
‘Who knows what you’re doing...?’
His imagination shaped the staircase, the bedrooms and the large dining room. He enjoyed conjuring up the smells, the colours and the sounds of an ordinary quiet evening. Her voice, that rare but eagerly-awaited peal of delight. Her long raven hair. Her large eyes laden with thoughts he’d learnt to read to perfection, and her slightly fragile beauty – irresistible for that precise reason. But he didn’t succeed in stopping himself when he should have.
Dreaming of Deanna naked in her husband’s large bed sent a protracted shiver down his spine and into his lower abdomen. ‘I’ve got to stop it, once and for all! I’m here now, and I have a war to fight. I haven’t got time for... for...’
Instead, the rain was telling him he did have time, and lots of it. Mordraud let his imagination run free, perturbed only by that tiny and nagging spot of remorse that made everything even more exciting.
***
“Is the sighting confirmed?”
“Yes, sir!”
“How many men?”
“A battalion, sir.”
Just one, thought Dunwich biting his lip in disappointment. Just what he was expecting: that Eldain would tread cautiously. A battalion was little more than a blade of grass in the wind. The Cambrian army’s camp at the Hann Delta was teeming with fresh young soldiers, but what counted was that all the Imperial Lances guarding the capital had been summoned for the assault. A rare, very rare, event. Asaeld had protested. He’d yelled and dug in his heels against the plan, but Loralon had been uncharacteristically unwavering – an occurrence even more exceptional than seeing all the Lances gathered together.
“Attack the Rampart with all our best troops... a wall against a wall... In all my years of service, I’ve never heard of such an insane idea!” Asaeld had constantly repeated during the journey from the capital to the camp. Many of his men saw things his way, but a sizeable number supported the Emperor’s strategy too. Dunwich had never seen his own companions so divided into two factions: on the one side those loyal to the Empire, and on the other those faithful to their commander. Of course, he knew who to back, without think
ing on it too hard.
Asaeld.
“How long now to the Night of Fire?”
“Twenty days, sir.”
Dunwich dismissed the young foot-soldier with a nod, who responded by bowing as a sign of his respect. The Lances’ black and gold armour unfailingly had a certain effect on ordinary soldiers. It amused him to read that blend of fear and unease in his subordinates’ eyes.
‘Five hundred of us will be leading the assault... Loralon even wanted to call in our companions from the southern outposts, but Asaeld wouldn’t hear of it,’ he reflected, as he headed straight for the officers’ building.
‘One night, maybe two... and then we’re off.’
Just the thought of it made him tremble. Not that he was afraid to go onto the battlefield – quite the opposite. He hoped that day would come as soon as possible. What worried him was the sea of Lances storming the Rampart. He’d have to be very, very careful. His skill alone would not be enough to bring him out alive from the chaos he envisaged. Too many resonances together, if not channelled into a choir, could get tangled up, could clash and cause terrifying side-effects. And during a skirmish, there could be a good deal of interference. Swarms of arrows. Disjointed screaming. Attacks on all sides. All submersed in the red light of the most nonsensical night of the year.
‘We can only hope the rebels are struck stock-still in fear... But it’s damned hard to believe they will be...’
The atmosphere in the officers’ mess was warm and pleasant. He knew everyone, from the first to the last man in the room, and he was soon waylaid by a small group discussing the strategies they wanted to adopt during the assault. Dunwich was looked upon well by all, and especially admired for his unusual closeness to the unrivalled Asaeld – the most influential man in the whole army.
“By the way, where is he? Hasn’t he arrived yet?” he asked colleagues.
“I think he might be out back, in the private room,” one of them replied – a distinguished middle-aged officer whose name eluded him. Wearing their gleaming armour, the Lances all looked alike.
“Who’s he with?”
Dunwich was met with an abundance of vaguely insinuating glances in answer.
‘A woman?! Odd – that’s not like him...’
He made an excuse and slipped away from the group. Without attracting much attention to himself, he made for the back, crossed the dining hall and then to the after-dinner room. As he pushed the door open, he heard a snippet of a sentence, catching just a few short words.
“...interrupt upon orders...”
“May I?” Dunwich inquired, entering at the doorway. Asaeld was seated in a broad leather armchair, surrounded by six young Lances Dunwich had never seen around the camp. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen them in town.
“Of course, Dunwich. Come in! Over here. I was just acquainting the lads with an old battle on the Rampart, to get them better prepared.”
Asaeld was affable yet distant, as always. It was hard to tell what his thoughts were, hidden there behind eyes capable of piercing a skull and sucking it dry, if he wished. Dunwich nodded a greeting to the others, but turned down the invitation.
“No, I don’t want to disrupt you. I merely dropped in to update you on the rebels’ latest movements.”
“I’ve already been informed, thanks Dunwich” he replied with a smile. “We’ll be setting off in two days’ time. We can’t risk getting our timing wrong: we have to reach the front for the middle of the Night of Fire... Otherwise imagine how furious our Emperor will be!”
The other Lances chortled, copying the commander’s laugh. Dunwich pretended not to notice, bowed with calculated courtesy and went to leave, saying goodbye to all present.
“Won’t you even have a glass of spirits? I’ve been given an excellent bottle.”
“No, thank you, Asaeld. I’ve got a lot to be getting on with.”
“Fine, young man. See you at dinner.”
Dunwich bent his head again and left the little room. The door was just shutting behind him when he heard Asaeld calling to him.
“Remember Dunwich...”
“What?”
“I want you in position during the attack, just as we planned,” the Lance said, in an abruptly serious voice. “We have no leeway for sudden rash acts.”
“Of course, Asaeld. You don’t need to tell me that...”
“Oh, but I do,” he murmured, nodding slowly, “You’re not to leave your post, understood?”
“You have my word.”
“That’s my man...”
Dunwich closed the door, just as he picked up on Asaeld’s last words.
“It’ll be a day to remember, you’ll see. A truly memorable day for the Empire.”
XVI
“Dinner is served, madam.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But madam...”
“I said, I’M NOT HUNGRY!”
Adrina returned to the kitchen with a heavy heart and ordered the other servants to clear the table. When Deanna was in that sort of mood – which occurred practically every day now – it was impossible to make her see reason.
“I’m going out. If the lady of the house comes down, make sure she finds something ready on the stove.”
When Deanna had one of her turns, Mordraud would leave her favourite dishes in a baking tray, warm and waiting. She’d sometimes come down from her room in the middle of the night, looking for what he’d left for her. She’d eat alone, standing next to the stove, whose heat had almost died. She’d drink a drop of wine and would then return to bed. The old woman had often asked herself if it were merely a game shared by the two, or whether Deanna simply felt the need for a bit of attention.
‘Since he left, there’s been no way to calm her down... Ah, Adraman... you shouldn’t have taken him into your home.’
Mordraud was a good lad and, more importantly, the only one who seemed able to put up with Deanna’s ways. Even she, who had plenty of patience in her store, would often and willingly have given that spoilt girl a good smack. But she wasn’t her daughter, unfortunately. Nonetheless, however useful Mordraud had proved himself, he’d developed so quickly that he’d taken everybody by surprise. They should have sent him away before he could cause any damage, she mused.
‘That’s the nobility’s business, and I’m just a cook,’ she told herself as she crossed the fief in a light autumn drizzle. It was very chilly, colder than usual. The Night of Fire was only a few days away. Adrina had already made all the arrangements so that the master of the house would find everything prepared – she was convinced he would return as was his custom. The Night of Fire had been respected for centuries.
“Larois? Are you there?”
The ageing innkeeper opened the door, and smiled as she ushered in her visitor. “How lovely to see you! I’ve just finished my dinner. Have you eaten, Adrina? Would you like something?”
“No, thanks. I just dropped by to see how you were.”
“Have a seat. I’ll make you some herbal tea.”
Larois wasn’t in very good shape. They were the same age, but all the years showed on Adrina’s friend. Larois’s life in the tavern was much harder than her own, in a comfortable draught-free house.
“How’s Gwern? Does he help you out with the work?”
“Oh, yes, he’s a really good kid... He always looks after me, and sees to all those errands around the fiefdom I can no longer do. Sometimes he’s not well, he has those nasty attacks... I just can’t understand what illness it might be!”
Larois wondered if maybe she should confide in Adrina about Gwern’s background. She thought those disorders that harangued him might be due to his Aelian blood. That could be the reason why nobody knew what caused them. An illness common among a people different to her own. She decided not to: she wanted to shelter him from malicious rumours and prejudices. Even if Gwern had lied to her, she didn’t see his Aelian origins as a threat. When it came down to it, she wasn’t interested
. He was her child – she’d love him in any case. His past, like his brother’s, didn’t belong to her. She could easily go on living with Gwern, and enjoying his presence, without tormenting herself.
Aelians or humans – whatever difference did it make, she asked herself with a shrug. Since Gwern was such a lovely boy, the Aelians couldn’t be all that bad.
Adrina welcomed the red-hot brew and began slowly sipping, savouring Larois’s blend of herbs. “Nasty and bitter, just like us oldies enjoy it!”
“But extremely good for you. You’ll see, your bones will be grateful,” she returned, sitting down next to her.
They talked about this, that and the other, about the love exploits of a rather well-known middle-aged wife, or about the butcher’s new calves that were growing strong and healthy. They’d been friends longer than they could remember. They’d known each other most of their lives, since they were girls waiting for husbands. For them there was nothing better than a herbal brew and a good night-time chat.
“How’s Deanna?”
“Not that good. I’m worried, Larois.”
“That girl’s always been a bit restless...”
“Restless?! What you mean is mad...” Adrina grumbled, with an acid overtone to her voice.
“Don’t say that...” Larois banged her cup on the table and wagged her finger at her. “She’s still young. You’ll see, sooner or later she’ll understand how lucky she is.”
“Lucky?! A husband away at war? And you call that lucky?”
“She’s not a widow yet, unlike most of the women in this region. Like me and you. You lost someone in the war too, or am I wrong?!”
“Like everyone...” sighed Adrina.
“Adraman’s a captain. He takes fewer risks than the others. And indeed he’s still alive after many years and can still come home, unlike our husbands. Besides, he’s a good man, and he really cares for her.”
“Perhaps she’d rather have someone else at her side...”
Larois jumped up and topped up the two cups nervously. “What are you getting at?”
Mordraud, Book One Page 29