‘What do the Aelians think? Are their ideas different to ours?’ Gwern wondered, attracted by that element. He’d never considered it.
‘But who really are the Gods?’
He stayed still for a moment, weighing up the question, then went back to writing notes on the parchment. It was pointless lingering on those thoughts at length, he told himself – he’d never reach a conclusive answer.
More interesting to ponder on who Saiden was.
Thanks to his teacher, he was developing remarkable skills in chanting, but not even a shadow of resonances yet. He hadn’t achieved any of what he’d envisaged before setting out. He’d expected to study many things he still hadn’t touched on. History, for instance. He spent his time training on the melodies Saiden prepared for him. Gwern couldn’t dedicate his time elsewhere – he was too absorbed by the chanting.
He sometimes had the impression his tutor was more concerned with watching his reactions when he sang, rather than actually teaching him how to pursue resonances. He ceaselessly stared at the centre of Gwern’s chest, as if expecting his rib cage to suddenly open up and reveal its so very precious contents. He insisted on the idea that the boy should strive only to strike resonance with himself, not with his surroundings. But that approach yielded absolutely nothing arcane. It seemed entirely useless.
Who was Saiden, he wondered again. Another answer-less question, like all those on the Gods and their unfathomable doings.
A pairing of doubts that sent a shiver through him.
***
“How’s the assault on the Rampart progressing?”
“Excellently, gentlemen.”
Asaeld hung his sword scabbard on the pilaster supporting the huge camp marquee structure. It was the nerve centre to the whole base, the place where all the captains, couriers and strategists stopped by several times a day. Set out on the long dark polished oak table were dozens of maps, wooden rulers, miniature horses and soldiers, and glasses still dirty from the last meeting. A huge cast-iron wood burner pumped flames and hot air in an unfair struggle against the cold.
‘The usual bureaucrats...’
He never had a moment’s peace to wrap himself up in his thoughts and reason on them. And he so very much needed to. The knots were inescapably tightening, and he couldn’t afford to get trapped in their web.
“The Emperor is insisting on the results promised to him.”
Asaeld nodded distractedly, as he made himself a beaker of warm wine enhanced with a pinch of pungent spices. Loralon’s councillors all looked the same. Tall and slim, with short dark hair. Elegant grey livery in the same hue as rodent fur. But not that found on little field mice. Sewer rats had coats of just that colour and consistency.
“We’re pushing on with our raids, and our scouts have already picked up on the first signs of yielding. Eld is gripped in the vice of famine. The Alliance is spluttering with each new day. The other nobles – merely grazed by the Long Winter – are refusing to help Eldain and are fattening their reserves. Were you aware? Fear is more effective than the snow.”
“The Emperor wants the Rampart to fall within the year,” one of the three went on, unperturbed. Or perhaps four – Asaeld still hadn’t deigned to so much as look at them, but he knew Imperial bureaucrats never made a move alone. And they all had the same voice.
‘You stupid ox, did you hear what I just said?! THEY’RE DYING OF STARVATION!’ he would have liked to yell. But he couldn’t. Loralon wouldn’t have received the message. All that counted for him were the dead on the battlefield, and the spans of conquered land. “Still two months to go to the truce. We’ll see what we can do.”
“Loralon doesn’t want to respect the truce this year.”
Asaeld gulped his first mouthful and found it palatable to the right point. Not to strong, nor to hot. He savoured that fleeting moment of pleasure, and enjoyed the sensation of balminess that soothed his benumbed muscles. It certainly was gruelling for the rebels. But Cambria’s men hadn’t come off that much better. Combat in that delirium of ice was challenging, and far more dangerous than in any other conditions. The same soldiers couldn’t cope with a run of many days at the front, so he was compelled to organise complex rotas involving the various divisions, which however knew nothing of how the fighting was evolving. Moral: chaos on the ground, chaos in their heads.
“The truce is vital. Not for the rebels, but for us. We can’t remain at the front for long stretches – we don’t have the resources. Tell the Emperor we’ll be returning for the Rite of Winter’s Eve, as usual.”
With the first cold, he thought sarcastically.
“The Emperor insists...”
“The Emperor will soon receive my reasons. I’ll set off this very day to speak with him,” Asaeld cut short. His patience was at its last drops. Much like his well-appreciated cup of wine.
“The court strategists also request your report on recent events. They have to update the plan of attack.”
“Hmm... That’s a job I really don’t have time for right now. Shall we step outside a moment? I’ll ask one of my subordinates to see to the task.”
Asaeld drained his beaker and left the tent. Outside, the weather was horrific. It was snowing in violent bucketfuls, from a pitch-black sky. No sun. A large bonfire was circled by Imperial Lances warming their hands, awaiting orders. Dunwich was among them, busy in a heated discussion with a couple of fellow fighters. When Asaeld managed to catch a few random words amidst the roar of the storm, he smiled and stopped. It wasn’t a debate. It was more a winning harangue.
“I say we shouldn’t spew men onto the Rampart, and that’s that! The Long Winter is merely counter-productive! We’ve jumped out of the pan into the fire. We, more than all others, know the danger posed by losing control of a chant, don’t we?! We’ve all studied to become Lances. I say that we should put an end to this farce and attack! But not the way our strategists suggest, no... A well-targeted strike. Only our best, all focused on Eld. We’ll take the fief, and win the war!”
The Lances nodded, without commenting, while those further away muttered amongst themselves, heads low. Dunwich was beginning to stir a great following.
“Young man, I need you,” Asaeld called to him. Dunwich apologised to his companions and approached the cluster of bureaucrats, who were trembling from cold inside their furlined cloaks.
“Yes, Asaeld, what can I do for you?”
“Our eminent court strategists,” he announced so loudly as to attract the attention of all those present – Lances and foot-soldiers, cavalrymen and labourers alike – “ask for a well-written report on the most recent clashes. They wish to know how things went, what we conquered, how many dead, and so on. Could you see to it?”
“A... report?!” replied Dunwich, indignantly. “I’m to count all our dead men, what they did, and how many spans of frozen ground we gained?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“It’s a disgrace!” exclaimed Dunwich, and the hum behind his back swelled with the tone of his words. “I’ll do it since you’re the one asking me, but otherwise... For love of the Gods, you officials come here and ask for data and figures, when today we lost over one hundred soldiers, and some eight Lances! Another eight, Asaeld. Were you aware? I was told not long ago!”
“Dunwich, I understand that events have irked you, but we have precise duties to perform...” Asaeld returned, trying to calm him with a gentle pat on the shoulder. Just the gesture he knew would only intensify the young man’s fury.
“Irked?! Lads!” Dunwich shouted to his fellow men gathered around the fire. “Are we irked, by any chance? Or are we INCENSED?!”
A boom was the response. The bureaucrats shrank to themselves, barely visible amidst the thrashing snow. Asaeld said nothing, and rebuked no one. It was Dunwich himself who dissolved the uproar, calling them all to calm down.
“I’ll do it, but I’ll also add a line or two criticising the choices made by our beloved strategists. Does that suit you, Asael
d?”
“As you wish, Dunwich.”
“You’ll have it by the evening,” he ended, moving back to the fire. They welcomed him with handshakes and a deluge of compliments. Dunwich nodded and spoke with them all, riding the protest. Asaeld accompanied the frightened messengers back into the tent and invited them to take a seat. “As you heard, you’ll have everything you require by evening... But next time, I advise you not to speak so openly in front of my men. You know, they’re in combat all day long... They’re sensitive.”
“But we... You’re the one who said everything...” one of them struggled to reply. Asaeld wasn’t the slightest bit interested in who exactly it was. Bureaucrats were all alike to his eyes.
“Never mind, that’s how it went this time... The important thing is that Loralon receives everything he has asked for,” he rounded off, smiling. “Would you like some wine? I have some that’s excellent served hot with spices... It’ll help you warm up.”
“It must be so hard for you... since you’re not accustomed to our Long Winter...” Asaeld commented with a smug grin.
***
“Did you hear captain? They’ve strung up another two.”
“What?” Dunwich inquired absent-mindedly. It was evening, and his company was having dinner in the mess tent. The food was foul, the wine watery and everything had the insipid taste of snow. The stove was too far away and couldn’t pump heat to every corner of the hall. He’d drunk and debated with his companions all afternoon, impassioned by the news that was now on everyone’s lips: the Emperor demanded a slamming assault, with no ifs and no buts. The Lances were demoralised, not only by that order, but above all by the yet more victims of that dreadful Long Winter. Three young men had died from an atrocious fever, four had lost an arm or a leg to the cold, and some eight had fallen during the last sortie. An unendurable situation.
Things among the regular soldiers’ ranks were going much worse. The ill, the dying wounded and the defectors were so numerous they were hard to count. The units had to be checked and the camp scoured each morning to determine how many soldiers had absconded and were in hiding. Those caught received no preferential treatment.
Hanged.
No trial, no judgement. A warning to those who stayed and fantasised about seeing green pastures and lush meadows once again.
“They found two deserters concealed in a cart returning to Cambria. They strung them up on the scaffold, naked, then and there. Look like two ice statues, they do, now.”
“Who gave the order to kill our people like this?!” a furious Lance burst out not far away.
“Asaeld!” replied another.
“You’re wrong,” Dunwich corrected him. “Loralon imposed this on Asaeld, it’s not our commander’s idea. He confided this to me the other evening – his hands are tied.”
“Loralon this... Loralon that... He’s always to blame!” exclaimed another man sitting at the table. Dunwich knew hardly any of the new Lances: they were all fresh out of the Academy. The old guard had been stationed at Cambria, upon Loralon’s unbending orders. And once again Asaeld had had to submit to his wishes. Which meant the front was covered by mere novices.
“They say there’ll be no truce this year.”
‘Word spreads fast,’ considered Dunwich. He’d finished drafting the messengers’ report just a few hours earlier and, who knew how, the men were already aware of the information Asaeld had provided him with. The discontent could be cut with an axe. What classed as tactics weakening the front for the court strategists were more a summons to slaughter for those who had to put them into practice. Taunting a wounded animal was a hazardous pastime. The rebels had grown nastier with the cold – they were tougher and more ruthless than usual. Once the fighting stopped, it was now sadly commonplace to hear the desolate cries of the wounded as they were slain by Eldain’s men. Screams rising up through the frozen mist, like admonitions against Imperial idiocy.
“Out of the question. Asaeld will manage to convince the council, you’ll see. We need a break: we don’t have enough men to relieve those in the front ranks!” answered Dunwich with garrulous certainty.
He’d gone out with the others on a foray three days earlier. Normally he merely followed the troops and commanded their manoeuvres, but there was no lead for the cavalry unit on that occasion and so he’d offered to fill that role. He was weary of sending men to die. He wanted to convey a strong message to the soldiers, by showing that the officers were on their side. He’d have been better off staying in his tent.
He’d never witnessed such carnage.
He’d survived raging battles, indescribable slaughters, and even the Night of Fire, which had cost the lives of thousands of fellow troops. But there, wrapped in that suffocating fog, that icy mist creeping into and smothering lungs, penetrating the skin and mortifying muscles and nerves, he’d truly felt he was in danger for the first time.
The enemy couldn’t be seen. It appeared. Like phantoms from a cloud. The ground was so hard it was almost impossible not to slip. Protections and bits of armour, swords, stiff bodies, everywhere. The horses went mad, almost as much as the men. He had seen two Lances spew a choral chant at a group of foot-soldiers, only to find they were Cambria’s men. The snow made them all alike. Friend and foe together.
“The whole region’s in upheaval. They say that a few of Eldain’s age-old allies have forsaken him. Civilians no longer have food, and their only drink is melted ice. Wood’s grown scarce because it’s all rotten,” one of the nameless Lances contributed, sniggering.
“What do you find so funny in that?”
“Well, captain...” replied the young man, hesitantly. “They’re our enemy. Their every weakness is our advantage...”
“This is not the way a city like Cambria should win a war!” snarled Dunwich. “Annihilating the population only makes them more dedicated to the cause. It’s a disgrace to beat them like this.”
“And we still haven’t beaten them...” muttered another Lance.
The debate was interrupted by one of the kitchen hands. A boy with cheeks red from pimples and over-scrawny arms. Certainly a reject from the selections, Dunwich thought. He was struggling to carry a tray crowded with pewter tankards.
“These are for you, gentlemen,” he uttered timidly. “The last barrel of beer from the West. The best.”
“That doesn’t seem fair to me,” Dunwich began. “Is there some for the ordinary officers too?”
“No, it was a small keg, sir. The cooks told me to serve it just to you Lances.”
“At least we have something decent to clean our mouths with after this foul stuff!” exalted one of the men. They didn’t wait to be coaxed further. The tray was emptied in a shot, and only the largest mug remained, sealed with a silver lid.
“Captain, that must be yours!”
Dunwich took it unwillingly and met the toast proposed by the others.
“To the Empire! To the Lances!”
Extremely good, remarked Dunwich with approval. The best he’d drunk in recent months. Instead of gulping it down, like the others, he slowly sipped it, meditating on the spring in Cambria, its tree-lined avenues, and the colossal golden gates in the inner circle of walls. The warm sun on his skin. He could almost feel its balmy rays, the mood of calm lethargy lingering in the scented air.
Until he realised his skin actually was burning. It wasn’t his imagination.
“What...?” he attempted, but his mouth was parched and bitter. As if he’d drunk liquid rust. The servant was staring at him, dumbfounded. Dunwich looked about. The Lances were writhing on the table, gasping for breath, twisting and turning, clutching their stomachs. He couldn’t hear a single sound.
“Curse it all!” he stammered as the world whirled around him.
Poison.
His body was failing him. His back arched, almost to breaking point, his arms grew stiff and insensitive, and even his legs were beyond control. His fingers contracted, one on top of the other, and Dunwic
h heard the clear crack of his bones breaking. He was scrunching into a lump.
Dunwich attempted a chant, but he had no voice. His mouth refused to open. His teeth were agonising. On the brink of desperation, he recalled a tune he had read about during his years of study, a resonance also used by healers to cleanse infected wounds. Finding the right voice was virtually impossible. He struck up the melody in his mind.
Dunwich felt his throat loosen and he dropped to the floor. A flood of sick rippled through him from head to toe, an abnormal bile, scarlet in colour and as bright at blazing flames. All the poison in his body flowed out, but not without pain. Dunwich had never experienced a sensation of this kind. It was as if all the blood within him had decided to spurt out of his veins at the same time. His skin was oozing luminous blood. So too his eyes, mouth and nose. Until every tiny drop of poison had been purged from his body in resonance.
The world stopped spinning. Sound returned like a tidal wave, and overwhelmed him. They were all screaming. Some were sobbing, others raving. Many were stumbling to flee. Total panic reigned. The shadows cast by the stove’s flames on the canvas wall spasmed in a hideous dance.
Over the table, on the floor, face-up on the benches lay ten stone-dead Lances. Necks twisted backwards in unnatural poses, backs snapped in various points like dry wooden twigs, mouths gaping and brimming with blood. A horrific end.
The serving boy was still standing, tray in hand. Staring at the corpses, he was quivering like a leaf.
“Stop...” Dunwich attempted, but his shrivelled voice couldn’t dominate the din of the throng. “It wasn’t him... We have to find out who...”
Mordraud, Book One Page 46