“Time, time! Eld has been living the Long Winter for nearly a year now. How much longer will it take?!”
“However good you might be...” began Asaeld, arching his eyebrows in a sardonic smirk, “it’s clear you’re young. Perhaps too young for the responsibilities you have. We’re not the ones who decide, don’t you see?! We follow orders. And that’s that.”
Dunwich bit his lip in frustration and went back to focusing on the men moving along a frontline. The Rampart was veiled by the usual icy mist. The sounds of the clash rumbled darkly out of a dense milky wall. Combat that seemed destined to end the same way as all the rest.
They’d attempted every conceivable move to get round Eldain’s men. They’d tried to overwhelm them by exhaustion, attacking ceaselessly every day. But the winter was devastating for Cambria’s troops too, who, in contrast with the rebels, totally lacked dedication. Dunwich had watched with his own eyes as a couple of Lances retreated and pulled out any excuse to avoid having to plunge into that homicidal haze. And in a certain sense, he could identify with them. They’d sent packs of commandos into the woods cloaking the valley where the Rampart stood, but Eldain had riddled every square inch of land between the trees with bear traps, treacherous pits, and archers hidden well up among the branches. The horses went crazy at the smell of the rotting carcasses of their own kind, dismembered and spread like manure by Eldain’s men. Passing beyond the central front seemed impossible.
“We should try in other points! They certainly can’t guard the whole line with the same level of attention!” Dunwich cried.
“What do you think? That we haven’t tried?! Eldain studied where to place the Rampart very carefully. Cambrinn’s mountains are to the north, and we already know we can’t break through there with a sizeable army. The paths are unsuitable, there aren’t the infrastructures. And south of the Rampart, the branches of the Hann join to form a deep swamp as vast as a lake... And now it’s become an ice-trap. I’ve lost tens of scouts in the hope of finding a viable route – and only two have made it back!”
“Killed? Drowned? Frozen to death?”
“All three.”
“And further south?” Dunwich swallowed. “Or at Cambrinn? Are we sure we’ve made adequate attempts?”
“What do you think?! Those Rinn swine love seeing Cambria grow weak against Eld. They’re in the Alliance, but purely because they know the Empire still has a few scores to settle with them. They stole their lands from Cambria, and are shit-scared of shifting over onto our side!”
“All we’d have to do is promise them they could keep their territories! Where’s the problem?”
“You already know what the problem is,” Asaeld concluded concisely. Yes, Dunwich knew what the problem was. Loralon and his councillors. The Emperor would never accept the idea of bending to a similar pact with the enemy. All or nothing. Foolishness made all the more absurd by the fact that, as far as he was aware, Asaeld had often tried to convince him to the contrary.
“We can’t go on like this!”
Dunwich had reached his own personal endurance threshold. Jostled along the front like a puppet, always obliged to order the same pointless assaults, forced to travel back and forth between Cambria and the front in answer to Loralon’s every whim. The Lances were weary, depressed, and with extremely frayed nerves. The attempts on their lives hadn’t ended with that half-massacre during supper a few months earlier. They were growing in number. A Lance occasionally disappeared while on duty, or was found dead in his tent. Good lads, all belonging to Asaeld’s prestigious escort. Barely had Dunwich come to recognise them, chat with them a little, than he had to bury them.
“Yesterday they informed me that a couple of traitors had to be sent to the gallows,” Asaeld said. Dunwich shook his head, holding back a laugh swollen with sarcasm.
“Presumed traitors, you mean.”
“I’m beginning to grow tired of this behaviour of yours!”
“I’m tired too,” retorted Dunwich as he spurred his horse to set off. Asaeld had no time to speak before the captain was already galloping towards a group of cavalrymen awaiting a command to charge.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!” Asaeld yelled in terror. Dunwich turned round an instant, struck by the tone of his commander’s voice. He was expecting anger, certainly not fear. He opted to carry on nonetheless.
He could no longer stand being a mere spectator to that epic failure.
“Come on! With me!”
The group hesitated, unsure whether to follow him or heed the cries from the command post, but in the end Dunwich’s reputation among the troops got the upper hand. The horsemen behind him moved and tailed him into the white fog.
The initial impact was horrific. The cold was bitter everywhere, but in there, it was indescribable. Dunwich merely had time to wonder how the rebels managed to bear it, when he found himself faced with a surreal spectacle. The corpses of the fallen had been interred by the snow and trampled by the horses’ hooves, making the ground look as if it were pocked with disjointed reddish lumps. Bits of metal, crumpled shields and broken blades were scattered about. Clusters of shadows wandered in that white and crimson desert, fighting slowly and systematically against the living. Covered in furs, wrapped in tattered torn blankets, suffocated by long frozen beards – Eldain’s men still held out, incapable of giving up.
“Why aren’t we trying to push through?!” Dunwich mumbled, spitting out the shards of ice that hailed onto his face. The whole of Cambria’s army was fragmented, broken up on too vast a field, lacking in unity and order. It was like sending a flock of sheep to the slaughter, driven only by the rabid barking of dogs.
“Compact! Wedge-formation!” he bellowed. “Behind me!”
His voice rang out muffled, as if deadened by a layer of felt.
Dunwich began humming meekly, as he brandished his sword to crack open the head of the first man within range. The melody suddenly rose up and an artful passage steered it to a rhythmic and mighty charge. A whole choir joined his entreaty. A handful of Lances had followed him inside the fog.
The harmony reached resonance, slipped down his arms and condensed on the palms of his open hands. The power of many thickened around him. When the sphere of fire appeared, it was of a sensational size. He rounded off the chant by thrusting his hands forward and rotating them suddenly. The dazzling globe sped off, tracing a lightning curve above the rebels’ heads, coming to land behind their frontlines, next to the Rampart.
The impact was fearsome. Many were knocked to the ground, others set to rolling around, howling like wild beasts, to put out the flames burning them. What remained of a whole regiment of foot-soldiers was nothing but ash and a few smoking scraps.
“Keep the pace!”
He wanted the Rampart. He craved it, even dreaming about it at night. He had to see what was beyond, at any cost. His men’s spurt bowled over the splintered ranks of Eldain’s infantry. Yet without gangplanks, spanning that earthen barrier was practically impossible.
Dunwich decided to attempt a tactic he’d never used before.
“Envisage it... Envisage it...” he whispered, seeking out, in the little time he had, the most appropriate form, the most effective melody. And he set about chanting again.
The snow at the foot of the Rampart vibrated like the skin on a drum, and piled up along an invisible rib of the wall. His horse was in full spate – he couldn’t halt it now. If the idea didn’t work, he’d be smashed face-first into the insuperable mud blockade and steel carcasses.
His voice swelled and modulated convulsively, almost on the verge of despair. Too slow and too weak. Dunwich pushed harder, venturing unconventional passages. He felt his arms tremble in holding out against the dissonance threatening to snap him in two. He saw his horse’s hooves hit the first hem of shifted snow. He shut his eyes, and shrank inside himself.
The Rampart was spanned by a bridge of ice.
The cavalry howled in terror and euphoria, mad with their trust in D
unwich. They descended beyond the wall, riding on a narrow curved tongue of snow.
“Stay compact! Don’t stop! FOLLOW THE ARCH!”
The unit sank into a sea of soldiers, who were paralysed in amazement. It was like galloping through the waves, striking the water’s surface with a stick. Dunwich brought down and pulled up his sword wildly, randomly. The horsemen had moved up alongside the Lances, so these could go on tormenting the masses, the tents, the stores – anything – with their savage choir of fire. The rebels’ camp ignited like a heap of dry straw.
Dunwich curved, pursuing a line he’d traced out in his mind, one with no room for margin. There was no beyond – breaking through towards the east was not possible. His men followed him, making their way through the foe. Many fell, spiked by the poleaxes. Others were hailed with arrows. He couldn’t stop to assist the fallen. He heard them scream as they were dragged down by their horses and engulfed in the surge. Just a little more, and he’d finish the route for the bridge. Dozens of fires were dotted around, shining bright like beacons in the mist.
A group of enemy foot-soldiers took position in their path. Helming them stood a stocky solid warrior bawling commands steeped in curses, like a beast. They weren’t trying to evade Dunwich’s group like all the rest.
They wanted to obstruct them with their own bodies.
“GO ROUND!” he yelled, but he himself was too close to avoid the impact. The infantry hurtled off a volley of sharp spears. Dunwich saw a blade lodge an inch from his leg, stabbing into his horse. Another scraped his helmet, knocking it off. Their captain’s sword-tip shredded the face of the cavalryman at his side.
“BACK! AWAY!” he yelled, seized by panic and unprepared for such suicidal defence. Droves of soldiers clung at the horses’ legs, grabbing their heads in an attempt to floor them. And ending up underneath the animals themselves. His men scattered, unable to cross that wall of human flesh. The Lances stopped their chanting and had to frantically defend themselves from the swords raining down on all sides. Dunwich screamed until hoarse for them to retreat, but he could no longer look behind to see whether his command had been heeded. The captain had just finished pulling down a rider alone, yanking him by his leg. And he was coming for Dunwich now.
“RETREAT!” was his last word. Dunwich shifted his sword to the side, parrying the first lunge, but his numb fingers deceived him on his grip. The horse swayed and whinnied, knackered by its wounds and terror. The blare of the clash was fading – a sign that his men had found a way to move towards the bridge by fleeing backwards. He had to get out of there, and quickly. But the rebel captain was ruthless, hammering harder than anyone he’d ever come across. And he wouldn’t stop foul-mouthing like a brute.
“THAT SHIT-HOLE CAMBRIA! I’LL POUND YOU ALL TO PULP! YOU’RE ALL DEAD MEAT!”
Dunwich felt the blade tear his plating at arm height. He saw slivers of black steel fly off. His was a shameful disadvantage. His horse was about to ditch him entirely. Blinded by the ice and the clamour, he only spotted the sword plunging to his chest at the last second. He twisted his torso, gritted his teeth, and prayed. The iron tip grated on his metal shell, and penetrated, overturning the black and gold plating and ripping his chainmail. He felt no pain. But he wasn’t entirely sure he still had his arm.
He identified the only escape possible. A lightning movement as he thrust his weapon into the warrior’s shoulder left unprotected by the shield. He sank it in deep, but not deep enough. He’d earned himself some time.
No longer thinking about playing the hero, and no longer fuelled by the exciting pulse of the throng, Dunwich turned his horse around and fled. He clamped himself tight onto its back to evade the poleaxe blades, blindly entrusting himself to the animal. Until he heard the din detach from the ground, as if he’d taken flight. He peered down. He was riding over his white bridge, now melting beneath the hooves.
He landed well by the skin of his teeth, slipping to the side and clutching desperately at the horse’s ice-encrusted mane.
The Imperial ranks materialised beyond the fog after what seemed an eternity to him. Some had trickled back. Others simply would not return. Behind them could be heard the rebels’ cries, as they set about sedating the fires.
“HAVE YOU GONE MAD? Did you want to get yourself killed?!”
Someone was shaking him like a rag doll, but the ice on his eyelashes prevented him from seeing properly. Their headquarters had plummeted into chaos. The surviving cavalrymen bawled ferociously. The Lances praised his name, prodding the ground with their swords. Their commanders barked orders, punishments, trials for insubordination. Dunwich couldn’t comprehend any of it. They’d managed to inflict real damage, to get beyond the Rampart in small numbers, and without premeditation. It was a success. It couldn’t have any other name.
“These improvisations WILL... NOT... BE... TOLERATED!” yelled his torturer once again. If only he’d stop shoving him about. Dunwich felt the urge to be sick.
“We have to press on... with this strategy...” he tried to say. “The Lances can create the openings... We all need to attack in the same point...”
“We won’t be attacking anything at all!”
It was Asaeld who was shouting. His face was purple and his eyes sprung wide. He seemed like another man, a mad one. Then his voice dropped to a worried whisper, and Dunwich felt a hand grope inside the tear in the armour, at shoulder height.
“Show it to me... Bless us all – you came within a hair’s breadth of being run right through...” Asaeld was propping him up on his feet. There was no trace of his horse. He wondered where it had gone.
Reaching the resonance for the bridge had gutted him.
“I’m not hurt!” he said, stumbling on his words. It had all happened too quickly, and that breathable air outside the fog was making him giddy.
Then came the stabbing pain, where Asaeld’s fingers were poking about. Dunwich felt his skin split, and a gush of boiling blood run down his side. It didn’t even seem a blade wound. It was more like a claw embedded in a muscle.
An injury he didn’t think he had.
“We have to find a healer! At once! It could get infected, and then that would be the end of you!”
“But I’m fine, I say!”
Asaeld didn’t listen in the least. Dunwich felt himself lifted off the ground. Asaeld was carrying him over his shoulder, to the infirmary tent. The blood wouldn’t stop spurting from the metal wreckage. Fresh, new blood.
“You’ll be spending some time at home now... Too much is too much,” Dunwich heard, shortly before finding himself thrown on a bed amidst ranks of agonising death-rattles.
“You make me worry too much, my boy. And besides... “ Asaeld went away, leaving him in the hands of two healers, who carefully set about dismantling his armour, to free the wound. “...you’re in pretty bad shape. A few months’ rest can only do you good... And it’ll help you sort out your ideas.”
Dunwich had earned himself some leave. Precisely when he didn’t feel the slightest need for it.
“That’s how we have to attack them...” he uttered, as the first herbal concoctions placed beneath his nose began to take effect. A soft heavy slumber induced by the heady fumes inevitably overwhelmed him.
“That’s how we have to attack them...”
XXV
Saiden was walking behind the two brothers, trudging as they were, along an invisible path submerged by the snow. Mordraud and Gwern were chatting in hush voices, while he stayed watching them in silence. He was witnessing something important. A reaction he’d hoped to observe when he got the idea of following them on that trip. The Long Winter didn’t interest him in the least. Halting the white death and helping Eldain’s rebels had never been his priority.
His true goal was to unlock that secret held inside Gwern, unbeknown to the boy.
‘His Flux... It’s concentrated exclusively in his chest,’ Saiden considered, as he stared at his back. To his eyes, Gwern’s body was like a clear gla
ss casing. And inside his chest, beneath his sternum, Saiden could see a knot of Flux nesting. Extraordinary, he told himself. In his experience, the boy shouldn’t even be alive. His brother, astoundingly, was even more bizarre.
Not a single fibre of Flux was visible inside Mordraud.
If Saiden looked at a tree, he could see not only its shape and its usual colour, but also its structure. Chain upon chain of light, making up bodies, trunks, rocks, and so on. Every entity in the world, whether living or built, was made entirely of Flux. The whorls tracing out limbs or branches were narrow and perfect. The grain in wood was literally drawn in details of light, printed like white inscriptions on the grid structure of the trunk. In a similar manner, man appeared, to his eyes, as a statue made of a web of light, minutely describing every feature – eyes, mouth, fingers.
That was the Flux, he thought. The framework of reality, constructed with the pure energy of light.
Instead, Gwern was almost entirely lacking in it. What little he had was curled up in a jumble inside his chest. Absurd, Saiden said to himself. If the Flux didn’t mark out his arms, how could they exist? When he’d touched them for the first time, he’d been astounded by how convincing they were. Yet, without being made up of Flux, those arms couldn’t be real. The same was true for his legs, and even for his head. And his brain. Gwern was a hovering clump of Flux – a being with no real form. While his brother was totally lacking. Mordraud’s body was traced out simply by the void it created in the landscape’s weave of light: a dark silhouette cut out of the fabric of reality. Inconceivable, mused Saiden.
When he’d seen them next to each other, something had moved inside Gwern. His Flux had very slightly opened up, had swollen. As if there were some special tie with his brother, who, in an entirely unfathomable way, activated it. Saiden was there with them merely to go on observing the relationship between Gwern and Mordraud, to try to work out what that mysterious entity in the two brothers was.
Mordraud, Book One Page 51