“I spoke with Rinnion personally, a few weeks ago. We met at the crossroads on the main route leading to the South, in neutral territory. I will repeat to you his exact words: Cambria and the war can go bugger themselves. I don’t want my people to die like yours are dying.” Eldain gestured and spoke running his tongue over his teeth, imitating the old man and now former ally. “We’ve still got a chance of preventing the plague from reaching us. Keep my troops that are already sick – the rest are coming home. I have no intention of waiting even one day more.”
“Has he gone barmy?! If he does that, he’s condemning us all! Without them, the other allies in the east will desert the front too!” an irate Berg yelled. The other captains joined in with his shouting, cursing Rinnion and his cronies. Relations were not exactly idyllic between the Eld and Rinn families. Old grievances surfaced together, all at once.
“River swine! We should attack them and make them pay! Traitors!” bawled the commander responsible for the southern front, the one closest to Hannrinn. The captains for the north, the front nearest Cambrinn, were also of the same opinion. Eldain answered nobody, inexplicably leaving the ruckus to swell to an avalanche. Adraman got to his feet, yelling at the top of his voice to restore order.
“We’ve got to come up with a solution, so cut it out all of you! We can’t attack the Rinn family – that would be absolute folly! The other allies would go straight for our throats! It’d be the end for us!”
“So what do you suggest we do, Adraman?! And you, Eldain? What was your reply to Rinnion?” asked an indignant chorus of captains.
“I told him to go and get screwed. And that scores would be settled when the time came,” he answered. Adraman’s patience snapped. He was approaching the throne at an alarming pace.
“What’s got into you, Eldain?! Have you summoned us to unleash our rage against Hannrinn? You’re all too aware we’re goners without them!”
Mordraud came up behind him and pulled him back, right back to his place. He seemed to be the only one vaguely keeping his head. Actually, it was mere appearance. Inside him roared a river in full spate, invulnerable even to such dramatic news. He’d seen his son. He’d held him in his arms. Nothing else mattered, not the war, nor that grimy Rinn family.
He had better things to think about. He didn’t want Deanna and the child to spend the rest of their lives in war. He didn’t even want to picture his son on a battleground.
“Calm down now, Adraman. You have to set an example.”
“Bah, what bloody example?!” he swore. “Without the Rinns, this war’s OVER!”
“I know why you’re worried... for Deanna, and... Mordraud...” It wasn’t easy getting used to his son’s name. “But we have to stay focused. We got through the Long Winter – we can get over this!”
Adraman assented bleakly. “You’re right, I’m worrying too much... Just now, when the situation seemed better... Curse it all...”
“We have to act so that the enemy doesn’t find out – not immediately at least – about Rinnion’s withdrawal,” Eldain shouted, to call back everybody’s attention. “At least not until next spring. I’ve managed to secure as many provisions as possible from the fiefdoms on the east coast: dried and salted fish in exchange for protection. I’ve ordered the units stationed in Cambrinn and Hannrinn to fall back towards the interior, to keep our forces compact and to prevent the sick from infecting our allies. Our true allies.”
“That’ll leave the front undefended! And if the Rinn family were to side with Cambria?” demanded Berg.
“They won’t. Rinnion and his brother are all too aware Loralon would have them hanged at the first opportunity, not however before laying his hands on their bridge over the Hann. Let’s say their decision means... they’ve decided to stand their own fight against the Empire. But I’m not sure they’ve fully understood this yet.”
Eldain smiled with evident mockery. Adraman had never seen him so revengeful. He seemed like an old man embittered by age, and terribly similar to Rinnion when Adraman himself had begged him not to break up the Alliance. He really could not imagine what strategy his leader was weaving. He turned towards Mordraud, who instead was staring at Eldain, nodding imperceptibly.
“You’re telling us we’ll be the ones to launch an assault, isn’t that right?” Mordraud suddenly spoke up, disorienting the entire hall. Adraman, Berg and all the others swiftly wheeled round to him. Eldain’s response was another smile.
“Perhaps not right now. Yet I have to admit I’ve been considering it,” returned the old nobleman.
“THAT’S MADNESS!” Adraman shouted, together with many others. But not all of them. A small group – a few captains – clustered in confab, tallying with Mordraud’s words.
“Attack Cambria?! And with what men? The Empire’s pool of soldiers is vast compared to ours! We haven’t the faintest hope of coming even close to the capital!”
“I’ve heard a sizeable group of plague-carriers have banded together and set off for Hann Creek, which is opposite Hannrinn on the other side of the river, in enemy territory. Or am I wrong?” Mordraud asked.
Adraman knew nothing of it, but Berg did.
“You’re not wrong. As was agreed, we didn’t prevent them from going. Those people have the right to choose how they prefer to die...”
“You ordered it, Eldain... didn’t you?” Mordraud went on.
Eldain nodded and added: “Not only there. I’ve sent others, beyond the ring of Cambrinn’s mountains, again in enemy territory.”
Adraman reasoned quickly, to keep up with the thread of the debate. Eldain wanted to infect the areas near the Rinn lands. It couldn’t just be an act of revenge – a vile and revolting one at that. There had to be a practical reason.
“You want to spur the Rinns into wagering an assault on Cambria to snatch their disputed territories!” he shouted, dumbfounded. “Seeing them enfeebled by the pestilence, Rinnion and his brother could get funny ideas of conquest into their heads... He’d touched on something of the kind with me too, when I met with him in Hannrinn.”
“Exactly. For now, I could make do if those rank river rats were to dare to taunt Cambria. If they did, the Empire would have another bear to tame, before turning its attentions to us and the Rampart.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Berg admitted, weighing up Eldain’s words.
“Are you joking?! That means double-crossing the Rinns!”
“Not necessarily, Adraman. I agree with you that attacking seems like madness, but Eldain’s plan is our only hope for gaining time.”
Adraman gazed about, and saw nothing but approval and somewhat convinced faces. Eldain had an unfailing effect on his people. They trusted in him blindly.
“Now we’ll discuss the details, but the framework to the plan is all here. Keeping Cambria at bay for a while, and causing it complications with our former allies. In addition...”
Eldain got slowly to his feet. His legs could no longer support him firmly, Adraman noticed in concern. The elderly nobleman was exhausted, withered by the years spent at war against the Empire. But without him... Adraman didn’t even dare develop that inauspicious thought.
“In addition, I wish to inform you all of an important decision. From now on, Adraman will be my official spokesman. His words will be mine. Does anyone have an objection?”
Adraman was left gaping, his hands spread on his knees. Spokesman was a synonym for replacement. Eldain was making a covert abdication.
“Bravo, Adraman... Excellent news!” Mordraud congratulated him.
Berg too did the same. None of those present advanced the slightest doubt. Their trust in him stood equal to that in Eldain.
Besides, nobody would ever have dreamt of coveting the responsibility that had just befallen him. A responsibility not even he wanted.
But he was nevertheless one of Eldain’s men. Right to the end.
“If nobody else candidates himself for the position, then I accept,” Adraman exclaimed, a lum
p in his throat.
***
“How many today?”
“Eighty, sir.”
Dunwich picked up the wooden block, took his knife and scored it. The results were increasingly disheartening. At that rate, he’d have lost over half his men before next spring.
“Is the compound ready?”
“Still a few more days, sir,” the soldier replied, visibly ill at ease. The work was proceeding at a disturbingly slow pace. Nobody wanted to be a party to it, for fear of reprisals. The idea of constructing a closed-off area isolated from the rest of the camp wasn’t well-received by the troops. Whoever got sent there could automatically already consider himself dead. Without a boundary wall, however, Dunwich had to allot too many guards to watch the perimeter. The plague-ridden had to be quarantined in the most effective way possible, with or without his men’s approval.
“Warn the labourers that if they haven’t finished by tomorrow, then the first thing I’ll do is lock them inside it and throw away the key.”
“Yes... sir.”
Eldain had played dirty. Filthy dirty. Dunwich could understand it. After the Long Winter, it was clear all unspoken patterns, and above all rules, would be tossed to the wind. The rebels were using the only weapon available to them – something he couldn’t do. He’d tried suggesting it to the section captains, but nobody had mildly considered the idea. One thing was if the ailing came forward themselves for a suicide mission, as he was sure Eldain’s men had done. But Cambria’s soldiers weren’t rebels – not even in the slightest. They lacked determination, and everything that made Eld’s people so hard to yoke. In compensation, his men still showed unwavering faith in the Empire’s might, its men and its gold getting the upper hand. Even over the pestilence. After all, they had the power of harmonies on their side.
Pity the chanters had already explained they hadn’t the vaguest idea of how to cure that illness.
The tent flaps shifted aside and another soldier entered, puce-faced. “Commander, a messenger’s come for you!”
“Show him in at once. And you can go. Repeat my instructions to the labourers. And don’t be gentle about it!”
It wasn’t a normal messenger, the average man sent by Cambria. It was a Lance, and even one of rank. He knew him, had spoken with him many a time in the capital, and had often met him in Asaeld’s company. His name was Griserio. One of the Emperor’s trusty men and an excellent desk commander, as he liked to call the strategists stationed near the front. They greeted each other warmly, and Dunwich offered him a drink. There was little left, since he’d adopted the evening habit of endeavouring to deplete their liquid supplies, coaxed by the tension and the responsibilities he felt burdening him. Griserio sat in an armchair, thanked him for the liqueur, and stretched out his legs after the lengthy ride. Dunwich smiled. Years earlier, when he was still striving to climb the career ladder, he hadn’t been fond of that pseudo politician with a sly tongue. But the opportunity for a conversation of a certain depth hadn’t presented itself for some time, and the occasion cheered him.
“Do you recall that resonance they taught at the academy... the one to overcome fatigue and to sleep less?” Griserio asked, chuckling scornfully. “Well... don’t use it. The chant’s dire, and it takes an enormous strain to keep it afloat. In the end your legs are rested but your head’s drooping.”
“Yes, I presume it’s somewhat useless...” replied Dunwich “I never bothered with that resonance. I prefer a couple of glasses of wine.”
“I definitely agree! I have two missives to deliver to you: one from the provisions department, and the other from Asaeld. Here...” Griserio opened the bag he carried slung around his shoulder and pulled out a wad tied with string. Dunwich broke the seal and examined the first message.
“Listen to this!” he cried, astounded. “We are, at present, unable to send you the horses requested. They are all currently in use in the fields. Unbelievable! Fine steeds dispatched into the quagmire and cauliflowers!” commented Dunwich, grinding his teeth. “How do they expect me to assault the Rampart without the means?! Don’t they realise we’re losing men down here by the day?”
“And you haven’t heard the half of it...” replied the other Lance. “North of the front and around Hann Creek to the south, we’re under assault.”
“WHAT?!” yelled Dunwich in dismay. “They’re attacking us?!”
“That’s exactly how it is! The Rinn family’s armies have taken control of the lands directly by their borders. They say the plague is raging down there. Loralon has already sent fresh battalions to the area, but it’ll be tricky to regain control.”
“You don’t seem particularly concerned...”
Griserio spread his arms and smiled.
“Why should I be? Four sick beggars raiding a couple of arid fields... So what? What does it change for the Empire? What does it change for us?”
“You’re underestimating them...” Dunwich answered. “You, like all the others. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”
“What I know is that Eldain’s in a pretty sorry state. Very sorry. Launching an assault is the worst choice he could make. Loralon’s ordered two battalions to be dispatched from the Rampart for the south, to quell this irksome snag as swiftly as possible. Organise a contingent, put in it all those men who are giving you trouble here at the camp, and you’ll see that before spring comes we’ll have sorted all this nicely!”
Dunwich burst out laughing. Griserio gazed at him in bewilderment, unable to work out the reason for such hilarity. Dunwich knew that look to a T.
It was called ignorance.
“The Emperor’s orders are not open to discussion. Within three days, Loralon will have the men he requests.”
“Perfect,” Griserio replied dubiously. “But what do you find so funny?!”
“Nothing, or rather nothing you could understand. Don’t you worry, I’ll follow my orders. But I find it amusing that I’ve been asked to win this war, only to find myself alone and then pilfered of my men to boot.”
“I merely bring the orders, Dunwich.”
“I know... By the way, I need to go through the rest of my correspondence. Would you excuse me? Perhaps you’d like to dine with me later.”
Griserio got up with a half-bow and placed his empty glass on the table.
“I understand. You’d like some time alone... Certainly. See you later.”
The Lance left the tent without further ado. Dunwich filled his glass again, got comfortable on his armchair and cracked the wax seal on the second letter. It was Asaeld’s mark: a letter A crossed by two swords.
Official correspondence. A rare event.
Stay at the central front, at any cost. Strike the Rampart should the opportunity presents itself. The Lances I name below have orders to return urgently to Cambria. Consider no other orders as valid, and carry out only those that I, in person, send you.
“Stay at any cost... What an odd message,” Dunwich murmured, sipping from his wine goblet as his eyes ran down the list of names. “There was no need for you to repeat it – I’d already received precise instructions from the Emperor...”
Freeing himself of those Lances was a nasty blow, and he pondered on the reason for so much haste on Asaeld’s part. Had something that he was unaware of happened? Perhaps the commander had dug up other elusive assault plans by the Empire’s traitors. There’d undoubtedly be repercussions to that business with Chancellor Parro and his scheming. Whatever the reason might be, he could do little other than obey.
Asaeld’s words were law for the entire army. As they were for him.
“Why all this hurry, Asaeld? What’s going on at home?”
***
Drenched in ice-cold sweat, Deanna widened her eyes in the darkness of the bedroom. Adraman was lying at her side. She felt for his breath with the palm of her hand. He was alive, luckily. The blankets on Mordraud’s cot moved imperceptibly – a sign he was fine.
It was only a dream. Always th
e same ghastly nightmare that came to torment her every night since she’d given birth.
Deanna tossed and turned in the bed. She plumped up the pillow, took it away and shuffled the covers, sluiced by unwelcome and sudden waves of hot and cold. Hopeless. She couldn’t doze off again. She hadn’t had a decent sleep for days, and when she was on the brink of managing to drop off, the baby started wailing. She had to change his nappy, wash him and feed him. Her breasts were swollen to bursting, and her nipples were absurdly painful every time Mordraud suckled.
Mordraud. The name was like a knife driven into her spinal cord. She’d been trapped by her own deception. She couldn’t even utter protest when Adraman chose that name. He’d have worked everything out.
If Adraman knew the truth, he would undoubtedly turn his back on her. Cast her off. Throw her out of the house. Perhaps even haul her up in front of Eldain’s justice. And he, a good family friend, would certainly condemn her to the harshest punishment possible. Exile within her own disgrace. And if one thing terrified her to the point of losing sleep over it, it was the fear of ending up alone.
The serenity she’d struggled so hard to instil during the long months of pregnancy, that sense of peace she’d reached by finally accepting Adraman as husband and the man of her life, had evaporated mere seconds after the birth. She’d returned to the worst moments, where she rejected everything and everyone, herself included.
She was in a trap. Her breath was stifled, as if gradually drowning day by day in a lake of treacle. Each time she contemplated her son’s green eyes, she saw his real father. When Adraman took him in his arms, cuddled him and showered him with affection, she would picture Mordraud in his place. And he, without a shadow of doubt, would make a far worse father than Adraman. But at least he’d be the real one.
Mordraud was too young, aggressive and full of rage over things she knew nothing of, and didn’t want to know about. He was like her, in many respects. A terrible wife. A terrible mother.
Mordraud, Book One Page 62