“I was unavoidably detained by the king’s torturer.”
Danscar appraised his commander. “So I can see. Are you fit enough?”
“So many people concerned for my welfare! I’m not far ahead of Saurosen’s force. They are fleeing the three cities!”
“Is Haltese the winner, then?”
“No. He’s dead. The crown falls to Nemond Thand – once Saurosen relinquishes it!”
“What now?”
“We stop Saurosen at Dhur Bridge.”
They broke camp immediately and Aurelan ordered the mounted troops to hasten to the bridge with him. The men on foot were to arrive in a pincer movement. “When you’re in position, we will ride as if in retreat. Then you close in and shut the trap!”
***
Grasslands
Brown eyes alight as he rode Versayr again after so many days, Ulran the tall innman left Arisa, his powerful sword at his side. He passed a hand through his black hair, which was longer than he was accustomed to. His wounds had been treated and he estimated would heal by the time he reached Lornwater.
His thick lips curved and he arched an eyebrow at his companion riding black Borsalac alongside him.
Courdour Alomar wore his black hat and incongruously, his armour. His long, drooping black moustache wafted in the breeze and his great bushy eyebrows cast shadows over his eyes but they sparkled even so, almost ironically, light blue, worldly and penetrating. His skin, creased round eyes and mouth, appeared a great deal older than the eyes. The black hair streaked with grey suggested old age too, which was not surprising since the warrior had suffered also: his eyes tended to weep a lot now, since Yip-nef Dom’s surgeon had cut away his eyelids. He was still prone to the odd sneezing bout. Yet his other wounds had already healed, thanks to the stubborn determination of the Overlord to keep him immortal.
***
Dhur Bridge
It was wide enough to accommodate two wagons crossing abreast, and sturdy, built of ancient grey-stone and slate. The roadway was compacted earth embedded with cobbles; there was a mark-high wall on each side. Symetrical and attractive, its three curved stone arches spanned Saloar Teen with grace. Water swirled around the stone piers, moss clinging at the surface level. Further down-teen detritus collected on the varteron bank, doubtless washed there during the last storm.
At one time long ago sentry posts and small barracks had been constructed in matching stonework at each entrance to the bridge, continually manned by toll-collectors and guards. Now, though, the buildings were crumbling ruins, with weeds sprouting through cracks and their roofs partially collapsed.
The advance forces of Saurosen’s men of the sixth and fourth toumens emerged from the forest and rode across arable fields, not mindful of the crops they trod to pulp, hundreds of them.
At mid-day, they eventually confronted the forward cavalry of Aurelan Crossis on the bridge. Battle was joined.
The mass of horseflesh and warriors soon congested the bridge. Men and horses toppled into the rushing waters below. A number of riders from both sides attempted to cross the teen but the current here was too swift and they were swept away.
Riders jostled for a place on the slight rise in the centre of the bridge. Weapons clashed and animals whinnied.
The huge hulk of Halas Chevelf crushed twenty Saurosen men who foolishly challenged him. But even his great bulk could not stem the tide of men-at-arms. He suffered countless sword-cuts and was finally felled by three arrows piercing his eyes and brain. While in the middle of the fray, Aurelan Crossis watched the giant topple, but pressed from all sides there was little he could do about it.
Danscar fought valiantly by his side. He was aware that his lieutenant saved his life more than once as he sliced and slashed with his sword. But after a time, he sensed that he flagged, his movements becoming dangerously slow and laboured. His wounded left arm and right calf bled freely again and he soon realised he was far too weak for any prolonged fight.
Danscar ordered him to the rear. “Muster your strength, sir. Direct your archers!”
Reluctantly Aurelan swerved his mount round and joined the main body of his men. He noticed the pile of corpses clustered in the teen’s fork, where earlier only detritus had gathered. He directed archers to shoot to the side of the teen banks. “Fire at the horsemen approaching the bridge! Keep them off it!”
The air darkened with hundreds of shafts that rained down on Saurosen’s troops.
Then Aurelan spotted Saurosen at the rear with his witch, their horses skittish. He swore; too far away to present a target for the archers.
He checked the signallers further back on the little grassy slopes on either side of the road that led to the bridge. Yes, they were in position. Now was the time!
Aurelan signed to his bugler and the lad made the call, a haunting, almost plaintive sound.
Immediately, Danscar and his horsemen turned and fled from the bridge, Saurosen’s riders in pursuit.
By the time Danscar reached Aurelan’s side, the trap was set. The bugler sounded a different call, discordant and shrill. At once his men, hitherto hidden behind folds in the terrain, rose up and charged both flanks of the pursuing riders.
The clash was deafening.
Despite his weakness, Aurelan couldn’t resist this fight; the success of the sprung trap rejuvenated him.
He slashed and cut with ferocity, tapping into hidden depths of strength.
All the time, he searched for Saurosen. He dearly wanted to kill the man, but understood he might not get the chance; that honour could fall to one of his men instead. At the very least, he wanted to see Saurosen’s corpse. Only then would he consider that Sno had been avenged.
***
For most of the day, the battle of Dhur Bridge raged, raucous with yells and shrieks mingling with cries of pain and shouts of triumph. Steel clashed with steel. Horses fell, slaughtered indiscriminately.
Through it all, aided by the arcane shimmering mists Nostor Vata dispelled around them, Saurosen and Captain Bayuan Aco finally broke through without being noticed.
In dribs and drabs, several hundred men of the sixth toumen also pressed their advantage and barged through the ranks of Aurelan Crossis’ men.
On they fled, along the road to Lowdorl, leaving behind a battlefield of dead and wounded that counted in the thousands, amidst spears, banners and arrows slanting up at a bruised sky.
***
Second Sabin of Lamous
Lornwater
Baron Laan organised a council meeting house in the royal palace. He was well protected by men-at-arms. He sat on the throne with Jaori when representatives from assorted factions sought redress. Repeatedly, he stalled, explaining that the first task was to rebuild the city and house the homeless. The surprising lack of money in the treasury posed problems too.
Despite the success of the rebellion, sporadic fighting had continued with stubborn remnants of the sixth toumen, a few loyal palace guards, wall guardians and even watchmen who hadn’t seen sense. Over time, these pockets of resistance had dwindled.
Some of the perpetrators fled, others hid in tunnels or secret passageways, waiting for a propitious opportunity to rise again. For the majority, however, they finally admitted defeat and threw down their weapons.
Fires were extinguished, rabid dogs killed, and bodies were moved to Svernree Park for later disposal.
The mood throughout the city was sombre as countless citizens mourned their lost loved ones.
Everywhere there was an insidious foreboding that the tragedy was not over quite yet.
At a subdued ceremony, Nemond Thand was proclaimed Protector of Lornwater, in absentia. On his return, when the defeat of Saurosen was confirmed, he would be declared king. In the meantime, by order of the nobles assembled, Lord Tanellor having declined the offer, Baron Laan was selected as Keeper of the Crown until Nemond Thand’s homecoming.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
FRIEND
“Military schemes to
be of use must be in the heart, not in books.”
- Tangakol Tract
Second Dekin of Lamous
Lowdorl
It took Saurosen and his company a day to reach Lowdorl, a thriving township as yet unblemished by the uprising in Lornwater. Its growth and wealth stemmed from its pivotal position, for it served as a crossroads, astride Saloar Teen, with roads leading to Daw to the ranvarron, the treacherous road through the Strebdaw Apps mountains to Strebbi on the shores of Joma Taal, a mere ten launmarks from Daw; two roads led to Mathile, one through the Apps, the other more direct; and of course a trade trail wound through Oquar II forest to Lornwater.
Saurosen was recognised and given obeisance by the town’s elders. He was asked to stay overnight, to enjoy the hospitality of the elders, but he offered regret that he must move on. Pressing matters of state.
It would take a full day of hard riding to reach Mathile.
***
Second Sidin of Lamous
Grasslands
The day after the commercial caravan left the town of Wickaem, it was approaching the Arisan Gap when the horde of Baronculer attacked, descending on the wagons from grassy knolls that littered this area of tall grass.
From a manderon outcrop of rock that jutted from the grasslands, Ulran and Courdour Alomar surveyed the scene. “It’s only a war-party, yet the wagon-master hasn’t a hope,” Ulran observed. “He’s deploying his men in groups – making it easier for the Devastators to pick them off with arrows!”
Alomar raised an eyebrow and stared unblinking due to the lack of eyelids. “You want to help?”
Ulran smiled. “It seems crass to deny them our aid. Besides, that is the path we intend to ride to Goldalese. Those Baronculer are in our way.”
Alomar chuckled. “So be it!” He hefted his battleaxe and spurred on Borsalac.
Ulran followed, unfastening his bow and quiver.
Bursting on the enemy unexpectedly, Ulran felled three Devastators with his arrows, and Alomar decapitated two more. “Use archers to slay their bowmen!” Ulran called. “The rest of you, spread out and select a target, go for him, kill him!”
As if the defenders of the wagons had imbibed a miraculous draught, they immediately split up and ranged their archers, while pikemen bravely moved away from the wagons and targeted each a Devastator horseman.
The transformation was remarkable and broke the spine of the war-party.
The surviving Baronculer rode off, a couple pausing briefly to recover a fallen comrade.
Then rejoicing rang out from the people in the caravan.
“I wouldn’t have believed two men could make a difference!” shouted a stout bearded man, obviously the wagon-master.
Ulran swivelled in his saddle. He was tempted to say all they wanted was some leadership; instead, he called, “Each one of you who fought made a difference!”
“Now,” added Alomar, “honour your dead and then move on.”
Ulran and Alomar were offered wine and food.
As dusk fell, they indulged in a repast, intent on leaving in the moonlight.
A wizened man in a cloak and hood emerged from the darkness and accosted them. His face was lined and pallid, as if lifeless, the long white beard and eyebrows streaked with stunning silver threads of hair. His hair, matted and black, contrasted with his apparent age. Eyes of flashing mischievous agate, he said, “Courdour Alomar, you should not go to Goldalese with your companion.”
“You know my name, old man?”
“I have reason to.”
“What business is it of yours where I go?”
“I am a friend, as you know...”
“Marron Marsh…” Alomar reflected in a whisper. “Did I last see you there?”
The man ignored the question. “My advice is that if you seek the Navel of the World, you must find it surrounded by water.” He blended into shadows and was gone.
“Who was that?” Ulran asked.
“I have an inkling I’ve met him – or one of his kind – before. They speak in riddles all the time.” Alomar shook his head. “Nonsense, all of it.”
“Surrounded by water,” Ulran stated.
“So?”
“I’m thinking your ‘friend’ wants you to divert to Taalland.”
Alomar stroked his moustache. “That’s a mite tenuous, Ulran.”
“No more than the ‘message’ I received from Scalrin about the fate of the birds of the Overlord.”
Alomar studied the innman. “Would you accompany me?”
“I’m concerned about Ranell. As you know, the signs are not good about the state of Lornwater… But I feel sure my son can cope.” He cogitated briefly then said, “I will join you on this quest. If I can help you join Jaryar, I will do so.”
Alomar stared inscrutably. “You’re thinking of your wife, Ellorn.”
“I am. If you do find Jaryar in some kind of afterlife, I will surely envy you, my friend.”
***
Second Dloin – Second Durin of Lamous
Oxor junction
Saurosen’s company did not linger at Lowdorl and arrived for the night at Mathile. One day after that, they passed on their right the turn off to Oxor rift. Saurosen ground his teeth at sight of that junction. “The damnable mines!” he seethed. They started the rebellion. If it hadn’t been for Tanellor and his soft approach to the miners…
“Sire, do not castigate yourself over Oxor,” remonstrated Nostor Vata. “It was meant to be.”
“And I suppose this flight is supposed to happen. Written in your Book of Concealed Mystery, is it?”
“No, sire. It is not written – yet. You will be written about in the Tsukcoldol Almanack, to be sure.”
“That is a great comfort!” he snarled.
***
Dhur Bridge
Careful to avoid the corpses strewn about, Thand’s company rode to the bridge. “By Daqsekor, the carnage!” exclaimed Tantian.
“And the stench,” added General Accantey. “Wait here,” he ordered and then proceeded to direct his troops.
Thand and Tantian lingered on the edge of the battlefield. She kept glancing at her husband, but he was holding up well. The ride had been arduous and a great strain on his resources, yet he coped. Her heart lifted; he was almost himself, as he had been when they were younger.
Accantey returned and addressed Thand. “My lord, Saurosen and his men fought with an army of soldiers-of-fortune led by Aurelan Crossis.”
“Where is Aurelan now?”
“He and his surviving men have left, still tracking Saurosen, though I estimate their force is vastly depleted. They looted most of the bodies. I learned as much from one of the wounded before he expired.”
Thand dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Aurelan has done us a service. His efforts have weakened Saurosen’s force.”
Accantey leaned towards Nemond Thand. “My lord, we must ride on. Their tracks head for Lowdorl.”
Nodding, Thand tugged at the reins. “Let’s go, then, General.” He cast a troubled gaze at the ground littered with corpses. “Alas, we cannot delay to give them the rites they are due.”
On their way to Lowdorl, Sister Illasa jerked spasmodically in her saddle.
Tantian leaned over to steady her. “Are you all right, Sister?”
Illasa’s eyes closed and her visage softened. Slowly, a smile creased her lips, and she shuddered a couple of times. Finally, her eyes opened and her stare held Tantian and Thand. They eased their mounts to one side, to let the column continue on its way, and then halted.
“What is it?” Tantian asked.
“I have mind-reached with Hara, the Lord-General’s Sardan. She says that Thand will recover the Black Sword.”
Thand’s brow creased in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”
Tantian beamed. “We need not hurry, my dear. I believe this chase might not be necessary. Others will bring the sword to you.” She peered at Illasa. “Is that not so?”
�
�Perhaps,” Illasa replied.
***
Grasslands
Diverting to the varteron, Ulran and Alomar made good time across the grasslands, heading towards Aid rift. On their horizon they saw the cone of Mount Astle jutting above the edge of the Manderranmeron Fault; a brown-black plume of smoke spiralled into the sky, besmirching the white clouds.
There were a few signs of lugarzos here, the earth churned and defiled, and several skeletons picked clean by carrion in evidence. No flesh remained but a distinctive vile smell lingered. “I’d rather not meet those creatures,” said Alomar.
“My stionery tells me they are moving to the manderon. They lost a great many here.” He pointed to a small rise. “Ash. Whoever fought them lost men, too. Their corpses have been prepared for their last journey.”
“Lucky them,” intoned Alomar.
***
Camping night after night wore down Saurosen. When he’d been younger, it had been an adventure. But now he was soft, he admitted. And there was the ever-present fear of spiders. Even though Nostor Vata’s powder seemed to work, he was wary. What if a spider dropped from a branch above? He contrived to sleep with only the skies as a canopy. He missed the warm scented baths in the palace and, he thought, rasping a hand over his chin, the warm tender attentions of his female barber. As for the ablutions he suffered, they were abominable. He was only glad they never camped in the same place longer than one night. He’d overheard a couple of soldiers moaning as they dug his latrine. “Why’s he so special? He shits like the rest of us!”
“He wields the Black Sword, you idiot. If he hears you complain, he’ll cut out your gizzard!”
Saurosen smiled to himself. They feared him still, it seemed.
Shortly afterwards, he approached Bayuan Aco. “Captain, I would like to spend a short while each evening sword-fighting with some of your men. It will hone my blade, keep me fit and may even train them in the fine art of swordsmanship.”
Bayuan hesitated, as if wishing to show concern for his safety, and then he nodded. “Very well, sire.”
***
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