Danscar reined in alongside Aurelan Crossis, who was slumped on his horse. “You need to rest, Captain,” he said with concern.
“I must track Saurosen, face him…”
Peering behind, Danscar said, “The men are weary and disgruntled, Captain. The loot that was promised has been meagre, mostly mere trinkets and coin from corpses. I fear they will not stay with you for long.”
Aurelan straightened in the saddle. “They’re right. This is not their fight any more.” He briefly fingered his scarred face. “Give them leave to go.”
“As you wish. They fought well.”
“Yes. Tell them that.” Aurelan kneed his mount forward while Danscar whirled his horse round to address the men.
***
The next night, when Saurosen’s company camped, the king fought a duel with two soldiers and won easily, only slightly wounding them both.
Shortly after that his sensitive hearing detected a different tenor to the whispers: “You can see why he’s a king; he can fight like a demon against two opponents, even with a leg wound. Not many kings I’ve heard of can do that!”
He was satisfied with that opinion. Oh, Jikki, if only you could see me now! Though she would abhor the field conditions even more than he did, may the gods bless her.
***
Third Dloin – Fourth Dloin of Lamous
Rubala
Saurosen’s company was met outside the township by the bulk of the sixth toumen, led by General Yordine Edural, clad in full armour. “You have made good time, sire,” Edural said, saluting. Edural’s resemblance to his brother Bilorn was striking: the same deep brown complexion, prominent curved nose and thick mouth, but instead of dimples his visage was creased by two harsh grooves at each side, and his grey eyes appeared cold, calculating. He too was medium height, with broad shoulders and a thick waist.
Saurosen let out a thankful sigh. At last he felt more secure.
“We will accompany you to the Yordine toran,” Edoral said.
“I look forward to it!”
“But it is still a long ride, sire,” Edural warned.
And so it was.
***
Taalland
After leaving Rubala, Suarosen’s company crossed the bridge that spanned Casmore Teen, and rode to the Manderronmeron Fault. Here, the cliffs were not so steep as those further to the manderon; a single mounted man – or woman – could negotiate the track down one side and up the other. As they crossed the rugged basalt expanse of the fault floor, ash rain fell upon them from the brooding Altohey.
Briefly, on the third Durin, they stopped to water their horses at the Ranmeron Market, and then Masisa Taal was on their left, Arlo Swamp on their right. Many of the troops were plagued by swarms of hidges that buzzed and bit.
The trail wended its way for two days through griseous gorges and past the edge of the immense, almost impenetrable Sporlern forest, where it was rumoured the fifth toumen dwelled under General Fanur Vin. This toumen was rarely encountered, because it swore allegiance to nobody, not king, sword, noble or Lord-General.
***
Grasslands
Riding out of the grasslands on the fourth Sabin, Courdour Alomar and Ulran joined the Feljih-Goldalese trail and crossed Astle Teen at the ford. The trail led to the Manderranmeron Fault, with Mount Astle on their right pouring ash and smoke into the heavens. Here, there was a modest fault crossing, engineered by Durwell of Goldalese, comprising metal stanchions embedded in the rock base of the fault, and from these were suspended cables linked to pulleys and weights. The small wooden platform swayed slightly as passengers, wagons or horses were hauled across. But the cables invariably held; there had been only two fatal accidents in the twenty-two years the Durwell crossing had been in operation. As it was a private concern, financed by the Durwell family, it had not been copied elsewhere; more the pity, thought Ulran. It certainly saved time and inconvenience. A bridge would be preferable, but the span required too expensive a project, apparently.
After two days’ ride, they hoped to reach Manderon Market for nightfall of the fourth Dloin.
There was time to stop for a quick meal off to one side of the trail in a natural dip in the land. Ulran and Alomar sat in front of their camp-fire, eating seered sward-snake that the innman had trapped. It tasted tender and slightly sweet, and melted in the mouth.
They’d chosen wisely, he mused, for little smoke spiralled out of the depression to announce their presence. This trail was not unknown for providing brigands with easy pickings from market traders en route. Their horses were tethered nearby. Ulran detected a slight disturbance in that direction, and signed silently to Alomar.
“What was that?” Alomar whispered, reaching for his battle-axe.
“Versayr scented something.”
“Lugarzos?”
Ulran stood and sniffed the air, his senses alert. “No, they don’t cross the Fault. Besides, you’d smell them.”
Agilely, a young man dressed in dark green crested the lip of the depression, silhouetted against the waning sun. His frame seemed vaguely familiar to the innman.
“Permission to join you?” the stranger said, tone gentle but firm.
“Step down where we can see you, stranger,” said Alomar, getting to his feet and still gripping his axe. “We can spare the odd morsel and a drink, if you’re needy.”
As the stranger walked into the firelight, Alomar exclaimed, “By Osasor, do I recognise you?”
“No, I don’t think so. My name is Cobrora Clen.”
“Cobrora,” Alomar echoed, an eyebrow raised.
“You travelled with my sister, Fhord. She who now haunts Sianlar.”
Ulran clasped Clen’s hand. “Put the axe away, Alomar. He is a friend indeed! Sit with us.”
As Clen sat with them, sharing the sward-snake, he related how he’d travelled to Lowdorl on foot, and then acquired a horse, which was tethered nearby. “It has been an arduous journey,” he said. “After Rubala, I skirted Casmore Taal and followed Astle Teen until I hit this trail. I was not far behind you at the Durwell Crossing.”
“You were seeking us?” Alomar asked.
“Not precisely. But I was driven to come this way.”
Ulran nodded. “Driven. Like your sister.”
“We were similar in many respects.”
“Driven to where?” Alomar queried, ever pragmatic.
“I am heading for Rom Swamp, in Taalland.”
“Now that is quite uncanny,” the immortal warrior said.
“That is your destination as well, is it not?” Clen eyed them both.
Ulran’s lips curved. “Yes, you’re very like your sister… We are. I suspect your abilities have drawn you to us.”
Clen frowned. “Not knowingly.”
“Fhord told me you were a Sardan.”
“True, Ulran. I suspect I’ve been led to you for a reason designed by Sister Illasa–”
“Ah, Nemond Thand’s witch,” interjected Alomar.
“Some call her that. Ranell was kinder, though…”
“You know my son?” Ulran said.
“Yes, we were instrumental in helping Nemond Thand escape from Saurosen…”
“We’ll talk more of this,” Ulran said, “but first we must break camp and get back on the trail if we want to get to Manderon Market by nightfall. Clen, will you join us?”
“Yes, innman.”
“You must tell me all that has happened, Cobrora Clen.” That sounded strange, saying ‘Cobrora’ after so long, though she had been in his thoughts often.
On their way, Ulran told Clen how Fhord died. And in return, Clen revealed what had occurred in the three cities, allaying any concerns Ulran had for Ranell’s safety.
***
Taalland
On the fourth Dekin Saurosen’s company spent another overnight stop in the market town of Varteron.
On the journey, Edural drew his horse to one side of Saurosen’s. “A word, sire?”
“Of
course, General. You can speak in the hearing of Nostor Vata.”
Edural signed behind them with a thumb. “Our quartermaster has kept a keen eye on our money chest, your highness. We are vastly depleted and due replenishment.”
Saurosen briefly pursed his lips. “That is awkward. As you’re aware, I left Lornwater in a hurry and did not bring my treasurer or the treasury with me.”
“I realise that, sire. But the men get testy if they don’t see payment.”
“What of their loyalty to me and the Black Sword?”
“That is unstinting, sire. But soldiers need food in their bellies – and the victualling is paid for from the same money chest. Food aplenty, the occasional woman, booze when it’s available, and a good fight are their simple pleasures, your highness. But it all costs money.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Saurosen said, his stomach unepectedly queasy with new anxiety.
***
On the fourth Dloin, Ulran, Alomar and Clen stayed overnight at Manderon Market, where the innman explained to Clen and Alomar that the Yordine families rather than the local Tramaloma clan bartered in the market towns.
Then they rode across the bridge over Arlo Teen.
Their trail here was formed from volcanic rock, uneven and dark; it bordered the immense Rom Swamp. “The Kellan-Mesqa tribe, the Tramaloma, occupy all of Taalland, but here is their largest presence,” Ulran told them both. “There are two clans – here there’s the Rom clan; the other clan is the Arlo. Both are swamp dwellers.”
“Reminds me of Marron Marsh,” said Alomar. “Only on a larger scale.”
Ulran dipped his head in agreement. Indeed, Toran Nebulous still presented a mystery he had to solve one day. Here, no mist suggested illusions. The marshland seemed as flat as a plate, and stretched away for ever, limitless, desolate and pallid. Near the shoreline pale bullrush stubble jutted out of water that reflected a vast insipid sky. “This swamp is about 10,000 square launmarks.”
Over to their left, very far off, the confining reed-beds at the yonder side resembled long yellow cliffs of sand.
Ulran gestured beyond these yellow reed-cliffs. “Far to the ranvarron is Rom Taal where you’ll find the Yordine toran. Both the marshes and the taals harbour strips of firm ground only barely covered by water; there are land-bridges and small islands aplenty, known only by the clans.”
Alomar screwed-up his eyes. He said that the lack of eyelids affected his long vision; now he had to strain to see over distance. “Everywhere seems cluttered with reeds. How they navigate there is beyond me!”
“They’re born to it,” Ulran said.
***
Fourth Sufin of Lamous
Next day, on the fourth Sufin, Ulran reined in. Alomar and Clen halted beside him. On the shoreline was a dead animal; with its big curling horns it resembled a buffalo, though it possessed three nostrils and was much larger. Two black-and-white crows were busy excavating the innards with enthusiasm. The flies around the carcase were pestilential. “Any dead taalruff is a great loss,” Ulran said.
Clen looked puzzled. “Why?”
“Taalruff are the Tramaloma’s economy and their life tends to revolve around them. They’re domesticated, kept for their milk and their dung. They drink the milk sour or as curds or make butter churned by swinging the milk in the dried skin of a sheep.”
“And the dung?” Clen asked.
“They don’t eat it, I trust?” added Alomar.
“No, but I’ve heard that some mysterious sect considers it a fine treat. They use the dung for fuel and for water-proofing their homes. Only women gather the dung, since it’s considered an unclean task.”
Alomar let out a barking laugh. “No wonder there are only male priests! They invent ‘unclean rules’ to absolve the men from onerous tasks!”
Clen laughed.
“We shall be staying with the Tramaloma, my friends, so please don’t denigrate their customs. They are hospitable and generous.”
Clen nodded docilely.
“Whatever you say, innman. I’m still curious about the prophecy about the Navel of the World. Is it likely to be here?”
“We can ask the Tramaloma,” Ulran said.
“Are they far off?” Clen queried.
“Two of them have been watching us for some time, hidden in the reeds.” Ulran pointed but there was no evidence of anyone amidst the reed bed. Far away, he heard the crying of wild geese.
Clen stared, mouth open in surprise.
Alomar chuckled. “You remind me of Fhord, youngster!”
His cheeks flushing, Clen said, “They mean us no harm, then?”
“No. I’m known to them.” He urged Versayr a little faster over the pumice, hoofs clattering. “Here we are!” Alomar and Clen trailed behind.
Jutting into the swamp was a wooden landing stage, its stanchions smeared with mildew and crowded with water-weeds. Beneath the platform floated white and yellow water-lilies.
Wind gusted through the nearby reeds, ruffling the water into flurries of small ripples.
Ulran sniffed the air. “They’re coming. Dismount.”
Without replying, Alomar and Clen followed Ulran’s lead, the immortal warrior’s armour and weaponry clanking.
Clen gasped. One instant, the swamp immediately in front of them was clear, the next there were four canoes ploughing towards them, each with a carved and colourful high prow. Ulran recognised the carved images – snarling flensiggs – epitomising the swamp-people’s most common and natural prey, the enormous wild pigs. Each canoe was manned by twenty rowers. The oars dipped smoothly, almost silently in the water.
“Ho, Ulran!” a man in the foremost prow called.
“Greetings, Tael!” Ulran replied. Tael’s tall broad body was clad in light battle armour comprising a dented metal breastplate adorned with shells, his greaves and cuirass formed from stoutly bound reeds. His helmet was brass, glinting in the sun, with a broad nose-guard, and at its sides metal worked into the shape of tusks. Long red hair trailed behind him in the slight breeze.
The craft’s men shipped their oars and it coasted towards them.
With surprising agility, Tael jumped onto the landing stage as his canoe pulled alongside the landing stage. He grasped Ulran’s hand. “It has been too long, my friend!”
“My path has led me away too often, Tael.” He turned to Alomar and Clen and made introductions.
“Any friends of Ulran are friends of the Tramaloma,” said Tael. “You will all join us in our village? My mudstahl is yours.”
“Yes, we are honoured. Alomar is on a strange quest and has questions to ask.”
“Then, friend Alomar, let us hope I can answer them for you!” Tael glanced at their horses. “One of my men will see to your mounts. They will be taken to a safe place where they can be cared for until you need them.”
A man stepped ashore and took the reins of their horses.
“My thanks.” Ulran clambered into the canoe. Alomar and Clen followed, and then Tael.
Tael gave orders to the rowers and then said, “We shall have much merriment tonight, my friends – and two days hence it will be a feast at the expense of Yordine Tallast no less!”
***
Two days after the worrying discussion about funds, Saurosen’s company reached Corea, a garrison town, the base for the twentieth toumen.
Edural set up camp between Corea and Roma Taal. “General Lorgen will greet you formally tomorrow, sire.”
Saurosen was delighted to be allocated a set of rooms in a two-storey building on the outskirts of the town; Nostor Vata was given an adjacent apartment. Here, he was able to bathe, but was too weary to attempt to shave himself; and no suitable barber had presented himself.
His troops erected their tents on the surrounding land on either side of the trail. Two sentries were posted at the entrance to his temporary abode.
That night his witch again sprinkled a circle of arachdust round his bed, chanting an incantation as she did so.<
br />
On the next morning after breaking fast, a troop of forty armed men rode to the building Saurosen occupied, bearing the pennon of the twentieth toumen, led by General Varop Lorgen.
“Greetings, sire,” said the general, dismounting. “I bring salutations from the Yordine family. You are welcome to visit their home, Toran Hewqoma.”
“Hewqoma?”
“Kellan-Mesqa for earth-home. It was at one time named Hewtaal – simply, marsh.”
“I’ve heard that the Yordine family has strong ties with the Tramaloma.”
“Yes, sire. They have been allies and business partners for over two thousand years.”
“I see.” Saurosen gestured at the tents occupied by his troops. “And my men?”
“Courtesy suggests they remain here.”
“I will be accompanied by my Sardan, my captain-at-arms and General Edural.”
“Of course, we do not wish you to feel entirely bereft of friends and companions.”
“Most considerate of you, General Lorgen.”
Saurosen and his small party mounted and were led to the shore of Rom Taal.
From here, he could see the crenellated walls of the toran erected on a natural raised island in the middle of the vast expanse of water. “Rom Isle,” the general explained. Skirting three edges of the taal were reeds, shaking in the slight breeze.
“Join me, sire,” the general said, “two abreast all the way.” He half-turned in his saddle, addressing the captain and witch. “Keep to the track.”
Their horses moved along a narrow land-bridge that joined the shoreline to the isle. It could easily be defended, Saurosen perceived.
“Have you many men from the twentieth stationed here?” he asked, as if to make conversation.
“No, sire. Some two hundred – about the same number that accompanies you. Lord-General Launette recently deployed the twentieth to various outposts.”
“I wonder why?” Saurosen said.
“I’m sure he has his reasons, sire.”
Biting his lip, Saurosen guessed that Launette didn’t want his toumen made available to him! Why then did he send me here? If Yordine Tallast harboured me, what then? He did not relish a future where he was beholden to all and sundry while he negotiated for a means to retake his throne.
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