As for himself, well, it was hard growing up in a hamlet you could throw a fish across. Especially for anyone with a dollop of wanderlust. It hadn’t taken him long to sail across to the mainland and dive into the only thing he was ever good at – fighting.
Jeral’s hill-folk were accurate in their estimate; soon after they disappeared the first of the Quon Talian mounted scouts appeared, investigating the valley. Orjin made no secret about his occupation of the Two-River Fort. His troops on the walls watched the Quon Talians ride by on their way further down-valley.
Next came the foremost elements of the force’s van: light cavalry followed by loose parties of skirmishers and light infantry.
The infantry surrounded the fort, just outside bowshot, and squatted down to wait. Orjin knew what they were waiting for – orders from higher up.
He saw the main force long before he heard it; three dark columns appeared high in the pass to come crawling down – the famed Talian medium and heavy infantry. Cavalry flanked the columns, kicking up clouds of thin snow that rose like banners in the winds.
Orjin’s worried gaze climbed to the bare rocky slopes overlooking the valley but saw no sign of anyone; nor was there any alarm or excursion from the invading force betraying detection of Jeral’s troops.
He did a quick calculation of numbers and came up with close to thirty thousand. His brows rose: damn, they meant it this time. Troops enough to quell and control Purge. This was no quick punitive excursion. It looked as though the Quon Talians were coming to stay.
No wonder it had taken four days to pull together.
Still – not the way he’d have done it.
While Orjin and his troops watched from the palisades, more and more Quon Talians settled in to surround them. As the medium infantry arrived, the lights quit to continue on down the valley.
All this took most of the day. And still not one bow had been shot in anger; the investiture was handled in a very professional manner. Eventually, very late in the afternoon, a mounted delegation of ten approached the closed front gates. Here Orjin met them on the wall, together with Terath and Arkady – the Wickan scowling ferociously, his hands tight on the antler grips of the curved long-knives sheathed across his chest.
Terath noticed Arkady’s fierce expression and murmured to him, ‘I see you have your war-face on.’
He answered from the side of his mouth, ‘There’s a damned lot of them.’
Once the ten were close enough, one of their number called out: ‘Hail, Fort Two-River!’
‘Hail, invaders,’ Orjin answered.
The spokesman was a lean older fellow, in a mail coat set with larger plates of iron at his chest and upper and lower arms. He undid the strap of his helmet and pushed it up his head until it sat high above his brow, then he started pulling at the fingers of his leather gloves. ‘To whom am I speaking?’ he called.
‘Someone who asks that you pack up your dog and pony act and go.’
That got a small smile. The fellow leaned forward from the cantle of his high saddle, gloves dangling in one hand. ‘Come, come. Don’t be coy. You are obviously no Purge or Nom officer. Who are you?’
‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’ Orjin called back.
The fellow nodded. ‘Fair enough. I am Commander Renquill of the Quon Talian Legion. And you?’
‘Orjin Samarr, in the queen of Purge’s service.’
The fellow ducked his head once more. ‘Ah. I have heard of you.’ He gestured about with his gloves, and, leaning forward even further, asked, ‘What in Burn’s mercy do you think you are doing here?’
‘I’m about to kick a lot of pissant Talians off Purge territory.’
Renquill peered about at his infantry circumvallating the fort. ‘I’m told you can’t have more than a few hundred in there,’ he called.
Orjin’s long grey hair blew about and he pulled a hand through it to drag it back. ‘More than enough to beat you arselickers.’
Again the thin smile. ‘I see your game.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. You’ve made your point. How much do you want? How much to go away?’
At that question, Terath, at Orjin’s side, snarled and jerked forward as if about to jump the wall, a hand going to one of her swords.
‘You lot packed up and headed back south would do it,’ he answered.
Renquill shook his head in regret. ‘Foolish.’ He turned to the officer next to him. ‘Keep them in there until the only thing left to eat is each other.’ The officer bowed his acceptance. Renquill pulled his gloves back on, calling up, ‘I’d like to stay and have you put down like the dog that you are, but I can’t have you holding us up, now can I?’
The party turned and cantered away.
Orjin yelled after them: ‘Who’s the damned dog slinking off now, hey!’ But the commander merely waved negligently over his shoulder, apparently big enough to ignore Orjin’s proddings. He muttered to Terath, ‘Well, that didn’t work. I guess we’ll have to see what Jeral can cook up.’
‘If she’s still out there,’ she commented darkly.
‘She’s still sending messengers. They’re even sweeping together broken elements of the Purge army up there.’
As the hours passed, the Quon Talian main force continued its march northwards, filing by the fort. Orjin’s lieutenant, Arkady, made a circuit of the walls and reported back, ‘I make it some seven hundred surrounding us.’ He glowered, his long moustaches fairly bristling. ‘That’s a damned insult.’
Orjin raised a placating hand. ‘It’s all right. They don’t know who they’re dealing with – yet.’
All they could do now was wait. For him this was the hardest part of any engagement. Where he had control he was at ease; where he had no control he was unbearable. And so he stood the wall as the hours passed, thinking, reviewing his choices. What more could he have done? Every twelve hours he’d sent messengers northward to the Purge commanders, informing them of his preparations – and the enemy’s deployment. Now, he had only to wait. Would they respond and send a contending force? Or had they already pulled back to Purage, reconciled to a siege? For Orjin, these unknowns were more uncomfortable than a dose of the clap.
Though he burned to know what was going on high in the pass, he kept a northward post, watching the Quon Talian forces marching onward; it wouldn’t do for the Talians to wonder why everyone in the fort was eyeing the south with such anticipation.
Towards sundown word came from Terath that the baggage train was now descending the pass. He clenched the logs before him, rocking, forcing himself to remain. Now came the gamble. Would Jeral take this opportunity to hit the invader? That at least was his reading of her. She’d struck him as a fighter, not a runner.
After an agonizing wait in which he absolutely decided that she’d betrayed him, then flipped to grant her more time, then changed his mind again a dozen times over, gasps of awe – and a good deal of relief – sounded from his troops scanning the south. He turned, squinting into the purpling distance. Everyone was shouting now, and pointing high to the pass far above, even the surrounding Talian forces.
It all unfurled in breathtaking silence at first. Boiling clouds of snow descending not one but both slopes of the pass simultaneously, closing in on the ant-like file of the army baggage train like the twin arms of a vengeful god. Orjin was staggered by the scale of it; he’d expected a few falling rocks and logs, not this complete sweeping of the high slopes. It occurred to him that the witches and shamans of the hill-folk must have thrown their weight behind it.
Then the thunder of the avalanches hit his chest, momentarily drowning out the appalled cries of the surrounding Talians and the cheers of his troops. Terath appeared at his side, flushed and panting from running across the enclosure. ‘What now?’ she bellowed.
A massive storm of snow now utterly obscured the pass. The Quon Talian train – all the supplies, the support, the wagons with their teams of oxen, horses and donkeys gathered for the coming campaign – must have been obliterated. The catwalk of the log palisade juddered and shook beneath him; the very wall rocked as in an earthquake.