So were those who had sent them forth.
Aurhinius hoped rather than prayed that Jemar had some magical assistance as well. Otherwise the oceans would see not a duel but a massacre, if Jemar made the slightest hostile move.
At least that gave Aurhinius the text of his message-Jemar the Fair is not to be attacked or interfered with unless he makes some hostile move-and with that in his mind he at last found sleep.
Chapter 14
The storm in the north affected more than one of those who fought what chroniclers later recorded as Waydol’s War.
Although the storm did not rise to full-gale strength, it forced both Jemar’s ships and the Istarian fleet out to sea. “The waves have some mercy, but the rocks have none,” was in the thoughts of men aboard both fleets.
This kept Tarothin busy aboard Pride of the Mountains, as seasickness once again spread through the ship. He faced it this time with a nearly empty galley, and not even much water that wasn’t green and ripe-smelling from too long in the cask.
He did his best, however, with hot water and a few spices in a mixture that smelled and tasted even worse than his first effort. The vileness of the brew was so overwhelming that many of the seasick forced themselves to recover to avoid drinking it, and it did the rest no harm.
The sea also had its way with Amalya, Eskaia’s personal maid. She collapsed, groaning and green-faced, and Delia found herself maid, midwife, and healer all at once. This kept her busy and out of Jemar’s way. Also, watching Delia work on rope burns, sprained ankles, and the occasional broken wrist or cut scalp made Eskaia aware of the power of the sea and more willing to keep to her cabin.
Aurhinius had decided that nothing would assure the proper use of the fleet, for peace or war, save his personal command of it. So he rode north as hastily as the messenger had ridden south, to a wretched fishing village found on no map and with a name he could neither spell nor pronounce.
Instead of a ship to take him out to the fleet, however, he found a gale keeping everyone in port or else driving them far offshore. He remained weather-bound in a fisherman’s hut for some days, fearing the consequences of delay, knowing that he was useless, and suspecting that his temper was a trial to those about him.
Inland, Pirvan’s soldiers and Pedoon’s outlaws marched north, along muddy trails and across fields that sometimes imitated swamps. They faced no more killing floods, but swollen streams and washed-out bridges delayed them as much as the mud. The weather also ruined clothing and footwear, and made the long marches on empty bellies so harsh that even the soldiers began to desert and some of Pedoon’s men simply collapsed and were left behind, to catch up as best they could.
Pirvan and Birak Epron kept their men together, at least. Also, at every night’s stop, there was the chkkk of knives carving wood. Straight branches or saplings became spears, lances, or pikes, depending on their length and the fancy of the woodcarver. A few even became rude bows, with strings of deer sinew.
A lucky stop at an isolated smith’s forge produced a treasure trove of metal scraps that could be turned into spear points, and a few axe heads as well. By the time Pirvan had paid out nearly the last of the knights’ silver, his men were fit to fight at least treachery from Pedoon’s band, if nothing worse.
The weather also blinded curious or hostile eyes, besides keeping their owners mostly indoors or under shelter in the first place. None could take advantage of the weak armament of Pirvan’s men, because few could see it at all. There were days when mist, rain, and wind made the world so murky that Pirvan’s men could have marched in breechclouts and carried only willow wands, and still been as safe from attack as babes in the nursery.
What the servants of Zeboim had to do with all this weather, no one knew, nor did any of them speak afterward.
* * * * *
They reached Waydol’s stronghold and camp the first day the sky showed any blue.
Pirvan had known that they were approaching the coast from the seabirds flying overhead, white wings flashing against both blue and gray. He’d also known that they were approaching Waydol’s stronghold, or at least entering a land torn by war, by what they’d passed for the last two days.
Trails beaten wide and deep by the booted feet of many men. Traces of their passage, including discarded clothing, scraps of food, midden pits, the pitiful remnants of efforts to make campfires, and twice unburned bodies.
Pirvan stopped the columns for those, at the insistence of his men, who formed hasty grave-digging parties and even let Rubina utter a few words of honor over the graves. Pedoon’s motley band might leave their sick to die, but Pirvan’s either carried them onward or gave them decent burial.
Besides the trails, there were abandoned farms, and on one of these they found a half-starved horse. This served as a mount for Pirvan, though he had offered it first to Rubina.
“I cannot ride,” she had said. “Besides, I began this fool’s journey on my own feet, and I will finish it that way or you may put me into the ground, too!”
Pirvan promised Rubina a decent burial, mentally noted not to bury her too close to anybody’s well, and mounted the horse.
With only one horse and him no war charger, there was small point in Pirvan’s chasing the mounted patrols that came out of the murk, watched from far ahead, then vanished again as if they were spirits. Pirvan doubted that, and they did not look Istarian; perhaps Waydol had mounted scouts.
At last, toward noon, one of the patrols did not stop beyond bowshot, but rode straight up to Pirvan. Their leader, a dwarf who seemed to perch on his horse rather than ride it, gave Pirvan a half-polite wave of greeting.
“You be?”
“Pirvan the Wayward and Pedoon, with men seeking the goodwill of Waydol the Minotaur and his heir.”
“Hunh. They neither of them give goodwill without getting good service. You’ve come to give that?”
“We’ve come to give our best,” Pedoon spoke up. The dwarf returned a sour look, then shrugged.
“All right. Line up, if you aren’t already, and follow me.”
Obeying this command took a while for Pedoon’s men, who had their share of stragglers to round up. Pirvan’s men were at least all together and all on their feet, even if their order would have given a knight instructor apoplexy.
Looking back over the double column of men, Pirvan felt his spirits lifting. Shared hardship and sound leading, in which Pirvan thought he could claim a modest share, had turned a collection of sell-swords into a stout and hardy band of warriors, who kept discipline and order and guarded one another, at least against Pedoon’s gang. They would make Waydol think well of their leaders. Properly armed, they would also be very hard to kill.
Having neglected to equip himself with spurs, Pirvan had no way of urging the horse forward but heels and voice. Neither of them had much effect, in any case; the horse was wind-broken as well as half starved.
* * * * *
Waydol’s stronghold was not what Pirvan had expected. It was a log-walled camp large enough to hold a thousand men, with earthworks around the gate, a ditch around much of the wall that didn’t border on a stream, huts, tents, latrines, cook sheds, and much else. Piles of firewood, wagons, and even stables stood in another circle, this one unditched and only half walled as yet.
Waydol’s ambitions seemed to be growing, and so was his strength. And the discipline involved in getting this much work out of bands of outlaws, even if they had nothing else to do, was considerable.
Pirvan of Tiradot had suffered a most miserable journey, but at the end of it he was at least facing a not unworthy opponent.
The dwarf, whose name was Fertig Temperer, reined in and pointed off into the woods. “Over yonder’s the real heart of Waydol’s strength. But don’t be even thinking about getting into it, until you’ve proven yourself trustworthy.”