And what, dear Lady, does Yeull expect in return? Yet… ten thousand! Half again our entire remaining complement. It was as if they knew! Our Lady, as Lord Protector, defender of your lands, this is an offer I simply cannot reject.
Hiam took a slow sip of the now cold tea and regarded the emissary, who answered his look with half-lidded satisfaction. However much I may dislike the messenger or dread the answer, I must ask. He cleared his throat. ‘And what, if anything, does the Overlord request in answer to such extraordinary generosity?’
Knowing he had won, Lord Hurback smiled broadly. He raised his hands, open and palm up. ‘The smallest of requests, Lord Protector. Nothing you could possibly object to given the measure of his offer. Indeed, you should even welcome his proposal…’
Listening, Hiam could not dismiss the suspicion that nothing this man might propose would be welcome. Yet listen he did. His commitment to the defence of the wall gave him no choice — this was perhaps what men like this emissary, or Overlord Yeull, could never understand. They could ask for twenty galleys full of gold, or all the jewels of the mines of Jasston. Such worldly treasure was as nothing to the Stormguard, who were ready to give over everything they possessed — which was in truth only the armour on their backs and the weapons in their hands, and of course their lives — to defend their faith.
Most mornings Ivanr awoke shortly after dawn. As an officer he had the privilege of a private tent, which servants attached to the brigade raised and struck each day. It was framed with poles set into the ground and others laid atop as crosspieces. Felt cloth wrapped it against the cold of the region’s winter. The bedding was of woven blankets over sheep hides. Rising, he straddled the honeypot and eased his taut bladder, then pulled on a long tunic of linen and quilted wool that hung down to the thighs of his buckskin pants. He rewrapped the rags round his feet and strapped on sandals that tied up just beneath his knees.
A cup of tea and a flatbread lay on a board set just inside the flap. Taking them up, he thrust aside the cloth to find a crowd of men and women sitting in a semicircle before his tent. He stared. They stared back. Steam from his tea plumed in the frigid dawn air.
‘Yes? What?’
One old fellow raised a staff to lever himself upright; the others followed his lead. He looked familiar but Ivanr couldn’t quite place him.
‘Hail, Ivanr. I bring the word of the Priestess.’
Now he knew him: the old pilgrim he’d met months ago. He eyed the crowd, uneasy. ‘Yes? What of it?’
The pilgrim inclined his head as if in prayer. ‘I bring her last instructions, given just as she was taken from us.’
‘She’s… dead?’
‘We do not know. She was imprisoned at Abor.’
Ivanr grunted his understanding. ‘I’m sorry. She was… something special.’
‘Yes, she was. Is. And her last words speak of you.’
Now his empty stomach twisted, and to fortify himself he took most of the tea and a bite of the bread. Now what? Just when he’d kicked the brigade into shape. Couldn’t she — they — just leave him alone? He looked over their heads to the stirring camp. Maybe he could just ignore them. They would be marching today, as usual. Keeping their pikes at the ready against the ranging Jourilan Imperial lights who relentlessly dogged them, harrying, darting in, skirmishing.
The old pilgrim drew himself up straight. The wind tossed his thin grey hair and his robes licked about his staff. ‘The Priestess has spoken, Ivanr of Antr. Before she was taken away she named you her disciple, her true heir in the Path.’
At these words the crowd reverently bowed their heads.
Ivanr was struck speechless. Had they gone mad? Him? Heir to the Priestess’s mission? What did he know of this ‘Path’ of hers? He was a ridiculous choice. He shook his head, scowling. ‘No. Not me. Find someone else to follow around — or, better yet, don’t follow anyone. Following people only leads to trouble.’
He dismissed them with a wave of his flatbread and walked off to find Lieutenant Carr.
‘As I warned you before, Ivanr,’ the old pilgrim called after him, ‘it is too late. Already many deny the Lady in your name. With or without you, it has begun. Your life these last few years has been nothing but denial and flight. Are you not tired of fleeing?’
That last comment stopped him; but he did not turn round. After a pause, he continued on. No matter. Let the religion-mad fool rant. Faiths! Name one other thing that has brought more misery and murder into the world!
That day they continued the long march north. Farmlands gave way to rolling pasture, copses of woods, and tracts of land given over to aristocratic estates and managed forests. Their pace had improved as the army now openly followed the roads laid down decades ago by the Imperial engineers. And always, hiding in the edges of copses, or walking the ridges of distant hills, the Jourilan light cavalry, watching, raiding pickets and falling upon smaller foraging parties.
This incessant raiding drove Martal to order the baggage train moved to the interior of the column. The pike brigades marched ahead, behind, and to the sides. Archers ranged within their perimeter, ready to contribute to driving off the cavalry.
Ivanr was sceptical of these bands of roving archers. Short-bows so cheaply made he could break them in his hands. He complained of them to Carr: ‘I could throw rocks farther than these can reach.’
The lieutenant laughed as they walked along. It had rained the previous day, the winter season in Jourilan a time of dark skies and rainstorms, though this season had so far proved remarkably dry. Mud of the churned line of march weighted their feet and spattered their cloaks. ‘This is a peasant army, Ivanr. There are only a handful of professionally trained warriors with us. These farmers and burghers aren’t trained to pull a real bow. You know that takes years. Martal has to work with what she has at hand. And hence these bands of archers with short-bows. All those too young or old or weak to hoist the pikes.’
Ivanr thought of the boy. He’d yet to find him among the regulars. Perhaps he’d been sent to pull a bow. He supposed that would make more sense. ‘And these hulking carriages?’
Carr shrugged his ignorance. ‘That is Martal’s project entirely. I’m not sure what she has planned for them.’
Ivanr didn’t believe a word of that. You know, Carr. You’ve been with Beneth for years. This army’s lousy with spies and you’re just keeping quiet. Very well. No doubt we’ll see sooner than we’d like.
Over the next few days of marching, Ivanr managed to push the old man’s words from his thoughts. Among the men and women of his command he noted nothing more troubling than stares, hushed murmurs, and an unusual alacrity in obeying his orders. What disturbed him far more was the constant presence of Jourilan cavalry on the surrounding hillsides and always ranging ahead, just out of reach. Every passing day seemed to bring more, and as far as he could see Martal was content to do nothing about it. Poor Hegil Lesour ’an ’al, the Jourilan aristocrat commander of the Reform cavalry, was run ragged day and night ranging against the Imperial lights. Making it worse was the lack of winter rain; normally the fields and roads would be almost impassable this time of year.
Eventually, Ivanr was fed up enough to put aside his determination to avoid Martal and any hint of his participating in the command structure, and fell back to where she rode with her staff at the head of the spine of the army, the long winding column of carriages. He waited until she rode abreast of him, her mount keeping an easy walking pace, then stepped up alongside her.