She frowned in surprise and he knew she had been preparing an argument against being left behind. “I . . . shall be glad to, my lord.”
They rode hard until the night grew dark, making camp in the foothills about twenty miles north of the tower. Alornis had been furious as he said good-bye at the tower steps, but he remained adamant. “Battle is no place for an artist, sister.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” she said. “Just sit around for days worrying over your fate?”
He took hold of her hands. “I doubt these are capable of remaining idle.” He pressed a kiss against her forehead and went to where a guardsman stood holding Flame’s reins. “Besides,” he said, climbing into the saddle, “I need you to be seen about the place. The presence of the Tower Lord’s sister will reassure the townsfolk. No doubt many will be asking for news. Tell them everything is well in hand.”
“And is it?”
He trotted closer, leaning down and speaking softly. “I have no idea.”
The North Guard demonstrated an effortless ability to form a camp within what seemed like moments, fires readied, horses tethered, saddles stacked and pickets posted with no shouted orders or instruction from Captain Adal. The King’s Guard made something of a contrast with their neatly aligned fires and tents, plus an end-of-day inspection from Captain Orven who fined two men for poorly polished breastplates.
“Makes a change from the desert, eh, my lord?” he said, joining Vaelin at the fire he shared with Dahrena and Adal. He had found a wolf fur from somewhere and tugged it about his shoulders before blowing into his hands.
“You were at the Bloody Hill?” Vaelin asked.
“I was. My first battle in fact. Took an Alpiran lance in the leg during the last charge, lucky for me. The healers took me to Untesh and put me on a ship back to the Realm. Otherwise, I’d’ve been at the King’s side when the city fell.”
“They killed everyone but him, didn’t they?” Dahrena asked.
“Indeed, my lady. I’m the only survivor from my entire regiment.”
“Seems Alpirans are just as savage as the Horde, then,” Adal commented. “My people have many stories of the oppression they suffered at the hands of the Emperors.”
“They weren’t savages,” Vaelin said. “Just angry. And not without good reason.” He turned to Dahrena. “I need to know more about the Horde. Who are they? What do they want?”
“Blood,” Adal said. “The blood of any not born into their Horde.”
“That’s their creed? Death to all outsiders?”
“It’s what they do. We never had any notion of their creed. The language they speak is an unfathomable babble of clicks and snarls, and any prisoners we took were too savage to keep alive long enough to get any sense from them.”
“I heard they fight with beasts,” Orven said. “Giant cats and hawks.”
“That they do,” Adal said. “We were fortunate they never had more than a few hundred of the cats. Not an easy thing to stand in ranks facing a charge from those monsters, I can tell you. The spear-hawks, though, they had those by the thousand, screaming out of the sky to tear at your eyes. Even today, you’ll see many a man in the Reaches sporting an eyepatch.”
“How did you beat them?” Vaelin asked.
“How is any battle won, my lord? Guts, steel and”—Adal glanced at Dahrena with a small grin—“good intelligence of the enemy’s dispositions.”
Vaelin raised his eyebrows at her. “Good intelligence?”
She gave a somewhat forced yawn and got to her feet. “If you gentlemen will excuse me. I should rest for the morrow’s journey.”
Two more days’ riding brought them to the first settlement, a stockaded clutch of dwellings in the shadow of a ridge-back mountain, the southern slopes marked by numerous mine-works. They were greeted at the gate by a North Guard sergeant and a greatly worried town factor.
“Any news, my lady?” the factor asked Dahrena, sweat-damp hands clasping and releasing. “How long before they fall upon us?”
“We’ve seen no sign of them yet, Idiss,” Dahrena assured him. There was a tightness to her voice that spoke of a palpable dislike. She gestured at Vaelin. “Do you have no greeting for your Tower Lord?”
“Oh, of course.” The man gave Vaelin a hurried bow. “My apologies, my lord. Welcome to Myrna’s Mount. We are very pleased to see you.”
“Any word from the other settlements?” Vaelin asked him.
“None, my lord. I fear for them.”
“Then we’d best not linger.” Vaelin turned Flame away from the gate, pausing as the factor reached out to clutch at his reins.
“But surely, my lord, you can’t leave us. We have just two hundred miners with swords, and only a dozen North Guard.”
Vaelin looked at the man’s hand on his reins until he removed it. “A good point, sir.” He raised his gaze to the North Guard sergeant. “Gather your men. You ride on with us.”
The sergeant glanced at Adal, receiving a nod in response, then marched off to collect his men.
“You leave us defenceless!” Idiss cried. “Naked before the Horde.”
“Then you have my leave to make for North Tower,” Vaelin told him. “The road behind us is clear. But if you care for this place and its people, perhaps you would prefer to stay and fight for them.”
Idiss, it transpired, had a fast horse, raising a sizeable cloud of dust in its wake as he galloped south.
“The head of the Miners Guild has agreed to take on the factorship,” Dahrena advised, emerging from the gate an hour later. “At my urging they’ve armed the womenfolk too, which gives them over three hundred and fifty swords to hold the wall.” She mounted her mare and met Vaelin’s gaze. “Idiss is a cowardly, greed-shrivelled soul, but he was right. If the Horde come, this place will fall in an hour, at most.”
“Then it rests with us to ensure they never get here.” He waved a command at the ranks of horsemen behind him and spurred towards the north.
They called at the three settlements north of Myrna’s Mount over the next two days, finding only fearful miners and no word of the Horde. Thankfully, these were led by hardier souls than Idiss and their defences were well prepared. Vaelin offered each the option of making for Myrna’s Mount where greater numbers might offer more protection, but they all refused.
“Been hewing stone from these hills near twenty years, m’lord,” the factor at Slade Hill told him, a burly Nilsaelin with a large axe strapped across his back. “Didn’t run from those frost-arses last time, not runnin’ now.”
They pressed on into the plains where the wind swept down with a chill that seemed to cut through clothing like a steel-tipped arrow cuts through armour.
“By the Faith!” Orven cursed through clenched teeth, blinking away tears as the wind lashed at his face. “Is it always like this?”
Adal laughed. “This is just a balmy summer day, Captain. You should try it in winter.”
“There are no more mountains between us and the ice,” Dahrena explained. “The Eorhil call it the black wind.”
They halted after ten miles and Vaelin ordered scouts sent east, west and north. They all returned by late evening, having found no trace of the Horde.
“This makes no sense,” Adal said. “They should be well into the mountains by now.”
Dahrena suddenly straightened, her gaze switching to the west, eyes bright with expectation.
“My lady?” Vaelin asked.
“It seems we have company, my lord.”
It came to him then, a faint rumble of thunder, but constant, and growing.
“Saddle up!” he barked striding to where Flame was tethered, sending men scrambling for their horses.
“There’s no need,” Dahrena called after him. “The Horde don’t ride. We have other visitors.”
The dust-cloud grew in the west, coming ever closer, the thunder rising as it neared. The first riders came into view, mounted on tall horses of varying colour, each carrying a lance with a horn bow strapped to every saddle, more and more resolving out of the dust until Vaelin lost count. They reined in a short distance away, the dust settling to reveal what must have been over two thousand riders, men and women. Their pale-skinned faces were an echo of the hawk-faced Seordah Vaelin had met years ago, their hair uniformly black and tied into braids. Their clothing was mostly of dark brown leather decorated with necklaces of bone or elk antler. They sat waiting in silence, not even a snort rising from their horses.
A lone rider trotted forward, making unbidden for Vaelin. He halted a few paces away, looking down on him in stern appraisal. He was not a tall man, but there was an evident strength to him, his face lined but possessed of the kind of leanness that made guessing his age difficult.
“What is your name?” the rider asked in harshly accented Realm Tongue.
“I have a few to choose from,” Vaelin replied. “But the Seordah call me Beral Shak Ur.”
“I know what the forest people call you, and why.” The man reclined in his saddle a little, his features taking on a frown. “Ravens are rarely seen on these plains. If you want a name from us, you must earn it.”