The Cry of the Marwing Read online

  The wind moaned and the horses snorted and stamped.

  ‘You ride under me now,’ said Orbdargan. ‘We go east. If the snow clears we’ll camp; if not, we’ll travel till dawn.’

  The warriors went in silence, Orbdargan at their head. He’d have to delay his attack on the north till the Cashgar Shargh caught up – and even then, they mightn’t be enough. The Ashmiri said the northern city was large, and that Northerners also lived in the mountains at its back.

  He ground his teeth as he considered his ill fortune. If any good at all came from this cursed night, it was that the Ashmiri’s time of comfortable betrayal was finally over.

  Further to the east, the exhausted Terak and King’s Guard had come to a halt. Tierken and Vardrin walked on side by side, leading their mounts, ignoring the whine and buffet of the wind as they kicked the snow aside, looking for signs of their quarry.

  ‘Nothing, Feailner,’ said Vardrin.

  ‘No,’ agreed Tierken, rubbing his neck. ‘If they went to Ember Keep, we might actually be in front of them.’

  ‘Or they might have already crossed the Breshlin,’ said Vardrin.

  Tierken wondered morosely whether Vardrin had Illian blood, for he had the same propensity to state unpalatable truths as Marin. He stared back at his waiting men, sitting slumped in their saddles.

  ‘We’ll go on to the Breshlin,’ said Tierken. ‘If they’ve crossed the river, there’ll be some evidence of it, unless Irid’s sent snow there too.’

  ‘And if they haven’t crossed it?’

  ‘Then Irid’s blessed us. We’ll have time to rest, to send warning to Sarnia, and consider how best to greet our visitors.’

  They found no snow at the Breshlin and no sign of the Shargh. Tierken’s men crossed the river and set camp at the ford but he rode on, his gaze on the Silvercades. They were clothed in cloud, but there was no sign of smoke. He yearned to go on to the Rehan Valley to reassure himself that all was well, but Kalos was too tired to carry him that far. Besides, he needed sleep as well.

  The men not guarding were already asleep when he returned, Tain next to Terak, with sleeping-sheets unfastened and weapons ready. Tierken found a place by the fire and gulped down the scalding cotzee Shird had brewed, barely noticing it burning his mouth. If only he knew for sure that he were ahead of the Shargh. There were crossing places further north on the Breshlin, but those crossings were steep-banked, with rushing water that would prove hazardous to the smaller Ashmiri horses. He didn’t think the Shargh would attempt them.

  The Cashgar Shargh’s reluctance to ride also made it unlikely that they’d reached the Breshlin, but even without the Cashgar, the Soushargh and Weshargh vastly outnumbered him. Adris’s men were a day behind, and Caledon’s at least two, which meant that Tierken would have to face the Shargh alone. He must harry rather than fight them, all the way to the Rehan Valley if necessary, slowing rather than stopping them, until Adris and Caledon caught up. The notion was galling, but he refused to lose men in a battle that he couldn’t win.

  Tierken tossed the dregs of his cotzee away and crawled into his sleeping-sheet, placing his sword and bow nearby. But it seemed only a moment later that a hand on his shoulder jerked him awake.

  It was Ayled. ‘Horses, Feailner, from the north.’

  By Irid! The Shargh had completed their bloody work in the Rehan Valley, and were coming back to finish them off! Tierken grabbed his arrows and scrambled upright, looking around wildly. Then Ayled’s lack of alarm penetrated his tired brain and he realised it was Jonred’s escort returning from Sarnia.

  ‘You’ve seen Shargh?’ Tierken demanded before Jonred had time to dismount.

  ‘None, Feailner. We had a horse down and a broken arm going north, but nothing coming south.’

  ‘No sign of camps, Ashmiri horses, droppings?’

  ‘None, Feailner.’

  Tierken heaved a sigh of relief. ‘The Shargh have run for the north, Jonred, and we’ve chased them since. Four days ago we were at Mendor Spur. King Adris is a day behind with the rest of the horsemen, the Lord Caledon at least two with those on foot.’

  ‘Mendor Spur, Feailner?’ breathed Jonred. ‘Meros must have given you wings.’

  ‘He sent snow, which was more use. We think it’s allowed us to get ahead of them.’

  ‘They’re close?’

  ‘Closer than King Adris and Lord Caledon. I need you in the north, Jonred, as swiftly as possible. I want the Rehan Valley emptied, the people within the walls and their herds close to the gate. And I want patrols at the valley’s mouth. Call up every fighting man we have. We need to be ready. And Sarnia must be prepared to take wounded too.’

  ‘It is, Feailner.’

  Tierken stared at him blankly.

  ‘The Lady Kira has had the east stables cleaned and weather-proofed, and there are beds and herbs.’

  Tierken was silent. Kira had defied him – again – but why in Irid’s name had Farid allowed her to? Rosham must be positively salivating at the possibilities such a breach in tradition opened up: the new Feailner’s lack of respect for the ways Terak established; his weakening of the Sarnians’ hardiness developed through an absence of healing; his covert approval of the Healer twin’s desertion. The list went on.

  But the presence of the Haelen also meant that his wounded men wouldn’t have to make the difficult and painful journey to Kessom to receive aid. And more would survive to fight again.

  ‘I’ll leave you half the escort, Feailner,’ said Jonred. ‘You’ll need every man you can get.’

  ‘No. My orders must reach Sarnia. Pass them to Nordrin and Barid so that if things go amiss, at least one of you should reach the Keeper with them. The battle won’t be won or lost here, Jonred. We’ll slow them, that’s all. We need time and I’ll trade for it as I must, but with their blood, not ours!’

  Then he clapped Jonred on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you at the Rehan’s mouth,’ he said.

  9

  Orbdargan and his warriors were camped in the lee of a small rise so close to the Breshlin that Orbdargan could hear the river’s flow. He fumed as he considered the ill news of Orfedren’s reconnoitring. Thanks to Yrshin’s fatal stupidity, the Northerners now held the ford.

  According to Orfedren, there were no foot-warriors among them, the number of horses equal to the men who slept around their fires. Had Yrshin not robbed him of half his force, Orbdargan could have destroyed them easily, but his numbers were now the same as theirs and the Northerners were more practised at fighting on horseback.

  Orbdargan would still win any battle, but the cost in warriors would be more than he wanted to pay. So he must either find another crossing place or idle away his time here waiting for the Cashgar. And while he waited, the rest of the stinking Northerners would catch up. Whichever way he looked at it, any advantage had been lost.

  Orbdargan came to a decision. ‘We go south,’ he said.

  ‘South?’ said Orfedren in surprise.

  ‘We’ll find another crossing place and then go east. We’ll remind Uthlin that Shargh blood flows in Ashmiri veins. In the meantime, Arkendrin’s force can take care of the filthy thieves here. And by the time we return with Uthlin’s warriors, no one will be able to stop our sweep north.’

  It was close to dusk and Adris and his men were well east of Cover-cape Crest when Nirthrin galloped back to report Shargh coming towards them.

  ‘Mounted Shargh, on this side of the Breshlin, coming south?’ repeated Adris.

  ‘Yes, coming south, King Adris,’ said Nirthrin.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘About ten patrols, mostly mounted. I didn’t count exact numbers,’ added Nirthrin apologetically. ‘I didn’t want to be seen.’

  There hadn’t been time for the Shargh to overrun Tierken and his men, do their murderous work in the north, and return, thought Adris. So if the Shargh were on the western side of the Breshlin, it meant Tierken had reached the ford before them. But why hadn’t the Shargh slashed their
way through if their intention was to sack the Rehan Valley?

  ‘They must have split their men,’ said Adris, although Meros only knew why. ‘Or fought with Tierken and lost many.’ Well, best deal with what he did know. For whatever reason, the Shargh came his way along the river. The plain was stonier here and the Breshlin more confined, flowing deeper and faster than at the ford. It provided a useful barrier against any easterly escape.

  ‘How long?’ he asked.

  ‘Before dark.’

  Adris smiled, and silently thanked Meros for granting him time to prepare.

  *

  At the Breshlin Ford, Tierken had taken Shird and Vardrin back over the river to scout the Shargh’s whereabouts. Beyond the first rise south they found an abandoned campsite with the fire ashes still warm.

  ‘Judging from the droppings, close to two hundred horses, Feailner,’ said Vardrin, returning from his inspection of the Shargh’s tethering site. ‘The tracks go south.’

  Tierken’s mystification deepened. There were fewer Shargh than Adris had suggested, and it made no sense that they would turn south after their swift travel north. Perhaps they’d drawn off to the hillier land at the back of Ember Keep to tempt him into battle there. Or maybe this was a diversion, designed to lure him away so that the rest of the Shargh could cross the Breshlin at the ford.

  Tierken and his men set off at an easy canter back to their camp, though the Terak Feailner felt anything but relaxed. If the Shargh had gone south, they could end up in a fight with either Adris’s or Caledon’s men. He hoped it was Adris’s, for the mounted Shargh would have the advantage over the Tremen on foot. And for all their agility and skill, the Tremen weren’t battle-hardened like the Tain so the cost in Tremen blood would be high.

  His thoughts turned to Kira, and by a curious coincidence, given the direction of his musings, he found Arnil waiting for him at the ford with a message cylinder from her. He wondered who she had named as the new Tremen Commander.

  ‘Have you seen Shargh?’ asked Tierken, still anxious that somehow the Shargh had slipped past him.

  ‘The north seems clear of their bloody presence,’ said Arnil.

  Tierken nodded, intent on the cylinder and surprised that it contained something wrapped in paper rather than a message-sheet. Tierken’s heart quickened as he guessed what it might be, and he dismissed the patrolman before carefully unfolding the paper.

  It was Kira’s ring; the ring she claimed Kasheron had taken south; the ring she insisted was proof of Terak and Tremen kinship. It sat in his palm, a small thing in itself, but a weighty challenge to his denial of her claims. To put it on would not only be to assume command of the Tremen forces, but to accept Kira’s claim of kinship as well.

  Tierken thrust the ring deep into his pocket and strode back to his men. ‘Break camp,’ he ordered. ‘We go north.’

  Caledon’s force was still two days from the Breshlin Ford, but the weather had stayed fine and they’d encountered no Shargh. Even so, as Tresen trudged along beside his Tremen and Tain comrades, he wore fear like another layer of grimy clothes. The plain wasn’t as flat as it looked, with hollows capable of hiding dense patches of trees, or rank bogs, or Shargh. Tresen hadn’t realised just how comforting the presence of the Tain King and the Terak Feailner had been until they’d galloped away. They were big men, on big horses, who didn’t seem to fear anything.

  Each night Caledon instructed them on how to respond to mounted attacks, but Caledon’s training only added to Tresen’s dread. In his dreams, he often saw Pekrash’s face, wide-eyed in death, and he’d grown used to waking in a sweat, in the same way that he’d grown used to the queasiness that eating meat brought. There was no time to seek out nut groves now, and barely time even to cook the silverjacks properly. Since Pekrash’s death, fires were lit for only a short while, making the nights long, dark and chill.

  Tresen was preparing himself for yet another nauseating meal of meat when there was a scream. He froze, and someone shoved him violently sideways as a spear sliced past and impaled the man behind. Next thing, a Shargh leapt towards him and Tresen threw up his blade, the shock of the clash jarring the old wound to his shoulder and sending him stumbling backwards. The Shargh pursued him, then there was a sickening squelch as a Tain sword slashed down, showering Tresen with blood.

  Terrified, Tresen set his feet and focused on the Shargh in front. His breath rasped and time seemed to slow as he parried and thrust, cutting and slashing. His whole focus narrowed until all that existed was the blood-soaked sword endlessly slashing at him. Some small part of him knew that the sword was wielded by different Shargh, and that he, Healer Tresen, killed. But that part was far away, beyond the terror and desperation that gripped him. It seemed an age before he became aware that the churn of fighting had faded away. Chest heaving, Tresen gazed about, then lowered his sword. His hands were greasy with sweat and blood. There were Tain and Tremen wounded all around him and his thoughts were already turning to staunching bleeding and using fireweed. He’d need a lot of bandages too.

  Then something smashed into his back, the force hurling him forward onto his knees. For a moment he swayed, gazing in horror at blood dripping onto the ground before him. His blood, he realised. Then the pain tore through him and he crashed forward into darkness.

  To the north, Adris and his men hid in a shallow dip, further from the river than Adris would have liked. He had hoped that the Shargh wouldn’t hug the bank, but when they finally came into sight, they rode along the very edge of the river. Adris cursed silently, realising the Shargh would see his men well before they were within arrow range.

  He counted about two hundred Shargh, thinking that some of them must have slipped past Tierken, or for some cowardly reason, fled the encounter with the Feailner and his men. Whatever had happened further north, Adris wanted to ensure that as few as possible of the murdering brutes escaped to rejoin their comrades. Waiting till they were close, he gave the signal and his men swept towards the river. But instead of taking up defensive positions, running north or south along the bank, or galloping to meet them, the Shargh milled about chaotically, before spurring their horses into the water. They were going to attempt a crossing!

  Adris loosed arrow after arrow as he struggled to comprehend the scene before him. The water was full of men and horses floundering in the swift current. Adris matched his pace to the river’s flow and galloped south, shooting at those in the water. Panic-stricken horses struggled up the bank and galloped riderless beside him, and drowning horses swept past. Then the first of the Shargh reached the other side and Adris bawled a warning, expecting a throw of spears. Instead, the surviving Shargh galloped off on their sodden beasts. Oddly, they appeared to be Weshargh, with no evidence of the Soushargh or Cashgar Shargh.

  Adris wrenched his mount to a halt, watching until the Shargh were specks on the plain, going east, towards the Ashmiri.

  Night fell as Caledon supervised the gruesome task of burning the dead. The stench of burning Tremen and Tain was the same, but the reaction of the survivors starkly different. The Tain stood in a solemn circle around the pyre, farewelling the spirits of their friends as the spirits fled upwards to the stars, but the Tremen huddled as far away from the choking fires as possible, backs turned and heads bowed.

  The Tremen didn’t love Caledon for what he did, but they didn’t hate him either, understanding that burials took time, and that time could cost the lives of the wounded. The Tain had fared better than the Tremen, with fewer deaths and many of the injured still able to walk. All the wounded Tremen would have to be carried, except for Tresen, who wouldn’t survive the night. They would be vulnerable to the lurking Shargh, too, who had been beaten back for now, but not for long.

  Though Arlen had purified and stitched Tresen’s wound as best he could, Tresen’s face was the colour of soiled snow and his breathing low. Caledon contemplated him grimly. The Tallien had come to know Miken in his time in Allogrenia, and had met Tenerini and Mikini, b
ut while he grieved for them his thoughts were mostly for Kira. Now she would truly be alone.

  Then hoofbeats sounded and he whirled, drawing his sword and yelling a warning as his men scrambled to ready themselves for battle. But as the Ashmiri horses drew nearer, wet and riderless, and the Tain leapt forward to capture them, Caledon stared in disbelief. Then he fell to his knees, all but weeping in relief.

  ‘Thank you, Aeris,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you.’

  10

  Despite the freezing winds and threatening rain, Kira was at the Wastes again, searching for fireweed. Her search had been much delayed, for news of Patrolman Sarim’s wonderfully healed arm had spread widely – and alerted the Terak to the presence of a cure for their multitude of ills. Since then, so many people had come to the Haelen that Kira had been forced to ask Laryia to help.

  Kira found the turn of events astonishing, given the antagonism to healing present in Sarnia. She had overheard heated debates about the Haelen’s presence as she’d moved about the city and had Rosham turn his back at her approach. But in the end, no mother would willingly condemn her child to illness or pain if a remedy were to be found, and no husband was prepared to sit by and watch his wife suffer. And so they came.

  Laryia’s Healer-knowing surprised Kira as well. Tierken’s sister had acquired many skills from Eris, and was quick to learn more, and she had great strength hidden beneath her sweet exterior. First, she’d managed to circumvent Tierken’s prohibition of the Haelen, and now she was proving herself to be a knowledgeable and clear-headed Healer. At least Tierken had sent word officially recognising the Haelen, which meant its needs could be openly traded for. Unfortunately, the recognition had accompanied the news that the fighting was coming closer to Sarnia – and that meant Kira must have fireweed.