Fallowblade (16 page)

The Black Crags, a long range of hills running right across Narngalis from the North-Eastern Moors to the Mountain Ring, were so named because their peaks were formed of a type of black basalt upon which vegetation—aside from mosses and lichens—refused to take root. Trees clothed their flanks, but their heads were bare, and sliced by deep ravines. Only mountaineers could cross those heights, except where a gap between two steep hills allowed the passage of a road. In order to reach King’s Winterbourne the southerners would be obliged to cross the Black Crags, and Ironstone Pass was the most accessible way through the mountains for miles around.

The Narngalish troops were too numerous to file through the narrow gorge before the pursuers caught up and cut a swathe through their rearguard. Warwick ordered several battalions to rally and make a final stand at Ironstone Keep, defending the pass while the rest crossed it and rode on to King’s Winterbourne. There they would swell the ranks of the household guard as they prepared the city to face possible siege. If the southerners won victory, then for those who remained at the keep there would be no way out.

Frowning from its cliff-top vantage, the massive fortress of Ironstone Keep overlooked the pass. It was once the main stronghold of the kings of Narngalis. Built long ago, it had been left in the care of a succession of stewards for almost two centuries, before ultimately being abandoned eighty-seven years earlier—but not neglected entirely, because successive monarchs had kept it in good repair. The old fortress, hewn partly out of natural rock, was well defended by the rugged terrain; moreover, arrow loops slitted its towering walls, and machicolations crowned it. All the windows and smaller portals had been sealed with stone and mortar when the last steward departed, and fifty years ago a mighty avalanche had blocked the main entrance, so that these days the only access was through a siege tunnel, large enough for two men riding abreast to pass through.

Small bands of Warwick’s crack marksmen distributed themselves in redoubts, caverns and makeshift places of refuge throughout the highlands surrounding the stronghold, ready to harass the enemy with lightning raids and sniper-action. Warwick and his sons entered the rocky vaults of the keep, along with the chosen troops. Although outnumbered, they were determined to hold out against the invaders for as long as possible, at least until Thorgild’s reinforcements arrived, or until the eldritch mists came down and goblin raiders overwhelmed them all.

Flying birds cast brief, tattered shadows over processions of villagers in wagons and on foot, who were making their way along a blossomy country lane in Narngalis, not far from the Eldroth Fields. Two of these refugees seemed to have lost their way and become separated from their families, for they hobbled along all by themselves, following a meandering sheep track through a meadow. Evidently trying to rejoin their kindred, they were making for the lane.

Strange-looking women they were, with lopsided breasts and voluminous bonnets, and scarves tied about their faces. They struggled in their long dresses, tripping over every so often. As they passed a thicket of elderberries a couple of hulking shapes leaped out and stopped them in their tracks, whereupon they emitted rasping, falsetto screeches.

‘Ho, what have we here?’ said one of the Marauders, eyeing the women up and down. ‘These are buxom wenches! Better than the Spawn Mother, at any rate.’

‘Aye,’ said the other. ‘Hey, my pretty, give us a kiss!’

The swarmsmen made to grab hold of their prizes but instead they found themselves crashing to the ground, half stunned under the heavy rain of blows inflicted on them by the women’s swinging fists. A moment later the wenches picked up their skirts and ran away, full tilt. As they departed they hurled rags and various other objects into the air, lightening their loads to make them fleeter of foot. Their outer clothing was later discovered lying in a ditch, along with four lumpy turnips of assorted sizes.

Weepers had begun their doleful chorus as soon as the Narngalish troops arrived at Ironstone. By now the men were accustomed to the sound, and although it still sent shivers through their flesh they did not let it lower their spirits. ‘It is for our foes they weep!’ they insisted. ‘Their sobs are a promise of our victory!’ Over four days the armies of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth beleaguered the northern troops, hunting them through the steeps to the east and west of the pass. It was no easy task for the invaders; unless they were as sure-footed as mountain ponies they slipped down the sheer walls and were broken on the rocks. Whenever one fell, another took his place; purely by dint of numbers, the southerners still had the advantage. Those of Warwick’s soldiers who had elected to remain outside the fortress sustained heavy losses, but deep inside Ironstone Keep the King of Narngalis was well ensconced and could not be prised from his sanctuary. They held the pass—for the time being, at least. Uabhar was aware, however, that Thorgild’s Grïmnørslander battalions must be drawing nigh. Day and night he exhorted his officers with threats, bribes and punishments, ordering them to flush out the Narngalish, clear the pass and overthrow Warwick before reinforcements arrived.

An unexpected factor had upset his calculations. Since rumours of unseelie hordes had begun to send tentacles of fear twinging about men’s hearts, the troops of both Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth had lost something of their lust for the spoils of war. They had grown uneasy and flighty. Morale was low, dampened by pessimistic speculation. Despite the ban on talk that might lead to sedition, gossip was rife. Like most mountainous areas the Black Crags had a reputation for being haunted, though in fact they were not—except by harmless weepers, warners and dunters—and human travellers had passed safely through them for years. Spurred by apprehension, the soldiers conjectured wildly. They began seeing things. There were claims of grotesque faces leering from crevices; of scrawny limbs erupting without warning out of fissures, tripping up passing soldiers; of clawed hands pushing unwary men over precipitous bluffs. It was whispered amongst the troops that bands of deadly wights such as gwyllion, kobolds and even goblin outriders roved the Black Crags.

The spirits of the invading armies had ebbed to a new nadir. Not only were they plagued by visions from nightmare, but lately the Desert Paladins and the regular Ashqalêthan troops had grown impatient with their king’s feebleness and his constant deputising of leadership to Uabhar. They chafed at being—as they perceived with greater frequency—under the yoke of a foreign king whose greed and ambition threatened to engulf their realm. As for the Slievmordhuan forces, amongst themselves the Knights of the Brand unreservedly aired their discontent. They were increasingly suspicious that Uabhar had ordered the weathermasters to be slain, and that he had allowed Marauders to raid undefended villages and murder families in their homes so that he could wring higher protection taxes from his subjects. The knights’ doubts filtered through to Uabhar’s soldiers, who, already disturbed by the hauntings in the heights, began to lose heart for battle. They muttered—softly, so as not to be hanged for sedition—censorious comments about their king, and many longed to return to their homes to guard their families from the unseelie threat. The tide of public opinion was rapidly turning against the King of Slievmordhu, though he himself was too deeply immersed in his schemes, and so insulated by his own ruthlessness towards those who would reveal ugly truths, to notice.

King Chohrab, too, was proving to be a thorn in Uabhar’s side once again. Even from his sickbed the desert king occasionally roused himself sufficiently to vex his ally over matters of strategy, maintaining that it was better to split off several battalions and send some of them across the Black Crags the long way around, through a distant pass many leagues to the east. ‘That way we could reach King’s Winterbourne without having to wait until we seize Ironstone Pass,’ he said. ‘Once we have taken and garrisoned Winterbourne we will rule Narngalis. We must capture the city without delay.’

It was with difficulty that Uabhar prevented his veneer of good fellowship from cracking. ‘My brother, your reasoning is, as usual, excellent,’ he replied. ‘Of course we must capture Wyverstone’s seat as soon as possible, and that is why it is of greatest importance not to weaken our battalions by dividing them. You yourself have always impressed upon me, “unity is our strength”! Your words of wisdom are constantly uppermost in my thoughts. It is necessary to concentrate our forces in one place, for after we cross the Crags we shall no doubt meet Torkilsalven’s army. Let me pour you some wine.’ Chohrab opened his mouth to argue but Uabhar, seemingly unaware of his intention, continued, ‘Consider the joy of your people, when you have annexed Grïmnørsland. Consider the joy of the Grïmnørslanders themselves, who have struggled so long beneath Torkilsalven’s yoke. Your name will be shouted in songs of praise. You will be showered with rose petals as you ride through the streets of Trøndelheim.’

‘Ah yes,’ said the desert king, smiling and picking up his goblet. ‘I look forward to it.’

‘Allow me to send you my own personal physicians and apothecaries,’ Uabhar said solicitously. ‘I would fain see you welcome victory in robust health!’

‘Here’s to vanquishing those who would vanquish us!’ crowed King Chohrab, and he quaffed Uabhar’s wine.

Having placated his ally, the King of Slievmordhu returned to his schemes. He wanted to finish off Warwick, then push through Ironstone Pass to intercept Thorgild before the army of Grïmnørsland had the chance to join the Narngalish. His forces, however, had not been able to conquer the slim defile. Each time they made an attempt they were thwarted. Showers of flaming arrows, rocks and hot oil descended on them from murder holes and embrasures in the battlements and walls of the fortress looming high above the road. Uabhar directed his patrols to locate the entrance to the siege tunnel, but snipers well practised in bowmanship picked off the scouts amongst the coal-black tors.

The king pinned his hopes on a certain spy, a stealthy nimble fellow, the same who had secretly watched the weathermasters in the Red Lodge. ‘There will be a siege tunnel,’ Uabhar said to his lackey. ‘There is always a siege tunnel, and the existence of this one is common knowledge. And I will make you the lord of as much land as you can ride on a long Summer’s day, if only you can discover its location.’

‘Majesty, I will not disappoint you,’ the servant said, and he slipped away amongst the shadows.

Prince Ronin, fully armed and accoutred as befitted a warlike knight, was ever amongst the vanguard of each fresh push to secure control of the pass. He seemed fearless, as if unconcerned with preserving his own life; his conduct was daring to the point of recklessness, and if he escaped serious injury it seemed more by fortune than forethought. Indeed, the young prince astounded everyone. The men under his command quickly came to admire and love him. He inspired them to heroic deeds. ‘Prince Ronin is the bravest of us all,’ they declared.

Uabhar heard them. ‘Clothe yourself in armour,’ he said to Crown Prince Kieran. ‘Ride at my side, that the troops may see you bearing arms. Let them call out
your
name and celebrate
your
courage.’

‘I can do more than put on a show. I will fight, if you wish it,’ said Kieran. ‘I would fain be lauded for my deeds, rather than for the gear I carry. I can battle as valiantly as Ronin.’

‘Conserve yourself. You are next in line for my throne,’ his father said curtly.

When Ronin came from the field he would visit his brother. Together in the privacy of Kieran’s sparsely furnished pavilion the two princes, who enjoyed each other’s confidence, spoke as candidly as they were able of their distress at the struggle against their erstwhile friends in Narngalis, the unconscionable way their father had dealt with the weathermasters, and the prospect of war with Grïmnørsland. Though they generally felt at ease with each other, their discourse was somewhat awkward; it went hard with them to criticise their father, even in private.

Seated on a leather-upholstered stool Kieran propped his elbows on his knees, supporting his chin in his hands and staring glumly at a small casket that rested on a stand. ‘My heart is not in this conflict,’ he confessed hesitantly.

‘I am of the same mind.’ Ronin shuddered. ‘Especially now that the fate of the weathermasters has been revealed and the blame lies at the door of Slievmordhu.’

‘My conscience is in turmoil, I admit,’ Kieran said with a sigh. ‘I am finding it difficult to reconcile myself to the fitness or necessity of destroying the good mages of Rowan Green.’

‘Such an act cannot be reconciled,’ Ronin said simply. At this obvious censure of their father Kieran spontaneously flashed a look of hurt and anger at his brother, which faded as quickly as it had appeared. He sighed again. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said sadly. ‘I know not, any more. He means well, but sometimes . . . ’

They both struggled for words.

‘Yes,’ Ronin said into the pause.

The topic was too raw, too hurtful to be probed, and they let it drop.

‘How do we find ourselves at war with our neighbours?’ Ronin mused, as if thinking aloud. ‘Can it really be true that they intended to attack Ashqalêth and Slievmordhu?’

‘It must be true,’ Kieran said without much conviction. ‘Our spies are utterly reliable. Father chooses them himself. Yet I cannot help but grieve,’ he went on, ‘that I must take up arms against the homeland of my betrothed and my best friend. What must they think of me, Solveig and Halvdan? I had envisioned we would grow old together in friendship, all of us. Now our bond is sundered, probably forever. I am become their enemy.’

Ronin replied, ‘They will understand you are not at the root of this conflict. They will know it is the result of forces beyond your control.’ Wearily he rubbed his hands across his face.

‘But will they forgive me for the part I must play?’

‘I have no doubt of it. They must play their parts also. Halvdan will fight for king and country.’