Fallowblade (5 page)

Tidings of imminent invasion from the south had not yet escaped from Slievmordhu’s royal city, Cathair Rua, to reach the northern kingdom of Narngalis. Uabhar had placed a ban on the news. Nor had he openly declared war according to ancient, honourable custom. Instead he left it to his foes to discover belatedly, so that he could take them by surprise. As the ultimate controller of his kingdom’s communications network, he had made every effort to suppress the information for as long as possible. He silenced the semaphores of Slievmordhu. He prohibited the flying of carrier pigeons. For the first time in history, pigeon pie was encouraged as a patriotic dish; if any such birds were observed in the skies, wild or tame, they were targeted with sling stones or arrows. Throughout the realm of Slievmordhu, northbound travellers were intercepted on the road and interrogated, and their bags searched for letters, and if they were suspected as spies, or at the whim of their captors, they were taken prisoner. Despite Uabhar’s exertions, rumours of unrest had begun to trickle from his net; nonetheless, no clear-cut evidence of his plans had yet reached the lands he intended to seize.

This censorship lasted long enough for the military commanders of the two southern kingdoms to mobilise their armies in secret.

The infantry battalions of the Slievmordhuan and Ashqalêthan vanguards, comprising longbowmen, shortbowmen and crossbowmen, had long since departed from Cathair Rua, led by High Commander Risteárd Mac Brádaigh riding beside his Ashqalêthan counterpart. Sixty companies of archers had gone striding forth, bearded and burly, carrying their round shields on their backs, their yew bows thrusting up from behind their shoulders. At each man’s belt hung sword or axe, according to his disposition, and over the right hip there jutted out the leathern quiver, with its tufts of goose, pigeon and peacock feathers. Behind each company of bowmen marched two drummers beating their nakirs, and two trumpeters in particoloured clothes. The beat was brisk; no laggards would be suffered.

After their departure a tremendous press had thronged into formation on the field. The main-battle of each army consisted of two battalions of foot soldiers—spearmen and archers—and four of heavy armoured cavalry equipped with swords and lances, geared up to charge enemy formations. Of the cavalry, the principals were Ashqalêth’s foremost knights, the Desert Paladins, under their own leader, and several companies of Slievmordhu’s elite chevaliers, the Knights of the Brand.

One of the latter companies, led by Conall ‘Two-Swords’ Gearnach, was notably missing. King Uabhar had sent the Commander-in-Chief of the Red Lodge on an expedition to the South-Eastern Moors, and he had not yet returned. Though he was a popular officer, his absence at this time was not entirely unwelcome to those who were close to him. Since the feast that had been hosted for King Thorgild at Orielthir, Gearnach’s own knights often hesitated to traffic with their hitherto approachable leader. In private they asserted that he had turned into a live volcano, ready to erupt into fiery wrath at the slightest provocation, and without notice. His unstable temper was attributable: Uabhar Ó Maoldúin had used their leader badly. The king had compromised the knight’s honour, trapping him between two vows, so that he could not help but be forsworn either way. Subsequently, while the Knights of the Brand were absent from the Red City at the feast in Orielthir, Uabhar had burned down the Red Lodge in order to betray and capture the weathermasters on the fabricated pretext of treason. Those of Gearnach’s men who rode out from Cathair Rua alongside the Desert Paladins wondered how their leader would respond when he received the tidings of Uabhar’s decision to attack Narngalis, aided by his ally, King Chohrab of Ashqalêth. It could only make matters worse for the Red Lodge’s commander. If the west-kingdom, Grïmnørsland, should come to the aid of Narngalis—which was a certainty—Gearnach would be forced to do battle against the military forces of King Thorgild Torkilsalven, father of Prince Halvdan. The prince and the knight had always held each other in high esteem, and, after Gearnach saved Halvdan’s life during a hunting trip, an unbreakable bond of friendship had formed between the two.

Gearnach’s warriors did not doubt, nonetheless, that in spite of his liege’s transgressions, their commander-in-chief remained steadfast in his loyalty to the Crown of Slievmordhu. He viewed the trials that Uabhar brought on him as a true test of his merit as a knight, a patriot and a man who kept his word; and he desired above all things to redeem his self-worth by proving the constancy of his fidelity. For this his knights esteemed him, and despite his volcanic temperament, or because of it, there were many at Cathair Rua who wished he rode with them on that day.

Hour by hour the main-battles of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth had surged in ostentatious procession through the streets of Cathair Rua so that Uabhar’s subjects could admire and applaud the formidable military forces promoting the country’s cause. Out through the city gates the columns proceeded, bristling with standards, oriflammes, banners and flags, to the accompaniment of stirring tunes on pipe and drum. Six battalions of light horse from both realms comprised the rearguard. After them trudged columns of sumpter horses carrying cloth, spare arms, spurs, wedges, cooking kettles, horseshoes, bags of nails and rivets, and a myriad other items. Supply wagons rolled in their wake, piled with food, fodder, ammunition, tools and parts for repairs, galenicals and other apothecaries’ supplies, tent poles and canvas, assorted construction materials and sundries such as spiked stakes and siege ladders. Last of all trailed the heavy artillery—various types of catapults and trebuchets, hauled by teams of oxen. This part of the convoy would move slowest on the road, so it travelled behind the columns to avoid impeding their progress. Milling crowds of citizens cheered wildly as the troops quit the city and marched off to war.

Eight regiments of Slievmordhu’s regular army, the household division, were to remain in Cathair Rua. The king himself was their colonel-in-chief, and they were charged with the special duty of guarding the city when their sovereign fared forth to lead his army. On the Fairfield the Royal Horse Guards and the Royal Dragoons now lined up for review, resplendent in dress uniform for the occasion; scarlet tunics, white helmet plumes and white leather breeches, a steel cuirass of breast and back plates. Their cloaks, vermilion with sapphire-blue linings, flowed from their shoulders to cover the haunches of their horses. An amalgamation of the aforementioned battalions, the Blues and Royals, strutted in azure tunics and crimson helmet plumes. The Foot Guards: the Bellaghmoon Guards, the Royal Regiment of Guards, Eastmarch Guards, Valley Guards and Orielthir Guards flaunted their equal magnificence, no less well drilled.

It was an exhilarating day for King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin.

Uabhar’s royal neighbour and ally, however, seemed less than enthusiastic. King Chohrab’s appearance indicated he was suffering from ill health. Jaundiced and sagging was his countenance, his eyes drowning in drains of shadow. The desert ruler sprawled upon a canopied litter, waited upon by eight brawny attendants, as if it were too exhausting to balance on his slippered feet. He had, nonetheless, rallied after his former palpitations and attempted to rise to the challenge of war. His apothecaries busied themselves mixing invigorating potions for him, while his wife’s brother, Duke Rahim, at his side, lent him confidence.

The show was less inspiring, too, for Uabhar’s eldest son Kieran, who had been sojourning in Orielthir with his brother Ronin. Fergus and Cormac had joined them on the way home, and all four princes arrived in the middle of the pageantry. They were hardly able to believe what they saw, for they had left Cathair Rua with no idea that war was imminent. Without pausing to refresh themselves or remove their riding gear, the young men went straight to their father on the battlements for explanation.

On bended knee the princes kissed their father’s hand. Uabhar, as persuasive as ever, was ready with his carefully constructed web of lies, so often repeated that he was beginning to believe them himself. A domineering father, his lifelong manipulation of his children’s beliefs and feelings had had such a profound and disturbing effect on them that their mother, powerless in the face of Uabhar’s subtle eloquence, doubted in her anguished heart whether the princes would ever be able to penetrate the devious jungles of his influence sufficiently to recognise the abuse, let alone rebel against it. He soon convinced his sons that King Warwick of Narngalis intended to overrun Ashqalêth, claiming that Warwick’s enmity had been exposed when he sent the majority of the weather-masters to Cathair Rua where they wounded Chohrab’s servant, and then, heaping injury upon injury, burned down the Red Lodge with their lightnings. Uabhar concealed the fact that he had ordered the slaying of the weathermasters. His glib tongue could not yet find an excuse for such an atrocity—even for his sons, blind in the filial devotion he had cultivated with every stern look, critical remark, lecture, inconsistent reward and hard knock, beginning in their infancy. The king fabricated a story that he had promptly ordered the weathermasters to be seized and locked into one of the palace towers, where, according to him, they dwelled in comfort as befitted their station. ‘They are still dangerous,’ he added. ‘All visitors are forbidden, even you, my sons.’

Prince Fergus swore obscenely. ‘They deserve to be flogged for their foul work!’ he cried. ‘They should be punished for the wrongs they have done to us!’

‘They hold the power of storms in their hands,’ said Uabhar with a philosophical shrug. ‘Keeping them bound and gagged is punishment enough, is it not? Without speech or movement there are unable to work their magicks. But we have wasted enough breath on the puddle-makers. Our main objective now is to attack Narngalis and teach Wyverstone a lesson, before he and Torkilsalven execute their scheme to invade Ashqalêth.’

‘Torkilsalven?’ Prince Kieran said quickly. ‘Is Thorgild part of this scheme?’

‘If not already, then likely soon,’ his father replied impatiently. ‘He and Wyverstone have ever been in cahoots.’

The crown prince felt sickened that his country was likely to come into conflict with Narngalis’s ally Grïmnørsland, the homeland of his bride-to-be, Solveig, and his best friend Prince Halvdan. He kept his feelings of disgust to himself, however, because he was a dutiful son above all, and would not gainsay his father, even in such extreme circumstances.

Prince Ronin said quietly, ‘Alas that Tir’s peace should be broken.’

‘We must fight for justice!’ shouted Prince Cormac. ‘Justice and freedom!’

‘Come,’ barked their father. ‘To the armoury! This is no time for chatter. Let us prepare ourselves to do our duty.’

Away they hastened.

The southern armies were marching to cause havoc in Narngalis, but already the northern realm was suffering mayhem of another kind.

Since early in the year, villages in the region of Silverton, in the shadow of the mountains, had been subject to a spate of grisly episodes. People who ventured out of doors after dark suffered a ghastly fate; in the morning their corpses were found, butchered with surgical exactness. There were no survivors, no thefts. Neither was any quarter given—young or old, male or female, crippled or hale, the victims were slain without discrimination. No one had yet caught a glimpse of the perpetrators, but through that region strange mists had begun arising from the ground between sunset and sunrise and, taking into account all evidence, general opinion held that unseelie wights of some uncommon and truly horrifying kind were at work.

At evening on a Salt’s Day early in Mai, Asr
ă
thiel returned home to the Narngalish royal city of King’s Winterbourne from Silverton, where she and William of Narngalis had been helping the king’s reeves and bailiffs and constables in their endeavours to uncover clues about the mysterious night attacks. Her sky-balloon
Lightfast
coasted along beneath clouds underlit by the pink glow of sunset. She leaned out over the edge of the wicker basket. Far below, gold and ruby tones highlighted the deepening hues of the landscape. Weather conditions were excellent, the surface winds light, visibility good and the air stable. For a while the excitement of flight, the exhilaration of being at one with the extreme power of the elements, overcame the worries of her daily life. It was a thrill that never dulled.

The aircraft gently dropped several feet, and a lower altitude current began to push it around to the east, off course. Weathermasters strove to employ natural energies whenever possible, instead of summoning elements that would disrupt the atmosphere’s complicated balance. Asr
ă
thiel allowed heat to escape from the great sun-crystal trussed in its cradle, thereby warming the air inside the envelope and lowering its density. Slowly the aerostat responded to fundamental forces, rising as air pressure and gravity combined to create buoyancy. The pilot let her aircraft ascend to the altitude of a southerly current she had sensed above, and ride with the world’s wind. It was blowing faster, too.

The balloon, a quicksilver teardrop, glided in the river of the sky.

Tilting back her head so that her rain hood fell back across her shoulders, the weathermage looked up past the suspended cradle and the skirt of the envelope into the domed interior. It resembled a huge, symmetrical flower, glimmery white. The long gores, extending from the base of the envelope to the crown, served as the petals, striped by the seams of the panels and the shadow of a trailing line, the parachute valve cord. Beyond the flower she could espy floating mid-level layers of rosy altocumulus clouds, flattened globular masses in wavy rows, their base hovering at about twelve thousand feet. This was what people called a ‘buttermilk sky’, though currently it was tinged the delicate colour of orchids. Withdrawing her weathersenses for a single instant, Asr
ă
thiel abandoned herself to exhilaration. Time seemed suspended as the world drifted past tranquilly below. The joy of lighter-than-air flight never tarnished. ‘When once you have tasted flight,’ she quoted aloud, ‘you will forever walk with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.’