Mordraud, Book One (64 page)

The
bastard’s uncouthness was appalling, thought Adraman in disgust.

“
There is a way,” he went on, unintimidated. “We’re already working on it, with our best men...”

“
And how?! Bah, I’m wasting my precious time with you... and we’ve squandered quite enough of it already! Go beg at the door of that swine Calhir, if you can’t stand on your own
legs
...” Rinnion chuckled at his own miserable joke.

Adraman
thought he almost saw it, his prey poking its nose outside its den. It had spotted the bait. Now he just had to coax it to bite.

“
I’ve heard Calhann has forbidden any fleet to use the branch of the Hann leading to the Inland Sea...”

And here was the
arrow in his quiver. Yet Adraman was beginning to seriously doubt whether Rinnion had problems to settle with anyone. He’d taken care to gather information during his trip. Calhir, Calhann’s regent on the Inland Sea Strait, was bunging things up with colossal movements of goods that many took a cut from. Too many.

“
Mutts full of cow dung. Nothing but slimy schemers! They think the river’s for them alone, and even though we’ve ALWAYS been the best of friends to them, now they’re playing the gits!” Rinnion gesticulated in fury, sputtering left and right. “We were selling them grain at TWO Scudos a cartload! A crazy arrangement! Rock-bottom prices. And look how they return the favour...”

“
Now I think about it...” Adraman gauged his words carefully, his hand beneath his chin, his eyes lost in the distance. His leg was howling out about that unnatural pose, but he let none of it show. “Eldain did mention talks were in progress with Calhir, precisely about this concern...”

“
Concern?! It’s a CATASTROPHE!” Rinnion yelled in despair. “Now we’re forced to send our caravans by road heading west, and it costs us the earth. And all because of this wretched putrid war!”

“
Isn’t there anything about it in the letter? I thought that was what Eldain wished to propose...”

“
Yes, of course...” grunted Rinnion, waving the parchment. “I was just reading it...”

“
Eldain obviously undertakes to convince Calhir to re-open the trade routes on the river, but in return he asks that support from the powerful Rinn family isn’t diminished.”

“
LET’S NOT OVERDO IT!” the ruler replied, wagging a finger in the air. “If the matter stands in these terms, then we could perhaps delay our withdrawal... while we wait for Eldain to persuade Calhir...”

“
With the end of the winter, these temporary strains between Calhann and your family will certainly fade away...”

“
But can we really be sure Eldain has the means to convince Calhir? And what’s this business about the winter, and your discovery...” inquired Rinnion, jutting forward on his chair like a blackbird on its perch. Adraman smiled and prostrated himself further.

“
We’ve found how to defeat the scourge of the winter,” he answered, holding in check his joy about the victory. “An infallible plan.”

Rinnion
had revealed his weakest side. His vulnerable flesh.

Greed
.

***

“Did you manage to make it beyond the wood?”

“
No, sir.”

Just the answer he didn
’t want to hear. Dunwich cursed through clenched teeth, while Asaeld received the news with his usual composure.

“
I really cannot understand you!” Dunwich hissed once the messenger had departed. “We’re doing nothing but fail, and you don’t even try to worry about it!”

“
There’s nothing to worry about,” the general replied with an unconcerned air. “These are just scuffles. We don’t need to push any further. You’ll see, it’s merely a matter of time.”

“
Time, time! Eld has been living the Long Winter for nearly a year now. How much longer will it take?!”

“
However good you might be...” began Asaeld, arching his eyebrows in a sardonic smirk, “it’s clear you’re young. Perhaps too young for the responsibilities you have. We’re not the ones who decide, don’t you see?! We
follow
orders. And that’s that.”

Dunwich
bit his lip in frustration and went back to focusing on the men moving along a frontline. The Rampart was veiled by the usual icy mist. The sounds of the clash rumbled darkly out of a dense milky wall. Combat that seemed destined to end the same way as all the rest.

They
’d attempted every conceivable move to get round Eldain’s men. They’d tried to overwhelm them by exhaustion, attacking ceaselessly every day. But the winter was devastating for Cambria’s troops too, who, in contrast with the rebels, totally lacked dedication. Dunwich had watched with his own eyes as a couple of Lances retreated and pulled out any excuse to avoid having to plunge into that homicidal haze. And in a certain sense, he could identify with them. They’d sent packs of commandos into the woods cloaking the valley where the Rampart stood, but Eldain had riddled every square inch of land between the trees with bear traps, treacherous pits, and archers hidden well up among the branches. The horses went crazy at the smell of the rotting carcasses of their own kind, dismembered and spread like manure by Eldain’s men. Passing beyond the central front seemed impossible.

“
We should try in other points! They certainly can’t guard the whole line with the same level of attention!” Dunwich cried.

“
What do you think? That we haven’t tried?! Eldain studied where to place the Rampart very carefully. Cambrinn’s mountains are to the north, and we already know we can’t break through there with a sizeable army. The paths are unsuitable, there aren’t the infrastructures. And south of the Rampart, the branches of the Hann join to form a deep swamp as vast as a lake... And now it’s become an ice-trap. I’ve lost tens of scouts in the hope of finding a viable route – and only two have made it back!”

“
Killed? Drowned? Frozen to death?”

“
All three.”

“
And further south?” Dunwich swallowed. “Or at Cambrinn? Are we sure we’ve made adequate attempts?”

“
What do you think?! Those Rinn swine love seeing Cambria grow weak against Eld. They’re in the Alliance, but purely because they know the Empire still has a few scores to settle with them. They stole their lands from Cambria, and are shit-scared of shifting over onto our side!”

“
All we’d have to do is promise them they could keep their territories! Where’s the problem?”

“
You already know what the problem is,” Asaeld concluded concisely. Yes, Dunwich knew what the problem was. Loralon and his councillors. The Emperor would never accept the idea of bending to a similar pact with the enemy. All or nothing. Foolishness made all the more absurd by the fact that, as far as he was aware, Asaeld had often tried to convince him to the contrary.

“
We can’t go on like this!”

Dunwich
had reached his own personal endurance threshold. Jostled along the front like a puppet, always obliged to order the same pointless assaults, forced to travel back and forth between Cambria and the front in answer to Loralon’s every whim. The Lances were weary, depressed, and with extremely frayed nerves. The attempts on their lives hadn’t ended with that half-massacre during supper a few months earlier. They were growing in number. A Lance occasionally disappeared while on duty, or was found dead in his tent. Good lads, all belonging to Asaeld’s prestigious escort. Barely had Dunwich come to recognise them, chat with them a little, than he had to bury them.

“
Yesterday they informed me that a couple of traitors had to be sent to the gallows,” Asaeld said. Dunwich shook his head, holding back a laugh swollen with sarcasm.

“
Presumed
traitors, you mean.”

“
I’m beginning to grow tired of this behaviour of yours!”

“
I’m tired too,” retorted Dunwich as he spurred his horse to set off. Asaeld had no time to speak before the captain was already galloping towards a group of cavalrymen awaiting a command to charge.

“
WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!” Asaeld yelled in terror. Dunwich turned round an instant, struck by the tone of his commander’s voice. He was expecting anger, certainly not fear. He opted to carry on nonetheless.

He
could no longer stand being a mere spectator to that epic failure.

“
Come on! With me!”

The group
hesitated, unsure whether to follow him or heed the cries from the command post, but in the end Dunwich’s reputation among the troops got the upper hand. The horsemen behind him moved and tailed him into the white fog.

T
he initial impact was horrific. The cold was bitter everywhere, but in there, it was indescribable. Dunwich merely had time to wonder how the rebels managed to bear it, when he found himself faced with a surreal spectacle. The corpses of the fallen had been interred by the snow and trampled by the horses’ hooves, making the ground look as if it were pocked with disjointed reddish lumps. Bits of metal, crumpled shields and broken blades were scattered about. Clusters of shadows wandered in that white and crimson desert, fighting slowly and systematically against the living. Covered in furs, wrapped in tattered torn blankets, suffocated by long frozen beards – Eldain’s men still held out, incapable of giving up.

“
Why aren’t we trying to push through?!” Dunwich mumbled, spitting out the shards of ice that hailed onto his face. The whole of Cambria’s army was fragmented, broken up on too vast a field, lacking in unity and order. It was like sending a flock of sheep to the slaughter, driven only by the rabid barking of dogs.

“
Compact! Wedge-formation!” he bellowed. “Behind me!”

His
voice rang out muffled, as if deadened by a layer of felt.

Dunwich
began humming meekly, as he brandished his sword to crack open the head of the first man within range. The melody suddenly rose up and an artful passage steered it to a rhythmic and mighty charge. A whole choir joined his entreaty. A handful of Lances had followed him inside the fog.

The
harmony reached resonance, slipped down his arms and condensed on the palms of his open hands. The power of many thickened around him. When the sphere of fire appeared, it was of a sensational size. He rounded off the chant by thrusting his hands forward and rotating them suddenly. The dazzling globe sped off, tracing a lightning curve above the rebels’ heads, coming to land behind their frontlines, next to the Rampart.

The impact was fearsome. Many were knocked to the ground, others set to rolling around,
howling like wild beasts, to put out the flames burning them. What remained of a whole regiment of foot-soldiers was nothing but ash and a few smoking scraps.

“
Keep the pace!”

He wanted
the Rampart. He craved it, even dreaming about it at night. He had to see what was beyond, at any cost. His men’s spurt bowled over the splintered ranks of Eldain’s infantry. Yet without gangplanks, spanning that earthen barrier was practically impossible.

Dunwich
decided to attempt a tactic he’d never used before.

“
Envisage it... Envisage it...” he whispered, seeking out, in the little time he had, the most appropriate form, the most effective melody. And he set about chanting again.

The snow
at the foot of the Rampart vibrated like the skin on a drum, and piled up along an invisible rib of the wall. His horse was in full spate – he couldn’t halt it now. If the idea didn’t work, he’d be smashed face-first into the insuperable mud blockade and steel carcasses.

Hi
s voice swelled and modulated convulsively, almost on the verge of despair. Too slow and too weak. Dunwich pushed harder, venturing unconventional passages. He felt his arms tremble in holding out against the dissonance threatening to snap him in two. He saw his horse’s hooves hit the first hem of shifted snow. He shut his eyes, and shrank inside himself.

T
he Rampart was spanned by a bridge of ice.

The cavalry howled in terror and euphoria, mad with their trust in
Dunwich. They descended beyond the wall, riding on a narrow curved tongue of snow.

“
Stay compact! Don’t stop! FOLLOW THE ARCH!”

The
unit sank into a sea of soldiers, who were paralysed in amazement. It was like galloping through the waves, striking the water’s surface with a stick. Dunwich brought down and pulled up his sword wildly, randomly. The horsemen had moved up alongside the Lances, so these could go on tormenting the masses, the tents, the stores – anything – with their savage choir of fire. The rebels’ camp ignited like a heap of dry straw.

Dunwich
curved, pursuing a line he’d traced out in his mind, one with no room for margin. There was no beyond – breaking through towards the east was not possible. His men followed him, making their way through the foe. Many fell, spiked by the poleaxes. Others were hailed with arrows. He couldn’t stop to assist the fallen. He heard them scream as they were dragged down by their horses and engulfed in the surge. Just a little more, and he’d finish the route for the bridge. Dozens of fires were dotted around, shining bright like beacons in the mist.