Mordraud, Book One (72 page)

In between the crevices, a slim green
stem wavered in the breeze.

“
That’s not possible...” she mumbled breathlessly.

It was a
blade of grass. A fantastic, splendid, divine little tuft of grass.

Larois
stayed a good while kneeling to contemplate that miracle. She hadn’t seen a colour different from white or grey for such a long time that her eyes were no longer accustomed to its brightness. It seemed unreal, a hallucination caused by starvation. She got up and gently touched the tiny plant. It was all real.

The snow
was retreating. Nature was struggling to surface into the light after months of pitiful segregation.

“
Spring!” she yelled, frantically.

“
Spring’s on its way!”

Larois
ran like she’d never run in her life. She crossed Eld’s silent streets, splashing in the icy puddles that were losing their firmness, laughing at the top of her voice and bawling like the insane.

“
Spring’s on its way!”

Gaunt faces peered out of windows patched in rags. Like animals after a long
hibernation, the surviving men and women ventured out of their homes in apprehensive steps, unbelieving. A wan sun tentatively peeped out from behind the clouds. “Spring’s on its way! Spring’s on its way!” they all chorused, first merely echoing their neighbours, then with swelling enthusiasm.

“
Spring’s on its way!”

Those words
leapt from mouth to mouth, and very soon the whole of Eld resounded with the cry and joyful singing. Larois carried on running, exhilarated with the delight. She couldn’t believe it. The winter was receding at an unnatural pace. She reached Adraman’s large villa at breakneck speed. One voice was missing in the singing by the crippled fiefdom. She found her in the courtyard, motionless before a bare tree. Drips of thawing snow were trickling from its branches. They were falling on her hair, and on her shoulders weighed down by a mound of stale furs.

Deanna
was observing, enthralled, a small green and gold bud clinging to a bough in its desperate attempt to live. Her hands were resting on her stomach and she was weeping.

“
Spring’s on its way, Deanna! It’s over! The winter’s over!”

Larois
raced towards her, stumbling in the mushy snow. Deanna turned to her, but her eyes were elsewhere. Absent.

Extinguished by a film of
madness.

Her
hands tightened on her stomach. She bent over, gritting her teeth, racked by retching. She was sick on the snow, and coughed weakly.

Larois
reached her and helped her up. Deanna was drained, pale and shaking. Only her mouth smiled. The rest of her face was a mask of pain.

“
For love of the Gods, my child...” she whispered to her, stroking her dirty dishevelled hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?! Oh, Deanna...”

Larois
hugged the girl to her, pitifully propping her up.

“
You’re pregnant...”

“
The fog’s thinning.”

Asaeld
drew aside the tent entrance flap and studied the horizon beyond the camp. The snow had stopped falling, for some three days now. It hadn’t happened in over a year. Here and there patches of black earth emerged from the endless white shroud, bringing to light the half-frozen corpses of the dead nobody had bothered to give an honourable burial. The wind carried the vague odour of putrefaction, flesh exposed to heat, and of uncovered plants. The skies were free of cloud, and rich in such an intense blue as to be dizzying. There could be one explanation alone. Asaeld bowed his head and smirked mildly, without being noticed by the three guards awaiting his command. The army was confused, disoriented. They’d all grown used to the idea that the cold would never leave them.

In
stead it had vanished. Forever.

The
Long Winter was over.

“
Notify the section captains. The men must begin dismantling the camp, and tell everyone to be on the ready to fight!”

“
What, sir?! Is an assault planned, followed by a retreat?”

“
Oh, not exactly... We’re not attacking. The rebels will attack us.”

The
three guards stared at each other in utter astonishment and dismay. “But... they haven’t staged an assault for months. It’s up to us to strike!”

Asaeld
closed the tent flaps and approached the weapons rack. He took his sword, drew it from its scabbard and checked the quality of its cut. He’d used it little since he’d become a general.

This
was the day he’d make up for lost time.

“
Know what a bear does as soon as he comes out of hibernation?” he asked the guards, who were following him, bemuddled and in silence.

“
No, sir.”

“
He eats. He devours everything in his path...” he told them, struggling to restrain a smug chuckle. “And today we’ll be the bear’s meal.”

“
So you think...?”

“
I’m absolutely sure. Get the carts ready, pack off everything that can be transported. Load up the wounded too and send them back to Cambria. AT THE DOUBLE!”

“
Yes, sir!”

The
guards rushed out of the tent mumbling to each other. Asaeld went back to inspecting his sword, unsheathed it and carved two slices through the air, just to feel if the brass wire grip was still solid. In all truth, he’d questioned himself to the last as to whether he should warn the men of the imminent attack. Perhaps he shouldn’t have. Eldain’s men would chop them to bits in any case. The rope had been pulled too tight, and now it had snapped.

Just like he
’d envisaged it would, right from the outset.

“
It was about time... And to think it had very nearly worked... Such a fine margin...”

Asaeld
smiled again. For over a year he’d put up with the cold, the poor food, the soldiers’ vacuous troubles, the continual inconclusive raids on the Rampart. A lengthy unpleasant grind. He wasn’t even interested in finding out who’d hindered his plan for the Long Winter. It might have been Eldain’s men, or maybe an internal revolt. Even better, he mused. A people’s uprising would be perfect. He would have time to think on the unwitting accomplices who’d played into his hands, by halting the Long Winter.

The curtain was about to go up on a horrendous n
ightmare for the Emperor’s glorious army.

“
Thank you, Loralon... You needn’t have ushered in all the haste... This way you’ve made it too easy,” he whispered, bowing to empty space. The Long Winter had served no purpose. Except to exasperate friends and foe alike, and to make the Imperial dynasty detested by all.

“
It’s too easy this way.”

***

Home sweet home.

It was the dead of
night when Mordraud went into his regiment’s tent. He’d been away for over two months, and for him it was a huge relief to find the Rampart still standing. Not a day had gone by without his thoughts veering back to the lads in his unit, to all the men huddled up under the blankets, awaiting yet another raid by Cambria. Too often his fear had been that he wouldn’t make it in time. Or even worse, that his efforts would be in vain. He’d left the army in a pitiful condition, and he found it again in a pitiful condition. But at least it still existed – that’s all that counted.

The tent was
strangely empty. The stove was out and the beds in order. His comrades’ few small possession were all present: Mercy’s two battered daggers, the horseshoe Hammer used to mark his pillow, and even poor Red’s lucky charm of an empty wine flask lay untouched. The Tower of Swords pieces were set out on a barrel top in a corner, in play left half-finished. He couldn’t wait to challenge Hammer to a game, thought Mordraud.

The air was mild – a pleasant sensation he
’d been enjoying for some time, yet still hadn’t grown accustomed to. The snow was melting rapidly and no more had fallen for many days. The landscape was not attractive. Nearly all the plants had died in the freeze, the grass was straining to show itself and an atrocious number of animal and human carcasses choked the earth, everywhere. He’d passed through many villages on his return journey, and had found nothing but empty houses and people dead in their beds. The winter was over, but it had left an onerous aftermath.

Gwern
had gone home with Saiden. They had split up to shorten the travelling – Mordraud wanted to get back to the lads to give them a hand. Although he hadn’t taken part in ending the Long Winter, he still felt he’d won. It was a personal question. Even if Cambria should put that nasty trick into practice again, he’d found out how they were able to do it. He intended to explain everything to Eldain, so he could muster units ready to comb the terrain nearest the front, to keep an eye on every possible suspect den. ‘And besides, I killed one at least...’ he recalled, smirking. ‘I hope the Long Winter died along with that shithead.’

He
pondered on what he should say. They all knew he’d set off to seek out a remedy to that curse the Empire had unleashed on Eld, and they would undoubtedly credit him with the success. Mordraud grumbled to himself. Even if he persisted in contradicting them, it was unlikely they’d believe him.

He still hadn
’t bumped into any of the camp’s men, with the exception of a couple of sentries, who however hadn’t recognised him. He’d had to insist for permission to pass. He’d listed the names of all the people he knew in the army, their nicknames, their pasts. He’d never actually realised, before that day, how many people he’d developed ties with since he’d been fighting for Eldain. It was a good feeling. Like being part of a large extended family.

Everything was peaceful. Absolute silence permeated the camp, broken only by the crackling of the occasional unattended fire. His bed was there, ready to welcome him. He
’d liked to have heard the sound of dice rattling in the empty cases, the natter of the soldiers on duty, perhaps even the chaotic rowdiness of a tussle. But he’d have to make do with the hush of that night.

Mordraud
lay down, savouring the soft mattress stuffed with straw. He slipped off his boots and unbuckled his belt, letting his sword slide to the floor. He still hadn’t decided what to say – he’d stay as vague as possible. He didn’t cherish the idea of taking credit that wasn’t his, but it was, after all, he and his brother who had risked their lives for the cause. He was just worried what the other lads would call him. And the awful thing was, there was nothing he could do about it. Even if he had killed merely one, nobody would give it any importance.

Cambria
’s Terror.

Or
The Chant-Choker.

“
Brr... dreadful...” he murmured, shutting his eyes. “All I need is for them to call me...”

“
SPRING!”

The tent shuddered as if shaken by a gale.
Mordraud lunged for his sword, following his involuntary reflex, and jumped to his feet. Had he dozed off? Was it a dream, or had he really heard that name, the horror of all horrors, the thing he feared most, more than death itself? Anything, but not...

“
SPRING!”

A sea of men flowed into the tent. New unfamiliar faces, all
committed to a single chorus cry.

“
SPRING!”

“
No, please don’t... No...” Mordraud stammered, his stomach in knots.

“
Welcome back, Spring!” Hammer dived onto him and lifted him off the ground like a sack. In the process, Mordraud’s trousers drooped to his ankles.

“
Put me down, you dumb blockhead piece of meat!” he babbled, red in the face. “PUT ME DOWN!”

“
No, can’t do that, chief! THE PARTY’S READY TO START!”

Thousands of arms dragged him out of the tent,
and Mordraud found himself in front of Eldain’s entire army. No silence now. The camp was in tremendous bedlam. Roasting on spits over fires were succulent pigs, dozens of barrels were scattered about, and people crammed round to drink directly from the uncorked holes, flooding their faces and hair with mature wine. Others were playing a popular jig on the bugles. The section captains were rowdier than their men. They all, with the exception of none, howled his name into the night when he was trawled out of the tent. His name, followed by that appalling nickname.

“
Here’s Mordraud!
Spring
is back!”

“
But... who told you...? How do you know...?” Mordraud asked, deafened by the cheers and the general din.

“
When we saw the sun again, we realised at once you’d managed it!” Hammer answered, slapping his back so enthusiastically Mordraud nearly flew to the floor. He pulled his trousers up in embarrassment.

“
And who told you I did it?! It might not have been...”

“
It could only have been you!” Hammer broke in.

“
But, well, I...”

“
Come on, cut out the modesty. You only
ended the Long Winter
!”

Hammer
’s exclamation was followed by a roar that soared up from the troops revelling in celebration.

“
I have to report... I have to speak to Adraman!” Mordraud yelled over the howls.

“
He’s not here! He’s gone home!”

Mordraud
found himself with a flask in front of his face. Then someone poured, down his throat. An excellent wine, much better than the usual vinegar they drank at the camp.

“
And this? Have you learnt to make good wine while I’ve been away?” he inquired, wiping his mouth on his tunic sleeve.

“
A gift from the Cambrian swines! Their tents were full of it, those fattened hogs!” replied one of the soldiers. For an instant, Mordraud thought Red was standing before him, in flesh and blood. But it was just a lad who looked very much like him.

“
Did Adraman go back to inform Eldain about the end of the winter?” he bawled to Hammer, as the crowd broke up to carry on the debauchery.

“
No! Dear little wifey’s with child!”

Mordraud
failed to catch his words properly. Or perhaps he’d understood them but preferred not to.

“
What?!”

“
SHE’S GOING TO HAVE A BABY!” yelled Hammer, before glugging his share of the wine from the flask. “HE’S GOING TO HAVE AN HEIR!”

Mordraud felt his legs give way
beneath him. If his companions hadn’t been there propping him up, he’d have slumped to the ground without a sound.

“
Hey, boss, we’ve only just begun! The night’s still young!”

W
ine seemed to rain from the sky, in bucketfuls. He could only guzzle and guzzle, without refrain. A whirl of hands squeezed, pummelled and pawed him with affection. The music grew louder, and many were already dancing, pickled in wine. Five or six harlots were making busy near a tent. The aroma of roast pork mingled with the sweetish smell of herbs cooked over the coals. Herbs that fogged the vision and made the men cockeyed.

“
Deanna’s going to have a baby...” he murmured, during a merciful pause between one bottle and the next. They led him in a riotous dance, but he stumbled at every step. And each time, someone scooped him up, flinging him back into the scrum.

“
Mordraud! Spring!”

Deanna
was pregnant. Impossible, because he, and he alone, knew how often Adraman had tried for an heir. For years. Tens and scores of times.

Unless
.

“
Mordraud! Spring!”

Deanna
was going to have a baby.

‘
My baby,
’ he thought, dying inside.

“
Mordraud! Mordraud!”