I was too mesmerised by the thought of food to be sarcastic. I nodded instead. Estrada paced away, not in the direction she'd indicated but towards where Mounteban had gone.
I began to inspect the crates, glad that their arguments and politics were none of my concern. There was food, sure enough, and in abundance: bread, cheese, fruits and vegetables, goat meat, mutton, even a couple of live chickens dozing fitfully in a cage. There were butts of water and urns of wine, as well as a few bottles of some sour-smelling liquor.
Estrada was right, it couldn't possibly all be removed. It had evidently been gathered in a hurry, with little forethought. Most of the fresh goods wouldn't last another day. I settled for some of the less stale bread, a strong cheese that had stayed good within its husk of wax, and a few strips of dried meat. Such basic fare seemed to have become the staple of my diet lately, and it was pointless trying to fight it. There was a wooden cup beside one of the water butts; I filled and refilled it with wine, washing down every few mouthfuls of food, until I started to feel light-headed.
The entire meal had lasted perhaps two minutes. The average ravenous dog dines with more delicacy than I did then.
Once I felt I had my immediate physical requirements taken care of, I turned my attention to Saltlick. He hadn't moved since Estrada had spoken to him. "Will you stop moping! So you slapped about a couple of people who were trying to kill you. You'll get over it. We can go and rescue your family and everything will be fine."
Saltlick looked up. "Rescue?"
"Why not? But you need to keep your strength up. There's some dried grass piled in that corner, why don't you tuck in?"
Saltlick nodded profoundly, and followed my advice. His steps were almost sprightly as he crossed the cavern, and I wondered what had happened to change his mood so drastically. Whatever it was, I was pleased to see him plunge into his meal with gusto. He'd lost enough blood to fell an ox, and was still leaking from a couple of his more formidable wounds. He'd be no good to anyone if he dropped dead from exhaustion. If our fates were entwined, as it increasingly seemed they were, I wanted him as healthy and as much in one piece as possible.
While he ate, I took a minute to hunt out some new clothes. I discarded the ragged leather armour, which had already begun to chafe, and traded it for a plain hempen shirt I found in a sack of similar garments. After some thought, I traded the cloak in too, for a heavier one of indistinct grey. That done, I set to cramming as much of the remaining food about my person as I could, including a strapped wine skin that I slung over one shoulder. Estrada hadn't set any conditions on her generosity, so neither would I.
All the while, handfuls of Estrada's ragtag troop appeared from passage entrances and wandered past, in the direction she'd indicated. The parade was over by the time I'd finished, and Saltlick had turned to guzzling from an upturned water butt.
"Come on," I said, "It looks as though the after-dinner entertainment is about to begin."
The tunnel was short and ended in a wash of amber light, which resolved into a mixture of torches set on tripods and the first pale glimmers of dawn. A wide open area lay beyond, stretching on into an overhang that jutted from the mountainside. It was a stop upon the north-south mountain road. The trail was visible, snaking away in both directions, and this entrance – like the one far below – had evidently been hidden and only recently reopened.
Estrada stood on a small stage of crates near the southern end of the clearing, with her back to the mist-sodden void of the Castoval. Perhaps two hundred men were arrayed before her in clumsy ranks. They wore a haphazard variety of armour and carried an equally diverse range of weapons, from swords and bows to more eccentric choices. One had a blacksmith's hammer hoisted over his shoulder; another leaned on what was clearly a pitchfork.
I estimated that two thirds of them were professional militiamen or guardsmen of some degree. Of the remainder, some were barely old enough to be away from their mothers, and others looked too decrepit to remember who their mothers were. Presumably these were irregulars and volunteers who'd been caught up in the retreat or recruited from Muena Palaiya. One other enclave stood out, a tough-looking mob with no hint of military discipline, who I figured for cronies of Mounteban's. Mounteban himself was near the front, staring up at Estrada with an expression I couldn't read.
Saltlick and I fell in on one flank, just in time.
"Friends," Estrada said, "I'm not here to comfort you."
That didn't strike me as a very promising beginning.
"I'm not here to tell you we're winning. I'm not here to tell you we're safe. We were defeated two days ago, in what may prove to be the decisive battle for the freedom of the Castoval. Moaradrid will soon find his way here, to our place of retreat. Therefore, we must abandon this as well.
"I don't want to offer you hope. It's dangerous to hope when we may all be dead soon, and our loved ones enslaved by a monster who despises everything we value. Because understand, if we can't find a way to drive out Moaradrid that's what will happen. He and his barbarians won't go away. They won't leave us alone. There'll be no good end to this – unless we make it for ourselves."
This was met with a vague murmur of agreement. As popular as the sentiment undoubtedly was, it was hard to take seriously when you looked around at the "we" in question.
At least Estrada had anticipated this. "We're too few now. We'd be outclassed and outnumbered, even against a fragment of Moaradrid's strength. So we run, without shame. We separate. We hide, if need be. If a final battle must come – as it must – we will choose the time. We'll choose the soil it's fought on. Because it's
our
soil, in
our
land.
"Until then, you have two missions. You must stay alive, and you must find others who'll fight for their home. We will go to every town and every village in the Castoval. We'll ask everyone we meet if they want to stay free, and what they'll risk for it. And they
will
join us. Because Castovalians have never worn a yoke, never called any man master, and they won't begin to now!"
A weary cheer arose this time.
I wanted to join in, but the noise stuck in my throat. I'd never been one for crowds, or noble causes for that matter. This one seemed more doomed than most. Could an army of well-intentioned peasants succeed where the combined garrisons of every town in the Castoval had failed? It seemed less than likely.
Estrada and Mounteban had been right about one thing. I'd only seen the war from my own small point of view. I certainly hadn't given much thought to what would happen if Moaradrid triumphed. The reality was like ice water splashed in my face. One phrase from Estrada's speech had lodged like a splinter in my mind:
there will be no good end
. That seemed undeniably true, for me at least.
I stood deep in thought as the assembly dissolved around me. I was vaguely conscious that Mounteban and Estrada were separating their shabby force into small bands, appointing leaders, setting destinations and meeting places. How many would simply go home? Was oppression by a foreign warlord truly worse than leaving your family to go hungry while you threw your life away in a hopeless battle?
I lost track of time. At one point, an old man dressed in a grubby, bloodstained poncho offered to clean and sew my wounds. I looked at him, confused, and then pointed to Saltlick. "It's him you want."
"You've been bleeding," he pointed out.
"He's been bleeding more."
The surgeon did as instructed, and I sank back into my fugue.
It was Estrada who eventually roused me. I realised that she was standing in front of me, that she was talking, and that she'd been doing both for some time. I tried to focus on what she was saying, and found it beyond me.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I haven't been paying the slightest attention."
She stopped, and looked at me with vague concern. "Are you ill?"
"I don't know. Possibly."
"You aren't badly hurt."
I thought about it. "No, I suppose not." Speaking to someone was helping to dispel the gloom that had fallen over me. Now I just felt phenomenally tired. "What were you saying?"
"I was asking for your help."
"Ah. You said you were going to do that."
Estrada nodded. "And you told me you'd probably say no."
"I did. So are you going to tell me what you have in store for us?"
"Not here. The fewer who know, the better. All I can say is that it will be over in a week, one way or another, and that I don't think any of it will work without you."
"I suppose it will be incredibly dangerous? Life-ordeath scrapes, chases, people firing arrows at me, that sort of thing?"
She sighed. "Like I said, I can't force you. Even if I could, frankly I'm too tired to try."
I gazed at her. Marina Estrada, one-time mayor of a backwater town, now the last surviving general of the Castoval. A worn out woman overdue a wash and some clean clothes, trying desperately to do the right thing while knowing how doomed it almost certainly was. I remembered the night I'd spent in Moaradrid's camp before the battle, the fear I'd seen in every eye, the hopelessness of men about to hurl themselves over the brink into darkness. I thought, finally, about what I'd overheard Moaradrid say only a few hours ago. It hadn't really penetrated at the time – how he planned to march on the capital, to overthrow the royal court.
Would he stop there? Even if he did, what would be left behind?
I forced myself to grin, though I'd never felt less like it in my life. "Why not," I said. "It's not as if I have anything better planned."
CHAPTER 10
My newfound conviction might have lasted all morning if someone had found a way to keep me awake. Sleep deprivation will do strange things to you, and if inexplicable bravery isn't recognised amongst them then it should be.
Estrada wasn't to know my commitment was purely symptomatic, of course. There was a glint in her eye, as though she'd won some personal victory, as she told me, "We can't leave for a while yet. We need to pack what supplies we can and make sure everyone understands their part. Despite what I said, it will take Moaradrid a while to find a way through those caves without the lifting platforms. You two should try to catch some sleep."
That last sentence might as well have been some magical incantation. I just managed to get out, "That's a fine idea," before my chin was lolling on my chest, blackness deep and heavy as an ocean swelling over me.
I woke to a vague memory of oblivion so fathomless it seemed criminal to abandon it. I felt refreshed, even though I could tell from the angle of the shadows that no more than a couple of hours had passed. I'd slept standing up, just as Estrada had left me. Saltlick still slumbered, curled with his back against the cliff wall and snoring cacophonously.
I could see the preparations were drawing to a conclusion. A dozen carts had appeared from somewhere, and were dangerously overloaded with barrels and crates. Perhaps forty of the men, including Mounteban and his ruffians, were on horseback, with the others gathered on foot, smoking pipes or talking in low voices. A smaller minority, Estrada amongst them, were coordinating with loud cries and – when a box tipped or a cord snapped – even louder reprobation.
What had I got myself into? There was something utterly desperate about the scene. Even if they made it off the mountainside, that caravan of the weak and wounded stood about as much chance against Moaradrid as a horsefly against a stallion. In a certain light, it might have seemed heroic. Beneath a leaden sky, in the early hours of a rain-spattered morning, it looked pitiful and hopeless.
Any thought of noble self-sacrifice vanished in that instant, like a glass of wine poured into a mill pool. Moaradrid would win. He'd
already won
. Did I really want to ally myself with this last pathetic cyst of rebellion, which would undoubtedly be lanced at any minute? The only sensible move was to place as much distance between them and myself as I possibly could. Even Saltlick seemed a lightning rod for trouble. There was no doubt things were about to get bleaker for the Castoval, no doubt that under Moaradrid its days of carefree independence were over. Nevertheless, there would always be a corner where someone like me could pursue his occupations.
There would always be another rock to hide under.
Before I could wonder where that last thought had come from, Estrada – who'd been busying herself at the head of the caravan – happened to notice me. "Are you awake, Damasco?" she called. "Come on, you can ride up here."
That was the last thing I wanted to hear. My burgeoning plan would have put me at the tail of the wagon train, where I could slip off without drawing too much attention. The road we were on led north and south, threading most of the eastern range. Northward it would eventually cut into the mountains, arriving beyond the pass at the port of Goya Mica. The southerly path would split in a few miles, with one route leading to the larger coastal town of Goya Pinenta, the other declining sharply to come out some distance behind Muena Palaiya. Presumably, that was the direction in which we were headed. I could find my way onto a boat from either port, though, and that opened a world of possibilities. I might even leave the Castoval altogether. What was it to me, after all?
Estrada was clearly growing impatient. I tugged at Saltlick's arm, and called, "Wake up you brute, we're leaving!"
His great head drifted from his breast, one watery eye blinked open, and he yawned. "Ghhrnrr?"
"I said, get up. Look, the mayor's waiting for us."
Saltlick unfolded his limbs with a sigh that rolled and echoed around the rocks. He too looked better for a rest. The old man had done a good job of bandaging his many cuts and scrapes, and none of them were showing fresh blood. His skin had lost some of its pallor, and his movements were less pained than they'd been a few hours ago.