Mordraud, Book One (54 page)

“
Don’t overdo it, Asaeld... It was me who started. He’s a new recruit, can’t you see? His blood runs hot in his veins, like it does with all lads...”

“
He could do with a few lashes of the whip! To learn who commands!”

The poor
Lance had shrunk before them, and examined the ground in his terrible wait for an exemplary punishment.

“
Forget the whipping – its only use is to make people resentful. Soldier, you’ll keep your tongue under check from now on, won’t you?” Dunwich took a pace towards the young man, who nodded convincingly. “Just think these things and keep them to yourself,” he whispered, covering his mouth with a cunning gesture. The Lance bowed and moved off before anyone could change decision on his punishment. Asaeld smirked without letting Dunwich catch it. All traces of rage had vanished from his face, as if they’d never been there.

“
Sir!”

Dunwich
turned towards the young Lance, who’d suddenly stopped to study the horizon. He was pointing at the skies, gaping. An expression of ridiculous amazement on his face. Dunwich barely had time to look up.

A storm of arrows was hailing down on them all.

He tried to strike up a chant, but didn’t have time. Asaeld seemed not to have noticed anything yet.

“
ASAELD! GET DOWN!” he yelled frantically, as panic spread among the Lances crowding the base. Then he was flattened to the ground and his sight dimmed. With his ear squashed to the earth, he heard the steel rain batter down on all of them. Many were screaming in pain. Even the person protecting him with his own body.

The young man from a few seconds earlier had acted as a shield.

“No! Asaeld!” groaned Dunwich with his mouth buried in the mud. “Shield
him
! You have to shield him!”

His appeal went unhindered. The Lance was already dead.

When
the hail ceased, eight soldiers lay on the ground. All Lances fresh out of the Academy. Asaeld had come out of it miraculously unscathed, except for a long gash on his forehead.

“
But... who was it?!”

The
archery battalion had moved upon his orders. A nearby survivor said he’d seen a smaller group of archers turn towards the command post, weigh up the shot and fire. It was hard to work out who they were and where they’d gone. Impossible to pick them out during such a complex manoeuvre, of advancing towards the river. Asaeld was yelling wildly, the wounded Lances were groaning, laying on their backs, arrows sticking out everywhere. Chaos had seized the base.

“
Asaeld! Call back those accursed archers! We need to segregate them at once, before they mingle with the others!”

The
commander was ashen and seemed incapable of moving. Around him, five arrows traced out a perfect circle that only by a whisper hadn’t hit their target. A resonance, thought Dunwich. Asaeld had managed to protect himself with a harmonic barrier.

“
There’s no point. By now, they’ll already have mingled with the other divisions. They’re fighting down there, we can’t keep an eye on them!”

“
And so what do you want to do?!”

Dunwich
looked at the man who’d died protecting him. A few seconds before, he was slipping away for fear of the whip. A sadly unfair end.

“
He opted to shield you, do you see?”

“
Only because you’d just threatened him with who knows what dreadful punishment...” murmured a desolate Dunwich. He’d never felt so lost. So empty. He wondered how much his life was worth. Whether it really was more precious than that of another soldier.

“
That’s not the reason. They protected you because you’re a hero among the troops. They’re beginning to single you out as a real leader, a
guide!
You’re charismatic, and you always state things as they are. Your soldiers like you,” explained Asaeld. He still seemed shaken, yet he was also pleased with the turn in events. Instead, Dunwich was shocked, and gave no reply. He hadn’t the slightest interest in those political details.

“
We’re talking here about a companion who died in my place! Not amidst the scrum, in the disarray of battle... He took those arrows out of choice... And I don’t even know his name...”

“
It doesn’t matter now.”

“
DOESN’T MATTER?! You said you’d routed out the plotters! It’s a catastrophe... For love of the Gods, a catastrophe...”

“
We need to get away from here, and carry on commanding the troops. We might lose the battle if we dwell on it any further!”

“
We’ve already lost, Asaeld!” growled Dunwich.

“
We’ve already lost everything.”

***

“You look tired, Adraman. Sure you want to carry on?”

“
Of course! I’m just sleeping more than usual, that’s all it is. I’m not used to lounging around the house doing nothing.”

Eldain
had invited his friend to dine with him in his private rooms. They were bare, like the cells of a prison. Frugal dishes, rye bread and cold meats, a few slices of cheese and a carafe of light wine. Adraman was the only person he enjoyed spending a few hours chatting with. Not about war – the main topic not only of his daily life, but of his whole existence.

“
At home...?”

“
Everything’s fine, thanks,” Adraman broke in. “Deanna seems better.”

“
You don’t strike me as very happy.”

“
You’re wrong. I’m glad...”

“
...But?”

Adraman
pressed his pipe bowl with the end of a knife and stretched his legs out under the table. However calm he might seem externally, Eldain could read an ineradicable suffering within him.

“
But I don’t know why she’s brighter. I haven’t done anything or said anything different from usual. The servants know nothing. It’s simply... sometimes she seems happier.”

“
Do you think...?”

“
I don’t know,” Adraman cut him short.

“
We already spoke about it once... Remember?”

“
Yes, and I’ve meditated on it a lot.”

Eldain
placed his feet on an empty seat and arched his back to relieve the numbness. Staying still on the wooden chair in the meeting chamber was torture for his bones. He would willingly have avoided it, but he couldn’t. The same was true about many things.

“
And what conclusions have you come to?”

“
That you’re an old fool to advise me to humour unfaithfulness. How can I return home and sleep with my wife, knowing that perhaps a few hours earlier she was screwing with someone else?”

“
You’re overly dramatic... That’s always been your trouble,” returned Eldain without the faintest sarcasm. “Ever been whoring, Adraman?”

“
You making fun of me?! We went together once, in Calhann... Don’t you remember? It must have been ten years ago. When we tried to bring them round onto our side...”

“
And after that? Never again?”

“
Well... maybe once or twice...” confessed Adraman, in a vaguely embarrassed tone. “Two or three times, I’d say... I wasn’t counting...”

“
And perhaps you were already married to Deanna.”

“
What’s that got to do with it?! You know that sometimes I’m away from home for four or five months in a row! Every day solving problems and struggling to survive yet another battle... Occasionally, I’ve sought a bit of... human warmth, that’s all.”

Eldain s
miled and turned his attentions to lighting his pipe. Adraman stared at him, awaiting a reply, which however was slow in coming.

“
So? What are you trying to tell me?”

“
Can’t you work it out for yourself?”

“
But you can’t compare
that
to an affair!” burst out a shocked Adraman. “I’ve already told you: I was at the front, I was risking my life... It’s normal to feel alone, to feel...”

He didn
’t succeed in finishing his sentence. Eldain was still staring at him, a light smile on his lips. “Hmm, you’ve managed to make me see, haven’t you, you merciless old man?!”

“
You’re sometimes a little too stubborn, but when you try, you learn quickly,” chuckled Eldain.

“
Don’t make fun of me. We’re talking about serious stuff...”

“
I would never take that liberty. By the way... I know you have your suspicions. Who would it be?”

“
I’m not answering that!” Adraman retorted indignantly. “And there’s no suspect! My wife’s not cheating on me!”

“
It’s that lad, isn’t it... Mordraud? I’ve heard you get on well... You like him, don’t you, or am I wrong?”

Adraman
reddened and, in a ploy to conceal it, he got up to fetch something else to drink. That wasn’t there – the bottles were all on the table.

“
Mordraud reminds me a little of myself in adolescence. And he’s a good soldier too,” blurted Adraman.

“
Young, full of energy... a fighter... bursting with ideals... Am I right?”

“
More or less.”

“
And he’s also Deanna’s friend, he knows her well, and really cares about her... And perhaps they’re even alike.”

“
Cut it out. I hardly recognise you – you sound like an old woman.”

“
Have I said something wrong?” inquired Eldain, straightening up on his chair. “I haven’t put you on trial, Adraman. We’re just chatting.”

Adraman
sighed and slowly shook his head. “Bah... Nothing can be hidden from you, can it? Your usual self. And since you’re interested in knowing... Yes, I think Deanna’s playing around with Mordraud.”

“
And this doesn’t bother you as much as you expected it would.”

“
Exactly. But I don’t know why.”

“
It’s not that hard to figure out.”

Eldain
put his pipe down to take a hunk of bread.

“
You think Deanna could be happy with Mordraud... And you care about her too much to deny her this joy.”

“
For love of the Gods! If your men were to hear you talk so soppily...” Adraman commented, with a taut smile.

Eldain
suddenly clapped his lands and jumped up.

“
Fancy a game of Tower of Swords?”

“
Hmm? Tower of Swords? Why that particular game?!” asked Adraman in a muddle. He wasn’t expecting such a suggestion, and it was already very late. “But you’re weak at Tower – you never beat me!”

“
Almost
never! And I feel I could win easily tonight... What d’you say?”

“
Come on, then,” replied Adraman. “Fetch the pieces, but no cheating! And don’t try and take a seven from my unit!”

“
I don’t even know how to cheat – you know that.”

Eldain
whistled as he set up the battleground. Tower of Swords was an age-old game, played in every corner of the continent. Simple wooden blocks, the numbered pieces had to be lined up to form a battalion, and were moved to simulate a miniature battle. Every region had its own variation, but the basic game had remained unchanged for centuries. Since players also had to count and add up the value of the various pieces, Tower of Swords was often used to teach children how to use numbers.

Eldain
and Adraman had been keen on the game since youth, and had both polished their strategies during long sleepless nights on the Rampart. Like all the other lads they’d challenged, they too had personally fashioned their numbered blocks, shaping them between one training session and the next. It was one of the Rampart’s unwritten rules: you weren’t a man until you possessed your own wooden army.

Playing was exactly what
his friend needed, thought Eldain. A focus to take Adraman’s mind off things for an hour or two.

So he had little scope
to muse on what he’d just confided to him.

***

“We’re still not there. You’re concentrating on the chanting too much.”

“
But the resonances...”

“
I’ll repeat it again: a resonance doesn’t come from the chanting, but from your concentration. It’s like an unspoken wish. Chanting is just a vehicle – a means for achieving it.”

Gwern
and Saiden were sitting on the floor, at the bottom of the stairs. They were discussing his progress. Many days had gone by since that moment when Gwern had learnt to work with his tutor. He’d lost count. Inside that tower, time just flitted by.