Mordraud, Book One (57 page)

***

The chill wind made the jagged scar spanning his cheek feel itchy. The snow was so thick it hindered all visual distinction. Another unsuccessful attack. The umpteenth.

“
I hadn’t reckoned on the chanters managing so well,” commented Asaeld at his side, swathed in a heavy black cloak with soft white fur trim.

“
They’ve done too much. It’s a lowly way to win.”

“
But we are winning, don’t you think?”

A gaggle of stretcher-bearers were carrying the dead and wounded off the battlefield, even if there was little difference to note between the two categories. Dozens had frozen, truncated or mangled limbs. Such a warped climate was counter-productive for them too. Nothing could be seen beyond that accursed
and eternal freezing fog.

“
No, I wouldn’t say so. I can only see our men dying. We still haven’t straddled the Rampart, and months have gone by since the start of the Long Winter.”

“
Let things take their course, Dunwich” the commander uttered, with his usual calm. “You’ll see we’ll emerge from this victorious. It’s not long to go now – Eldain has hardly any men left.”

“
That’s not how it looks to me.”

“
You know who you have to thank, don’t you?” Asaeld asked him slyly.

“
It wasn’t my idea,” Dunwich returned in disgust. “It was those deranged councillors. My plan was quite another!”

“
And what do you suggest we do now?! Let’s hear!”

“
Change point, for love of the Gods! What sense is there in attacking here?! Even the Hann is a ribbon of ice now! We should cross it, press north, and then we’re inside!”

“
We’re not the ones to decide,” replied Asaeld pithily.

“
Well, we
should
.” Dunwich glanced about. Many Lances were behind them, irritatingly focused on his words. He lowered his tone so as not to be heard. “If it goes on like this, Loralon will make this plan fail too!”

“
I’ll remember to point it out the next time I see him.”

“
Are you mocking me?!” snarled Dunwich.

“
No, I wouldn’t say so. It’s just there’s nothing we can do.”

“
Bah... Let’s get back to the tents. We’re through here for today.” Dunwich nudged his horse and headed towards the camp. He would have to attend at least two different meetings that evening, and the thought alone was enough to make him want to skip everything and everyone to turn his attentions to a couple of decent bottles, on his own. It was deadly cold, and no cover seemed capable of keeping it at bay.

“
You should go to the herbalist in the camp,” Asaeld said suddenly, as they returned together. “You scar’s reddening with all this snow. You wouldn’t want it to ruin your looks, would you? They say they are much sought after in Cambria.”

“
With all due respect... go screw yourself, Asaeld!”

“
I’ll see what I can do.”

***

“Sir, the enemy’s retreating.”

Eldain
emerged from the tent enveloped in a patched and worn woollen blanket. He didn’t at all like the faces he saw lurking around the meagre camp fires.

‘
Starving spectres...’ he reflected, shaking his head. ‘The walking dead.’

“
How many soldiers have we lost?”

“
We don’t have definite figures yet... They say a hundred or so, maybe more,” replied his assistant, a young man with a certain experience of war. Eldain was forced to send many of the new recruits to less critical fronts – they couldn’t withstand the pressure of the front line. And the bitter cold. Most of them tried to flee from that nightmare, or fell victim to paranoia and the blackest depression. Suicides had soared shockingly. Nobody was ready for what seemed like the curse of revengeful Gods.

An eternal
winter.

Spring and almost all the summer should have passed by now, yet the
snow went on falling stolidly. The ice didn’t melt. The plants attempted growth but withered, fruitless, or more frequently just failed to germinate. Animals dropped like flies in their barns, with not even a hope of little ones. Soldiers were more often found dead of cold in their tents than alive near a fire. Even the wood supplies had dwindled to practically nothing.

But
the real problem was morale. Murders, beatings and raging fights were daily events, everywhere. In the fief like at the front. Without the warmth of sunlight, men were losing their minds. And with these, the war.

“
Sir, Adraman’s in the casualty tent...” the attendant uttered timidly.

“
What?!” yelled Eldain. “How is he?”

“
Not too bad, or so they say...” The lad swallowed uncomfortably, stammering his words. Eldain at the front was an entirely new occurrence, and talking to him wasn’t at all easy. The great leader, a living legend, who wandered about in the frozen fog to bring some courage to his men.

“
Erm... Mordraud has been wounded too and... he’s not in very good... shape...”

“
Let’s go, RIGHT NOW!”

Eldain
grabbed the soldier’s arm and dragged him along, grumbling a river of obscenities, interspersed with peremptory orders for his men, who lurked about stiffly, their hands extended out over the fire flames.

“
More wood needs gathering! The horses need some blankets! Break up the expendable carts and
burn them
!”

All nerves were
frayed, consumed to their ends. But his still held out. Eldain was the last who could afford the luxury of giving up hope.

They hurried
to the casualty tent. As he grappled with the laces on the furs heaped at the tent entrance to buffer out the icy wind – to little effect – the assistant saw Eldain’s face turn waxen, his eyes bulge and a hand grasp at his chest, clutching tight. But it was just a fleeting moment. Even before he’d finished with the knots, the old commander seemed to be his old reliable composed self. Great strides took Eldain across the long rows of makeshift beds, where he stopped now and again to greet soldiers who were awake. There weren’t many of them. Adraman was lying on one of the few padded beds in the room. One leg was bandaged and the other was splinted with a shovel handle. Eldain swore ferociously upon seeing the Alliance’s impressive means.

“
My dear old friend, they’ve left you in a sorry state, haven’t they?”

“
No... I’ve had worse,” replied the horseman, straining to smile. He was deathly white, with purple bruised eyes, dishevelled hair and was engraved all over with cuts of various depths, but he seemed to be out of danger. “One broken leg, the other one nearly... The healer says I’ll walk again – he’s sure of it.”

“
They often say that, were you aware? In order not to alarm important patients like yourself,” commented Eldain in an anxious voice.

“
So it means I’ll only be able to ride...” Adraman winked and folded his arms behind his head. “I’m certainly not through with my work yet.”

“
How did it happen?! Why were you in the front ranks?” Eldain sat down at his side and gently slapped his man’s head. He thought his orders had been clear. No captains in the scrum.

“
In fact, Ice and Berg didn’t follow me, loyal to duty. But I went all the same.”

“
And why, for love of the Gods?!”

“
Mordraud’s company had been cut off by the rest of the troops. You couldn’t see a thing out there, my friend...” Adraman grimaced bitterly. “Or rather, we couldn’t see – and those sons of bitches had their share of problems too....”

“
So did you go to save him?!”

Eldain couldn
’t hold back an amused smirk. Adraman shook his head and scowled at him.

“
What do you expect? They’re my lads. If I don’t look out for them... And besides, in the end, he saved me.”

“
How?”

“
My cavalry broke the encirclement, but my horse dropped dead from the cold. Its heart just burst – and to think we’d fought quite a few battles together... The poor beast.”

“
And Mordraud?!”

“
He found me amidst the storm and hoisted up the dead animal to free me but...” Adraman touched his thighs in frustration, “but I couldn’t move. I told him to leave me, but he wouldn’t listen. Has he ever once done what he’s been told to?!”

“
Why, what happened?”

“
A Lance... and three fireballs right to the chest.”

Eldain
whistled automatically. Just one was usually more than enough to kill a man. Two could take out a horse. Three were off the scale.

“
Is Mordraud...?”

“
No, he’s alive. He’s tough-skinned, that lad... but he’s in pretty awful shape. He’s down there,” Adraman pointed to one of the beds, the only one covered by a canvas canopy. “But they don’t know if he’ll make it through the night.”

Adraman
clenched his teeth, almost cracking them. Eldain comforted him with a pat on the shoulder, but said nothing. Three flashes. Not much of his insides would be left intact. His lungs pulped. His stomach broiled. If the chanting had struck resonance with his internal organs, Mordraud was now little more than a pot of jam.

“
And the amazing thing is he killed that damned Lance, he shifted the horse and he freed me! And he was already half-dead!”

“
It’s not your fault, Adraman... He did what he felt he had to...”

“
He should have made a run for it, the fool.”

Adraman
swallowed noisily, his eyes moist. Eldain got up and moved off briskly, so as not to embarrass him. One of the camp’s healers was busy inside the sealed-off canopy. Eldain approached it and parted the white canvas.

He
pulled it to again straight away. His right hand desperately fumbled for his chest, and clutched hard.

“
You should have listened to Adraman, my boy,” he murmured at the white curtain, closed out of pity.

***

Gwern was shut up in his room to practise. A single candle glowed on his stone desk. Saiden was out hunting for something to eat. The tower was submerged in the reverberation of his chanting. He paused and poured himself a glass of water. Sipping it thoughtfully, Gwern opened the door and waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. The glass roof was laden with thick layers of fresh snow. They had stopped clearing it some time ago. There was little point: it was relentlessly covered again.

‘
How long have I been here?’

He
quizzed himself, but wasn’t surprised he didn’t know the answer. He’d now got used to that oddity – one of the many he’d encountered since coming to live with Saiden. Time passed in an unpredictable way, when he was with him. As if his presence drew Gwern’s attention to a spot, making him completely lose track of the thread of his life. He likely spent entire days singing without even realising it.

‘
I wonder how Larois is.’

Outside was
chaos. The winter was unending. Absurd to go out alone and attempt the journey to Eld. Saiden would never go with him. He had to stay there, and wait for the cold to pass.

A waiting that seemed to be ever more in vain
.

Gwern
returned to his room and sat at the desk. He took his pen and ink, and drew three perfect lines on a piece of parchment. Writing down the exercises he studied helped him to think. He was still lingering on a conversation he’d had with Saiden, about the Gods. While marking the notes out on the sheet, Gwern carried on questioning himself about these entities.

Saiden
had given him the cue. If men ascended to divine powers through chanting, then what special traits remained for the Gods? What did they represent?

‘
I know practically nothing. Mum and dad never believed in anything.’

It was a
wholly incomprehensible fact. The explanation of any mystery found everyone ready to point to the Gods as the sole responsible forces. Yet few truly believed in them. Faith seemed more like a choice of convenience. People took the liberty of cursing because, when it came down to it, nobody really feared the divine powers, which often didn’t even have a name. Perhaps there were the occasional desperate believers who firmly clung to that possibility and entrusted their hearts to the skies, but he hadn’t met even one.

Gwern
asked himself what he knew about the beginning of the world. Nothing, was his conclusion. Which was the way it should be. The Gods had created all – there was no need to venture further in an attempt to comprehend what had first sparked life. Yet, he knew nothing of the Gods. He was unaware of how many of them existed, what their individual features were, and what sympathies they had. The concept of good and evil existed among the divinities – this was a widely held opinion. But how did it apply to divine logic? Gwern hadn’t the slightest idea.