Mordraud, Book One (59 page)

“
They say there’ll be no truce this year.”

‘
Word spreads fast,’ considered Dunwich. He’d finished drafting the messengers’ report just a few hours earlier and, who knew how, the men were already aware of the information Asaeld had provided him with. The discontent could be cut with an axe. What classed as
tactics weakening the front
for the court strategists were more a
summons to slaughter
for those who had to put them into practice. Taunting a wounded animal was a hazardous pastime. The rebels had grown nastier with the cold – they were tougher and more ruthless than usual. Once the fighting stopped, it was now sadly commonplace to hear the desolate cries of the wounded as they were slain by Eldain’s men. Screams rising up through the frozen mist, like admonitions against Imperial idiocy.

“
Out of the question. Asaeld will manage to convince the council, you’ll see. We need a break: we don’t have enough men to relieve those in the front ranks!” answered Dunwich with garrulous certainty.

He
’d gone out with the others on a foray three days earlier. Normally he merely followed the troops and commanded their manoeuvres, but there was no lead for the cavalry unit on that occasion and so he’d offered to fill that role. He was weary of sending men to die. He wanted to convey a strong message to the soldiers, by showing that the officers were on their side. He’d have been better off staying in his tent.

He
’d never witnessed such carnage.

He
’d survived raging battles, indescribable slaughters, and even the Night of Fire, which had cost the lives of thousands of fellow troops. But there, wrapped in that suffocating fog, that icy mist creeping into and smothering lungs, penetrating the skin and mortifying muscles and nerves, he’d truly felt he was in danger for the first time.

The
enemy couldn’t be seen. It appeared. Like phantoms from a cloud. The ground was so hard it was almost impossible not to slip. Protections and bits of armour, swords, stiff bodies, everywhere. The horses went mad, almost as much as the men. He had seen two Lances spew a choral chant at a group of foot-soldiers, only to find they were Cambria’s men. The snow made them all alike. Friend and foe together.

“
The whole region’s in upheaval. They say that a few of Eldain’s age-old allies have forsaken him. Civilians no longer have food, and their only drink is melted ice. Wood’s grown scarce because it’s all rotten,” one of the nameless Lances contributed, sniggering.

“
What do you find so funny in that?”

“
Well, captain...” replied the young man, hesitantly. “They’re our enemy. Their every weakness is our advantage...”

“
This is not the way a city like Cambria should win a war!” snarled Dunwich. “Annihilating the population only makes them more dedicated to the cause. It’s a disgrace to beat them like this.”

“
And we still haven’t beaten them...” muttered another Lance.

The debate was interrupted by one of the kitchen
hands. A boy with cheeks red from pimples and over-scrawny arms. Certainly a reject from the selections, Dunwich thought. He was struggling to carry a tray crowded with pewter tankards.

“
These are for you, gentlemen,” he uttered timidly. “The last barrel of beer from the West. The best.”

“
That doesn’t seem fair to me,” Dunwich began. “Is there some for the ordinary officers too?”

“
No, it was a small keg, sir. The cooks told me to serve it just to you Lances.”

“
At least we have something decent to clean our mouths with after this foul stuff!” exalted one of the men. They didn’t wait to be coaxed further. The tray was emptied in a shot, and only the largest mug remained, sealed with a silver lid.

“
Captain, that must be yours!”

Dunwich
took it unwillingly and met the toast proposed by the others.

“
To the Empire! To the Lances!”

Extremely good, remarked
Dunwich with approval. The best he’d drunk in recent months. Instead of gulping it down, like the others, he slowly sipped it, meditating on the spring in Cambria, its tree-lined avenues, and the colossal golden gates in the inner circle of walls. The warm sun on his skin. He could almost feel its balmy rays, the mood of calm lethargy lingering in the scented air.

Until he realised his skin actually was burning. It wasn
’t his imagination.

“
What...?” he attempted, but his mouth was parched and bitter. As if he’d drunk liquid rust. The servant was staring at him, dumbfounded. Dunwich looked about. The Lances were writhing on the table, gasping for breath, twisting and turning, clutching their stomachs. He couldn’t hear a single sound.

“
Curse it all!” he stammered as the world whirled around him.

Poison
.

His body was
failing him. His back arched, almost to breaking point, his arms grew stiff and insensitive, and even his legs were beyond control. His fingers contracted, one on top of the other, and Dunwich heard the clear crack of his bones breaking. He was scrunching into a lump.

Dunwich attempted a chant, but he had no voice. His mouth refused to open. His teeth were agon
ising. On the brink of desperation, he recalled a tune he had read about during his years of study, a resonance also used by healers to cleanse infected wounds. Finding the right voice was virtually impossible. He struck up the melody in his mind.

Dunwich
felt his throat loosen and he dropped to the floor. A flood of sick rippled through him from head to toe, an abnormal bile, scarlet in colour and as bright at blazing flames. All the poison in his body flowed out, but not without pain. Dunwich had never experienced a sensation of this kind. It was as if all the blood within him had decided to spurt out of his veins at the same time. His skin was oozing luminous blood. So too his eyes, mouth and nose. Until every tiny drop of poison had been purged from his body in resonance.

The world
stopped spinning. Sound returned like a tidal wave, and overwhelmed him. They were all screaming. Some were sobbing, others raving. Many were stumbling to flee. Total panic reigned. The shadows cast by the stove’s flames on the canvas wall spasmed in a hideous dance.

Over the table, on the floor, face-up on the benches lay ten stone-dead
Lances. Necks twisted backwards in unnatural poses, backs snapped in various points like dry wooden twigs, mouths gaping and brimming with blood. A horrific end.

The
serving boy was still standing, tray in hand. Staring at the corpses, he was quivering like a leaf.

“
Stop...” Dunwich attempted, but his shrivelled voice couldn’t dominate the din of the throng. “It wasn’t him... We have to find out who...”

Too late
.

A pack of
petrified wild beasts descended on the boy, savaging and shredding him.

“
Traitor! TRAITOR!”

Dunwich
hauled himself up to the table’s edge. He couldn’t stand. Two fingers of his right hand were gnarled and pathetically broken, as if used to tie a special knot. He tried to shout again, but it was pointless.

Dunwich saw the boy
’s head smash down a breath away from his own face. He read all the innocence in his eyes. His terror

Until a kitchen knife c
leaved his head from his shoulders.

***

“Unacceptable! I want the culprits, AT ONCE!”

Asaeld
punched a wooden upright, with the risk of bringing the whole tent down. Dunwich was slumped on a stretcher. He had dozed off after being examined by a healer.

“
By a whisker. If he hadn’t hindered the poison with that chant, he’d have died like all the others,” the old herbalist had commented. “I have little I can give him, except something to induce a deep state of rest. And if I may advise you... place someone on guard outside the tent. You never know.”

Asaeld
had instantly called together all those in charge of the various army divisions. Nobody knew what to say or do. After the massive group of hangings in Cambria, the Empire’s elusive traitors had not shown themselves again. Until that day.

“
Ten Lances dead in front of everybody’s eyes! And one of my best men avoids the same end only by a hair’s breadth! TELL ME WHAT I AM SUPPOSED TO DO NOW!”

Speaking
with Asaeld was difficult. Following his reasoning was at times impossible, and his conclusions were often unexpected. Even if the most influential figures in the entire Imperial Army were gathered in that tent, not one dared advance even the feeblest idea. The cooks had all been put to the sword, including the serving staff on duty that evening. The kitchen had been overturned, the suspects squeezed to the brink: tortured, beaten, imprisoned and then tortured again. But they had unanimously seen nothing. Heard nothing. Done nothing. The doubt was seeping through the men that if the traitors did actually exist then they must be mere billows of air.

“
Keep looking! Someone has to be guilty! Were you tough enough on the cooks? Did you try to get them to speak?!”

“
Of course, but they knew nothing... And what we did to them would have made a deaf-and-dumb man sing!” came the concerned reply from the stores manager. He was the most vulnerable of all. Drenched in a cold sweat, he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a bath. Asaeld was purple in the face, specks of spit accompanied each yell, and he agitated his arms like a man possessed. It was an unnerving scene, compared to the great commander’s usual detached composure.

“
Return to the kitchens, summon all the continent’s experts to study that poison, resurrect the boy who served the drinks and interrogate him! THEN KILL HIM AGAIN!”

“
But a dead man can’t be brought back to life...”

“
I’m surrounded by a bunch of eejits! BRAINLESS MORONS! Do something and don’t dare come back to me without a culprit, otherwise... I’ll take the first of you who happens within my grasp!”

The tent emptied immediately
. Asaeld let out another long sigh, his eyes fixed on the tent as it swayed with the cold wind penetrating through the opening. The red of his cheeks faded, his quivering cooled and he finally found calm after his strained outburst. The first knot had tightened sooner than predicted. Which was why he craved peace so much. So he could reason on things, and prevent such events.

“
You frightened the life out of me this time, my boy.”

Asaeld
sat at Dunwich’s side on his bed and stared at him intently. He couldn’t find his usual desire to smile, not that evening.

“
You nearly spoilt everything. And now I have to find a way to sort out this damn mess.”

Lances
dying as they quietly dined. Agitators and traitors hidden amongst the men who should most represent the Empire’s magnificence. His army. The Emperor’s armed wing. And not a single culprit.

An event verging on divine punishment. But one
man, and one alone, had survived. Dunwich. A sign. A premonition of greatness.

The right idea came to
Asaeld in the end. He might exploit the incident. Everything fell into place when he could afford the luxury of meditating in silence.

And
his smile returned, as always.

“The Eastern Headlands, Three Towers, Hannrinn and Cambrinn have decided to withdraw their men from the front.”

Ice
had waited in silence during the assembly, listening to the various captains’ proposals, nodding at the wisest, grumbling to his subordinates on the most stupid ideas. He’d reserved his shock for the finale. The fiefs he represented had already notified him of their decision days earlier, but the best moment to announce it still hadn’t arisen. Until that evening. With Adraman absent from the council, Eldain no longer had a crutch to lean on: he wouldn’t find the necessary strength to oppose. And in fact, the old nobleman seemed as if he’d taken a punch full in the face. He swayed for an instant, gripped the table, and turned pale. Not that Ice was particularly jubilant at the idea of striking him such a blow. After years of war together, he’d learnt to respect him, and even esteem him for certain traits. But that was Ice’s job, and he prided himself on doing it well.

He was supposed to represent the lands withdrawing from
the war, on precisely that evening.

“
Let the Headlands and Three Towers go... But we can’t afford to lose the two Rinns!” growled Eldain. “Cambria’s old outposts in the north-east and south-east are essential for the front! If they withdraw...”

“
The decision has already been taken, Eldain. The capital’s pressurising its two old protectorates, it’s pushing hard in those areas. It wants them back and they’re not so certain they can hold out very long.”

“
And the cause?! I’ve known the Rinn family all my life. They were friends with my grandfather – and who knows for how long before that! An ancestor of mine helmed Eld’s army in support of the two brothers against the capital!”

Hannrinn was situated
just south of one of the narrowest points on the course of the Hann River; a time-honoured fortress defending the one practicable bridge within a few weeks’ journey. Cambria had used it as a base to control traffic on the waterway for decades. The river was easily navigable from that spot onwards, making it extremely useful in swiftly reaching the Inland Sea. But, to secure control, the Empire had had to depose the historic family ruling those lands for generations: the Rinns, who were the oldest and most extensive lineage in the whole of the east. The Rinn cousins and relatives were spread throughout the continent, but their age-old lands were Hannrinn and Cambrinn – also known as
the walled mount
. This bastion perched atop one of the first mountains in the ring north-east of the capital had been assigned to the Rinn family by Cambria itself, far back in history. Obviously many years before the war broke out against the Alliance. Eldain’s family had helped the Rinn descendants reclaim their lands. It was common belief that this old reprisal against Cambria had been the spark to the Imperial designs, and with them the war. But they were mere suppositions. What mattered was that, without the Rinns’ support, it would be impossible to carry on fighting back.

“
It wasn’t me who made this decision, Eldain. You know I’m just a spokesman.”

“
It sounds as if you couldn’t wait for such a resolution, am I right?”

“
How dare you question my loyalty?!”

Eldain
snarled but said nothing. Ice had had the right idea: the elderly nobleman was more vulnerable without Adraman to soothe the situation.

“
May I know why they’ve opted to break up the Alliance?”

“
This winter’s to blame. They’re tired of sending men to the front, and they’re afraid the cold might reach their territories sooner or later. You know, the rumours going around about Eld don’t help.”

Another blow below the belt, but Ice had to come ou
t the victor that evening, at any cost. His reputation was at stake. Eldain seemed to buckle just at the name of his castle. Eld’s people were at death’s door, ravaged by hunger and hardship. The winter’s fury was fully on their shoulders, and on those of their leader. Eldain clutched the table and glared at Ice rancorously.

“
It has to be some bloody sorcery unleashed by Cambria – we all know that! There must be a way to break it!” Berg burst out. Astoundingly, he still hadn’t tried to tie Ice and all his subordinates to the whipping post. He hadn’t uttered a word up until that moment. The news had been too dreadful also for him – a man who usually lost little time in reasoning.

“
Some say it’s not the work of the Imperial Chanters, but instead that of the Gods... A punishment for us, for staining the whole of the East with blood in the name of our cause,” blurted Ice.

“
Do you find it normal for snow to fall endlessly in summer?! And just here?! I say the theory of the Gods is rubbish – they’ve never done anything and they have nothing to do with it this time either. It’s a wretched chant, I tell you it is. We just have to find out how Cambria’s done it!”

“
That’s a small statement, Berg?! What do you know about arcane chanting? What do any of us know?!”

Ice
now had the attention of the entire council. Eldain kept his hand on his chest and stared at the fur wall. He seemed to lose ten years on the spot. Ice felt like a swine, but he’d always known he was. It was no new discovery that night.

“
How long can we hold out with an eternal winter rotting out lands?! Cambria has decided to raise the stakes and we can’t stay in the game. I say the Rinns are right!” Ice exclaimed, showing a knowing smile. “Without the warmer season and fields planted with crops, we’re all done for! We need to shape a strategy to get out of this...”

“
And if we could make the winter end?”

They all turned towards th
e tent entrance, Ice the quickest of them. His smile changed into a frustrated sneer.

The voice
had come from Mordraud. And he was with Adraman, who was leaning on him to hobble.

“
We haven’t the slightest idea of how to stop it. And even if it were possible, we don’t have the means.”

“
Instead, I say we have them. I give you my word on it.”

Mordraud
was speaking slowly and with confidence. He was ashen, bent over and battered, but his eyes hadn’t lost their brightness. Adraman perched on one leg by his side and stared at all those present with a challenging air. Two relics ruining Ice’s golden moment: he swallowed down the bile swishing in his stomach and preserved his detached smile.

“
And what means would these be?! Where have they been so far?”

“
I know a chanter who could help us. His name’s Saiden.”

A buzz
ran through the gathering. Some had heard of him, others had absolutely no idea who he was. Mordraud wasn’t one to make things up: if he really did know a chanter, the other captains were inclined to believe him.

“
My brother studies with him. Saiden’s highly respected in Cambria and Calhann as a chanter. If you don’t believe me, just ask the prisoners held captive in Eld. There’s definitely a chanter or two among them, and they’ll confirm what I say,” Mordraud rounded off.

“
Even if he is who you say,” hissed an outraged Ice, “what could one mere chanter do up against this winter?! And if it really were the work of the Gods, what could he do?”

“
If it is a divine curse, then we’re done for in any case,” Mordraud replied with nonchalance. “If instead the chanters are behind it, Saiden might be able to tell us how to find them. And I’ll kill them, with my brother’s help.”

“
And your brother would be...?” Ice began, but Mordraud cut him short, with an arrogant wave of the hand.

“
A chanter. He’s specialising under one of the continent’s best. Do you feel there’s someone better qualified? Or would you rather stay here and see us tear each other apart, playing just the game Cambria wants?”

The c
ouncil crowded around the table. Mordraud was well-known among the troops, he’d survived certain death, and was maybe the youngest soldier in the whole of Eldain’s army. The group of representatives from the withdrawing fiefdoms was fraying at Ice’s side. The situation was turning against him.

“
You always pop up at just the right moment, don’t you?” murmured Eldain.

“
Thank Mordraud – it’s his idea,” Adraman returned.

“
Anyway, it changes nothing. The Rinn family has made its decision, and with it others in the Alliance. They won’t turn back,” concluded Ice, flapping an arm. “There’s no turning back!”

“
Nonetheless, I believe something can still be saved,” announced Eldain. “I will go to Hannrinn in person to meet its rulers. I will request a deferral on their decision, even of a mere few months.”

“
I’m
their spokesman!” barked Ice.

“
But I can keep the Rinn troops for a while. The roads are impassable due to the snow, and we have no carts to spare to transport what’s needed for a withdrawal.”

“
That would be... underhand!”

“
Do you think so? It’s a matter of opinion,” replied Eldain scornfully.

“
Bah, we’ll see what the Rinns have to say to you! But don’t expect them to be happy about your choices!” Ice exited the tent, red in the face and seething with rage. Eldain let out a sigh of relief, as did many others at the meeting. Disaster had been postponed by a few days.

“
You came by at just the right time, young man!” Berg exclaimed, laughing heartily. What little colour Mordraud still had in his cheeks was fading. When the captain approached to shake his hand, he found he had to grab it swiftly. Mordraud fainted on the spot, and only thanks to Berg did he avoid bashing his forehead on the table.

“
How did he manage to stand up?!” Berg burst out in amazement. “Just look at the state of him...”

***

The bed was large and comfortable, washed by the early sunlight filtering through the linen curtains. A cart trundled on the gravel, a cluster of servants were chatting about this and that, and a dog was barking in the distance. Everything was muted and mellow. The perfect lullaby to rest – like rain pitter-pattering on the roof in the morning.

The b
edcover moved slightly, outlining the contours of a hip. A cascade of dark hair spread over a feather cushion. Sweet eyes staring at him with a smile. The scent of her skin. The sound of her voice, husky from sleep.

“
Good morning, my love.”

Mordraud
rolled over to kiss her, as he always did every morning. The nightmare that had beset him all night vanished as soon as he saw her at his side, snuggled up under the sheets. Rambling images of war, cold and hardship. Of friends and foe. But what enemies could he ever have, he asked himself contently. He already had all he could desire.

Or did he
?

He
’d dreamt about The Stranger again. That armless man who’d plagued him since he was a child. He’d watched him thrash his mother and follow him into the dusty courtyard. And vent himself on his brother. Gwern was always weeping in those long dreams. He did nothing but cry. But he’d grown up too. He’d grown into a great chanter, feared and respected by all.

And
then, he’d seen Dunwich.

The Stranger
no longer scared him. He’d dreamt about those very same scenes many a time, and had found his way to get used to it. But with Dunwich it was different. He’d never helped them. He’d never had to shoulder even a shred of their burden. He’d left. And he’d never come back to protect them from The Stranger.

“
What’s wrong, Mordraud? Have you had that bad dream again?”

“
Yes...”

“
You’re awake now, there’s no need to be afraid...”

Deanna
grew more beautiful with every day that passed. His anger and his desire to destroy, and to destroy himself, had melted away like snow in the sunshine since they’d been living together. It was of course a small humble house – Mordraud had no ambitions for possessions. He craved living far more. And that was the life he wanted, one of peace.

Without
war.

Without
The Stranger.

Without
Dunwich.

“
Come here, darling...”

Mordraud
slithered beneath the covers and hugged her, sinking into the soft mattress, submerging his face in her hair. Outside the same clattering cart. The same chattering. The same dog barking.

Like every morning
.

“
Why are you sad?”

Mordraud
didn’t know. Something wasn’t right. He had the niggling feeling that he’d already seen it all somewhere before. Thoughts already elaborated. Sounds already heard.

He tried to peer
out the window, but the morning light was too dazzling and dense. The curtains fluttered, brushed by an inexistent breeze. He’d like to look out, but he’d have to get up out of the bed, to untangle himself from Deanna’s arms, to do it.