Mordraud, Book One (73 page)

‘
And nobody must ever find out.’

The
wine rose with the violence of a punch in the face. But it was a good thing. The soldiers held him up, they stuck his head in a bucket of water, and then made him drink again. And dance again. Mordraud no longer understood anything. The camp seemed to plummet into a raging battle. Yells, cries, and flashes of crimson light licking up from the fires. Clouds of sparks at each fresh log tossed onto the coals. “How did you manage it?!” they all asked him. “How did you manage it?!” was the only thing he was still able to pick up in that crazy storm of voices. He found himself, he knew not how, in the arms of a whore, his trousers down and all the men cheering around him. They seemed like wild beasts.

‘
How did I manage it?’ he mused.

‘
Easy. I screwed her.’

And
Mordraud burst out crying miserably.

***

“We lost the back lines.”

Dunwich
was expecting nothing but those sweet, melodious words. When he heard the army was withdrawing from the Rampart, his doubts met their answer. The rains had stopped a few days before, swept away by the eagerly-awaited sun. The plants in Cambria’s large gardens had begun blooming again. The whole city seemed restored to its splendour, no longer oppressed by grey skies swollen with storms. It could be no coincidence.

T
he chanters had failed. The rebels were still alive and kicking and, above all, rabid with hunger.

A general meeting was called, and
Dunwich had never felt so glad to take part. He wanted to hear the latest developments, see Loralon’s face strain in anger, feel the shame flow in torrents in the audience chamber. That bunch of incompetents deserved it, and badly. And his expectations weren’t disappointed.

The
Emperor seemed to be on the brink of bursting. Ash white, with cheeks grotesquely injected with blood, he’d listened to accounts of the hasty flight, of the brazen defeat on the battleground, inflicted on the continent’s most mighty army by a handful of starving ragged rebels, and he hadn’t opened his mouth. The great Arcane masters had shrunk into their fitted dark shirts, and listened in silence. Asaeld had left to the battalion commanders the appealing task of reporting on everything, while he sat comfortably in his armchair, without revealing any particular fear or pleasure. After all, Dunwich knew Asaeld was on his side. They’d both always believed the Long Winter was a colossal stupidity. Loralon had undoubtedly forced Asaeld to support the Arcane, but his friend couldn’t afford to confide this. A matter of position, of course.

“
How did they manage it?”

T
he army’s spokesmen remained silent, gripped by utter embarrassment. They’d already given a detailed account of how such an unexpected failure had been reached. The soldiers weren’t ready to protect their position, since they were now trained merely to taunt the enemy and then retreat. All attempts to secure high ground and defend the field had been carried out in an inconsequential fashion. The cavalry was useless on that swampy putrid terrain. The Alliance’s infantry was determined and had grown most vicious after months of indescribable suffering. Their motivation was Eldain’s winning weapon. But the Emperor appeared not to want to hear excuses. For him, only results existed. It was a blistering, unexpected and shameful defeat.

“
You assured me the choir would be capable of upholding the Long Winter for as long as we wished. Why did it stop?”

“
We’re not fully certain...” the Arcane’s delegate endeavoured to explain. He was a young chanter, intentionally sent to the slaughter by the old maestros, who wanted anything but to frazzle their careers through that failure. “The Lances sent to investigate report of a battle. Eldain’s men found a way to pinpoint our haven, probably due to some absconder passing too near the mansion. Commander Asaeld, do you confirm that?”

“
Confirmed, sir,” he replied promptly. “A tragic misfortune.”

“
Yet you informed me the rebels do not have chanters and are unaware of how harmonies may be used...”

“
Well... you see...” stammered the young Arcane delegate.

“
WHO HAD THE IDEA?! I WANT TO KNOW WHO IT WAS!”

T
he chanters congregated behind him all instantly threw up the same answer.

“
Dunwich, in the Lances! It was his idea!”

Asaeld
jumped, along with all the other Lances attending the assembly. Instead, Dunwich let out a bored sigh. It was all so obvious. He’d been expecting that conclusion since the first day of the Long Winter.

“
I ask to speak, sir!” he said, getting to his feet. But many beat him to it.

“
YOU CAN’T SAY THAT!” shouted a Lance behind him. “YOU MISERABLE RATS! COWARDS!” yelled another. Asaeld turned to his men, trying to placate the mood, but nobody heeded his words. A very sensitive – too sensitive – note had been touched.

“
Let me speak, men! Calm down!”

“
Captain, you mustn’t give in to them!”

One of the elder
chanters emerged from the group and approached the Emperor. Dunwich recognised him at once. It was Raelin, the Arcane’s dean in person. He rubbed his hands with a mournful expression, servile beyond any dignity. The chamber was in turmoil. The entire army was with the Lances, as always. The chanters had the backing of Loralon’s councillors, strategists and officials. Asaeld stood amidst this tumult of insults hailing down on all sides, waving his arms at his men. He and Dunwich seemed the only ones who’d retained a scrap of composure.

“
SILENCE! SILENCE!” the commander demanded in a booming voice, without effect. Raelin was in confab with Loralon, alone. The chanters had moved up in front of the throne and had formed a wall against the army’s representatives. The Lances had shifted dangerously close to the masters, some with their hands on their sword hilts. Dunwich tried to reach the throne to say his part, before Raelin could ruin it all, but his path was hindered. Seneo, his first teacher, the man who’d brought him to Cambria as a child, was exiting the room in all haste. Dunwich couldn’t work out if he should be glad or not. Was he ashamed of his people, or was he afraid the blame would fall on him, the tutor to the young accused Lance? He left the doubt there, too pressed by other more dire problems.

Precisely then
he saw Asaeld whisper something with half-closed eyes.

Merely an instant, but
enough for Dunwich to understand. Asaeld had found and seized the opportunity of a resonance. Which one though, Dunwich couldn’t say. The tense situation was slowly melting away around them. Raelin had moved off, together with his chanters. The Lances were crowding the foot of the throne, yelling and proclaiming their captain’s innocence, while Dunwich was stunned by that display of affection for him. He was aware his men considered him highly, but not to that degree. He remained shocked at a few unexpected declarations by the youngest Lances, who were also the most fervent.
The Chosen One, The Immortal, The True Lance
– these were just some of the titles the soldiers had labelled him with.

‘
Perhaps because of that time they nearly poisoned me to death...’ he wondered, astounded. ‘But some accounts of how it all went must have been inflated...’

“
Back to your seats!” Loralon thundered, frantically banging the floor with his long wood and iron sceptre. Asaeld succeeded in curbing his men, and likewise Raelin his. Peace was restored to the hall, but the air was still exceedingly strained. Dunwich stood waiting for a verdict, ready to pull out any old excuse.

“
The Grand Maestro has explained everything. The idea was his, and he too is the person directly responsible for developing and implementing the Long Winter. The other guilty party involved was called Nector, but he died at the hands of the rebel regiment that wiped out the choir.”

Dunwich
was about to reject this, utterly convinced he’d heard a very different version come from the Emperor’s mouth. Raelin taking the blame. Impossible, unbelievable. It didn’t make sense.

“
I will discuss it with him and Asaeld in private after this assembly, to decide whether and how to relieve the Grand Maestro of his position.”

Loralon se
emed calmer, and spoke in a more confident tone. Finding a culprit was all he cared about. If it had been up to him, the meeting could have finished there, after a nice exemplary punishment had been awarded to whom deserved it. Nevertheless, there were many more issues – and all thorny ones – requiring attention.

“
We’ll move on now. We must ready plans for the next attacks on the front,” he cried out emphatically, with a devious smile. The typical look the Emperor of Cambria unveiled when he believed he had orchestrated far-sighted action.

It was
Asaeld’s turn to speak. His slightly heavier breathing didn’t go unnoticed by Dunwich. A rhythm typical of a harmony effort masked as best as its creator could. Asaeld must have done something pretty bad. He was struck by the hair-brained idea the general might have spoken with Raelin’s mind, but he dropped it at once. Even if he had – and Dunwich doubted a Lance could possess a similar ability – why ever would the Grand Maestro have put his shining career in jeopardy? What could Asaeld have proposed to convince him? A theory that made no sense.

“
I want the front to come under attack as soon as possible. We mustn’t give the rebels time to reposition!” Loralon ordered.

“
We decided to retreat from the Rampart for various reasons, Your Majesty... not only to avoid further assaults.”

Loralon
’s complacent expression suddenly lost its lustre, and Dunwich understood the reason with clarity: he’d given no order other than
attack, attack, attack.

“
And... what would those reasons be?!”

“
Firstly...” Asaeld approached the tall chair, amplifying his voice, “our men needed to get their energy back.”

“
We have many soldiers. We can use them in turn... Something Eldain doesn’t have the option to choose.”

“
Well... our problem resides exactly in this...”

Loralon
leant forward off his throne, raising an eyebrow. “Do you mean to say we’re finishing our reserves of men?!”

M
any in the chamber muttered in dismay.
Finishing the reserves
really was a nasty expression when Cambria’s honest men were involved. Dunwich shook his head in dejection. Loralon was an unfortunately poor speaker.

“
No, but the trouble spots to keep under check have multiplied before our very eyes.”

“
I don’t quite understand...”

Asaeld
went on, revealing not the slightest unease at the Emperor’s lack of perspicacity. “Skirmishes between the population and the gendarmes have broken out in the protectorates of Essar in the South and Nelaria in the North. As you know, Cambria has demanded, and goes on demanding, large quantities of food to send to the troops fighting at the front...”

“
I don’t see where the problem is. We’ve always exacted a percentage of the harvest!”

“
Well... the harvest... Let’s say it’s been a bit leaner than expected... and
someone
ordered the debt collectors to clean out the protectorates’ storehouses, reserves included.”

“
Bah!” Loralon waved his hand in annoyance. “The peasants always complain, and pocket what they can... If the collectors were to believe all their cock-and-bull every time...”

Asaeld
spoke so loudly that the whole hall could hear his every word perfectly.

“
Perhaps I haven’t been clear enough, sir... There hasn’t been a harvest this year.”

“
WHAT?! IMPOSSIBLE!” bellowed Loralon. A ripple of comment swept through the chamber, in a crescendo of shared dismay.

“
Don’t you remember? We armed the farm-hands to clamp down on the wild and stray animals. Then the refugees came from Eld... Furthermore, it’s rained endlessly for months. The fields have rotted, what with the excess water and no tending.”

“
WHY WASN’T I INFORMED?!”

It was as if a stone slab had fallen from the ceiling among
the court councillors. Not even they were aware of such an alarming situation. The exactors were military and as such they reported directly to the army’s commander. Asaeld.

“
I saw to sending regular notification, as ever. It seems apparent some bureaucrats have been doing their jobs carelessly.”

“
My lord, I can say with all certainty I never received any news of this kind...” attempted the chancellor, a tall wiry old man named Parro. A well-respected official, who’d occupied that position for over thirty years. It was his duty to handle the missives sent in from all four corners of the Empire. Dunwich had worked with him on several occasions and the chancellor had always struck him as a good man, committed to the cause and persevering.