Mordraud, Book One (84 page)

Mordraud
plunged towards the blaze, but a guard halted him before he could plummet into the wreckage. “The child... The child’s hair was on fire... His little outfit... And the lady of the house was burning... I heard the thud, and her head... Oh, for love of the Gods, that sound...”

The servant slumped to the ground and spewed up pitifully.
Mordraud attempted to work free of the guard, but it was pointless. The fire was raging too violently, everywhere. The trees, the hedges, the wooden bench – it was all in flames. The lawn was a bed of scorching embers. Mordraud yelled and spat tears.

Deanna
was still hugging the small charcoal body of her son. He could not take his eyes off that bundle of charred flesh.

He could only scream
.

All the rest – his
flight from that nightmare, the skin on his arms made taut and painful by the heat, the people asking him what they should do – was just a weightless floating in the mist.

“They’ve gone...”

Dunwich
was standing on the Rampart, unable to accept the truth of events. The huge rebel camp was empty, whipped by a silent wind. Everything had been left in place, except the livestock and the weapons. The tents were all up. The troughs were still full of fodder. Buckets had been filled from the wells and were left there, in the middle of the street, for no reason.

A month had gone by since that
vast bonfire lighting up the east as if by day, but its remnants were still visible on the great square in the heart of the camp. Eldain’s soldiers had burnt a pyre of wood and straw as tall as a building, and it had left a barren black shadow on the earth baked by the tremendous heat. Dunwich had interpreted this as a signal, a good-luck ritual before a pitched battle, and instead the rebels had not launched an assault. They hadn’t shown themselves since that day, and many a time had Dunwich kicked himself for missing that unexpected opportunity. The Rampart had never been so vulnerable.

It was completely empty.

‘With a few more troops, I could have had a go, and instead... all I have is dying men, traitors and empty tents... We should have attacked them while they were busy dismantling.’

Griserio
had just siphoned off the last of Dunwich’s best soldiers, the Lances assigned to Cambria, and the thousands headed for the territories disputed with the Rinn family. The Rampart seemed to have become a less than secondary target, when for years the largest portion of battles had been fought right in its shadow. A humiliation for Dunwich, who felt like the last skipper of a half-wrecked ship doomed to be retired.

When
the lookouts raced into his tent that morning, he hadn’t believed a single word emerging from their mouths. Between nightfall and dawn, all Eldain’s men had vanished. Just like that, without even attempting one raid, without resurgences of pride or love for the cause. They’d retreated in silence, after year upon year of deaths to defend that rough mud wall. Dunwich had ordered his explorers to penetrate the hinterland in search of the fleeing forces, but the scouts had not returned. Nothing new, but something kept buzzing around in his head, a speck of suspicion tainting the sweet taste of victory. Instead, his men were euphoric, and throughout the Imperial camp celebrations roared, with wine and the best foodstuff stocks. The only ones who couldn’t take part were the members of the unit Dunwich had stationed in the old rebel camp, merely as a precaution.

“
You don’t think they might come back as if nothing had happened, do you?! What sense would that make?! Dunwich, trust what your eyes see!” Griserio exclaimed, raising a steel flask to toast with the heavens. “The war for the Rampart is
over
!”

“
Has any news come in from the other fronts?” Dunwich inquired, still doubtful.

“
The nearest is ten days’ travel from here, and they’re all minor fronts! You know better than me that the Rampart was the heart of the whole war. Once that’s taken, in our hands lies the main artery leading to Eld and, more importantly, its richest and most fertile lands!”

“
I want a report on what’s happening along the whole line, before I set out. I don’t like it. What’s the sense in it?! Why did no one come to us to discuss terms of surrender? Where’s all that ardour of the rebels who endeavoured to contaminate us with the plague, even at the cost of dying?!”

“
Dunwich, they’re human beings too, just like us! The fighting can’t go on forever! They must have used up all their resources!” Griserio replied, stretching out his arms with a broad smile.

“
Bah... I don’t like this business... I want that report, and as swiftly as possible,” grumbled the commander, leaving Griserio to his eagerly awaited revelry. Instead, Dunwich had not the slightest desire to celebrate.

The
more the hours passed, the more his doubts were strained by the evidence of events. A whole day went by, then another, and then another. There was no trace of the rebels. Some of his scouts had returned, but had found nothing, had merely been confused by deceptive leads. Others had still not shown up – a sign that they were still looking. The war was over for everyone. Except for him. The whole army was in the grip of an insatiable hunger for celebrating. There wasn’t even a sober soldier in the infirmary tents. Dunwich attempted to keep order, but the men who had to enforce it were in a worse state that those who stepped out of line. The section captains and the Lances themselves did nothing other than laugh, drink, eat and dance around the bonfires. He barely managed to muster a patrol to watch the Rampart, and it had taken hours to scrape together the necessary men. Dunwich shut himself up in his tent, deaf to suggestions of merry-making, and pored over his maps for the entire time, seeking out a new strategy. He couldn’t advance in Eldain’s lands without Loralon’s consent, which thwarted him at every turn. But at least he’d be found ready.

‘
Have you left too, Mordraud?’

The only positive note in all these festivities was the constant stream of spirits and liqueurs that anyone stopping by his tent felt the duty to leave as a gift.
He also deserved to celebrate, one way or another.

‘
Or did you die, during the Long Winter...? Have you perished on a bed, alone, with gaping sores all over your body...? Or perhaps now you’re helming the rebels’ resistance, just like I am here, leading the Imperial Army...? Bah... I have to stop it.’

He
’d drunk too much, his eyes could no longer focus on the huge maps stretched out before him. ‘I’ll probably never know what has happened to you... I hope you behaved well towards Gwern... At least better than you treated our parents... Why did you do it, Mordraud?’

His
concentration had now dispersed, drowned in a river of alcoholic stupor. Weary of thinking and remembering, Dunwich threw himself onto his bed and blew out the lantern. Outside, the men still hadn’t finished celebrating.

‘
Tomorrow... from tomorrow I’ll order it all to cease... Yes, they’re to get back in rank...’

Dunwich
dropped off with his hand on his sword hilt. Otherwise, with all those doubts rumbling about in his head, he’d never have managed to get to sleep.

***

“Are you ready?”

“
Yes.”

Adraman
raised his right hand and motioned to the first two units to move in. It was the middle of the night, lit only by a slim crescent of a waning moon. At the edge of the forest began the spread of fields that led to the back of the camp. Their old camp, now occupied by the Imperial troops. A group of bored and sleepy soldiers patrolled its borders, at a slow speed and chatting among themselves. They were some distance away, but the wind carried their voices wonderfully, while also concealing the sound of his men’s paces. It was the perfect night, a real gift from the Gods, considered Adraman, as he completed the silent call-up of all the sections.

“
Everything was okay at home, wasn’t it?”

“
Of course,” Mordraud replied in a flat calm voice. Adraman gave him a pat on the back, grinning, and went back to supervising the troops’ movements.

“
Feel better now?” he inquired. Mordraud nodded without answering, but smiled, and that was enough for Adraman.

“
You know, while you were away, one of my scouts returned... He reported that Asaeld, commander of the Lances, is no longer directing things at the Rampart. He got it out of a deserting cavalryman... Just think of the coincidence!”

“
Who’s at the helm now?” Mordraud asked.

“
A certain Dunwich. He’s a Lance too, and if the rumours I’ve heard are true, he’s also one of the most promising. We really have to be careful. It’s a pity though... I had quite a few scores to settle with old Asaeld...”

Adraman
felt Mordraud jump, and turned to ask what the trouble was. But when he saw his face, for an instant he wondered if he really did know that young man sitting on a horse at his side.

He
’d never witnessed an expression of such deep and savage hatred.

“
You sure everything’s alright?” he inquired in concern.

“
Oh, yes... Much better now... Don’t worry about the old scores... I’ll see to settling them all.”

“
But... what do you mean? Hey, Mordraud! Wait!”

Adraman
tried to grab an arm, but Mordraud had already slipped down from his horse and had raced to join the regiment of leaving attackers. Many of them were his old infantry companions, and he at once took his place at their head, leading in person the assault under the black of night.

“
Damn him... Berg! You go too, with your men, and keep an eye on him! I don’t know what’s got into him!”

“
Fine, Adraman, I’ll take care of it!” the captain responded. The forces were advancing towards the edge of the camp: blurred dark patches on the colourless grey of the meadows lit by a feeble moon. Adraman moved for a better view, ready to call the rest of the troops into action. Behind him, waiting in silence, was the largest army the Alliance had ever taken to the battlefield.

More than twenty thousand
men. All soldiers from the region, including the defence demobilised from the front and the battalions sent to Eld by the allied noblemen.

‘
My dear old friend, if you could see us now... This is what you wished to witness sooner or later, wasn’t it?’

The first units had reached the camp guards and had assailed them from all sides. Even before the
y could sound their horns, these were all dead.

The time had come

Adraman raised his arms and began the advance. His men emerged from the woods like old pale mute ghouls. The attackers were waiting for them, and they joined the ramming unit as the charge gained speed and strength. Adraman’s eyes scanned for Mordraud, while he was overtaken by the ranks of foot-soldiers, to take up his place in the back lines. The young fighter was alone, ahead of his men, racing with unsheathed sword.

The first
roar came from his mouth, when the tents took shape on the horizon. His voice echoed from soldier to soldier, and grew. It swelled until bursting into an explosion of infinite livid yells, like the foam on the crest of a daunting wave.

The tide crashed into the camp, dragging with it everything and everyone in its demented surge.

***

Mordraud
pounced on the first cluster of bewildered soldiers, clamped two hands around his weapon’s hilt and scythed down one at his side. The armour plates cracked, shooting rivets mingled with blood everywhere. The tents spewed out half-naked purple-faced goggle-eyed men, with just a helmet on their heads and a sword in hand. They had indulged in quite a lot of revelry, he thought as he ripped the face off a lad with gingery hair. They must have really had a brilliant time, those bastards.

“
SPLIT UP!” he bellowed to his comrades, and the group immediately broke away from the rest of the charge, penetrating deep into the camp’s lanes. The assault wall crumbled into hundreds of orderly blocks that swept through the tents one by one, sorting also the soldiers tumbling out of these. The few who were ready and armed were gathering in the centre, in the square hosting the first fire. Mordraud smashed the bare nape of a soldier who hobbled at his feet, scrabbling to flee, and he looked about. Adraman’s cavalry was riding beyond the camp at its sides, moving at full speed. Before abandoning the front, Berg’s men had firmly anchored the gangplanks and left them ready to climb beyond the Rampart.

‘
And nobody noticed... What imbeciles,’ Mordraud considered, viciously smirking. The Imperial soldier was still writhing on the ground, in his death throes. He held the man’s head still with one foot on the neck, and struck him with his sword as if he were a log for chopping.

“
Come on, where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?!” he bawled, tearing away a canvas wall of a tent. Inside, three or maybe four soldiers huddled under the blankets. They were hoping not to be noticed, overwhelmed by the haste of what was taking place. Mordraud went in alone, rammed the first one through the chest until he was pinned to the wooden bed pallet, then walloped the one next to him with a boot in the face. Somebody got up behind him, and Mordraud wished for nothing better. He span round, grabbed the neck of the dressing gown-clad soldier who was about to stab him, swiped the knife out of his hand and sank it into his cheek, down to his tonsils. The spurting blood splashed into his mouth and eyes, and dripped down inside his padded leather protections. Mordraud thrust even harder, impervious to all mercy and repulsion.

He wanted
to see them all dead. And he wanted to find his brother, squeeze his hands around his throat, and throttle him slowly. But he would also be satisfied with perishing in battle. By Dunwich’s hand, or that of any other – he didn’t mind. He had not slept since the day he’d witnessed the blaze. He could see nothing but his son, in Deanna’s arms, her slumped on the ground and crumpled by the flames. Whatever stood before him, he saw and heard only the timber crashing down, the heat of the fire, the stench of smouldering flesh.