“And the prisoner?” Morgarath asked.
“Dead,” Erak replied. “We killed him and threw him over the edge.”
“A fact that displeases me intensely,” Morgarath said, and Will felt his flesh crawling. “I would have preferred to make him suffer for interfering in my plans. You should have brought him to me alive.”
“And we would have preferred it if he hadn’t been whipping arrows around our ears. The only way to take him was to kill him.”
Another silence as Morgarath considered the reply. Apparently, it was not satisfactory to him. “Be warned for the future. I did not approve of your actions.”
This time, it was Erak who let the silence stretch. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if Morgarath’s displeasure was a matter of absolutely no interest to him. Eventually, the Lord of Rain and Night gathered his reins and shook them, heeling his horse savagely to turn it away from the campfire.
“I’ll see you at Three Step Pass, Captain,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned his horse back. “And Captain, don’t get any ideas about deserting. You’ll fight with us to the end.”
Erak nodded. “I told you, my lord, I’ll honor any bargain I’ve made.”
This time, Morgarath smiled, a thin movement of the red lips in the lifeless white face. “Be sure of it, Captain,” he said softly.
Then he shook the reins and his horse turned away, springing to a gallop. The Wargals followed, the chant starting up again and ringing through the night. Will realized that, behind the rocks, he’d been holding a giant breath. He let it go now, and heard a corresponding sigh of relief from the Skandians.
“My god of battles,” said Erak, “he doesn’t half give me the creeps, that one.”
“Looks like he’s already died and gone to hell,” put in Svengal, and the others nodded. Erak walked around the fire now and stood over where Will and Evanlyn were still crouched behind the rocks.
“You heard that?” he said, and Will nodded. Evanlyn remained crouching, facedown, behind the rock. Erak stirred her roughly with the toe of his boot.
“What about you, missy?” he said, his voice harsh. “You heard too?”
Now she looked up, tears of terror staining tracks in the dust on her face. Wordlessly, she nodded. Erak fixed her gaze with his own until he was sure the threat was fully understood.
“Then remember it if you start thinking about escape,” he said coldly. “That’s all that awaits you if you get away from us.”
29
THE PLAINS OF UTHAL FORMED A WIDE OPEN SPACE OF rolling grasslands. The grass was rich and green. There were few trees, although occasional knolls and low hills served to break the monotony. Some distance behind the position occupied by the Araluen army, the Plains began to rise gradually, to a low ridgeline.
Closer to the fens, where the Wargals were forming up, a creek wound its way. Normally a mere trickle, it had been swollen by the recent spring rains so that the ground ahead of the Wargals was soft and boggy, precluding any possible attack by the Araluen heavy cavalry.
Baron Fergus shaded his eyes against the bright noon sun and peered across the Plains to the entrance to Three Step Pass. “There are a lot of them,” he said mildly.
“And more coming,” Arald of Redmont replied, easing his broadsword a little in its scabbard. The two barons were slowly walking their battlehorses across the front of Duncan’s drawn-up army. It was good for morale, Arald believed, for the men to see their leaders relaxed and engaging in casual conversation as they watched their enemies emerging from the narrow mountain pass and fanning out onto the Plains. Dimly, they could hear the ominous, rhythmic chant of the Wargals as they jogged into position.
“Damned noise is quite unnerving,” Fergus muttered, and Arald nodded agreement. Seemingly casual, he cast his glance over the men behind them. The army was in position, but Battlemaster David had told them to remain at rest. Consequently, the cavalry were dismounted and the infantry and archers were sitting on the grassy slope.
“No sense in wearing them out standing at attention in the sun,” David had said, and the others had agreed. By the same token, he had set the various Kitchenmasters the task of keeping the men supplied with cool drinks and fruit. The white-clad servers moved among the army now, carrying baskets and water skins. Arald glanced down and smiled at the portly form of Master Chubb, his chef from Redmont Castle, supervising a group of hapless apprentices as they handed out apples and peaches to the men. As ever, his ladle rose and fell with alarming frequency on the heads of any apprentices he deemed to be moving too slowly.
“Give that Kitchenmaster of yours a mace and he could rout Morgarath’s army single-handed,” commented Fergus, and Arald smiled thoughtfully. The men around Chubb and his apprentices, distracted by the fat cook’s antics, were taking no notice of the chanting from across the Plains. In other areas, he could see signs of restlessness—evidence that the men were becoming increasingly ill at ease.
Looking around, Arald’s eye fell on an infantry captain seated with his company. Their minimal armor, plaid cloaks and two-handed broadswords marked them as belonging to one of the northern fiefs. He beckoned the man over and leaned down from the saddle as he saluted.
“Good morning, Captain,” he said easily.
“Morning, my lord,” replied the officer, his heavy northern accent making the words almost unrecognizable.
“Tell me, Captain, do you have pipers among your men?” the Baron asked, smiling. The officer answered immediately, in a very serious manner.
“Aye, sir. The McDuig and the McForn are with us. And always so when we go to war.”
“Then perhaps you might prevail upon them to give us a reel or two?” the Baron suggested. “It might be an altogether more pleasant sound than that tuneless grunting from over yonder.”
He inclined his head toward the Wargal forces and now a slow smile spread over the captain’s face. He nodded readily.
“Aye, sir. I’ll see to it. There’s nothing like a skirl or two on the pipes to get a man’s blood prancing!” Saluting hurriedly, he turned away toward his men, shouting as he ran: “McDuig! McForn! Gather your wind and set to the pipes, men! Let’s hear ‘The Feather Crested Bonnet’ from ye!”
As the two barons rode on, they heard behind them the preliminary moaning of bagpipes coming to full volume. Fergus winced and Arald grinned at him.
“Nothing like the skirl of the pipes to get the blood prancing,” he quoted.
“In my case, it gets the teeth grinding,” replied his companion, surreptitiously nudging his horse with his heel to move them a little farther away from the wild sound of the pipes. But when he looked at the men behind them, he had to agree that Arald’s idea had worked. The pipes were successfully drowning out the dull chanting and, as the two pipers marched and countermarched in front of the army, they held the attention of all the men in their immediate vicinity.
“Good idea,” he said to Arald, then added, “I can’t help wondering if that’s an equally good one.”
He gestured across the plain to where the Wargals were emerging from the Pass and taking up their positions. “All my instincts say we should be hitting them before they have a chance to form up.”
Arald shrugged. This point had been hotly debated by the War Council for the past few days. “If we hit them as they come out, we simply contain them,” he said. “If we want to destroy Morgarath’s power once and for all, we have to let him commit his forces in the open.”
“And hope that Halt has been successful in stopping Horth’s army,” Fergus said. “I’m getting a nasty crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder to make sure there’s no one behind us.”
“Halt has never let us down before,” Arald said mildly.
Fergus nodded unhappily. “I know that. He’s a remarkable man. But there are so many things that could have gone wrong. He could have missed Horth’s army altogether. He may still be fighting his way through the Thorntree. Or, worse yet, Horth
may have defeated his archers and cavalry.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it but wait,” Arald pointed out.
“And keep an eye to the northwest, hoping we don’t see battleaxes and horned helmets coming over those hills.”
“There’s a comforting thought,” said Arald, trying to make light of the moment. Yet he couldn’t resist the temptation to turn in his saddle and peer anxiously toward the hills in the north.
Erak had waited till the last few hundred Wargals were moving down Three Step Pass to the Plains, then forced his small group into the middle of the jogging creatures. There were a few snarls and scowls as the Skandians shoved their way into the living stream that was flowing through the narrow, twisting confines of the Pass, but the heavily armed sea raiders snarled back and handled their doublesided battleaxes with such easy familiarity that the angry Wargals soon backed off and left them alone.
Evanlyn and Will were in the center of the group, surrounded by the burly Skandians. Will’s easily recognizable Ranger cloak had been hidden away in one of the packs and both he and Evanlyn wore sheepskin half capes that were too large for them. Evanlyn’s short hair was bundled up under a woolen cap. So far, none of the Wargals had taken any notice of them, assuming them to be servants or slaves to the small band of sea raiders.
“Just keep your mouths shut and your eyes down!” Erak had told them as they shoved their way into the crowd of jogging Wargals. The narrow confines of the Pass echoed to the tuneless chanting that the Wargals used as a cadence. The sound ebbed and flowed about them as they half ran with the stream. Erak’s plan was to move eastward as soon as they had cleared the Pass, ostensibly with the purpose of taking up a position on the right flank of the Wargal army. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, the Skandians would break off and escape into the swampy wilderness of the fenlands, traveling through the bogs and grassy islands to the beaches where Horth’s fleet lay at anchor.
They shuffled along, twisting and turning with the convolutions of the Pass. The narrow trail led down through the sheer mountains for at least five kilometers and Will could understand why it had always been a barrier to both sides. Morgarath’s men couldn’t move out in any large numbers unless Duncan held back and allowed them to. Similarly, the King’s army couldn’t penetrate the Pass to attack Morgarath on the plateau.
Black walls of sheer, glistening-wet rock towered above them on either side. The Pass saw sunlight for less than an hour each day, right on high noon. At any other time, it was cold and damp and shrouded in shadow. All of which served to help conceal the presence of the two younger members of the party from prying eyes.
Will felt the ground beneath his feet beginning to level out and realized they must be in the last extremities of the Pass—down at the level of the Plains. There was no way he could even see the ground ahead of him, trapped in the seething, jostling crowd. They rounded a final bend and a lance of daylight stabbed into the Pass, forcing him to throw up a hand to shield his eyes. They had reached the entrance, he realized. He felt a shove from his left.
“Get over to the right!” Erak told them and the four Skandians formed a human wedge, forcing their way through the crowd until they were on the extreme right-hand side of the Pass. There were growls and angry grunts from the Wargals as they shoved their way through, but the Skandians gave as good as they got in terms of threats and abuse.
The sunlight hit them like a physical barrier as they emerged from the darkness of the Pass and, for a moment, Will and Evanlyn hesitated. Erak shoved them on again, more anxious now as he could hear a familiar voice calling commands for the Wargals to deploy.
Morgarath was here, directing operations.
“Curse him!” muttered Erak. “I’d hoped he’d be out with the vanguard of the army. Keep moving, you two!” He shoved Will and Evanlyn along a little faster. Will glanced back. Above the heads of the Wargals, he could see the tall, thin form of the Lord of Rain and Night, now clad entirely in black mail armor and surcoat, still seated on his white horse and calling instructions to the milling, chanting Wargals.
Gradually, they were moving into ordered formations, then taking their position with the main army. As Will looked back, the pale face turned toward the group of hurrying Skandians and Morgarath urged his horse toward them, unmindful of the fact that he was trampling through his own men to reach them.
“Captain Erak!” he called. The voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, thin and cutting, through the chanting of the Wargals.
“Keep going!” Erak ordered them in a low voice. “Keep moving.”
“Stop!” Now the voice was raised and the cold anger in it instantly silenced and stilled the Wargals. As they froze in place around them, the Skandians reluctantly did the same, Erak turning to face Morgarath.
The Lord of Rain and Night spurred his horse through the throng, Wargals falling back to make way for him, or being buffeted out of the way if they failed to do so. Slowly, as his eyes locked on those of Erak, he dismounted. Even on foot, he towered over the bulky Skandian leader.
“And where might you and your men be bound today, Captain?” he asked in a silky tone. Erak gestured to the right.
“It’s normal for me and my men to fight on the right wing,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “But I’ll go wherever you need me if that doesn’t suit.”
“Will you?” replied Morgarath with withering sarcasm. “Will you indeed? How terribly kind of you. You…” He broke off, his gaze on the two smaller figures whom the other Skandians had been trying, unsuccessfully, to shield from his gaze.
“Who are they?” he demanded. Erak shrugged.
“Celts,” he said easily. “We took them prisoner in Celtica and I’m planning to sell them to Oberjarl Ragnak as slaves.”
“Celtica is mine, Captain. Slaves from Celtica are mine as well. They’re not for you to take and sell to your barbarian of a king.”
The Skandians surrounding Will and Evanlyn stirred angrily at his words. Morgarath turned his cold eyes on them, then looked away at the thousands of Wargals who surrounded them—every one ready to obey any command of his without question. The message was clear.
Erak tried to bluff his way through the situation.
“Our agreement was we fought for booty and that includes slaves,” he insisted, but Morgarath cut him off.
“If you fought!” he shouted furiously. “If! Not if you stood by and let my bridge be destroyed.”
“It was your man Chirath who was in command at the bridge,” Erak flashed back at him. “It was he who decided no guard was to be left on it. We were the ones who tried to save it while he was hiding behind rocks!”
Morgarath’s gaze locked with Erak’s once more and now his voice dropped to a low, almost inaudible level.
“I am not spoken to in that fashion, Captain Erak,” he spat. “You will apologize to me at once. And then…”
He stopped in midsentence. Although he had been staring, unblinkingly, into Erak’s eyes, he had apparently sensed something off to one side. Those black eyes now turned and trained on Will. One white, bony finger was raised, pointing at the boy’s throat.
“What is that?”
Erak looked and felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
There was a dull gleam of bronze visible in the gap of Will’s open collar. Then Erak felt himself shoved to one side as Morgarath moved, snake-fast, and snatched at the chain around Will’s neck.
Will staggered back, horrified at the implacable fury in those dead eyes, and the slight flare of color above the cheekbones. Beside him, he heard Evanlyn’s intake of breath as Morgarath stared down at the small bronze oak leaf in his hand.
“A Ranger!” he raged. “This is a Ranger! This is their sign!”
“He’s a boy…” Erak began, but now Morgarath’s fury was turned upon him and he swept his hand in a backhanded blow across the Skandian’s cheek.
“He is no boy! He is a Ranger!”
The other
three Skandians moved forward at the blow, weapons ready. Morgarath didn’t even have to speak. He turned those glittering eyes on them and twenty Wargals moved as well, a warning growl in their throats, clubs and iron spears ready.
Erak signaled for his men to settle. The red mark of Morgarath’s blow flared on his cheek.
“You knew,” Morgarath accused him. “You knew.” Then realization dawned on him. “This is the one! Arrows, you said! My Wargals were hiding from arrows as the bridge burned! Ranger weapons! This is the swine who destroyed my bridge!” The voice rose to a shriek of fury as he spoke.
Will’s throat was dry and his heart pounded with terror. He knew of Morgarath’s legendary hatred for Rangers—all members of the Corps did. Ironically, it was Halt himself who had triggered that hatred when he led the surprise attack on Morgarath’s army at Hackham Heath sixteen years previously.
Erak stood before the raging Black Lord and said nothing.
Will felt a small, warm hand creep into his: Evanlyn.
For a moment, he marveled at the girl’s courage, to bond herself to him like this, in the face of Morgarath’s implacable fury and hatred.
Then, another horse forced its way through the crowd. On its back was one of Morgarath’s Wargal lieutenants, one of those who had learned basic human speech.
“My lord!” he called, in the peculiar, flat tones of all Wargals. “Enemy advancing.”
Morgarath swung to face him and the Wargal continued.
“Their skirmish line moving toward us, my lord. Battle is beginning.”
The Lord of Rain and Night came to a decision. He swung back into the saddle of his horse, his furious gaze now locked on Will, not Erak.
“We will finish this later,” he said. Then he turned to a Wargal sergeant among those who had surrounded the Skandians.
“Hold these prisoners here until I return. On pain of your life.”