Overhead, an unbroken sea of grey clouds moved southward, as if, whey-faced, they ran to tell the lands there of his coming.
Ivaroth glared at the lowering peaks above and around him. Here and there the higher ones disappeared up into the clouds, and some were capped and streaked with recent snow, making them brilliant even in the prevailing greyness. The scene would have moved a less jaundiced spirit with its stern splendour and majesty but, to Ivaroth, the massive, ageless, and immovable presence of the mountains was an affront.
These stones mocked him.
'Who are you, Mareth Hai?’ they seemed to say. ‘And of what worth is your vaulting ambition in the span of our time? ‘Tis but a heartbeat since your long-dead kin fled through our valleys into the north, and the merest shake of our hoary heads would sweep your great army into oblivion forever. And who will remember you in but a handful of summers?'
Ivaroth snarled and fought to dismiss the thoughts.
I am Mareth Hai, he shouted in silent defiance. As I conquered the plains so will I tear you rock from rock if you defy me. Level your cliffs, span your ravines, choke your rivers and waterfalls.
His inner spleen, however, gave him little solace. The mountains had taken a toll already and, he knew, would take a further before his army rode out into the southlands.
He looked back. The army was spread out along the trail. Men were toiling with horses and wagons loaded with tents and food and equipment, struggling with tow ropes and carrying heavy packs and panniers. The rambling procession dwindled into the distance where it disappeared from view, swallowed by the rugged terrain. He knew, however, that it was spread out far beyond his sight like a great dark serpent, moving relentlessly forward at his will.
'It is good.'
The voice both echoed and interrupted his triumphant reverie. It was the blind man. He was, as ever, standing nearby, seemingly as oblivious to the biting cold as he was to all the other rigours of the journey. Ivaroth suppressed a shudder. The old man seemed to be drawing some unholy sustenance from the rocks themselves as they moved deeper into the mountains. Now he was running his hands over a flat slab of rock as though he were a tender lover with his bride. Only his own consuming need for the man prevented Ivaroth from cutting him down in disgust.
However, it was rare for the old man to speak unless either spoken to, or to express some need, and, almost in spite of himself, Ivaroth felt drawn into a conversation. ‘What is this power you draw from the rocks?’ he asked. It was a long time since he had asked such a question, though even as he did, he expected nothing more than the reply he had always received in the past: silence.
The blank white eyes turned towards him, unreadable as ever, though Ivaroth sensed a dark amusement. The long, bony hands closed around the edge of the rock in a repellent embrace.
'It is the power,’ he said, unexpectedly and with a mild hint of surprise in his voice. ‘The old power that is in all things. Since the beginning of all things. Since before the beginning. My master taught me its use.’ The hands began to caress the rock again. ‘And here it is rich with the memories and skills of those who went before. Soon I will be as I was before
His voice tailed off in a strangled snarl, and his face became a mask of rage.
Ivaroth's eyes widened in alarm at the sight and, instinctively, he slid his hand under his cloak towards his knife.
But even as he touched the hilt, calmer counsels prevailed.
The blind man had never before talked about his past and the hint of defeat in the few words that he had just spoken, addressed themselves to the tactician in Ivaroth. He might … no, would … need to defeat the old man himself one day, and while he was being so forthcoming …
He was about to ask, solicitously, who this master was, and who the cruel swordsman, when, to his horror, he saw that the blind man's fingers had dug into the rock as if it were no more than damp sand. Ivaroth felt the hairs all over his body stand on end.
Then the old man seemed to recover himself, and, casting a sly, sightless glance at Ivaroth, he withdrew his fingers from the rock and, with a longing pass of his hands, made it whole again.
'It is a power beyond your knowing or understanding, Ivaroth,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘But through me, it will give you the power that you seek, the victories, the wealth, the worship of your people, the vengeance of your race.'
'And what will it give you?’ Ivaroth asked, pulling his thick kerchief over his face to disguise the hoarseness of his voice as it struggled from his fear-dried throat.
The old man's face became alive with anticipation. ‘More,’ he said, simply.
It was a chilling answer, but Ivaroth felt himself drawn inexorably forward. ‘And then?’ he pressed.
'Then…’ The old man paused. ‘Then, I shall return and seek my master, and his master in turn. And restore…’ His voice faded again and, though still powerfully curious, Ivaroth did not choose to pursue his questioning. The image of the torn rock hung in his mind. Whatever masters the old man had served in the past, he had no wish to learn of them. At least not at the moment.
Turning away, Ivaroth clicked his horse forward a little way and then dismounted. Peering ahead he could just make out in the distance the red flags that his scouts had positioned to guide the army.
Drawn from the southern tribes who had regularly raided the northern Bethlarii outposts, their mountain lore, though limited, had proved invaluable. ‘The gods favour us, Mareth Hai,’ they had said when they reported to him at daybreak. ‘They bring the cold wind, but they keep at bay the mists. We'll move well today.'
And they had. Indeed they had moved well almost every day since they had left the plains. Mindful of Ivaroth's injunctions, complaining had become a discreet affair throughout the army, confined to low voices and close friends, though few were at ease with the alien terrain.
And not without cause. There had been several fatalities and many injuries as the plains’ people learned about this new, unyielding domain. Unwary feet which dislodged rocks on to those following below; narrow and treacherous paths and too steep slopes that claimed wagons and horses and also those who struggled too long to restrain them; savage winds which toppled the incautious down buffeting crags and into screaming voids.
At the same time a new breed had appeared amidst the disparate tribes that Ivaroth had welded together in this great venture. Men who had looked at the terrain and at the sweating, straining effort of their fellows, and who had directed their own effort into acquiring skills unknown in the plains: widening and strengthening pathways, fixing ropeways, using levers and pulleys.
Ivaroth watched this remarkable metamorphosis but hid his elation as each new piece of ingenuity spared his fighters and moved his army forward. He hid also his distrust for these men with their strange, clear-sighted vision. What did they see when they looked at him? Still, they were like the blind man, they were but men, and susceptible to blade and point.
'Good. You have done well,’ he would say impassively. And they went away aglow with his approval.
A hand caught his elbow. He did not respond, the blind man's cloying grip was all too familiar.
'Soon,’ the old man said, lifting his face upwards as if scenting the air. ‘You are nearer to your old lands than your new.'
'How long?’ Ivaroth asked.
The blind man did not answer. His head was swaying from side to side hypnotically.
Ivaroth did not press his question. It would be to little avail; the old man seemed to have either no concern for, or conception of, time and distance. It was as if part of him, perhaps the greater part of him, existed in some other place.
Later, as the great caravan rested, draped like a thin dark scarf about the shoulders of mountains, Ivaroth amazed his scouts by telling them what they had been about to tell him. A few days, the weather continuing to favour them, and they would be out of the mountains and moving across the rolling foothills. Ahead of them then would be the rich lands of the south.
'Tonight we must visit our allies,’ Ivaroth said to the blind man. ‘To ensure they are still resolute in their purpose.'
The blind man smiled.
Ivaroth turned away from the sight.
