not as it should be. Such of them as travelled at all, knew that the Serens had gone their own way for many years now, seemingly indifferent to rekindling the flames of old conflicts.
And surely there would be no Bethlarii community at Whendrak? It was a city mired in trade and commerce. There might well be Serens there, of course; they were a mongrel breed quite without honour and pride, and capable of anything. But there would be no Bethlarii there, surely?
Certainly no true Bethlarii.
And, too, there was some concern about the … intensity … of the priests who seemed to be rising high in political power up there in Bethlar.
But these doubts had scarcely found voice, other than obliquely. For as each man looked at his neighbour he saw only a reflection of his own face with its expression of a grim willingness to observe the ancient, trusted code of unquestioning submission to the Hanestra. At such times, even to show doubt was to preach dissension and that would surely bring about public or worse, private, denunciation and thence, disgrace, banishment, perhaps even death.
Thus the men of Efnir, full of confidence and bravado, left their homes and their wives and mothers, ‘for the good of the state', which, of course, was above them all.
Magret and her ten-year-old son, Faren, went over the field towards the place from where they normally drew their water. It was a cold day, a bitter wind blowing down from the mountains that dominated the tiny hamlet.
Magret adjusted her shawl. ‘When we've done this, we must go up to the forest with the others to help collect firewood; we'll be needing plenty soon,’ she said to her son, pulling the wide collar of his tunic up about his red ears.
With an accurate imitation of his father's scowl, Faren pushed it down again and straightened up to face the cold wind; a man should not concern himself with such discomforts.
Magret smiled to herself at the gesture, but, unwittingly, a little sadly, as pride at her son's spirit mingled with those deeper currents that told her, far below the well-learned patriotic responses that passed for thought, that these men and their warring, strutting ways, were fools beyond description; tragic fools.
The stream was wide and slow-moving where they stopped to fill their earthenware jars. It had bubbled and cascaded down rocky channels and over steep edges before it came here, and but a few paces further downstream it would chatter off again on its way down to the lowlands and the great rivers. But here it was slow and placid, as if gathering its breath after such a journey, and readying itself for the next.
It was not quiet, however, as all around the sound of water rushing towards this resting place filled the air.
It was the noise that prevented Magret from hearing the approaching riders as she laid down her yoke and began showing Faren how to fill the jars without putting his hands into the almost freezing water.
Even when they were on the opposite bank she saw them before she heard them, or rather, she saw their reflection in the gently eddying water of the stream.
She looked up with a start and took a step back as she stood up. The jar she had just been filling teetered slowly and then fell over and rolled into the stream with a soft splash. Faren, who was neglecting his task and leaning over the low bank pulling faces at his reflection in the water, looked around at the noise.
His mother stepped forward and, seizing his arm, pulled him to his feet and put him behind her before he could say anything. Normally he would have protested at this treatment, but there was a power and urgency in his mother's hands that forbade all resistance.
Magret met the gaze of the first rider. He was a powerful-looking man with a flat, scarred face, and a beak- like nose that made him look like a bird of prey. Standing by him was a thin figure in a soiled cloak, his face hidden in the depths of a large hood.
The rider was smiling, though the smile merely increased the menace which his very presence seemed to generate. But the hooded figure was worse. Though still and silent, it sent shivers of fear deep into Magret the like of which she had never known before: fear that plunged down through nightmare into those same currents that told her and all women of the folly of men. Now they swirled and heaved and reminded her that men could be murderous fools as well.
Her eyes flicked beyond the two men. Other riders were arriving. Two, three … a group of … six … and more, many more.
They all reined to a halt behind the leader as if waiting for something. Magret felt Faren clutching at her skirts, tugging slightly. Without taking her eyes from the watching men, she reached down to comfort him.
It was not easy. She knew that both she and the boy were in danger. These men were foreigners, tribesmen from beyond the mountains. As a child she had seen their kind when they raided her father's village in search of food, weapons … women.
But they'd never been this far east before.
They'd always been routed easily enough once the villages had been raised.
But the village was empty of men. As were virtually all the others between here and Bethlar.
The villagers would have to flee into hiding in the woods until the raiders had gone. But they had to be warned before they could do that.
Suddenly the stillness was broken as the leader's horse lowered its head and began to drink from the stream. Others followed.
Moving as the horse moved, Magret bent down to Faren and whispered to him. ‘Don't be afraid,’ she said. ‘Walk away until you can't see them, then run as fast as you can back to the village and tell your grandfather what's happened. Tell him they're raiders from over the mountains and that everyone must get out of the village right away.'
Faren gripped her skirts tightly. Gently she prized his fingers free and putting all her courage into meeting his fear-filled eyes, she said firmly, ‘Go now, straight away. It's important. I'll be all right.'
Reluctantly he turned and began walking away. After a few paces he turned and looked back. Magret smiled at him, and he went a little further. Then, she bent down calmly and picked up her yoke as if nothing untoward was happening.
'Stop there, boy!'
The voice, heavy and harsh with its alien accent, rang out above the noise of the stream. Faren stopped and half glanced back at his mother.
Magret spun round. The caller was the first horseman. She held his gaze defiantly. ‘Go on home as I've told you, Faren,’ she said loudly, keeping her eyes on the foreigner.
'Stay there, boy!'
The leader turned to the hooded figure at his side, who, without speaking, mounted up behind him. Then he eased his horse forward into the stream.
Magret, too, moved forward and stood on the bank opposite him. She pointed at him. ‘Stay where you are, northerner,’ she said. ‘You've picked an ill place and an ill time for your raiding. Turn about and leave now before our menfolk find you're here.'
The leader's smile broadened, and he continued walking his horse across the stream. Reaching Magret, he bent forward towards her.
'Your menfolk have all gone to the war, haven't they, my sweet?’ he said. ‘And we've come to take back our land.’ He swept his hand slowly in a broad encompassing gesture.
Magret felt the blood draining from her face. She was about to denounce his words with scorn and derision, but she knew her voice would betray her just as her face had.
What did this man mean, take back the land? And how did he know the men were gone to the war?
She fought down her fear somehow and forced a note of maternal concern into her voice to stand in the stead of her defiance. ‘Go home, northerner. I've seen your kin before, seen them die for their foolish bravery. All you'll get of this land is your length to lie in forever. Go before the winter seals you here.'
The rider looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then he seemed to dismiss her and turned and signalled to his men. Leisurely, they began to move forward across the stream. Magret walked backwards ahead of them, up the sloping embankment as they advanced. As before she tried to count them, her mind running to the possibility of a message to the nearest town. When she reached a point which overtopped the embankment on the other side, however, she stopped, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Beyond, were riders as far as she could see-hundreds of
