'You'd rather you were with them?’ Ibris said, cutting across this digression and anxiously voicing what he felt would be Feranc's unspoken reproach.
Feranc looked up at the blue sky, thoughtfully. ‘Your reasoning was sound, Lord,’ he said eventually. ‘And it was a decision only you could make.'
The two men looked at one another.
'Thank you,’ Ibris said softly.
'Talking of difficult decisions…’ Menedrion broke the silence and gave Feranc a significant look. ‘As commander I've decided that you, father, will take command of the reserve cavalry…'
Ibris turned to him, his face darkening.
'You're too old for the front line,’ Menedrion continued hastily, and more bluntly than he had intended.
'I can ride and fight you into the ground yet,’ Ibris blustered noisily.
'Not these last ten years, you can't,’ Menedrion retaliated vehemently, leaning forward towards his father, chin jutting.
Feranc coughed.
Ibris turned to him. ‘Ciarll?’ he appealed.
'Commander's decision,’ Feranc replied simply.
'Ciarll!'
'Please, father. Your will has brought us this far. You're the heart of all our dominions. If you fall today, then…'
He flicked his head towards the waiting army. ‘They'll evaporate, disappear. We'll all be lost. And city after city will fall in our wake.'
Ibris looked at his son narrowly. ‘Think you can out-talk me as well, do you?’ he said darkly.
Menedrion scowled impatiently. ‘No, damn it,’ he said. ‘I'm trying to tell you what you already know. I want all eyes forward. I don't want anyone risking themselves and their companions playing unofficial bodyguard to you.’ His expression became embarrassed. ‘Besides I've told all the company commanders you'll be protecting the rear, and that's what they've told the men. Everyone's happy with that. It'll not help their morale if they see you at the front. They'll think it's because Arwain and the others leaving has seriously weakened us.'
Ibris's eyes narrowed further and his mouth tightened.
'Yes, I know,’ he said abruptly.
Menedrion started at the unexpected reply.
'Do you think I don't know what's going on in my own army?’ Ibris continued, not without some relish. ‘I was just wondering when you were going to get round to telling me about it, that's all.'
Menedrion looked as if he were considering a wide range of replies to this revelation, but in the end, without taking his gaze from his father, he spoke to Feranc.
'Tell us the enemy's latest dispositions, Commander,’ he said.
Feranc replied without preamble. ‘Substantially unchanged from earlier reports. The traditional Bethlarii battle order. Predominantly heavy infantry in phalanx, with cavalry and light infantry protecting the flanks and rear. At least twice our number in all.'
'Anything unusual in the line?’ Ibris asked. ‘Chariots? Artillery? Cover for ambushing cavalry? Treacherous ground?'
Feranc shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nor anything to be seen in the surrounding countryside. Though there seemed to be quite a lot of activity along the line. Messengers running to and fro.'
Menedrion shrugged slightly. ‘Probably last-minute preparations,’ he suggested. ‘They know we'll be on them before noon.'
He looked at Feranc and then his father. ‘I can see no reason to alter any of the tactics we've decided on. Can you?'
Ibris looked at him quizzically. ‘Why the uncertainty?’ he asked.
Menedrion frowned. ‘I'm uncertain because I still can't believe they're doing this,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Throughout this whole campaign they've shown none of the war-craft that we know they have. Even now, at the end, they've made no special effort to choose advantageous ground, there's no evidence of flanking forces in the area, nothing that seems to indicate a real will to conquer. It makes no sense.'
Ibris could offer him no clearer vision.
Feranc spoke. ‘They're preparing to fight the battle of the end of the world,’ he said. ‘The final battle in which all other conflicts will be resolved and from which Ar-Hyrdyn will choose those destined to join the great heroes of legend who occupy his Golden Hall.'
Menedrion puffed out a long steaming breath into the cold air. ‘It's as logical as anything else I've heard,’ he said resignedly. ‘But where does that leave us earth-bound souls?'
'Facing an enemy that's liable to fight to the death, rather than break and run,’ Feranc replied starkly.
Menedrion's lip curled. ‘You can't suppress the flesh, Ciarll,’ he said. ‘Fear is fear. We'll see how their faith sustains them when our arrows are falling about them.'
Feranc nodded. ‘True,’ he said. ‘But we mustn't underestimate them. This day is going to be long, hard, bitter and bloody.'
'Yes,’ Ibris agreed, his voice sad. ‘And it will be the end of
Menedrion cut the discussion short. ‘It's still their choice, father,’ he said. ‘Don't forget the heralds they killed. If their sickness … can't be swayed away with reason and logic, then we must do it the physician's way. We must lance it. And quickly, if there's another enemy at our back.'
He reached up and pulled down the visor of his helm, then held out his mailed hands to Feranc who took them in both his own.
'Strength to your arm, Feranc the shield, Feranc the slayer. Here's to tomorrow's sunrise.'
'Light be with you, Irfan Menedrion,’ Feranc replied, then, taking the Duke's hands, ‘And with you, my Lord. Guard our backs well. And put me to the sword if I flee.'
Finally, Menedrion embraced his father in silence.
Then the three parted to ride to their allotted positions.
As he rode back towards the army, Menedrion drew his sword and waved it high above his head with a great shout. His cry echoed over the Bethlarii plain and into the bright sky and the cry of the entire army rose to follow it.
They had stopped. But the world was still filled with pain. He had never known anything but pain, nor ever would for all eternity to come.
No part of Antyr's body gave him any other message. Who would have thought that the human frame could travel so fast for so long, or that men could remain in the saddle throughout?
He had vague recollections of an occasional voice penetrating the haze of agony with the advice that he should, ‘Just relax, don't fight the horse.’ Then, more sternly. ‘Relax, you're tiring the horse.’ He had recollections too, that there had been other brief pauses punctuating this lifetime of pounding impact he had been living, though, as now, they had offered little comfort.
Even the dawn had brought no relief. Indeed the bright golden wash that had splashed into his face seemed to pass straight through him and illuminate his pain, so frail had he become.
He had no recollection of the strong hands that had reached out and supported him as he slithered into the unconsciousness from which he was now emerging.
'You've done well,’ an echoing voice was telling him from far away.
Mysteriously he floated out of his saddle and propped himself up against something … a tree, he realized, as he managed to look up through the intricate tracery of winter-bared branches.
Something damp and cold touched his face and sniffed inquiringly, then there was a vigorous splashing sound nearby.
'That's better.'
Antyr winced as Tarrian's relieved voice boomed into his head like a cascade of tumbling boulders. ‘That wasn't too bad a journey after all, was it? Slept most of the way. If you ever get a horse I think I'll travel more like that. It's very comfortable. And quite stylish in its way.'
