into the building.
As their escort led them out of the walled courtyard, the truth of Haynar's words became apparent. There was an unmistakable tension in the air. Groups of young men were running about wildly while other people in the street were running to avoid them.
'Ar-Hyrdyn, Ar-Hyrdyn.’ Arwain looked round to see where the chant was coming from.
'Serenstad scum,’ came a cry.
A rock struck Arwain's temple. He slumped forward on to his horse's neck, blood pouring from his head.
Chapter 27
Ivaroth stared up at the southern mountains. His horse was restless, responding to his unease. He was a man of the plains. He did not like mountains. They dominated, hedged in, constrained travellers to narrow, often precarious pathways with giddying heights both above and below. They were no place for a race born to ride free across the endless plains, flat and wide and open, where the weather could be seen and judged and did not turn from bright sunlight to dank freezing mist without warning, where the sun did not rise late and set early amid ominous, judging shadows.
'Ivaroth, I will follow wherever you lead, but…’ There was a head-shaking pause. ‘I have misgivings.'
The speaker was Endryn, one of the few who had stood by Ivaroth when he was accused of his brother's murder and who had spoken out, at no small risk to himself, against his expulsion from the tribe.
The need to answer these doubting words gave Ivaroth the power to dispel his own concerns. He turned to Endryn with a yellow-toothed grin splitting his flat, scarred face.
'You mean you've got bellyache again,’ he said, leaning across and swinging his clenched fist in a backward blow at Endryn's stomach. Used to this attack, Endryn nimbly jerked his horse sideways so that the blow missed, but the prospect of the impact made his muscles tense and, placing his hand on his stomach, he winced and laughed simultaneously.
'I knew it,’ Ivaroth said. ‘You always get the bellyache before a battle. That's what makes you worth having by me in a fight, old friend. Your bad temper and your worse digestion.'
Exposed, Endryn openly hugged his stomach with both hands. ‘Thank you, Mareth Hai,’ he said with some irony. ‘It seems you have the vision of the healer as well as the warrior. But we don't have a battle in front of us at the moment.'
Ivaroth laughed loudly and then waved his fist at the waiting mountains. ‘Of course we do,’ he said. ‘Look at them. Row upon row of enemies. And they'll kill more than a few of us before we're through them.’ He seemed to relish the prospect. ‘Still, our real battle's going to be keeping the men going when they start bleating about the cold and the endless wind and their aching legs.'
'That may happen sooner than you think,’ Endryn said. ‘All the signs down here are that winter's coming early, and there's already snow on some peaks that wasn't there a few weeks ago. A lot of the chieftains will be clamouring for the expedition to be left until the spring.'
Ivaroth turned on him, his face suddenly angry. Endryn flinched, though he knew that the anger was not directed at him.
'No,’ Ivaroth said, savagely. ‘Not by all the powers in this land.’ This was a strange new oath that Ivaroth had taken to using since he had returned from the wilderness with the old man and started on his great rise to power. Whenever he used it, something in his voice seemed to make the very ground shake, and a deep, rumbling unease would pass through Endryn. ‘Now is the time,’ Ivaroth went on, his voice becoming more impassioned. ‘The only time. All will move against us if we delay.’ He held up his fist, clenched tightly as if to prevent something slipping away from him.
'You're so certain,’ Endryn said, unable to still his doubts before the dark presence of the mountains.
Ivaroth bared his teeth. ‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘I've been given the vision to see the tide that our people can ride to reach our destiny, and we shall ride it, no matter what the cost. We shall ride to avenge our ancient ancestors and to regain the rich land of the south that is rightly ours. I tell you, Endryn, if we do not do this now, then we'll be doomed to the plains forever until we decay and fail and become weak and scattered like the Ensceini.’ He took in a deep breath. ‘I'll allow nothing and no one to stand in front of this venture, if we have to pull those mountains down stone by stone. As for the men…’ He drew his sword and held it menacingly in front of Endryn. ‘I'll cleave from neck to groin anyone who shows even a moment's hesitation once the march begins.'
The two men looked at one another. ‘Including me?’ Endryn asked.
Ivaroth laughed. ‘Of course including you-particularly you,’ he said, striking Endryn a great slap on his shoulder. Then he smacked his own chest. ‘I'd cleave myself if I faltered on this road.'
Abruptly he stood up in his stirrups and brandished his sword at the mountains. ‘Hear my voice, ancient rocks,’ he shouted. ‘Grow used to it, because it is the voice of your lord. I shall lead my men through your valleys and over your ridges, and split you asunder if you defy me. Do not doubt either my will or my power, because the one is green and strong and the other was ancient even before you began your journeys to the sky.'
He ended his echoing harangue with an ear-splitting war cry. Endryn, caught up in his fervour, joined in, then the two turned about and galloped back towards their camp.
As Endryn had said, however, there was opposition from some of the chieftains to Ivaroth's scheme to march through the mountains, especially in winter. His principal advisers sat with him in the assembly circle in his great tented pavilion.
'Mareth Hai, a man may ride his horse in any direction he chooses until it dies of exhaustion, but he will still have covered only the merest fraction of your domain. Already your fame is such that your name will ring down in history and legend as the greatest leader the plains have ever known. Do not cast this away so lightly on such a reckless throw…'
'The winter comes early. Such passes as there are will be blocked with snow…'
'We'll barely be able to carry the food we need as it is. If we are delayed…'
'The mountains were set there by the gods to bar our way. To flout their will is to court a fearful retribution…’ This was Amhir, as much a shaman as a chieftain and a constant thorn in Ivaroth's side with his religious utterances. There was a brief, but uneasy pause after he had spoken.
Then, the discussion continued. ‘My tribe has fought often against the southlanders, the Bethlarii. We raid them regularly. In their villages and farms they're but men … and women,’ he added to appreciative nods and laughter. ‘But when the word is out that we're among them again, they fetch up their army and those of us who wish to return again next season, retreat while they can, without dishonour. Their wall of shields and spears cannot be breached and they show no mercy…'
Ivaroth listened attentively to many similar speeches, nodding thoughtfully on occasions, until eventually the circle of chieftains fell silent and the sounds of the camp outside began to seep into the pavilion.
'I hear you all,’ he said quietly. ‘You speak much that is worthy, and you give me sound advice. I'd not have it said that the Mareth Hai disdained the counsel of his chieftains; of those that he has entrusted with the leadership of his people; of those that have ridden and fought by his side.’ He paused. ‘But also, I cannot have it said that I allowed myself, who am but the will of our peoples, to be deflected from our true destiny by timorous, shivering fears.'
His voice grew in power and intensity as he spoke, and, though no one dared move, it seemed that the circle shrank visibly as each tried to avoid that insignificant movement or sound that might suddenly bring down the fearsome, unpredictable anger of their Mareth Hai, like the last gentle breeze that finally topples a teetering boulder.
Ivaroth looked at each in turn. ‘You ask me to look at what has been achieved.’ He flung out his arms contemptuously. ‘Everything so far has been a mere sharpening of our swords in anticipation of the true battle. Hard at times, but no more than a pruning of the weak and ailing. My name is nothing. Our achievements are nothing. Vague echoes on the plains’ wind. But when the sound of our horses thunders across the length and breadth of the rich southlands, then will my name, and our achievements, truly ring down through history.'
Stillness.
'You talk of the winter, of the snow and wind, of going without food.’ He gave a gesture of jocular disbelief.
