‘How can you, the leaders of my people, fret about such nonsense? What else is every winter but snow and wind and going without food? Each year we wait through the dreary gloom, stomachs rumbling, hands and faces raw, fearful in case this time the sun doesn't return, until the days…’ He drew out the words and made an incongruous flapping motion with his hands. ‘…slowly lengthen, and the birds return…’ Then with an angry snarl he cut through the momentary lightness he had brought to his speech. ‘This time we do not wait for such slight glories. This time we travel towards a glory of our own.'
He looked round the circle again. ‘As for the mountains being placed there by the gods.’ He shrugged fatalistically. ‘Who am I to gainsay such matters. Perhaps they were, perhaps they weren't. But I know that they weren't placed there to bar our way. They were placed there to challenge our fitness to return to our true land. Can you truly say that we, the greatest tribal federation the plains have ever known, are incapable of scrambling over a few rocks?'
Still no one attempted to speak.
'And as for the Bethlarii.’ He pointed to the two who had spoken about them. ‘I value your words. Not only do your people have the knowledge that will ease our way through the mountains, but you've met the enemy face to face, sword to sword.’ He beckoned his listeners forward and the circle craned inwards. ‘But listen. Dismiss your concern about walls of shields and spears. Formidable they may be against a raiding party, even a large one. But we're no raiding party. We're an army. An army so vast that we could trample them underfoot and scarcely falter in our advance…’ He waved a hand to dismiss his own exaggeration. ‘Not that that will be necessary. Walls can be ridden round, can't they? Ask yourselves, how fast can these walls of shields and spears wheel and turn to protect their flanks and rears? And how fast can they run when we ride past them towards their homes and unprotected wives?'
A tentative but relieved laughter greeted this remark. The Mareth Hai's ambition and ranting oratory were fine in their place, but a glimpse of the down-to-earth fighting tactics that he was evolving for the prospective conflict was reassuring.
His face darkened, and the laughter faded. ‘We go over the mountains,’ he said, looking at each in turn again, as if his black eyes could see into their souls. ‘We go to sweep away those who usurped our ancient land. This and this alone is why we paid the blood debt that has made us now one, where once we were many.’ He leaned forward. ‘I will not allow anyone or anything to thwart this intent. When your people come to you with their innumerable plaints, give them this as a lodestar to dominate their vision and guide their will.’ He drew his sword and pointed it towards the centre of the circle. Lamplight flickered off its polished blade as he turned it slowly from side to side, sending brief, bright stars hurtling across the curving canopy of the tent. ‘I will solve all weariness, all doubt, all discomfort, with this edge if I have to. Many ways seem to exist for the wayward and the weak, but in truth there is only one way. My way. Forward.'
'No!'
The stillness of the circle became suddenly taut at the cry, and all eyes moved from Ivaroth's hypnotic blade to the speaker.
It was Amhir. He was swaying to and fro and clearly in the grip of some religious fervour.
Ivaroth looked at him coldly, but did not speak.
'You blaspheme, Ivaroth Ungwyl,’ Amhir said, his voice hollow and distant. ‘As we near the mountains, more than ever do I know that you will be defying the gods themselves if you seek to lead the people through to the south.'
Ivaroth's grip tightened around his sword hilt as his every instinct prompted him to deliver summary justice for this defiant interruption. A surreptitious and unseen touch from Endryn restrained him, however. The many religions that the tribe followed had been the greatest source of their division and antagonism. So much so that it could be said that, after his fighting skills, Ivaroth's greatest attribute as a leader was his meeting this problem squarely, insisting that all should be allowed to worship as they wished.
But he was an unequivocal, simple reformer, offering no subtle arguments. ‘We have problems enough right here that need our swords and courage. In future, those among you who choose to quarrel violently about the merits and flaws of your many gods I will personally dispatch to them for a final judgement.'
It took but a few summary executions to demonstrate the deep wisdom and effectiveness of this policy.
Nonetheless, mutual intolerance was still a substantial threat to the new-found unity, and religious matters had to be handled carefully. Endryn's discreet reminder was timely. Slaying Amhir for impertinence would cause some stir, but not for long. Slaying him while he might be considered as speaking the will of his gods could give rise to serious problems.
'Amhir,’ he said, menacingly, hoping that his manner alone might reach through to the man before he committed some greater folly. ‘Never before has any leader allowed such freedom for people to worship as they wish. And while I allow that freedom … indeed, enforce it … then the gods have what is their due and they must allow me what is mine; the right to lead my people unhindered. You forget that you sit here as a chieftain, not as a shaman. Keep your visions to yourself. I forgive you your outburst as I know your heart is as sound as your sword arm, but speak no more of this foolishness.'
'No,’ Amhir said loudly. ‘I cannot remain silent. The mountains have spoken to me. They have shown me the future and it is full of darkness and bloodshed if we do not turn from this path. You are led by a demon, Ivaroth, and it leads you to its own purpose, not yours.'
All eyes turned towards Amhir fearfully. His voice was powerful and convincing, and instinctively he fanned the smouldering embers of superstition that lay deep inside the plains’ people. Ivaroth felt the doubts of his chieftains forming around him. At their focus was the ancient, primitive challenge to leadership that they all subscribed to wittingly or unwittingly: surely no one could thus openly oppose the Mareth Hai unless he were truly possessed of some great truth?
Amhir had sealed his own fate. Ivaroth's question was now simply one of deciding the most expedient way for his disposal.
A figure behind Ivaroth stirred, and a bony, unclean hand emerged to close about his arm. It squeezed it longingly several times as though its owner were overcome by some great desire that only Ivaroth could satisfy. It was a repellent gesture, but Ivaroth merely inclined his head slightly towards the figure as if he were listening to something.
Slowly he nodded and the hand slid away very gradually, its long fingers trailing over Ivaroth's arm with a lingering reluctance to leave him. Again Ivaroth ignored the intimacy of the gesture.
Amhir levelled a hand towards the figure, his eyes wide with what was now obviously an uncontrollable passion.
'Silence!’ Ivaroth thundered, before Amhir could speak. ‘You have the temerity to tell
'I have seen what I have seen, Ivaroth,’ Amhir said, seemingly impervious to Ivaroth's anger. ‘I feel the power of the land growing as we near the mountains and the gods have spoken to me. They have shown me the future. They have shown me the demon on your back. They have…'
'What future did they show you, Amhir?’ Ivaroth said, smiling; suddenly intrigued, conciliatory even.
At the sight of the smile, several of the chieftains began quietly to ease away from their leader and the shaman. The circle grew perceptibly wider.
But still Amhir seemed unaware of the danger. ‘In a dream, I stood on a high place and saw there remnants of our army returning from the mountains, broken and destroyed. I heard the plains filled with the weeping of countless widows, and the cries of children, starving because the hunters were all gone.'
'You heard all this? You saw it? In a dream?’ Ivaroth said, his voice softening and his smile broadening.
The tension around the group became unbearable. Ivaroth's temper was explosive and swift, and invariably fatal for someone. He had once run a sleeping sentry through with his own sword, declaring to the shocked officers with him, ‘I left him as I found him.'
Now, despite the tremors that Amhir's voice was sending through their dark and bloody souls, most of the watchers expected a similar fate to befall him and were watching Ivaroth's sword closely, ready to dive for cover when it swept suddenly into action.
But instead, Ivaroth sheathed it with a grim laugh. ‘I'd thought to strike you down for bringing your religious ranting to this assembly, Amhir,’ he said. ‘But I see the gods are merely toying with you.’ He shrugged casually. ‘A
