Then the black wall shimmered, each chimney and vertical ridge hung with rivers of ice sparkling for a moment as if hoarding a million trapped diamonds… And then the wall was not a wall, but a veil, like a shimmering black curtain. And beyond, a black road stretched away, edged with ice and snow, a blasted road, a desolate road. And as the mountain rock shimmered like insubstantial lace, so there came the stamp of marching boots, and the rattle of armour, and beyond the wall as if seen through mist came ranks of soldiers, their flesh pale and white, their armour matt black, carrying spears and wearing swords and maces at belts. They wore highpeaked battle helmets, and their shields bore silver insignia. The sign of the White Warriors. The sign of the Leski Worms, from whence they were once hatched.
The front battalion approached the wall, then stopped with a stamp of boots. Slowly, they walked forward, and eased through solid rock, out onto the snowy drifts. Rank after rank came, until the battalion was free of a rocky, blood-oil magick imprisonment, and they moved out across the snow in a square unit formation – to be followed immediately by a second battalion, another square group of four hundred soldiers, marching out into the cold crispness of Falanor from the black road beyond the Black Pike Mountains. More battalions came, until they made a brigade, and the brigade doubled into a division of four thousand eight hundred soldiers, and eventually, through churned snow and mud, the battalions finally formed into an albino army. The Army of Silver, the silver on their shields glinting with reflections from a low-slung winter sun.
The Army of Silver, led by General Zagreel, moved west from this secretive rock entrance, and they were trailed by a hundred Harvesters, bone-fingered hands still weaving the magick of opening and long white robes drifting through snow, tall thin bodies ignoring the bite of the Falanor wind.
Silence flowed for a while, followed by the stamp of more boots, and this time the approaching battalion held matt black shields decorated with insignia in brass, and they flowed from the mountain wall like a river of darkness, their pale faces impassive, their spears erect, swords gleaming black under winter sunlight, ignoring the whipping snow as more and more units and regiments filed out to stand before the mountain wall and then, with the tiniest of sighs, the mountain wall lost its sheen and became solid once more, leaving two full albino armies standing in the snow between the Black Pikes and the Iron Forest.
General Exkavar turned his eyes to the forest, the dark iron trunks twisted and threatening, and a cruel smile crept across his narrow, white lips. Blood eyes surveyed the snow, and he removed his helmet and ran a hand through thick, snow-white hair. He glanced back at his perfectly ordered Army of Brass, and then over the snow fields to the equally professional Army of Silver.
He turned to the bugler. 'Sound the march,' he said, and his eyes were distant, as if reliving a dream. 'We head south.'
CHAPTER 7
Kell, Saark and Nienna moved as fast as they could down narrow trails which weaved like criss-crossing spider-webs through the Iron Forest. West they headed, constantly west, and eventually, on one dull morning with light snowflakes peppering the air, they broke free of the trees and looked out over a rugged, folded country, full of hills and rocks, stunted trees and deep hollows. Everything was white, and still, and calm. This was wild country filling in the gaps between Corleth Moor and the Cailleach Pass to the west of Jalder. They were past Jalder now, past the Great North Road; the Iron Forest had done its job, but as Myriam pointed out before her fight with Saark, and her sudden departure, the once outlaw-occupied forest had been curiously devoid of criminal activity. Dead, or just sleeping? Or fled to safer climates?
They stared out over the undulating folds of these raw wild lands. 'Looks like rough travelling,' said Saark, chewing on a piece of dried beef.
'We're going to need supplies,' said Kell, ignoring Saark.
'I said, it looks like rough travelling,' snapped Saark.
'I heard what you said, lad. But you're stating the obvious. We've had rough travelling ever since we left Jalder, through the tannery and down the Selenau River. What did you expect? A cushioned silk carriage waiting for you?'
'You're a grumpy old bastard, Kell, you know that?'
'Yeah. You keep mentioning it.'
Saark bent down, rubbing at his legs. Ever since falling into the polluted lake in the Iron Forest, his skin had flared red, all over his body, stinging him with knives of fire. But Kell had come up with a theory why his flesh had not fallen from his bones, as certain rumours would have it. As a vachine, Saark had accelerated healing. Now, his flesh was being eaten by toxins, but healing just as fast as it was being destroyed.
'So I'll be like this, in a scratching agony, forever?' Saark had snapped, face twisted in annoyance.
'I thought you'd be used to a bit of scratching by now,' Kell had smirked.
Now, it was irritating Saark again and he rubbed his legs, and chewed his beef.
'Won't they have food at these Black Pike Mines?'
'Maybe. We're not sure what we'll find, though. Maybe it'll be deserted? Maybe it was ransacked by the Army of Iron on their way through. It could be a burnt shell, smouldering timbers and blackened rocks.'
'I assume that would end your wonderful and secret plan,' muttered Saark, still scratching.
'It certainly would.' Kell took a deep breath, staring up at the sky, then out across the wilderness. 'By the gods, there are a thousand places out there for an ambush.'
'Hark, the happy voice of pessimism,' said Saark.
'Will you stop that damn scratching? It's like standing next to a fucking flea-bitten dog!'
'Hey, listen, I feel like I've got a plague of ants living under my skin. I can't stop bloody scratching. It's not like I have a choice.'
'Well, if you'd not been so stupid and put the donkey first, you wouldn't have gone through the damn surface.'
'There you go, blaming Mary again. Listen Kell, it's not Mary's fault and I resent the constant implication that she's holding up your weird and unspeakable mission that is so clever you have to keep it a secret!'
Kell leaned close. 'The reason I keep it to myself, you horse cock, is so when, shall we say, certain priapic fools started sticking their child-maker into hot, sweaty and untrustworthy orifices, there's no possible chance of a blurted word at the wrong moment. You get me?'
'So…' he frowned, 'you think I'd spout our plans during sex? Like some loose-brained dolt?'
'Of course you would, lad. You're a man! You think with your hot plums, not with your brain.'
'Oh, and I suppose the great Kell-'
'There's a farmhouse.'
The two men ceased their squabbling and followed Nienna's line of vision. Through swirls of snow, halfhidden by a hollow of rocks and heavily folded landscape, there was indeed a farmhouse.
'Any smoke?' squinted Kell.
'None I can see.' Nienna clicked her tongue, and led Mary ahead. Ten paces away she stopped, and turned back. 'Are you coming? Or shall I go searching for food alone?'
Kell and Saark followed at a distance.
'Stroppy girl, that one,' said Saark.
'Yeah. Well. She's sad Myriam has gone, you know? They'd become friends. Been through a lot. Shame you had to start sticking your pork sausage where it didn't belong.'
'If you're going to keep on at me, Kell, I'm going to walk with the fucking donkey.'
'You do that, lad. No talk is better than your talk.'
'I'll watch her arse,' muttered Saark, marching away from Kell. 'It's a damn sight prettier than your battered face.'
The farmhouse was deserted, and had been left in a hurry – presumably when the Army of Iron had marched through this way, months earlier. The travellers hunted through various rooms, scavenging what they could. Fresh clothing, blankets and furs, boots for Saark, salt, sugar, coffee, some raw vegetables preserved by the winter, and
