'A marker. Come on.'
Jagor led the way; Kell followed and loosened Ilanna in her saddle-sheath. Then Jagor paused, and Kell saw another marker, and they veered right, between two huge boulders over rough ground; normally, Kell would have avoided the depression – it was a natural and instinctive thing to do whether on horseback or foot. It was too good a place for an ambush.
Jagor led the way between the boulders, and onto a flat path which led up, out of the tiny bowl. 'Now look,' he said.
Kell stared around, and Ilanna was in his hand as he glanced at Jagor. 'I see nothing. Are you playing me for a fool?'
'Not at all, Kell. It's there.' Jagor pointed, to the solid wall of jagged black granite.
'You're an idiot! That's impassable.'
Jagor shook his head, and said, 'Shift to the left. By one stride.'
Kell shifted his mount, and as if by magick a narrow channel appeared before his eyes which led into the seemingly impassable rock face. Kell shifted his gelding again, and the passage slid neatly out of view, the rocky wall naturally disguising this narrow entrance. Kell stared hard. 'By the Bone Halls, that plays tricks on a man's eyes.'
'You have to know it's there. One footstep in either direction and the passage vanishes! As you say, like magick!'
'You lead the way.'
'You still not trusting me?' Jagor Mad grinned, his brutal face looking odd with such an expression.
'I trust nobody,' snapped Kell. 'Take me to the Blacklippers. Take me to the Valleys of the Moon.'
Saark stood in the snow and the churned mud, and his feet were freezing and he was scowling. The men had been divided into platoons of twenty, as he had watched King Leanoric do on so many occasions. Each platoon was commanded by a lieutenant, and five platoons made up a company ruled over by a captain.
They'd held a contest on the second day, in which crates, barrels and planks of wood had been assembled beside a pretend river. On the other side, behind upturned carts, archers with weak bows and blunt, flat-capped arrows were the enemy. Each platoon had to work together to 'cross' the river and take the cart. The platoon which succeeded first would earn wine and gold.
Saark and Grak watched in dismay at first, as men squabbled and fought over planks and crates. But a young, handsome man, Vilias, imprisoned for his spectacular thieving career, gathered together several crates and got three of the platoons crouched behind them for protection from the archers as the other platoons continued to argue, or were shot by archers.
'We need to work together,' said Vilias.
'But then the prize is shared between sixty, not twenty!'
'But we still win the prize,' grinned the charismatic thief. 'One bottle of wine is better than none, right mate?'
Vilias set several men to smashing up crates, and they fashioned several large, crude shields. Then, with five men at a time using the wide wooden shields they worked under protection to build a bridge, crossed the river and stormed into the cart fortress with swords raised and battle screams filling the air.
Afterwards, Saark and Grak called Vilias to them.
'You showed great courage,' said Saark, smiling at the man.
Vilias saluted. 'Thank you, sir. But it was just common sense.'
'Common sense has got you promoted to Command Sergeant, lad. That's extra wine and coin for all the platoons under your new command.'
'Thank you… sir!'
'You understand that an army is all about working together,' said Saark, with his chin on his fist. With his dark curls and flashing eyes, with his charisma and natural beauty, he cut a striking figure now he no longer wore fancy silk shirts and bulging pantaloons. Grak had persuaded him to don something more fitting for the Division General of a new army.
'Yes, sir!'
Vilias returned to his men to share the good news, and Saark sagged, glancing over at Grak who grinned a toothless grin of approval.
'Well inspired!' boomed Grak. 'Any army indeed works – and wins by all the gods – by the simple act of cooperation. Soldiers watching one another's backs; spearmen protecting shield-men, archers protecting infantry, cavalry protecting archers.'
Saark chuckled. 'I only know because you told me last night after a flagon of ale.'
'Still,' said Grak. 'You sounded like you knew what you were talking about! And that's what matters, eh lad?'
'I'm not cut out for this,' said Saark, displaying a weak grin. 'Only yesterday the smiths came with technical questions about the shields; what the fuck do I know about shields? Succulent quims, yes! Breasts, I could talk all day about the size and texture and quality of many a buxom pair of tits. But shields? Shields, I ask you?'
'With things like that,' said Grak, 'just refer it to me. Say you're too busy to deal with it. Last thing we need,' he bit a chunk from a hunk of black bread, 'is a shield with the shape and functionality of a woman's flower.'
Saark paused. 'A what?' he said.
'A flower.'
'You mean the slick warm place between her legs?'
'Don't be getting all rude with me,' snapped Grak. 'I won't take it, y'hear?'
Saark stood, and stretched. Then grinned, eyeing the ranks of men who were now practising with wooden swords as newly appointed Command Sergeants strolled up and down the lines, shouting encouragement and offering advice. Grak had appointed those with soldiering experience, he'd said.
'I suggest we go to the quartermaster,' said Saark.
'Why?'
'I suggest we get two flagons of ale and retire to my quarters. You can teach me about warfare, about units and field manoeuvres, and I, well,' Saark grinned, and ran a hand through his long dark curls, 'darling, I will teach you about women.'
Kell and Jagor rode into the narrow pass. It was quiet, eerie, and very, very gloomy. Kell eased his mount forward, and the beast whinnied. High above, there came a trickle of stones.
Jagor turned in the saddle, and motioned to Kell to halt. 'This place,' he said, speaking quietly, 'they call the Corridor of Death. It is the only way to reach the Valleys of the Moon, and is always, I repeat always conducted in silence.'
'Why?'
Jagor glanced up, fearful now. 'Let us say the slopes and rocky faces are far from stable. I once witnessed a hundred men crushed by rockfall; it took us three days to dig them out. Most died. Most were trapped, and as we dug, and hauled rocks, and had our horses drag boulders in this narrow shitty confine, all the time we could hear them crying for help from down below under the pile. They cried for help, they screamed for mercy, and eventually they begged for death.'
'That is a very sobering tale. I will keep it in mind,' said Kell, and glanced upwards. The sheer walls and steeply slanted inclines were bulged and rocky, covered in snow and ice and fiery red winter heathers. Kell licked his lips and shivered. He had no desire to be imprisoned under a thousand tumbling rocks.
They moved on, in silence, whispering soothing words to the horses. Sometimes the trail widened so that three horses could walk side by side; sometimes it narrowed so the men had to dismount, walking ahead of their mounts to allow them to squeeze flanks through narrow rough rock apertures. It did nothing to improve Kell's mood.
Eventually, the passage started to widen and they emerged in a valley devoid of rocks. It was just a huge, long, sweeping channel and Kell instinctively glanced upwards where high above, on narrow ledges, he could spy the openings of small caves.
'I don't like this,' said Kell.
'The Watchers live here,' said Jagor. 'This is where we will be challenged.'
