this refuge is lost to us. I've a proposition for you both, but I think you should hear what I have to say to the others first.'
'Based purely on your record so far, the answer will probably be no.'
'Perhaps. I can't force you this time. All I ask is that you'll listen.'
'Well, I'm a little dizzy from blood loss and starvation. I'll do my best.'
I thought Estrada smiled, though it was hardly more than a flicker. 'There's food in those crates. We can't take it all with us, so help yourselves.' She pointed to one of the cavern's numerous exits. 'Just head that way in ten minutes time, and see if what I say makes sense.'
I was too mesmerised by the thought of food to be sarcastic. I nodded instead. Estrada paced away, not in the direction she'd indicated but towards where Mounteban had gone.
I began to inspect the crates, glad that their arguments and politics were none of my concern. There was food, sure enough, and in abundance: bread, cheese, fruits and vegetables, goat meat, mutton, even a couple of live chickens dozing fitfully in a cage. There were butts of water and urns of wine, as well as a few bottles of some sour-smelling liquor.
Estrada was right, it couldn't possibly all be removed. It had evidently been gathered in a hurry, with little forethought. Most of the fresh goods wouldn't last another day. I settled for some of the less stale bread, a strong cheese that had stayed good within its husk of wax, and a few strips of dried meat. Such basic fare seemed to have become the staple of my diet lately, and it was pointless trying to fight it. There was a wooden cup beside one of the water butts; I filled and refilled it with wine, washing down every few mouthfuls of food, until I started to feel light-headed.
The entire meal had lasted perhaps two minutes. The average ravenous dog dines with more delicacy than I did then.
Once I felt I had my immediate physical requirements taken care of, I turned my attention to Saltlick. He hadn't moved since Estrada had spoken to him. 'Will you stop moping! So you slapped about a couple of people who were trying to kill you. You'll get over it. We can go and rescue your family and everything will be fine.'
Saltlick looked up. 'Rescue?'
'Why not? But you need to keep your strength up. There's some dried grass piled in that corner, why don't you tuck in?'
Saltlick nodded profoundly, and followed my advice. His steps were almost sprightly as he crossed the cavern, and I wondered what had happened to change his mood so drastically. Whatever it was, I was pleased to see him plunge into his meal with gusto. He'd lost enough blood to fell an ox, and was still leaking from a couple of his more formidable wounds. He'd be no good to anyone if he dropped dead from exhaustion. If our fates were entwined, as it increasingly seemed they were, I wanted him as healthy and as much in one piece as possible.
While he ate, I took a minute to hunt out some new clothes. I discarded the ragged leather armour, which had already begun to chafe, and traded it for a plain hempen shirt I found in a sack of similar garments. After some thought, I traded the cloak in too, for a heavier one of indistinct grey. That done, I set to cramming as much of the remaining food about my person as I could, including a strapped wine skin that I slung over one shoulder. Estrada hadn't set any conditions on her generosity, so neither would I.
All the while, handfuls of Estrada's ragtag troop appeared from passage entrances and wandered past, in the direction she'd indicated. The parade was over by the time I'd finished, and Saltlick had turned to guzzling from an upturned water butt.
'Come on,' I said, 'It looks as though the after-dinner entertainment is about to begin.'
The tunnel was short and ended in a wash of amber light, which resolved into a mixture of torches set on tripods and the first pale glimmers of dawn. A wide open area lay beyond, stretching on into an overhang that jutted from the mountainside. It was a stop upon the north-south mountain road. The trail was visible, snaking away in both directions, and this entrance — like the one far below — had evidently been hidden and only recently reopened.
Estrada stood on a small stage of crates near the southern end of the clearing, with her back to the mist- sodden void of the Castoval. Perhaps two hundred men were arrayed before her in clumsy ranks. They wore a haphazard variety of armour and carried an equally diverse range of weapons, from swords and bows to more eccentric choices. One had a blacksmith's hammer hoisted over his shoulder; another leaned on what was clearly a pitchfork.
I estimated that two thirds of them were professional militiamen or guardsmen of some degree. Of the remainder, some were barely old enough to be away from their mothers, and others looked too decrepit to remember who their mothers were. Presumably these were irregulars and volunteers who'd been caught up in the retreat or recruited from Muena Palaiya. One other enclave stood out, a tough-looking mob with no hint of military discipline, who I figured for cronies of Mounteban's. Mounteban himself was near the front, staring up at Estrada with an expression I couldn't read.
Saltlick and I fell in on one flank, just in time.
'Friends,' Estrada said, 'I'm not here to comfort you.'
That didn't strike me as a very promising beginning.
'I'm not here to tell you we're winning. I'm not here to tell you we're safe. We were defeated two days ago, in what may prove to be the decisive battle for the freedom of the Castoval. Moaradrid will soon find his way here, to our place of retreat. Therefore, we must abandon this as well.
'I don't want to offer you hope. It's dangerous to hope when we may all be dead soon, and our loved ones enslaved by a monster who despises everything we value. Because understand, if we can't find a way to drive out Moaradrid that's what will happen. He and his barbarians won't go away. They won't leave us alone. There'll be no good end to this — unless we make it for ourselves.'
This was met with a vague murmur of agreement. As popular as the sentiment undoubtedly was, it was hard to take seriously when you looked around at the 'we' in question.
At least Estrada had anticipated this. 'We're too few now. We'd be outclassed and outnumbered, even against a fragment of Moaradrid's strength. So we run, without shame. We separate. We hide, if need be. If a final battle must come — as it must — we will choose the time. We'll choose the soil it's fought on. Because it's our soil, in our land.
'Until then, you have two missions. You must stay alive, and you must find others who'll fight for their home. We will go to every town and every village in the Castoval. We'll ask everyone we meet if they want to stay free, and what they'll risk for it. And they will join us. Because Castovalians have never worn a yoke, never called any man master, and they won't begin to now!'
A weary cheer arose this time.
I wanted to join in, but the noise stuck in my throat. I'd never been one for crowds, or noble causes for that matter. This one seemed more doomed than most. Could an army of well-intentioned peasants succeed where the combined garrisons of every town in the Castoval had failed? It seemed less than likely.
Estrada and Mounteban had been right about one thing. I'd only seen the war from my own small point of view. I certainly hadn't given much thought to what would happen if Moaradrid triumphed. The reality was like ice water splashed in my face. One phrase from Estrada's speech had lodged like a splinter in my mind: there will be no good end. That seemed undeniably true, for me at least.
I stood deep in thought as the assembly dissolved around me. I was vaguely conscious that Mounteban and Estrada were separating their shabby force into small bands, appointing leaders, setting destinations and meeting places. How many would simply go home? Was oppression by a foreign warlord truly worse than leaving your family to go hungry while you threw your life away in a hopeless battle?
I lost track of time. At one point, an old man dressed in a grubby, bloodstained poncho offered to clean and sew my wounds. I looked at him, confused, and then pointed to Saltlick. 'It's him you want.'
'You've been bleeding,' he pointed out.
'He's been bleeding more.'
The surgeon did as instructed, and I sank back into my fugue.
It was Estrada who eventually roused me. I realised that she was standing in front of me, that she was talking, and that she'd been doing both for some time. I tried to focus on what she was saying, and found it beyond me.
'I'm sorry,' I said, 'I haven't been paying the slightest attention.'
