‘They’re on the march,’ the scouts would say, voices wary. ‘They’re cutting down the trees as they come. We couldn’t see an end to them. No end at all.’
Feliadh would calmly ask them the most direct route towards the dawi vanguard, ignoring the incredulous looks on the scouts’ faces.
‘If you really wish to…’ they would begin, and then reluctantly offer directions.
Caradryel had lost count of how many such encounters they had had. Six, seven, maybe. With each one they passed a little further away from the security of Tor Alessi’s hinterland and a little further into the dark, uncharted morass of Loren Lacoi.
The Great Forest, they called it. ‘Great’ referred to its size, not its beauty. Caradryel had been prepared for neither: the utterly huge expanse, nor the stinking ugliness of it. His horse’s hooves sank deep into sucking slicks of mud. They ploughed through swarms of biting flies and had to cut through choking walls of briars. Strange noises welled up out of the shadows, echoing in the murk like laughter.
It was worse at night. Caradryel slept badly, huddled in his damp cloak and trying not to hear the whoops and calls of the distant gloom.
‘Why are we fighting over this?’ he muttered once to himself.
Feliadh overheard him. ‘You have not been to Athel Maraya, my lord,’ he said.
‘Should I have?’
‘Lord Salendor’s realm,’ Feliadh said, his voice full of admiration. ‘Filled with the light of a thousand lanterns. Only Avelorn is more beautiful. One day this whole forest will be as Athel Maraya is now.’ He glanced around them, scanning across the gnarled and bloated knuckles of the tree-branches. ‘That is why we came here: to turn this filth into something that reflects honour to Asuryan. Do you not see that?’
Caradryel grunted something like agreement, though the pious tone in Feliadh’s voice annoyed him.
That had been days ago. Since then they had pressed on, skirting south of the sprawling port-city of Sith Rionnasc and along the northern shores of the wide River Anurein. On the south-western horizon loomed the distant Arluii; ahead of them was nothing but forest.
They came across no further bands of scouts, and no living settlements. Once they passed through an abandoned Kor, its walls black and broken. Another day they stumbled across mine workings, long since deserted though still bearing the angular runes of the dawi over heavy stone lintels. Feliadh went cautiously through the ruins, wary of an ambush. None came. The war had driven its old inhabitants away long ago, just as it had in all the smaller dwellings. Now only the great fortified cities remained – islands in a sea of unbroken wilderness, guarded by high walls and watchful towers.
They passed into a long, snaking valley overshadowed by marching terraces of pines. A stream, half-stopped with rocks and silt, ran uncertainly down its base. Above them the sun struggled to clear a screen of white-grey cloud, casting grey light weakly over a dripping vista.
Caradryel shivered. Feliadh remained up ahead, his shoulders rolling easily with the gait of his steed. The Caledorian horses trod with uncanny skill, making almost no sound as they moved along the valley floor. The only noise was the faint moan of distant wind and the crack of twigs under hooves.
He tried to relax in the saddle. The trek was beginning to exhaust him. If it went on much longer, he might have to speak to Feliadh and demand a change of tack.
The first quarrels came out of nowhere – the first Caradryel knew of them was when a Caledorian outrider bent double, clutching at his breast and coughing blood.
The guards around him immediately drew their blades.
‘Truce!’ Feliadh roared, his harsh voice outraged. The captain’s standard-bearer brandished the white flag wildly.
Caradryel struggled to control his mount. More quarrels scythed across the open space, sending the beast into a panic. Cries rang out as the darts found their targets. Caledorian outriders spurred their horses up the slopes, seeking out the sources.
‘Where are they?’ Caradryel blurted out loud, drawing his sword but seeing nothing to attack. The enemy must have been dug in, waiting for them with the patience of statues.
‘We come under flag of truce!’ shouted Feliadh again. Caradryel saw him spur his horse onwards, pushing further down the valley. He made no attempt to hide.
Typical Caledorian, thought Caradryel grimly. More bravery than brains.
He dug his heels in, forcing his skittish horse to stagger up the stony incline away from the river. Pine trunks surrounded him, mottled with shadows. He heard the dull clink-thunk of a crossbow mechanism working. Without thinking, he threw his body forwards, causing his steed to stumble. A dart whistled past his left shoulder, tearing the fabric of his cloak.
Caradryel hauled on the reins, yanking his mount’s head around. For a split second he thought he caught a glint of armour in the undergrowth, but then it was gone, lost in a swirl of movement and shadows.
The Caledorian knights were more successful in unearthing hidden attackers, and the clash of steel against iron rang down from the upper slopes. Caradryel heard one of them shouting out an Eltharin battle cry before it was drowned by a sudden shout of Khazuk! Khazuk!
Nothing was in the open; everything was hidden. The Caledorians made heavy work of the defence, hampered by the trees and the terrain. Caradryel saw another one go down, the shaft of a quarrel shivering in his neck, but others gained higher ground and began to hunt down the crossbowmen.
‘Truce!’ bellowed Feliadh from further ahead, his voice increasingly forlorn amid the cries of aggression from all around. More quarrels fizzed between the trees, some clanging from shields or thudding into the trunks.
A few moments more and the encounter would be a bloodbath. The dawi either couldn’t hear Feliadh or didn’t care. Caradryel felt fear rise
