under masking surface vegetation.
Those hazards were obvious enough in a good light, when one was unhurried and watching.
Brock ordered, 'Archers, turn and loose. Concentrate on the horses.'
There was grumbling. The animals were more valuable than the men riding them. But there would be no prizes taken here.
Rault's order was sound tactically but difficult practically. The archers had scarcely a dozen arrows left amongst them.
Brock swore. 'Damn! I was hoping more would go down. And that some would drown. That we could finish them off while they were tangled in their harness, in the peat and the mud.'
The Arnhanders did not let that happen.
One man and four horses did suffer. Those Arnhanders who remained mounted declined further pursuit.
'At least their damned camp will burn down,' Socia grumbled.
Brock Rault insisted on traveling through the night. Progress was slow and exhausting. And often painful. In the wee hours Brother Candle told Seuir Brock, 'Leave me. I can't keep up. I'll be all right. They won't harm a holy man.'
'You're whistling in the night, old man. You're exactly what they're hunting. The only way you'd survive is if they sent you to Salpeno for a show trial.'
Rault ordered an hour's rest. While he and Thurm scouted ahead.
The break gave Brother Candle a chance to become so stiff he could hardly move. Nor did he have the energy to swat mosquitoes. 'They're going to suck me dry,' he muttered to no one in particular.
Despair threatened him. He thought about Margete, began suffering worldly regrets about the choices they had made. Margete was now Sister Probity in the Maysalean convent at Fleaumont. He had not seen her for years. Had she seen any of the children lately? He had not. One of his sons, the wholly materialistic Aimechiel, refused to acknowledge him because he had given his wealth to support the Seekers.
He was ashamed. He no longer knew where to find any of his children.
The Perfect jerked out of his reverie, smitten by sudden fear. There was a huge absence in the night. The mosquitoes were gone.
The Sadew Valley lay in the embrace of a silence as absolute as that of a crypt. As the darkness grew deeper.
No insects buzzed. No owls gossiped about where to find the fattest mice. Nothing scurried through the leaves and needles, trying to find a meal without becoming a meal. And the darkness deepened.
Leaves crunched, then, as Brock and Thurm returned. Brock whispered, 'We're two hundred yards from the edge of the woods. We'll be home before dawn, easy. Even if we have to carry our chaplain. What?'
Brock froze, finally sensing the horror. The deep horror. Which came without accompanying menace.
It did not come near enough to be seen. It wore darkness like a disguise. But darkness did not mask its smell, nor the soft sounds it brought along when it came close.
The stink was that of summertime death a week old. The sound was the hum of ten thousand flies.
Brother Candle shook his head violently, as though to fling the stench out of his nostrils while rejecting the power of ancient Night. Those old gods were gone! Rook had been disarmed, dismembered,
Those harsh old gods had been conquered by men. Only human instruments could loose them again.
The stench drifted onward, following the trail of corpses down into the Connec. The darkness faded back to normal. Sound returned.
The Connectens resumed travel. Not one of them believed the real Rook had passed by, dripping maggots on the forest floor. They would rather believe their priests than their senses. To them that Instrumentality was too awful to bear thought. Someday they could garner the notice of the Lord of Flies. Unless they prayed very hard to their own greater god.
The Arnhanders did not believe, either, though something so terrified their horses that most fled despite the darkness. The surviving camp folk, now without shelter, had less trouble believing. Quietly, beneath Grolsach's placid Chaldarean surface, some recollection of the old gods soldiered on. In circumstances as woefully reduced as those of the Grolsachers themselves.
The mosquitoes returned. As they did, Brock Rault insisted, 'Get up, Master. We don't have far to go. And the worst is behind us. You'll be asleep in a feather bed before the sun comes up.'
Brother Candle clambered to the parapet overlooking Caron ande Lette's gateway. The sun was going down. He had slept eleven hours. Every joint still ached. As did every muscle. He was too old for adventures.
Before coming topside he had eaten till he was ready to burst. Now, content despite his discomfort, he stood in twilight considering the besieging mass pathetic despite its numbers.
There were hundreds of Grolsachers out there. More were off foraging, finding neither food nor plunder. Those on hand were not in a bellicose mood. They were the tailenders. Yesterday's survivors. There were not a lot of healthy adult males among them.
Wailing broke out whenever a corpse was found and identified. Though how they recognized their dead after Rook's passage was beyond Brother Candle.
He had not seen a corpse touched by the Instrumentality. He had heard a description. While eating. The Great Demon left only a dried husk so desiccated that it could be hoisted with one hand.
Brock Rault was on post. As always. The Perfect asked, 'You've decided to live up here, now?'
'I can see from here, Master. Not a lot, but enough to follow what's happening right around here.'
'Which would appear to be not much.'
'Correct. Pretending, but nothing of substance. We broke their spirit.'
Thurm and Socia arrived, Thurm teasing crumbs out of the red brush at the corners of his mouth.
'And the Arnhanders?' Brother Candle acknowledged Socia with a nod.
'Trying to forage. Having no luck. If they work in small parties they get attacked. If they go in number they only find people too stupid or stubborn to go hide in the woods.'
'So someone deluded the Grolsachers into thinking they'd just stroll into milk and honey. And the Arnhanders into believing that there would be no resistance.'
'That isn't wrong. We can't do much but sit here.' Brother Candle did not believe him. Sitting was not in keeping with the Rault character.
Socia said, 'You've got plenty of initiative left, big brother.' She gestured. Barely discernible in the failing light were' earthworks the invaders had begun that day, without enthusiasm or urgency. Only a fraction of the foreigners had pitched in. The more hale had gone looking for food and plunder. Many foragers failed to return to their loved ones. 'Yes?' Brock asked.
'If the Arnhanders go foraging, sortie. Destroy their camp. Steal or kill their extra horses. And their grooms and servants.'
Thurm grunted. 'Only, why take risks? If we just wait… How long before Count Raymone rescues his precious Socia?'
Socia punched him. An argument ensued. Socia was full of bloodlust. Ready to fling one-woman sallies at the Grolsachers. 'To keep the weeds down. So they don't get too numerous to handle.'
Brother Candle feared the truth of her central argument. What they saw was the first lapping wave of a flood. The Sadew Valley could become a river of desperate humanity that would come till they overwhelmed the Connec.
Providence knew, the province could not mount an organized effort to defend itself. The central authority remained confused and irresolute, if not moribund. Foiling the poison plot had not paid off in a ducal resurrection. Many lesser lights remained interested only in making their neighbors miserable. Those who did retain a sense of responsibility mostly were content to wait for trouble to come to them. Only Count Raymone Garete, because of past successes, could rally many followers. But he had no legal power to raise levees or give orders outside his own county.
Count Raymone was the most dangerous man in the Connec, from the viewpoint of the Brothen Church. Which explained why Antieux attracted so much attention from the Society.
Campfires appeared as darkness deepened, all round Caron ande Lette. They were too few to establish a
