Prince Kragen acquiesced. He also accepted the Tor’s invitation to supper. Behind his tone of doubt and his dark glower, he looked positively happy.
That night, wrapped in their blankets and an oiled groundsheet, Terisa allowed Geraden to apologize again. ‘I know you were right,’ she sighed eventually. ‘I just don’t seem to be very resilient. All those men laughing – That’s something else Master Eremis and my father have in common. They like to jeer.’
‘But you showed them they were wrong,’ Geraden countered. ‘None of them has ever seen a woman with talent before. Most of them have never taken a woman seriously before. Until this evening, there was a chance they wouldn’t back you up, if you ever needed them.
‘Now you’ve got their attention. The whole camp is talking about you. What you did in the intersection was good. The only problem with it is, it was too abstract to have much impact. Nobody could see what you accomplished. Here—’ He hugged her. ‘Here you’ve got hundreds of witnesses. You’re a Master. And the Masters are doing something useful, something vital. For a change.
‘Terisa’ – in the dark, he sounded like Artagel, eager for battle – ‘we’re going to beat that bastard.’
She hoped he was right. But she seemed to have lost the ability to laugh. For that reason, she wasn’t sure.
The next morning, she and Geraden, with Master Barsonage and the other two Imagers, worked like mill-slaves to return Orison’s equipment and virtually everything the Alend soldiers had carried to the ballroom. Then, guarded by a detachment of fifty horsemen, they had to drive the Congery’s wagons furiously to catch up with the armies.
In some ways, that drive was harder than the translation. So much translation was a mind-numbing exertion: it sapped her strength until she felt too weak to stand; it ground her spirit down to the nub. But it wasn’t dangerous. All she had to do was maintain the Image-shift, and be sure that none of Orison’s inhabitants wandered into the ballroom at a bad time, and keep the glass open while guards pitched bedrolls and food sacks and cooking utensils through it.
On the other hand, the drive to rejoin the armies was distinctly dangerous.
The obvious danger was to the wagons themselves, to the mirrors they carried. From Broadwine Ford, the armies left the relatively smooth Marshalt road to turn west-southwest toward Esmerel, and the way to Esmerel wasn’t particularly well maintained because it wasn’t particularly well used. As soon as the wagons passed the small, clustered village around the inn which served the Ford (from a sensible distance, to avoid the danger of floods), the roadbed became much rougher.
In addition, the terrain rapidly grew more challenging. According to Geraden, what was in effect the only flatland in the Care of Tor lay along the road toward Marshalt. The rest of the Tor’s Care was at best hilly; more often rugged than not; in places nearly mountainous. Despite the best efforts of the drivers, the wagons had to lumber over knobs of exposed rock, along gullies cobbled to jar bones apart, up hillsides barely packed hard enough for the horses’ hooves to find purchase. And each jolt against an obstacle, each tilt over a boulder, each thud into a hole threatened the Congery’s precious glass.
When the drive first began, Terisa thought that she would rest – and avoid the stiff-jointed gait of her nag – by riding on one of the wagons for a while. She soon found, however, that its ride made her nag’s saddle look like a sedan chair by comparison.
If anything, the weather was getting colder. In the ravines and gullies, the wind swirled from all sides, chilling skin and bones like invisible ice; on the rises and crests, it swept straight down off the southern mountains, remorseless and keen. As tired as she was, as empty-hearted as she felt, there didn’t seem to be anything Terisa could do to make herself warm.
‘What do you suppose,’ she asked Geraden in an effort to keep her mind occupied, ‘those twenty thousand Cadwals are doing all this time?’
‘Resting,’ Geraden snapped with uncharacteristic bitterness. ‘Building fortifications. Getting traps ready. Learning how to coordinate their movements with whatever Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel plan to do. Resting.’
‘Looks like we have all the advantages,’ she murmured. ‘By the time we get there, we’ll be exhausted.’
He nodded; then he added, ‘Which reminds me. We’ve had so many other things to think about, I forgot to mention it. I’ve got the strongest feeling this isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing.’
She found that idea so upsetting that she stared at him in spite of her fatigue and the raw cold.
‘Say that again.’
‘I’ve got the strongest feeling—’
Their road was little more than a dirt track trodden hard by several thousand men. It lurched over a ridge and angled down into an erosion gully. ‘Do you mean,’ she interrupted, ‘we shouldn’t be going to Esmerel like this? We shouldn’t be sticking our necks in the noose like this? It’s all wrong?’
Why didn’t you say so before we got started?
‘No,’ he replied at once. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not being clear. I don’t mean the Tor, or the army, or the Congery – or even Prince Kragen. I mean you and me. Personally. There’s something else we should be doing.’
The advantage of an erosion gully was that the rocks were padded with sand. The disadvantage was that the wheels tended to cut in, making the wagons harder to pull. The teams began to snort and struggle in the traces.
Hardly able to contain herself, Terisa demanded, ‘Like what?’
Geraden grimaced sheepishly. ‘I don’t have the vaguest notion. That’s why we aren’t doing it. You know me. I always take these feelings seriously, even when they don’t make sense. If I understood it this time, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.’
The bed of the gully was wide enough for the wagons and riders. The walls quickly grew sheer, however; the gully became a ravine twisting among heavy hills. With an effort, she resisted a vehement urge to argue with him. Sourly, she muttered, ‘You and your “strongest feelings.”’
He spread his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just thought you ought to know.’
She should have reassured him that he had done no harm – that he was right to tell her what he was feeling. In addition, she should have kicked him for apologizing so often. Unfortunately, she was too frightened.
Like the voice of her fear, a shout rose from one of the guards at the front of the group.
The cry was so consistent with her mood that it didn’t seem to need any other explanation. For a moment, she didn’t even raise her head to see what was happening.
Then there were more shouts. The walls of the ravine caught the cries and flung them into chaos along the wind. Ahead of the wagons, horsemen snatched out their swords, brandished their pikes. Guards surged past the wagons on both sides, yelling at Terisa and Geraden and the Congery to stay back.
Ribuld spurred after them furiously.
For no reason except instinct, Terisa jammed her heels into the sides of her nag.
‘No!’ Geraden caught at her reins.
Recovering her balance, she heard a throaty snarl among the shouts as if the ravine itself were growling for blood.
Through the press of riders, she saw a guard plunge off his mount, unseated by a wolf strong enough to leap as high as his chest, big enough to topple him.
At the same time, more wolves came off the edge of the ravine: dozens of them; leaping onto the men and horses below as if they were in no danger of breaking their own legs and backs, or didn’t care; wolves with spines jutting down their back’s and double rows of fangs in their jaws, and malign eyes.
Those that were close enough launched themselves at the wagons. At Terisa and the Masters.
At Geraden.
The same kind of wolves which had attacked Houseldon. Predators with his spoor in their nostrils and no fear left at all.
Screaming, one horse in the traces pitched to the ground with its shoulder torn open. Its weight pulled its fello
w over on top of it, nearly upset the wagon.
A wolf crashed like a hammer into the wagon, hit it so hard that the wagonbed recoiled as if its axles were springs. Despite the tumult of shouts and pain and wolves, Terisa distinctly heard glass shatter.
The wagoner jumped from the bench, scuttled under the wagon for shelter.
Ignoring a Master who yelled at it frantically, flapped his arms at it as if it were nothing more than an tomcat, the wolf lunged off the wagon toward Geraden.
Apparently, Geraden had forgotten his sword. Instead of trying to fight, he wrenched his mount out of the way, drove his horse bucking against Terisa’s nag so that both horses stumbled to the wall of the ravine away from the attack.
A guard buried the head of his pike in the wolf’s skull – then couldn’t work the blade free in time to defend himself from another beast which seemed to sail entirely over the wagons at him. He fell with his fists knotted in the wolf’s ruff, straining to keep the fangs from his face.
The fall broke his back before the wolf had a chance to kill him.
From horseback, Master Barsonage jumped awkwardly into the bed of the other wagon. Lashing the leads, the wagoner forced his team over against the wall directly under the wolves. In that position, the leaping wolves carried over the mediator’s head toward the wagon with the broken glass.
While Master Vixix and the wagoner cowered on the bench, the mediator blocked the rails with his girth, swinging his fists like mallets at every wolf within reach, using his furnituremaker’s strength to batter beasts away from his mirrors.
The guards milled in the ravine, thwarting each other, striking ineffectively; the walls crowded them, blocked them. And a number of them had gone ahead of the wagons to meet the attack, with the result that now most of the wolves were behind them. Nearly shrieking in fright, Terisa cried, ‘Protect Geraden! They’re after Geraden!’
Men shouted, raged; blades flashed; horses collided, knocked each other to the dirt. Nevertheless Terisa’s shout pierced the confusion. The captain of the company roared orders she couldn’t understand through the din.
The nearest riders wheeled back toward the wagons.
A wolf shot past the horses, slavering like a rabid thing. At the same time, two more picked themselves up off the ground behind the wagons, hurtled to the attack. And another sprang from the ravine’s rim, hurling itself at the wagon between it and Geraden.
With a demented wail, the Master who had tried to shoo the first wolf away leaped off the wagonbench and attempted to catch this beast in middive.
Its weight and his leap carried the two of them over the rail among the horses.
Now Geraden remembered his sword. Still forcing his mount between Terisa and the wolves, driving her nag against the wall, he fumbled behind him, got a hand on his swordhilt, struggled to wrench the blade out of its scabbard over his shoulder.
The sword seemed to be stuck. Terisa could see a wolf already lifting from the ground as if it could fly. Wildly, almost unseating herself, she reached for Geraden’s back and caught hold of the scabbard.
The blade rushed free, split the beast’s head open from eye-socket to throat. Geraden was swinging so hard that only the jolt of impact kept him from being pulled off his mount by his own blow.
Out of the chaos, Ribuld’s pike took another wolf by the chest and gutted it. That gave Geraden time to recover his balance – but not enough time for his lack of expertise to mislead him. Unable to haul the heavy blade back and swing it again before the next wolf sprang at him, he simply jammed his swordpoint into the beast’s maw.
In case the wolf wasn’t dead yet, Ribuld hacked its head off.
Without warning, the attack was over.
Men brandished their swords, shouting across the cries of the wounded; horses wheeled and stamped; the captain yelled warnings, instructions. But no more wolves appeared, either in the ravine or along its rim.
Terisa felt that she was about to fall over from holding her breath too long. Why hadn’t she felt the translation? ‘Watch out!’ she called with as much strength as she had. Maybe it took place too far away. ‘Eremis still has the mirror.’ She had the impression that she was barely audible. Maybe Eremis didn’t have exactly the mirror he needed, so he had to simply release his wolves among these hills and let them hunt for Geraden in their own way. The actual translation may have happened miles or hours ago. ‘He can translate more whenever he wants.’
‘I doubt it,’ Geraden muttered, apparently speaking to himself. He held his sword erect in front of him and stared at it as if it appalled him. ‘Wolves travel in packs.’ Blood ran down the blade onto his hands, his forearms; the front of his cloak was splashed with red. ‘And mirrors have a relatively small range. There isn’t likely to be another pack living that near this one.’ As he gripped the hilt, his arms began to shake. ‘After his attack on Houseldon, Eremis probably had to wait all this time just to get these wolves.’
Abruptly, as if every movement hurt him, Geraden wiped the blade on his cloak and drove it back into its scabbard.
‘Eremis can drop an avalanche on us whenever we’re near one of his flat mirrors. But he can’t force a wolf pack on another world into his reach.’
The captain nodded grimly, then announced, ‘We’re going to take precautions anyway.’ He sent five men ahead to catch up with the Tor and report what had happened. Ten more men were assigned scouting duties.
Somehow, Terisa had come through the attack untouched. No blood had marked her. The only stain she bore was the one Adept Havelock had left on her shirt.
This time, no more than six of the people around her were dead. Two horses were dead. Two more had to be put out of their misery. One Master was dead: Cuebard. Until she saw his body, Terisa had never heard his name spoken. The captain counted nineteen dead wolves. ‘Curse this terrain,’ he rasped. ‘On open ground, we could have chopped them into dogmeat – and suffered nothing but scratches.’
Trying not to hurry, Barsonage and the rest of the Masters unpacked all the mirrors.
Luckily, only one was broken: Master Vixix’s flat glass, with its Image of the Fen of Cadwal.
‘Thank the stars.’ Despite the cold, Master Barsonage was sweating thickly. ‘We are more fortunate than we deserve.’
‘It’s my fault,’ said the captain, growling obscenities at himself. ‘Castellan Norge is going to hang my balls on a stick. I should have had scouts around us right from the beginning.’
‘Don’t worry about it, captain,’ Ribuld muttered sardonically. ‘He needs you too much. He won’t actually unman you unless we win this war and end up safe in Orison again.
‘But if that happens, watch your groin.’
Several of the guards laughed, more in reaction to the fight than because they thought Ribuld was funny.
‘Are you all right?’ Terisa asked Geraden privately.
He shook his head; contradicted himself with a nod; shrugged his shoulders. To the cold wind and the ravine’s wall, he said, ‘I’ve got another strong feeling.’
‘Oh, good.’ She tried to help him by sounding wry rather than troubled. ‘Somehow, I just know I’m going to love this one.’
‘I’ve got the strongest feeling—’ The muscles at the corners of his jaw knotted, released. ‘When the fighting really starts, we’d better be sure we’ve got somebody with us who handles a sword better than I do.’
Terisa assented bleakly. And better than Ribuld, too, she thought to herself, remembering Gart, who had beaten Ribuld and his dead friend Argus simultaneously.
Choose your risks more carefully. She intended to do that. If she could just figure out how.
Well before noon, she and Geraden, with Master Barsonage, the Congery, and the guards, rejoined Orison’s army. When the Tor had assured himself that their news was no worse than the report he had received, he rumbled, ‘Tomorrow you will have five hundred men with you. Master Eremis may strike at you again. And tomorrow there will be a clear danger of encounte
ring High King Festten’s scouts and outriders.’
That made Terisa feel neither worse nor better. Caution was sensible. On the other hand, she felt sure that Mordant’s fate wouldn’t be decided by a chance encounter with scouts or outriders. And she had a distinct sense that Eremis wasn’t going to attack again. With his enemies so close to him now, he would wait until they came all the way into his trap, put themselves completely in his power. He wasn’t interested in anything as relatively straightforward as victory. He wanted to crush and humiliate, to annihilate everyone who opposed him. Whatever he did when his enemies reached Esmerel would be intended to hurt them spiritually as much as physically.
When she thought about Nyle, her insides contracted until she could scarcely breathe.
Throughout the afternoon, across the complex and dangerous terrain, Orison’s army and Prince Kragen’s marched into the unseasonable cold. Impatient and apprehensive young men demanded a return of spring; grizzled veterans with bunions or arthritis predicted snow. Horses stamped restively, pulled against their reins, shied at nothing. Orison and encouragement seemed painfully far away, despite the magic of mirrors. Mile after mile, the defenders of Mordant shortened the distance to Esmerel.
That evening, the men stopped to make camp on the high ground of a cluster of hilltops, where the wind could get at them with all its ice, and where their lights and cooking fires would be visible in all directions – and where it would be almost impossible for enemy troops to surprise them. Prince Kragen’s commanders deployed their soldiers; Castellan Norge organized the guard. Master Barsonage and the Congery unpacked the mirrors.
When the mediator uncovered his glass, the first thing he and everyone else saw in the Image was Artagel sitting atop a particularly high pile of bedrolls and groundsheets.
He still wore Lebbick’s clothes, Lebbick’s blood. His expression was a strange combination of excitement and boredom.
‘What is that idiot doing?’ demanded the Prince. ‘Is he not in danger of translation?’