‘What’s keeping that bird up in the air, Lady Sephrenia?’ Berit demanded.
‘His last wing-beat, probably. The rest of the world is moving along quite normally. People out there aren’t even aware of the fact that we’re passing through. When the Gods do the things we ask them to do, they don’t always do them in the way we expect. When Sparhawk told Ghnomb that he wanted to catch up to Martel, he was thinking about time more than the miles, so Ghnomb is moving us through time, not distance. He’ll control time for as long as it takes us. Covering the distance is up to us.’
Then Stragen came forward at a gallop. ‘Sparhawk!’ he cried. ‘What in God’s name did you do?’
Sparhawk briefly explained. ‘Just go back and calm the Peloi. Tell them that it’s an enchantment. Explain that the world is frozen. Nothing will move until we get to where we want to go.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘More or less, yes.’
‘Do you actually think they’ll believe me?’
‘Invite them to come up with their own explanations if they don’t like mine.’
‘You can unfreeze things later, can’t you?’
‘Of course – at least I hope so.’
‘Ah – Sephrenia?’ Talen said tentatively. ‘All the rest of the world is stopped dead, right?’
‘Well, that’s the way it appears to us. Nobody else perceives it that way, though.’
‘Other people can’t even see us then, right?’
‘They won’t even know we’re here.’
A slow, almost reverent smile came to the boy’s lips. ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well.’
Stragen’s eyes also became very bright. ‘Well now indeed, Your Grace,’ he agreed.
‘Never mind, you two,’ Sephrenia said sharply.
‘Stragen,’ Sparhawk added as an afterthought, ‘tell Kring that there’s no real need to hurry. We might as well conserve the horses. Nobody out there is going to go anywhere or do anything until we get to where we want to go anyway.’
It was eerie to canter through that perpetual murky sunrise. It was neither cold nor warm nor damp nor dry. The world around them was silent, and unmoving birds dotted the air. Serfs stood like statues in the fields, and once they passed a tall white birch tree that had been brushed by a passing breeze just before the Troll-God Ghnomb had frozen time. A cloud of motionless golden leaves hung in the air to the leeward side of the tree.
‘What time do you think it is?’ Kalten asked after they had ridden for several leagues.
Ulath squinted at the sky. ‘I make it about sunrise,’ he replied.
‘Oh, very, very funny, Ulath,’ Kalten said sarcastically. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starting to get a little hungry.’
‘You were born hungry,’ Sparhawk told him.
They ate trail rations and moved on again. There was no real need to hurry, but the sense of urgency they had all felt since they had left Chyrellos nagged at them, and they were soon cantering. To have proceeded at a leisurely walk would have seemed unnatural.
An hour or so later – though it was really impossible to tell – Kring came up from the rear. ‘I think there’s something behind us, friend Sparhawk,’ he said. Kring’s tone had a respectful awe about it. It’s not every day that one can talk with a man who stops the sun.
Sparhawk looked at him sharply. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Kring admitted. ‘It’s a feeling more than anything. There’s a very dark cloud low to the ground off to the south. It’s a goodly way off, so it’s hard to tell for sure, but it seems to be pacing us.’
Sparhawk looked towards the south. It was that same cloud again, larger, blacker and more ominous now. The shadow could follow him even here, it appeared. ‘Have you seen it move at all?’ he asked Kring.
‘No, but we’ve come quite some distance since we stopped to eat, and it’s still just over my right shoulder where it was when we set out.’
‘Keep an eye on it,’ Sparhawk said tersely. ‘See if you can catch it actually moving.’
‘Right,’ the Domi agreed, wheeling his horse.
They set up camp for the ‘night’ after they had covered approximately the distance they would have gone in a normal day. The horses were confused, and Faran kept watching Sparhawk with a hard-eyed look of suspicion.
‘It’s not my fault, Faran,’ Sparhawk said as he unsaddled the big roan.
‘How can you lie to that poor beast like that, Sparhawk?’ Kalten said from nearby. ‘Have you no shame? It is your fault.’
Sparhawk slept poorly. The unchanging light was always there. He slept for as long as he could, and then rose. The others were also stirring.
‘Good morning, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia said ironically. Her expression was a bit put out.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I miss my morning tea. I tried to heat some rocks in order to boil water, but it didn’t work. Nothing works, Sparhawk – no spells, no magic – nothing. We’re totally defenceless in this never-never land you and Ghnomb have created, you know.’
‘What can attack us, little mother?’ he asked gravely. ‘We’re outside time. We’re somewhere where nothing can reach us.’
It was about ‘noon’ when they discovered just how wrong that particular assessment had been.
‘It’s moving, Sparhawk!’ Talen shouted as they approached an immobile village. ‘That cloud! It’s moving!’
The cloud which Kring had noticed the day before was definitely moving now. It was inky-black. It rolled across the ground towards the small cluster of thatch-roofed serfs’ huts huddled in a shallow dale, and a low rumble of sullen thunder, the first sound they had heard since Ghnomb had locked them in time, accompanied its inexorable march. Behind it, the trees and grasses were all dead and decaying, as if that momentary touch of darkness had blighted them in an instant. The cloud engulfed the village, and when it had passed, the village was gone as if it had never existed.
As the cloud drew nearer, Sparhawk heard a rhythmic sound, a kind of thudding as of dozens of bare heels striking the earth, and accompanying that, a brutish grunting as might come from a throng of beasts uttering low, guttural barks in evenly spaced unison.
‘Sparhawk!’ Sephrenia cried urgently. ‘Use the Bhelliom! Break up that cloud! Call Khwaj!’
Sparhawk fumbled with the pouch, then threw his gauntlets to the ground and tore open the canvas sack with his bare hands. He lifted out the Sapphire Rose in both hands. ‘Blue-Rose!’ he half-shouted. ‘Bring Khwaj!’ The Bhelliom grew hot in his hands, and that single spark of red appeared in its petals.
‘Khwaj,’ Sparhawk half-shouted. ‘I am Sparhawk-from-Elenia! Khwaj will burn away the dark which comes! Khwaj will make it so Sparhawk-from-Elenia can see what is inside the cloud! Do it, Khwaj! Now!’
Again there was that howl of frustration and rage as the Troll-God was compelled against His will to obey. Then, immediately in front of the rolling black cloud there rose a long, high sheet of roaring flame. Brighter and brighter the flame grew, and Sparhawk could feel the waves of intense heat blasting back at them from that wall of fire. The cloud advanced inexorably, seeming to ignore the wall.
‘Blue-Rose!’ Sparhawk snarled in the Troll tongue. ‘Help Khwaj! Blue-Rose will send its power and the power of all the Troll-Gods to help Khwaj! Do it! Now!’
The answering blast of power nearly knocked Sparhawk from his saddle, and Faran reeled back, flattening his ears and baring his teeth.
Then the cloud stopped. Great rents and tears appeared in it, only to be almost instantly repaired. The flame undulated, rising then falling into sickly glimmerings, then flaring anew as the two forces contended with each other. At last the darkness of the cloud began to fade, even as night fades from the sky with the approach of dawn. The flames grew higher, more intensely bright. The cloud sickened yet more. It grew wispy and tattered.
‘We’re winning!’ Kalten exclaimed.
 
; ‘We?’ Kurik said, picking up Sparhawk’s gauntlets.
Then as if it had been ripped away by a gale, the cloud streamed away. Sparhawk and his friends saw what had made the grunting sound. They were immense and human-like, which is to say that they had arms and legs and heads. They were dressed in furs and carried weapons crafted of stone – axes and spears for the most part. Their humanity ended there. They had receding brows and protruding, muzzle-like mouths, and they were not so much hairy as they were furred. Although the cloud had dissipated, they continued their advance, a kind of shuffling trot. Their feet struck the ground in unison, and they barked that guttural grunt with each thudding step. They momentarily paused at regular intervals, and from somewhere in their midst there arose a high-pitched wail, a kind of shrill ululation. Then the rhythmic barking and stamping trot would begin again. They wore helmets of a sort, the skull-caps of unimaginable beasts decorated with horns, and their faces were smeared with coloured mud in intricate designs.
‘Are they Trolls?’ Kalten’s voice was shrill.
‘Not like any Trolls I’ve ever seen,’ Ulath replied, reaching for his axe.
‘All right, my children!’ the Domi shouted to his men. ‘Let us clear the beasts from our path!’ He drew his sabre, held it aloft and shouted a great war-cry.
The Peloi charged.
‘Kring!’ Sparhawk yelled. ‘Wait!’
But it was too late. Once unleashed, the savage tribesmen from the eastern marches of Pelosia could not again be reined in.
Sparhawk swore. He stuffed the Bhelliom inside his surcoat. ‘Berit!’ he commanded, ‘take Sephrenia and Talen to the rear! The rest of you, let’s lend a hand!’
It was not an organized fight in any sense of the word that civilized men would understand. After the first charge of Kring’s tribesmen, everything disintegrated into a general mêlée of random savagery. The Church Knights discovered almost immediately that the grotesque creatures they faced did not seem to feel pain. It was impossible to determine if this was a natural characteristic of their species or if whatever had unleashed them had provided them with some additional defence. Beneath their shaggy fur lay a hide of unnatural toughness. This is not to say that swords bounced off them, but more often than not they did not cut cleanly. The best strokes opened only minimal wounds.
The Peloi, however, appeared to be having greater success with their sabres. The quick thrust of a sharp-pointed weapon was more effective than the massive overhand blows of heavy broadswords, and once their leathery hide had been penetrated, the savage brutes howled with pain. Stragen, his eyes alight, rode through the shaggy mass, the point of his slender rapier dancing, avoiding the clumsy strokes of stone axes, slipping the brutal thrusts of flint-tipped spears and then sinking effortlessly, almost delicately, deep into fur-covered bodies. ‘Sparhawk!’ he shouted. ‘Their hearts are lower down in their bodies! Thrust at the belly, not the chest!’
It grew easier then. The Church Knights altered their tactics, thrusting with the points of their swords rather than chopping with the broad blades. Bevier regretfully hung his lochaber from his saddle horn and drew his sword. Kurik discarded his mace and drew his short blade. Ulath, however, stubbornly clung to his axe. His only concession to the exigencies of the situation was to use both hands to swing the weapon. His prodigious strength was sufficient to overcome such natural defences as horn-tough hide and inch-thick skulls.
The tide of the struggle turned then. The huge, uncomprehending beasts were unable to adjust to a changing situation, and more and more of them fell to the thrusting swords. One last small cluster continued to fight even after the majority of their pack-mates had been slain, but the lightning-like dashes of Kring’s warriors whittled them away. The last one left standing was bleeding from a dozen sabre-thrusts. He raised his brutish face and shrieked that high-pitched ululation. The sound cut off abruptly as Ulath rode in, stood up in his stirrups to raise his axe high overhead and then split the wailing brute’s head from crown to chin.
Sparhawk wheeled, his bloody sword in his fist, but all the creatures had fallen. He looked around more closely. Their victory had been costly. A dozen of Kring’s men had been felled – not merely felled, but torn apart as well – and fully as many lay groaning on the bloody ground.
Kring sat crosslegged on the turf, cradling the head of one of his dying men. His face was filled with sorrow.
‘I’m sorry, Domi,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Find out how many of your men are injured. We’ll work out some way to have them cared for. How close would you say we are to the lands of your people?’
‘A day and a half of hard riding, friend Sparhawk,’ Kring replied, sadly closing the vacant eyes of the warrior who had just died. ‘A bit less than twenty leagues.’
Sparhawk rode towards the rear where Berit sat on his horse with his axe in his hands guarding Talen and Sephrenia.
‘Is it over?’ Sephrenia asked, her eyes averted.
‘Yes,’ Sparhawk replied, dismounting. ‘What were they, little mother? They looked like Trolls, but Ulath didn’t think they really were.’
‘They were dawn-men, Sparhawk. It’s a very old and very difficult spell. The Gods – and a few of the most powerful magicians of Styricum – can reach back into time and bring things – and creatures and men forward. The dawn-men haven’t walked this earth for countless thousands of years. That’s what we all were once – Elenes, Styrics, even Trolls.’
‘Are you saying that humans and Trolls are related?’ he asked her incredulously.
‘Distantly. We’ve all changed over the eons. Trolls went one way, and we went another.’
‘Ghnomb’s frozen instant doesn’t appear to be as safe as we thought it was.’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘I think it’s time to set the sun in motion again. We don’t seem to be able to hide from whatever’s chasing us by slipping through the cracks in time, and Styric magic doesn’t work here. We’ll be safer in ordinary time.’
‘I think you’re right, Sparhawk.’
Sparhawk took Bhelliom from its pouch once more and commanded Ghnomb to break the spell.
Kring’s Peloi fashioned litters in which to carry their dead and wounded, and the party moved on, relieved to some degree that the birds actually flew now and that the sun was moving once again.
The next morning a roving Peloi patrol found them, and Kring rode forth to confer with his friends. His face was bleak when he returned. ‘The Zemochs are setting fire to the grass,’ he said angrily. ‘I won’t be able to help you much longer, friend Sparhawk. We have to protect our pastures, and that means we’ll have to spread out all over our lands.’
Bevier looked at him speculatively. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier if the Zemochs all gathered in one place, Domi?’ he asked.
‘It would indeed, friend Bevier, but why would they do that?’
‘To capture something of value, friend Kring.’
Kring looked interested. ‘Such as what?’
‘Gold,’ Bevier shrugged, ‘and women, and your herds.’
Kring looked shocked.
‘It would be a trap, of course,’ Bevier continued. ‘You gather all your herds and your treasures and your womenfolk in one place with only a few of your Peloi to guard them. Then take the rest of your warriors and ride off, making sure that Zemoch scouts can see you leave. Then, once it gets dark, you slip back and take up positions nearby, keeping well out of sight. The Zemochs will all come running to steal your herds and treasures and women. Then you can fall on them all at once. That way you spare yourself all the trouble of hunting them down one by one. Besides, it would give your women a glorious opportunity to witness your bravery. I’m told that women melt with love when they have the chance to watch their menfolk destroy a hated enemy.’ Bevier’s grin was sly.
Kring’s eyes narrowed as he thought it over. ‘I like it!’ he burst out after a moment. ‘God strike me blind if I don’t! We’ll do it!’ And he rode off to tell his people.
/> ‘Bevier,’ Tynian said, ‘sometimes you amaze me.’
‘It’s a fairly standard strategy for light cavalry, Tynian,’ the young Cyrinic said modestly. ‘I came across it in my study of military history. Lamork barons used that ploy a number of times before they started building castles.’
‘I know, but you actually suggested using women for bait. I think you’re just a little more worldly than you appear, my friend.’
Bevier blushed.
They followed after Kring at a somewhat slower pace, hindered by the wounded and the sorrowful line of horses carrying the dead. Kalten had a distant look on his face, and he seemed to be counting something up on his fingers.
‘What’s the trouble?’ Sparhawk asked him.
‘I’m trying to figure out just how much time we gained on Martel.’
‘Not quite a day and a half,’ Talen said promptly. ‘A day and a third, actually. We’re about six or seven hours behind him now. We average about a league an hour.’
‘Twenty miles then,’ Kalten said. ‘You know, Sparhawk, if we rode all night tonight, we could be right inside his camp when the sun rises tomorrow.’
‘We’re not going to ride at night, Kalten. There’s something very unfriendly out there, and I’d rather not have it surprise us in the dark.’
They made camp at sunset, and after they had eaten, Sparhawk and the others gathered in a large pavilion to consider their options.
‘We more or less know what we’re going to do,’ Sparhawk began. ‘Getting to the border shouldn’t be any problem. Kring’s going to lead his men away from his womenfolk anyway, so we’ll have most of the Peloi warriors with us for at least part of the way. That’s going to keep the Zemoch conventional forces at a distance, so we’ll be safe from them until we reach the border. It’s after we cross that line that we’ll run into trouble, and the key to that is Martel. We’re still going to have to push him to the point that he won’t have time to gather up Zemochs to stand in our way.’