Legends of the Riftwar (33 page)

‘What?'

‘You heard me. We don't stop till we reach the bridge.'

Though his men knew the routine he had decided not to tell Wolfgar's people of his plan to keep marching: there was no sense in their anticipating the agony of a night march in a storm until they were already into it.

‘That's still fifteen or more miles off–half of them will be dead by then,' she snapped. ‘You can't push these people on a night march.'

Dennis reached up and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Your father understood this and I would expect his daughter too. This is not some leisurely hike. They caught us by surprise and either we run them into exhaustion and they stop, or they catch us and slaughter us. We march through the night. Those that can't keep up, we give them a bow, a few arrows and hope they slow the moredhel down a bit, then finish themselves off.'

‘Including the children?' she asked, her voice as cold as the evening chill.

He was tempted to give her a bitter response but then shook his head. ‘No,' he whispered, ‘of course not. Get some of the women to double up on the horses with them, they can hold a child if it falls asleep, but we keep moving.' He hesitated. ‘I've ordered my men not to carry anyone who falls behind–if they do, I lose both the straggler and a good soldier. Everyone marches or they die.'

She nodded, eyes not on Dennis, but still surveying the forest. ‘They didn't get ahead of you. I know this way. The moredhel would have to make a march of sixty miles or more to swing around the valley and come back out here to cut us off. Besides, there's half a
dozen trails like this over this ridge. If there was a trap it would have been just on the far side of the pass back into the valley. You're free of them.'

‘I don't survive by living on assumptions,' Dennis replied.

‘Break the trail with my horse, otherwise it will be you who's left behind by tomorrow morning.'

He scanned the woods yet again. Already the shadows had deepened so that he could barely see more than half a bowshot away. Throughout the day the snow had been unbroken except for the tracks of animals.

All his instincts were against her suggestion but he knew she was right. He could not keep up this pace of running point throughout the night and still be ready for a fight. He reached down and unclipped his snowshoes. ‘Take my shoes, then wait for the column to come up. Tell Asayaga to keep them moving.'

‘No.'

‘What?'

‘This old horse is big enough for both of us. Like I said, I know this ground. I'll ride behind you.'

He was tempted to reach up and simply pull her out of the saddle but the look of defiance in her eyes sparked a memory and finally he shook his head. He clipped his snowshoes to the side of the saddle, pulled out his cloak, put it back on then scrambled up, Roxanne sliding back. She hesitated, then finally put her arms around his waist.

The horse looked back at him, and he knew if it had a voice it would cry out in protest. The poor dumb beast was exhausted. He leaned over, patted it on the neck and whispered a few words of encouragement, then nudged it forward. Though he would not admit it, the feel of the warm saddle under him was a blessed relief. The horse ambled along slowly, needing just an occasional nudge to guide it along the trail.

As the darkness settled and deepened the snow increased, heavy thick flakes coming straight down, then gradually shifting to lighter and drier flakes that began to dance and eddy as a light breeze picked up.

He caught a glimpse of a darker shadow in the snow and reined
in. A stag, caught by surprise, struggled to its feet, a curtain of snow falling from its back. The two gazed at each other for an instant and then it clumsily bounded off.

‘A good sign,' Roxanne whispered. ‘No one is about.'

He nodded and they rode on in silence for several minutes.

‘You hunted here before?' he asked.

‘Before the shortness of breath began to afflict my father he took me over the pass several times. I think it was more just to see some new country: there was always more than enough game in our own valley. We'd ride like this, with me behind him, and he'd tell me stories of kings, princes, cities with a hundred tall spiralling towers and of the great ships that sailed on warm seas.'

He spared a look back over his shoulder. There was a sad smile on her face as she remembered a happier time.

‘I think that's the most I've heard you say since I've met you.'

‘And this is the most you've spoken to me since I met you.'

Again there was a long silence. The snow came down harder again, at times obscuring the view so that he could barely see a dozen feet in front of them. They crossed a narrow stream, the horse nearly losing its footing on the ice-covered rocks on the far bank. It was barely calf-deep but it was, nevertheless, a major barrier. Men would get wet, then have to keep on marching, their boots freezing, the cold sapping their strength. Chances were at least one would lose his footing in the stream and get soaked, a virtual death-sentence for what in other times would be seen as a source of levity and a good laugh.

He waited for a moment, not sure how far back the column was.

‘How come you never talk, Hartraft?'

‘Talk? To who?'

‘Me.'

‘There was never much to say.'

‘You like Alyssa, don't you?'

The branch of a tree, overburdened with the newly-fallen snow groaned and cracked, and a cascade of snow tumbled down near them, sending up a swirl of flakes.

‘Asayaga is better at such things than I am. He has the courtly touch.'

‘Father told me about your Gwenynth. I'm sorry.'

‘If only I had known it was Corwin,' he said coldly. ‘I should have known, sensed it. And he was within my grasp for weeks.'

‘Is that all you think of?'

‘What?'

‘Vengeance?'

‘It's a start,' he replied, the tone in his voice indicating that the conversation was finished.

‘I lost my father last night. If we do have to fight the moredhel I hope to do my part, but to spend my life hunting them down…father would want different for me.'

Dennis did not reply.

‘He was worried about you.'

‘Keep an eye on the woods.'

‘He remembered you as a boy who had a fire in his eyes, a love of adventure, and even a touch of the poet. He said the two of you would make up funny little verses together. That you loved to watch sunsets, to sing, and would clamour for books to read.'

‘I was a boy.'

‘No, that was the same you, just long ago.'

‘I don't need someone else to tell me to get over what happened,' Dennis whispered. ‘Now do your job and keep an eye on the woods.'

‘No one can see thirty feet in this,' she said.

‘I didn't survive nine years of war thinking like that.'

Even as he spoke he caught a glimpse of a hooded lantern at the head of the column. He wanted to swear at the fool who had lit it, but realized that in a way the girl was right. There was no one out here other than this desperate column.

Asayaga was in the lead, holding the lantern. Reaching the edge of the stream he hesitated.

‘Just cross it,' Dennis hissed.

‘We need to rest, we're carrying many of the children.'

‘Put all of them on the horses and keep moving.'

He turned his mount and pressed on up the slope, leaving the party behind to negotiate the frigid water.

The hours passed and the snow thickened to a heavy all-consuming
fall that muffled the world, deadening all sound except for the laboured breathing of the horse. An hour after sunset they crested the ridge and paused for a few minutes, then dismounted to let the tired animal rest. He explored both sides of the trail, hoping to find that the pass was narrow enough to make it defendable. The ground, however, was open–just a shallow depression–. Dejected, he came back to find one of his corporals, Alfred, bent double, gasping, Roxanne down by his side offering him a drink from her wine-sack.

‘Captain Asayaga sent me up to find you,' he reported, leaning against the sweat-soaked and shivering horse for support. ‘Gregory came up from the rearguard: they've had several skirmishes, killing two human scouts. We lost two as well, both Tsurani who were wounded and stayed behind.'

Dennis nodded.

Just below the top of the pass they had spied an abandoned cabin, Roxanne stating that it belonged to an old hermit. He had hoped to let the party rest for half an hour, to build a fire for the children to warm up, but that was impossible now.

‘How far to the dwarf road?' Dennis asked, looking over at Roxanne.

‘In fair weather, not more than two hours on horse. The bridge beyond, a half hour in good conditions.'

Dennis sighed and shook his head.

If the road was overgrown it would help, but dwarven roads were usually well built, straight and well paved–no one could match the dwarves for stonework. It would prove a disadvantage now. Once on it Bovai would send his whole column of cavalry off in hot pursuit rather than simply probing.

‘Tell Asayaga we must move faster,' Dennis said. ‘Keep them moving.'

He mounted, Roxanne sliding back to give him room.

Alfred saluted and started back.

‘No, wait here until they catch up with you, Corporal. No sense you running up and down this hill twice.'

‘Thank you, sir,' Alfred gasped.

Dennis nudged his tired mount, but the horse refused to budge
for a moment and finally he had to kick hard with his heels to get it moving.

He was throwing caution aside now. If they were not blocking this point it should be an open run down to the road. Once on the road he could check for signs. It gave him a terrible naked feeling, riding hard like this in the middle of the night, abandoning the careful routine of years of moving, waiting, listening, then covering as your companion leapfrogged forward.

Several times his mount nearly lost its footing. Once he lost the trail completely and had to slowly backtrack, barely able to pick out the pathway as the snow continued to fall.

The third moon had risen an hour before and there was ample light by which to navigate if he kept to a slow and steady pace. He fought back the urge to pick up speed, but galloping down a mountain trail through the woods at night would be folly of the worst sort.

He could sense Roxanne falling asleep, her arms around his waist going slack, her head lolling on his shoulder, her warm breath on the back of his neck. He let her rest for a few minutes then slapped her lightly on the thigh.

‘Stay awake, I need your eyes.'

She sighed, mumbled something and then sat upright.

‘Where are we?'

‘I don't know,' she whispered.

He sensed a narrow clearing ahead before actually seeing it where the trees thinned out slightly. He reined in and slipped out of the saddle, taking his bow, which had been resting across the pommel, and removing the oil-cloth draped over the string. Nocking an arrow he slipped forward, paused, then slowly dropped down onto the road. Even in the darkness he could discern its lines, a straight cut through the forest, wide enough for two carts to pass each other. Bent low, he crept to the middle of it, crouched and carefully scanned the path. After several minutes he started to brush aside the powdery snow, probing down through the foot-deep fresh fall until he hit the hard crust below. He cursed silently. It was hard to tell in the darkness, especially by touch, but there were footprints: goblins and at least one horse. He reached into his haversack, pulled out some tinder and a precious springlock sparker, a gift from Wolfgar on midwinter's night,
wound it up and held it close to the tinder, his cloak draped over his shoulders and head to shield himself. He pressed the trigger and a shower of sparks came spinning out, striking the tinder. Cupping the fluffy down and thin white bark shavings he blew them to life so that a tiny curl of a flame flared up–not much more than the light from a candle about to flicker out–but after hours of darkness the light seemed nearly as bright as day. Keeping one eye closed in order not to destroy his night vision, he scanned the footprints, kicking back more of the powder and then let the flame wink out. Catlike he straightened up, opened his other eye and carefully scanned both ways: nothing moved.

‘Roxanne,' he hissed and she came out of the edge of the woods and down to the road, leading their horse. ‘He's sent someone around–at least four goblins and one rider. They passed here just before the storm started.'

‘The bridge,' she whispered.

He stood up, brushing the snow off his trousers. ‘Either hold it, or destroy it,' he sighed. He weighed the odds. Go back, get a few men, then come back again. An hour or more to do that. It was hard to tell how long before dawn. One man, in the dark, however, might catch them by surprise. ‘I'm going,' he said. ‘You wait here, guide the column onto this trail and tell Asayaga I've gone ahead and what's happening. Make sure he puts out scouts as he comes up to the bridge in case it doesn't work out.'

‘I'm going with you.'

‘Like hell you are.'

‘What are you going to do, just gallop in on this old nag?' she snapped. ‘You don't even know the ground before the bridge.'

‘Then tell me now, girl, what will I see before approaching the bridge.'

‘Like hell. You'll need someone to cover your back.'

He wanted to laugh but was too exhausted even to make the effort.

‘I go, or you can just stumble into the trap on your own. There's no room for all that nonsense about protecting Wolfgar's daughter, Hartraft. If you fail here, we all die. I can put an arrow through a man at fifty yards. My father was a bard but he was also a damn good bowman and taught me well.'

Dennis sighed and shook his head. ‘You do exactly what I tell you to do.' He mounted, fighting down the temptation to rake the flanks of the horse and simply gallop off. No, she was right. It was a blind attack–surprise and speed was everything, but an extra arrow might make all the difference. He pulled her up behind him. He urged the horse up to all that it could give, which was, at best, a laborious trot. The poor animal gasped for air, legs rubbery, barely able to hold its footing. She protested once, begging him to let the dying beast rest for just a few minutes, but he pressed on. He had no idea as to the size of the bridge–even if it was still there–but if it was, and the centre span was wood, it might still be standing, especially if the goblins, arriving at dark and typical of their breed, had decided to settle down for the night and do their job come dawn.