‘There is still magic in my world,’ said the Wyrd. ‘Every day I try to summon more, to feed the land.’
‘Yes, you do, child.’
‘I know it is a losing battle,’ she continued. ‘In one day of war more harm is done than I can put right in ten lifetimes. It is said more than a hundred thousand have already died, and yet the war goes on. Gaise Macon is fighting in it now, and I fear for him. One day it will reach the north. I know this in my heart. It fills me with sorrow – and with terror.’
‘You must rest now, Caretha. Absorb the magic. Strengthen your body and your spirit. You cannot stay here long. Sleep for a few hours, then I will return you to Sorrow Bird Lake. Once you are home you must find a way to reach the spirit of the white-haired swordsman. I do not have your gift for prophecy, but I sense he will be vital in the days ahead.’
‘Could you not help us against this evil, Riamfada?’
‘I am helping you, child. In the only way I can.’
Mulgrave the Swordsman trudged through the snow, a hood covering his prematurely white hair, a thick sheepskin jerkin and flowing cloak keeping the cold from his slender frame. He wandered through the market square. Most of the stalls were empty, but crowds were gathering around the few traders with food to sell. A brace of rabbits fetched a chailling – four times the usual price. The woman who bought them thrust them deep into a canvas sack and scurried away, her eyes fearful. Well she might be. Tempers were short now. Mulgrave wondered if all wars caused such a loss of simple humanity. Almost everyone seemed quicker to anger these days, and fights were commonplace among the citizens.
Armed guards were outside the bakery on the corner of Marrall Street, and a long queue of hungry people waited for the doors to open. There would not be enough loaves for all. It began to snow once more. The wind picked up, cold and searching. Mulgrave’s grey cloak swirled up and he gathered it in, drawing it close around his chest. The raw chill caused his left shoulder to ache around the healing wound.
Despite the crowds in the square the small town was ominously quiet, footfalls dulled in the thick snow, whispered conversations swept away by the winds. Fear was everywhere. Not just from the threat of starvation, Mulgrave knew. The war was coming closer, and with it the terror. Only a few years ago the folk of Shelding would have argued in the taverns and meeting halls, debating the rights and wrongs of the Covenant. Some would have spoken up for the king’s absolute right to rule. Others would have sided with the Covenanters, pointing out that every Varlish citizen should have equal rights under the law. Sometimes the debates would become heated, but mostly they were good-natured. At the close, the townsfolk would have gone back to their homes content.
After four years of war there were no more amiable debates.
Everyone knew of the fate of towns like Barstead, on the south coast. After one battle Covenant troops had entered the town, rooting out Royalist supporters. Sixty men were hanged. Three days later, the Covenant army in retreat, the Royalists had marched through Barstead. Three hundred and ten men with Covenant sympathies had been hanged. Then had come the Redeemers. Mulgrave shivered.
The town had been torched. No-one knew what had happened to all the women and children who had survived the murder of their men. But Mulgrave had heard from a scout who passed through the charred remains of Barstead. Blackened bodies were everywhere.
Pushing such thoughts from his mind Mulgrave continued on his way, cutting through alleyways and down narrow streets. A half-starved dog growled at him as he passed. Mulgrave ignored the beast, and the dog went back to chewing on the frozen carcass of a dead rat.
Crossing the curved bridge Mulgrave paused to stare down at the frozen stream. Some way along the bank, several men had cut holes in the ice, and were sitting, wrapped in blankets, their fishing lines bobbing.