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Do you believe in miracles, Nogusta had asked Ulmenetha?
Well, a miracle would be needed, he knew. Lifting Dagorian’s map he turned it towards the fire. The symbols stood out well in the flickering light. Some 2.0 miles to the south was the line of the River Mendea. Three fords were marked. If they could reach the first by late tomorrow they would have a chance to cross the water and lose themselves in the high country. After that there was another 70 miles of rugged terrain. Old forts were indicated along the southern route, but these would be deserted now. There might be villages along the way, from which they could obtain supplies. But probably not. This was inhospitable land. Then they would reach the plains, and face a further 150 miles west to the coast. Even with the five spare horses it would be a month of hard, slow travel. We cannot make such a journey undetected, he realized. Despair struck him.
Ruthlessly he suppressed the emotion. One step at a time, he cautioned himself. First the river.
‘Why are you doing this for us?’ Ulmenetha had asked him.
‘It is enough that I do,’ he told her. ‘It needs no explanation.’
He thought about it now, recalling the dread day he had arrived home to find his family murdered, seeing their bodies, carrying them to graves he dug himself. He had buried them, and with it had buried his dreams and theirs. All their hopes and fears had been consigned to the earth, and a part of him had remained there with them, in the cold, worm-filled ground.
He glanced around the camp. Ulmenetha was asleep in the wagon. Nogusta liked the priestess. She was a tough woman, and there was no give in her. Rising he walked
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round the fire and stood over the sleeping children. Conalin was a sullen boy, but there was steel in him. The two girls were cuddled together under one blanket. The child, Sufia, had her thumb in her mouth, and was sleeping peacefully.
Nogusta walked to the edge of the camp. Through a break in the trees the black silhouette of the mountains could be seen against the dark grey of the sky. He heard Kebra approach.
‘Can you not sleep?’ he asked the bowman.
T slept for a while. But I am getting too old to enjoy cold nights on bare earth. My bones object.’
The two men stood in silence, breathing in the cold, clean air of the night. Then Kebra spoke. ‘The riders we killed were carrying around three days of supplies. They may not be missed for a while.’
‘Let us hope so.’
‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ said Kebra, softly. ‘But I am afraid.’
‘I know. I feel it too.’
‘Do you have a plan?’ asked the bowman.
‘Stay alive, kill all enemies, reach the coast, find a ship.’
‘Things always look brighter when you have a plan,’ said Kebra.
Nogusta smiled, then his expression hardened. The black man ran his hand over his shaved head. ‘The forces of evil are gathering, and all hope rests in the hands of three old men. It almost makes me believe in the Source. The sense of humour here is cosmic.’
‘Well, my friend, I do believe. And if I had to pick three old men to save the world I’d make the same choice He did.’
Nogusta chuckled. ‘So would I, but that just makes us arrogant old men.’
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For two days Antikas Karios searched to the west. Now he and his fifteen men rode weary horses into Usa. The men were no less tired and sat slumped in their saddles. They had removed their bronze helms and hung them from the pommels of their saddles. Their clothes were travel stained, their white cloaks grimy. Antikas was faced with two unpalatable truths. First that the fleeing group must have headed south, and secondly that Vellian had either betrayed him, or was dead. The latter was surely unlikely. Dagorian was a highly skilled swordsman, but he could not have defeated five veteran soldiers.
Antikas recalled the notes he had read concerning the young officer. The son of a hero general Dagorian had never wished to be a soldier. In fact he had trained for two years to be a priest. According to the reports pressure from his family had led him to enlist in his father’s regiment. These facts alone would have meant little to most men, but to the sharp mind of Antikas Karios they revealed a great deal. To become a priest required not only immense commitment and belief, but a willingness to put aside all desires of the flesh. Such a decision could not be taken lightly, and once taken would clothe a man in chains of iron. But Dagorian had shrugged off those chains following ‘pressure from his family’. His commitment to his god, therefore had been less than his commitment to his kin. This showed either a weak personality, or a man destined always to put the needs of others before his own desires. Or both.