By morning only six hundred warriors remained in the mouth of Skeln Pass, the bulk of the army thundering south to bolster Abalayn.
Earl Delnar, Warden of the North, gathered the men together just after dawn. Beside him stood Archytas.
‘As you know, the Ventrians have landed,’ said the Earl. ‘We are to stay here in case they send a small force to harry the north. I know many of you would have preferred to head south, but, to state the obvious, someone has to stay behind to protect the Sentran Plain. And we’ve been chosen. The camp here is no longer suitable for our needs and we will be moving up into the pass itself. Are there any questions?’
There were none and Delnar dismissed the men, turning to Archytas.
‘Why you have been left here I do not know,’ he said. ‘But I don’t like you at all, lad. You are a troublemaker. I would have thought your skills would have been welcome at Penrac. However, be that as it may. You cause any trouble here and you will regret it.’
‘I understand, Lord Delnar,’ replied Archytas.
‘Understand this also: As my aide I will require you to work, passing on my instructions exactly as I give them to you. I am told you are a man of surpassing arrogance.’
‘That is hardly fair.’
‘Perhaps. I cannot see that it should be true, since your grandfather was a tradesman and your nobility is scarce two generations old. You will find as you grow older that it is what a man does that counts, and not what his father did.’
‘Thank you for your advice, ray lord. I shall bear it in mind,’ said Archytas stiffly.
‘I doubt that you will. I do not know what drives you, but then I don’t care overmuch. We should be here about three weeks and then I’ll be rid of you.’
‘As you say, my lord.’
Delnar waved him away, then glanced beyond him to the edge of the trees bordering the field to the west. Two men were walking steadily towards them. Delnar’s jaw tightened as he recognised the poet. He called Archytas back.
‘Sir?’
‘The two men approaching yonder. Go out to meet them and have them brought to my tent.’
‘Yes, sir. Who are they, do you know?’
‘The large one is Druss the Legend. The other is the saga poet Sieben.’
‘I understand you know him very well,’ said Archytas, barely disguising his malice.
*
‘It doesn’t look much of an army,’ said Druss, shading his eyes against the sun rising over the Skeln peaks. ‘Can’t be more than a few hundred of them.’
Sieben didn’t answer. He was exhausted. Early the previous day Druss had finally tired of riding the tall gelding borrowed in Skoda. He had left it with a stock breeder in a small town thirty miles west, determined to walk to Skeln. In a moment – in which Sieben could only consider he had been struck by transient and massive stupidity – he had agreed to walk with him. He seemed to remember thinking that it would be good for him. Now, even with Druss carrying both packs, the poet stumbled wearily alongside, his legs boneless and numb, his ankles and wrists swollen, his breathing ragged.
‘You know what I think?’ said Druss. Sieben shook his head, concentrating on the tents. ‘I think we’re too late. Gorben has landed at Penrac and the army’s gone. Still, it’s been a pleasant journey. Are you all right, poet?’
Sieben nodded, his face grey.
‘You don’t look it. If you weren’t standing here beside me I’d think you were dead. I’ve seen corpses that looked in better health.’ Sieben glared at him. It was the only response his fading strength would allow. Druss chuckled. ‘Lost for words, eh? This was worth coming for.’
A tall young officer was making his way towards them, fastidiously avoiding small patches of mud and the more obvious reminders of the horses picketed in the field the night before.
Halting before them, he bowed elaborately.
‘Welcome to Skeln,’ he said. ‘Is your friend ill?’
‘No, he always looks like this,’ said Druss, running his eyes over the warrior. He moved well, and handled himself confidently, but there was something about the narrow green eyes and the set of his features that nettled the axeman.